I keep my smile in place, though, making sure none of the alarms ringing inside my head can be seen in my eyes. "Shall we?" I gesture back toward the main room, to the shifting bodies and the imagined safety of the herd. I hope to use the crowd to distract him and slip an unknown substance into his drink. What are his plans for me?
"May I?" Vladimir asks, holding out his arm.
I loop mine through his, feeling the pure, terrifying strength of him. He could break me. I think back to my trainer, Synthia’s, words… “your strength comes not from muscle but from your mind. Use your opponents’ size and weight against them.”
The pill on my ring does not seem very sporting.
But this isn't a game.
We move down the hall and past the Marine guard. Is that something in his eyes? A warning to me? That man is dangerous. I suppress the smile trying to turn up my lips. I'm not the one who needs a warning.
Julian spots us and raises a brow, giving me a questioning half smile. I answer with a one shoulder shrug. A fan, it says. Julian smiles wider and turns his attention back to the ambassador's wife. She's a fan of his and is soaking up the attention. Julian is making an ally for life.
The crowd parts for us as Vladimir steers me through it. We pass a mirrored wall, and I catch a glimpse of us—it's practically beauty and the beast. His chest is so broad, his brow so low, his hands so large…I look tiny and fragile next to him.
I resist the urge to pull the cloak of royalty around myself, to puff myself up, to spread my feathers and show how strong I really am. In this moment it is best to play the part of the scullery maid who has arrived at the ball in a borrowed gown.
The bar has a line, but it wilts away as Vladimir steps up to the polished wood. "What would you like?" he asks me.
"Something fizzy," I say. "Shall we both have champagne? So we can have a true toast."
His eyes light up, and he leans over, creating a more intimate space between us. "In my country, we toast with vodka."
I giggle, dipping my chin then bringing just my eyes up to meet him, my lashes creating a film of lace between us. "I can't drink vodka and be sure not to make a fool of myself." He laughs, those big shoulders shaking. "Please," I say, "let's have champagne."
"Whatever you like, anything." He turns to the bartender and orders two flutes of champagne. They appear quickly.
We clink the edges of our glasses together. "To new friendships," I say.
"Yes," he says, a throatiness in his voice that makes it clear friendship is not his intention.
We sip from the glasses, and I stare at the bubbles in his. How am I going to get my ring over it? Wait…he's still drinking. Oh…he's finishing. Crap on toast. That so didn’t work.
He puts the glass on the bar, and it is immediately filled again. He orders one for me as well, but I've barely wet my lips. "You're a faster drinker than me," I say, bringing a blush to my cheeks, as if I'm embarrassed at my failing.
His jaw loosens and quickly tightens. He does not want to upset me. "I'm sorry," he says.
"You don't need to apologize." I reach out, placing my hand on his forearm, the ring very white against his black jacket.
He looks down at the hand, and it takes every class I ever took, every moment I practiced in front of the mirror…every acting skill I've garnered from anywhere, not to pull the hand back. Not to give away the danger that slim-fingered, simply adorned hand poses to him.
He covers my hand with his, completely hiding it. "You're perfect," he says, his voice low, accent thick. I swallow the hum of real emotion that wants to rise at his words. You don't know me. We are strangers. Perfection does not exist.
"That's sweet," I say. "You're very kind."
His eyes implore me to believe him—he may be powerful enough to make any words he says into truth. Am I powerful enough to take him down?
Temperance thinks I am. Sing gave me the weapon; all I have to do is slip it into this man's drink. No, not sporting.
“Have you ever been to Moscow?” he asks me, changing the subject.
“No,” I shake my head. “But I’d love to some time. It seems like a fascinating place. Is that where you live?”
“One of the places. But I will be spending more time in America soon.”
“Really, why’s that?” I ask, sipping my drink.
“Business. With the election. Things will change. Reginald Grand is a good man. He sees the possibilities that bringing our two nations closer together can provide.”
“I’m not really into politics,” I say.
His eyes glitter. “A pretty thing like you doesn’t need to be.”
I force my face to stay open and happy. I’m not into politics because they are out of my control and paying attention doesn’t do me any good. It’s not like I don’t vote. I just don’t spend my life worrying about what those a-holes in Washington are doing. Of course, with how things have suddenly changed in my life, I probably should start to pay attention…
“I understand that you like to read,” Vladimir says, changing the subject again.
“Love it,” I answer, smiling.
“You like spy novels, yes?” Truth is, I’m more a paranormal kind of gal, but I nod and smile—I’ve been telling reporters I love spy fiction. After all, the film I’m promoting is a spy novel adaptation. “Have you read The Twentieth of January?” He asks.
