MadetoBeBroken Read online

  Made to Be Broken

  Lyra Byrnes

  Two shattered lives, one secluded cottage, a thousand sinful secrets.

  As an agent of a shadowy US government organization, Coco learned the hard way that rules mean the difference between peace and instability, life and death. Getting vicious rebel leader Alexi into a safe house for questioning should be as easy as snapping a man’s neck or applying a fresh coat of lipstick.

  But the mesmerizing Alexi has his own set of rules, and when he turns the tables on Coco, she’s the one who must give answers…to some very intimate questions. She’s never let a man take her body, let alone strip her defenses, but Alexi’s demands are too tantalizing to refuse.

  The strong-minded redhead strives to appease this powerful warlord long enough to learn his devastating secret. But eventually she discovers that she must surrender both her rules and her inhibitions.

  Inside Scoop: Some light BDSM erupts between this feisty secret agent and her dominating brute.

  A Romantica® erotic romantic suspense from Ellora’s Cave

  Made to Be Broken

  Lyra Byrnes

  Chapter One

  If the government was paying for it, Coco Fiori was sure as hell going to eat every last macadamia nut in the minibar. She pulled out the jar and a bottle of cold white wine and settled on the bed, trying not to wince even though there was no one around to see, and flipped open the dossier of her target.

  Alexsandr “Alexi” Maksimov, leader of the most powerful and violent rebel faction in his native Chechnya, called “General” by the legion of thugs he commanded, thought to be behind a series of church bombings, an attack on a train full of civilians and the assassination of a French diplomat. Nasty piece of work, and he’d paid for it, she noted, flipping back to the picture clipped onto the first page. He had a mane of wild hair like a primitive hunter, but what caught her attention was the scar that bisected one eye from his cheek to his forehead. He wore a grim expression that spoke of raw power and damage done.

  And here he was, striding around London like an ordinary man—why? Why didn’t the Brits take him out while he was on their turf? Surely their local equivalent of her own organization, the US Overseas Security Operations, could do the work the “official” government wouldn’t bloody its hands with.

  Can be found at the Three Cocks pub in Knightsbridge, spotted on Bond Street, residence unknown. So he drank and liked a well-cut suit, that was information she could use. She jotted some notes on her Mission Directives chart, the one she made for herself with each assignment. The OSO might have its own rules, but hers had always worked just fine.

  Rule One, maintain the informational upper hand.

  The more she knew about her target, the more hold she would have over him, especially once she probed for weaknesses. So what were Maksimov’s weaknesses? Drink, clothes¼women?

  She shivered at the thought of smiling with feigned sexual interest at that cruel face, touching the scar on his eye. No. Better to skip the pub and start with the Bond Street couturiers.

  It might be nice to pick up some new clothes anyway. She had always been curvy and never fond of the softness in her arms—however hard she trained, they never lost a slight roundness—but after a diet of hospital food and IV drips, she emerged thinner. After the incident, the department plunged her back into training and the tautness in her muscles returned, although she had lost some of her former strength. Then again, she mused, relishing the cool acidity of the wine as it cut the nuts’ fatty crunch, that would be the last thing she’d tell that asshole Rod Templeton or anyone in the Western Ops boys’ club.

  Coco felt her face grow hot as she recalled Templeton peering at her from under his thick head of hair, with a condescending half-smile she longed to punch right off his kisser. His hands were folded together on his desktop, pristine half-inch cuffs held together with gold anchor cufflinks, in a gesture she had come to recognize as “conveying sincerity”. A set of keys lay on the table between them. She refused to touch them.

  “Eastern Europe is not my specialty,” she had explained again. “Kidnapping is not my specialty, and taking orders from you is definitely not my specialty.”

  At this, Rod chuckled. “I’m well aware that Western Ops isn’t your bailiwick, Coco.”

  “We broke up, Rob. You can call me Agent Fiori.”

  “Well, then, ‘Agent Fiori’, if you think I’m sending you back to Indonesia after what happened¼”

  Who was he to decide where she went? She had trained for Southeast Asia. The culture, the languages and the political landscape were all she had known in her four years at OSO. Getting caught on the business end of one little bombing was a small price to pay.

  As always when reminded of the blast, the numb grafted skin on her right side burned and itched, as if it were prodding her mind to return to the beachside hotel, the one safe place in a dangerous country, she had been told. Half a cold beer in after a long day of negotiating with rebel leaders, the building exploded in a rage of red and orange, sending the sand-weighted tables flying. A gaily striped umbrella caught fire and tipped onto her back as she scrambled, screams and the roar of flames shattering her eardrums¼

  Out of commission due to flying leisure accessory, she thought ruefully. Behold the heroic operative.

  “It’s not your job to protect me.”

  Rod smiled at her in that condescending way she used to mistake for tenderness. “Look, OSO knows you’re a great agent, one of the best we have. We wouldn’t send you on a Mickey Mouse job. We’re talking about the head of the Chechen Rebel Faction. Alexsandr Maksimov is a very dangerous man.”

  That was patented Templeton bullshit. What would a Chechen rebel general be doing swanning around London, buying suits? Didn’t his thugs have widows and orphans to intimidate in their own disputed lands? Rod was trying to coddle her—again. Throughout their ill-advised six months together, the man had her personal and professional styles completely upside-down. He turned into a weakling in bed, wanting her to take charge, make every decision, when that was the last thing she wanted after a day of kicking ass surrounded by scarred, cruel and heavily weaponed-up bad guys. Out on the field, Rod lobbied to give her the cushiest assignments in an attempt to spare her precious white skin. Her side twitched again. Yeah, she thought, look how that turned out.

  “This Maksimov may be a dangerous man, but he’s being one far from my theater of operation. Since when are you setting field assignments for Europe, anyway?”

  “Coco, sweetie¼”

  She gritted her teeth.

  “You were in the hospital. Why do you think I got these swanky new digs?” He swept an arm ironically at the colorless office. “While you were eating through a straw, I was made head of Western Ops.”

  She reached for the file on the desk and rifled through it with a cursory glance at her departure date—that very night, good. Rod could give her all the lame assignments he liked, if it meant getting away from him and Washington DC as soon as possible.

  And there was another payoff—the sight of his smug smile crumbling as she left him with some last words.

  “Funny. I heard they were an elite unit.”

  So here she was, raiding the minibar in a fairly luxurious hotel suite, wondering where to begin. One street and one pub weren’t much to go on. She could find her way to any specific market stall in the back alleys of Jakarta blindfolded, but had never been to London. Where had she put the map, and why was she having a hard time concentrating? Absently she gathered her long red hair into a messy bun and sliced a pen through it. It took her several seconds to identify the source of her distraction—sounds coming through the hotel walls, a muffled moan, a giggle.

  She stilled. Her hearing had most
ly come back, but some sounds had to swim against the tide from her ears to her brain before they acquired meaning. Obviously the subliminal sex noises had made her think of setting a honey trap for the glowering Maksimov. Gross.

  “Beg for it, slut,” growled a man’s voice.

  “Fuck you!” the woman squealed.

  It sounded as if he already was—the headboard behind her shook rhythmically. Coco felt her nipples harden at each shudder.

  “That’s it. On all fours, slut!”

  A scuffle from behind the wall and the woman began to groan.

  “Ow, god, that feels so good, you bastard. Ah, fuck me hard!”

  Coco’s mouth went dry and her pussy flooded. Screw the file for tonight. She’d been bedridden and weak for so long, maybe a little self-indulgence would help clear her head and make her feel strong again. She switched on the television and searched through the adult movies. Rod would blanch when he got the bill. With any luck, the title would be prominently displayed and he’d have to pay up for her pleasuring herself during—let’s see, The Maid and the Master.

  She took a long swallow of wine and stripped off her sweatshorts, lying back against the cool sheets. Her hair had come undone and fell in a flaming curtain on the pillow. She enjoyed the sight of her pale, long legs, feeling nasty and sexy lying there bottomless, with her nipples pushing against the tight T-shirt, the cool air caressing her naked pussy. Also, the shirt covered her scars and she didn’t want to think about them, not when a more urgent need prevailed.