“No, is it good?”
“Yes, you should try it.”
“What’s it about?”
Before he can answer, a bell rings, and there is a call for us to go into dinner. "We are at the same table," Vladimir tells me. "I arranged it."
I give him a smile. "Then we will have a chance to get to know each other better.”
He puffs up a little as his eyes raise over my head. I turn to see Julian approaching, his easy smile, and even easier grace, clearing him a path just as Vladimir's raw, dangerous power does. "Angela," Julian says, his eyes flitting over my face for a moment, searching it, before jumping to Vladimir.
"May I introduce—" I laugh, smiling at Vladimir. "You never told me your name."
He extends his hand, leaving the refilled champagne flute unattended on the bar top. "Vladimir Petrov," he says. Julian covers up a wince as their hands grip.
"Quite a strong grip you have there, mate," Julian says, shaking out his fingers with a little more drama than necessary.
I put my own glass on the far side of Vladimir's and tilt the ring over his as I bring my hand back to myself. A small pressure on the tiny latch releases the stone. It drops with a plunk so loud to my ears I'm surprised that the two men are still staring at each other as I pick up the glass and bring it around to Vladimir. The stone is gone by the time I hold it out to him—dispersed amidst the bubbles. "Here," I say, offering it to him.
He glances down at me and softens his expression. "Let's go in."
I turn to Julian, "Vladimir is at our table," I say.
"Oh, jolly."
"Want a drink before we head to dinner?” I ask. Julian shakes his head. Picking up my own glass, I hold it up to Vladimir for another toast. He gives me a broad smile, but there is something possessive about it. He wants me and is willing to do what it takes to get me.
Right back at you, baby.
Our glasses clink, but this time he takes a small sip instead of downing it. Crap.
Julian offers me his arm, and I take it. Vladimir reddens but is not deterred, walking right next to me, refusing to cede any space to the crowd around us.
It's not until we reach the entrance to the banquet hall that he has to drop back. I glance over my shoulder to check on him. His glass is still in his hand, and his eyes are trained on me. When our gazes meet, I see frustration that melts into hope at my attention.
A man touches his shoulder, and he turns to him. The crowd shifts, and Julian and I are in a large banquet room, Vladimir still in the stream of people behind us.
Round tables covered in fine linen, fancy china, and boast
ful floral arrangements surround a dance floor. At the front of the room is a stage with a large screen and a band playing soft music.
Julian leads me along the side of the room to one of the front tables. "That guy is kind of scary."
"Yes," I agree.
"He's at our table?"
"Apparently he's admired me for some time."
"Your first powerful stalker." He nods to himself, as if this is some classic stop on the road we are both traveling. "I had a Dutch princess who kept showing up at every festival. This was years ago." He shakes his head at the memory, a private smile playing across his lips as he pulls out a chair for me. I sit, and his breath brushes my shoulder as he helps push the chair in. "She gave up eventually."
He looks past me to the entrance. "This one might be a harder case. I'll stay close."
Vladimir appears in the doorway, the man who stopped him, short and stocky with silver hair cropped close to his block-shaped skull, still by his side. He exudes private security—his eyes roam the room, his head bent slightly as if listening to an ear piece.
Vlad is shaking his head, eyes down as they move across the room in our direction. Julian takes a seat next to me. The room fills with the sound of clinking glasses and murmurs of conversations.
The silver-haired security man moves away from Vladimir, going to stand by one of the large windows, hands behind his back, and his employer continues toward us, putting a smile on. He stops at a different table, placing his large hand on a man’s shoulder and making him blanch.
Vlad jostles the seated man a few times, lets out a bellow of laughter, and then starts our way again. The glass is gone. Shit, did he drink it or dump it? He said he didn't like champagne that much.
I glance down at my ring. Without the stone, it’s odd looking, and I slip it off, pushing it into my clutch. Our table is filling up, and Julian is chatting with the other occupants…but I only have eyes for Vladimir. He takes the free seat to my left and, giving Julian one quick glance of distaste, brings his focus to me.
"Sorry about that," he says.
"No need to apologize," I say, waving a hand. "We have all evening."
The ambassador, upstaging the consul general as our host for the evening, takes the stage and a spotlight focuses on him. "Welcome, dear guests," he says. I can't concentrate on his words; I'm too busy staring at the back of Vladimir's head, wondering…did he drink it?
I clap when everyone else does and then a band takes the stage and waiters arrive with salads. I pick at my food. Vladimir inhales his then returns his attention to me. "Would you like to dance?" he asks.