  Onscreen, a pretty, dark-haired girl in an abbreviated French maid’s costume was being yanked by one arm into a gleaming shower the size of a walk-in closet. The master was tall and well-built, his cock like a burnished baton, pointing straight at his dimpled chin.

  “Let’s see how well you clean,” he said, offering her a bar of soap. The trembling maid was soaked through, her tiny black-and-white costume plastered to her lush curves. She rubbed her hand over the soap and grasped his erection, pumping it slowly while he tipped his head back and groaned.

  “With your mouth, tart,” he barked.

  “No, Sir, please.”

  He gave a violent twist to her nipple and she gasped, water running into her open mouth.

  “That’s for talking back. Do something useful with that pretty mouth.”

  Obediently she sank to her knees.

  As the master’s huge cock slid between his victim’s lips, Coco trailed a hand down to her sopping pussy and lightly stroked the bud. It was rigid and ready, but she wanted to draw out her pleasure. The other hand ran traces across her aching nipples, sneaking in a hard pinch that made her back arch. She nearly lost control when the master bucked his lean hips, his balls almost disappearing into the maid’s mouth. From the room next door, hard panting issued, heightening her arousal. The action onscreen seemed to mirror the action behind her and she slowed her caresses.

  The scene dissolved to one in another room, where the maid, now naked but for heels, stood trembling on an Oriental carpet, tied by her wrists to a bedpost. The actress had a lovely round ass that, from the deep-pink marks on it, had already been thoroughly abused. She did an effective job of feigning fear and excitement, wide-eyed and pouting, trying to see the master over her shoulder.

  He had unbuttoned the fly of his dark suit and held a thick and well-proportioned erection in his hand, aiming at her lush, bare buttocks.

  “You’re such a good little slut,” came the voice from the room next door. “You deserve to be fucked in the ass.”

  “Owwww!” the woman next door wailed. “Don’t come in my ass! That’s so dirty.”

  Saliva glistened around the maid’s pink starburst. The master pulled her back by the hips and thrust his cock inside to the hilt. Coco felt her juices running out of her pussy and lubricating her ass. She wondered what it felt like, to do what they were doing. To be on all fours, legs spread, being taken roughly in that most secret place. She rubbed her clit and it exploded, sending her body into a frenzy of writhing on the hotel bed. Her T-shirt rode up and tangled around her, her scalp was damp, her clit shooting ripples of pleasure that reached every part of her body.

  She blinked and forced her breathing to slow. Primal grunting came from behind the wall and the couple onscreen was still going at it, but neither scene held any further allure for her. She clicked off the TV.

  It’s like everyone in the world is having an orgy, she thought. Except me.

  Chapter Two

  The trouble with trying to gain access to someone while he’s shopping is that you never know when he’ll be shopping. “Spotted on Bond Street” hardly meant Maksimov was spending all of his time in London haunting bespoke tailors and Italian cobblers. Coco had memorized the grainy photographs of her prey—Maksimov buying a newspaper, visiting an ATM, exiting a double-decker bus. Neither the pictures nor the description were very useful. “Large build, hair brown, eyes brown, facial scar.” Thanks for nothing, OSO. When had the division gotten so vague?

  The bus meant he had no car, which was too bad. Cars were traceable. Newspaper kiosks, ATMs, both ubiquitous public spots. It would have to be the pub then. Three Cocks, she remembered, a blush coloring her cheeks. That would be three more than she had gotten the night before. She fought away the flush and pushed the map back in her purse.

  Templeton hadn’t even given her a legend, so here she was, a vulnerable target for counteragents or anyone with sharp eyes and a suspicious nose—American, traveling alone, in a sturdy jeans-boots combo that was already too warm for the freak English heat wave, with one of her stash of fake passports but no backstory. What would a twenty-eight-year-old woman be doing in London by herself? Art student was probably her best bet. It was a solitary enough endeavor that no one would tag along to prove her wrong, and it meant she wouldn’t have to mess with business cards or fake corporate backup. Again she chafed, thinking of how few resources Templeton had given her. Eastern Ops would have showered her with dossiers, drivers, contacts and a plausible legend. Cheap bastards.

  Here it was, a sign with three black roosters swinging gently in the spring wind, a warm, golden glow emanating from the windows. It seemed like a nice place to unwind after a hard day of terrorizing Russian farmers or whatever Maksimov was up to. She wondered whether the safe house—a remote cabin somewhere in Scotland—would be chilly this time of year. Plenty of time to worry about that. Right now she was ready to enforce Rule Number One. The more info she had on him before they got to the safe house for the real interrogation, the better.

  Coco pushed open the door and was met with curious stares from the male inhabitants. None of them belonged to her man. The only female was behind the bar, a soft, pretty blonde who did not bother to disguise a sour look when she caught sight of Coco silhouetted in the doorway. Might as well settle in for a pint until he arrived. Anyway, she was used to boys’ clubs. She put on a friendly tourist face and took a seat at the bar.

  *

  Score one for the Amerikanski, she had a fine ass on her. Alexi Maksimov shook a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it, squinting through the pub window. He could not take his eyes off the way the American assassin moved—languorously, as if dazed from a hard fucking—and the bright swing of her hair. Krahsniy, red. Had they truly sent this delectable little girl after him?

  Alexi was no spy, but he understood the craft well enough to know that a woman on the playing field added complications. In addition to subterfuge and murder, he could add seduction to the list of possible avenues. But surely they weren’t so stupid as to set a honey trap for the likes of him. No, there was a gun in her purse, and worse. Poison, maybe, or a needle. She would be tougher than she looked and would play rough. That was fine. He liked a girl who could play rough.

  She wouldn’t get far anyway, but he had to be wary. He had enemies on the inside—the mess of two nights ago proved that. Someone had derailed his work in London and he was itching to return to his beloved country and go to war in earnest
. If this girl was stupid enough to step into the middle of it, well, that was something they called collateral damage, and he had shut his heart against regretting that years ago.

  In the meantime, why not buy a pretty girl a drink, find out what she knew? Alcohol had extracted more information out of enemies than sodium pentothal ever did. Of course, she would have to ask for it first. He tossed the cigarette in the gutter and tucked the newspaper under his arm, looking forward to drawing the little red bird’s attention. He was very fond of his Rule Number One. He would see if she obeyed it.

  *

  Mid-sip into a gin and tonic, Coco almost choked on her lime. Holy cats, she thought. That cannot be the same guy. But here she was in the Three Cocks, and here was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his left eye bisected by a vertical scar. The grim look she had seen in the photograph was gone—he looked relaxed in a black T-shirt and jeans that seemed vaguely foreign-made, something about the cut. His lips were sensually curved and he had those lucky Slavic cheekbones, high and sharp.

  No wonder he gets his suits custom-made, she thought. Nothing that big comes off the rack. Maksimov clearly had a powerful frame, but he moved with an easy grace. Beautiful posture too, she noted, like the soldier he pretended to be. Violence would not work with this one; he would overpower her in a split second. Coco slipped a hand inside her purse and tapped the little vial for reassurance. Odorless, colorless, more or less tasteless. And she had only one dose.

  He took a seat in the inglenook without sparing a glance toward her, the only woman in the pub. But he had seen her, of that there was no doubt. Ostentatiously ignoring her was proof she’d been spotted. The guy clearly had no finesse, which could work to her advantage. If only he hadn’t janked her first rule. He knew what she was and she still had nothing on him but a couple sheets of useless paper.

  The barmaid slapped a towel on the bar top in front of her. “Six quid,” she drawled.

  Coco rooted inside the purse again. Fake passport, gun, mirror, vial, lock-picking tools, tissues, handcuffs, extra bullets, secure cell phone, syringe, lipstick, other lipstick¼no cash. With a groan, she pictured the nightstand at her hotel, a pile of tickets, pamphlets and taxi receipts weighed down by her wallet.