"Dance?" The floor is empty, the band is playing soft, slow music meant for eating.
"Yes," Vladimir says. Are his cheeks pinker? Is it an effect from the substance I put in his drink? Or am I the cause?
"I'm not sure..."
"Come," he stands, pushing his chair back. Did he stumble slightly? Vladimir holds his hand out. I hope to see it shaking, but the big paw is steady.
I look up at him. Julian leans over and whispers into my ear. "You don't have to."
Vladimir's expression darkens, but when I nod, light jumps back to his eyes. I take his hand, rough with callouses, and so big that again, I get that sense of smallness, so rare for me. I'm tall and thick for a woman in my profession—hard muscle and lush, full curves. I move through the world with a sense of strength and size, especially traveling in Asia the past few weeks. This man makes me feel tiny and fragile.
I lift my head and smile at him, pretending that I like the sensation of smallness. We make our way to the stage, where he speaks quietly with a sound guy. Then Vlad pulls me onto the dance floor, his stride steady.
His right hand spans my lower back, and I rest my left on his shoulder, our free hands twine, his thick fingers almost painful between mine.
Vladimir steps backward, and I follow, surprised by his sudden grace on the dance floor. In my first film role, I played a secondary character in a film about professional ballroom dancers. It went straight to streaming, but I'll never forget how to fox trot. "You're a good dancer," I say as he whisks me across the floor.
"I was inspired by your film, Ballroom Badness," he smiles down at me.
I tilt my head back and laugh. "You saw that?”
"I've seen everything you've done." Something shifts in his accent…slurred?
"Really? That's so sweet," I say, knowing that the word sweet is the wrong one. Calling this man sweet is like calling a docile pit bull sweet—just before it turns on you..
"Yes," he coughs, his eyes unfocusing and his feet stumbling for a moment.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
He nods, but his feet are slowing down. We grind to a halt, his fingers tightening on mine, the palm on my back slips down to my ass…loose…like he's lost control of it.
"Vladimir?" I say.
His eyes are unfocused; he can't hold me in his gaze any longer. He trips backward, pulling me against his chest, and we both go down, me on top of him. The band falters, and a collective gasp rises up from the crowd when we hit the hard wood floor, his one hand still gripping mine, the other shaking.
His whole body is seizing—stiff and quaking under me as his eyes roll into the back of his head.
Chapter Eight
A perfume of fine silk, musky cologne, vodka, and sweat rises up around me. My pupils dilate, a biological response to my own fear I can't control.
Vladimir's body is vibrating under me, and I push to get away, but he's still gripping my hand. He pulls it close, gritting his teeth, eyes rolled into the back of his head.
My free hand is on his shoulder. I push hard, getting my chest off of his, creating enough space between us that I can see his face. So that I can watch the horror show I’ve created.
Power flows over me. I did this.
A flood of guilt follows. I did this.
Hands come around my waist and pull, loosening me from Vladimir's grip. My feet wheel through the air, trying to help propel me away…away from what I've done. From that burst of power, of the pure adrenaline it gave me. Dear God, I liked it.
"Angela." Julian's voice is in my ear, his chest pressed to my back. "Are you okay?"
I'm shaking, tremors moving through me as I stare at Vladimir, in his tuxedo, that giant body flailing on the shiny dance floor.
Men rush forward, security surrounding him. The silver-haired security agent crouches by Vladimir’s side, hand on the big guy’s chest, mouth drawn into a tight line.
I'm staring, can't take my eyes off the scene. Then Vladimir goes still. So damn still. It's a relief in one moment—the seizure has stopped—and terrifying in the next. He's not moving…at all.
Silver starts doing compressions on his chest. I count with him…one, two, three.
Julian pulls me backward so that the crowd grows thicker, so that I can no longer see Vladimir through the crush of onlookers. Medics yell, pushing through the throng. The onlookers dash out of the way. This is not the gentle parting for a powerful man but the panicked sidestep of emergency… they don't want to be the ones who kill him.
"Angela." Julian turns me to face him. "Hey." He cups my cheek, those big blue eyes of his holding mine, trying to see inside. I blink, not sure what he saw. Did I leave the shutters open?
"Julian," I croak, my throat thick with tears.
He wraps me in his arms, my face pressed to his chest. "You're okay," he tells me, one hand on my back, the other coming up to pet my hair. I don't respond. What can I say?
This is horrific. I did this.
The medics, cheeks red with exertion and excitement, take Vladimir out on a gurney, an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. The silver-haired security agent goes with him. I stand with Julian, my side pressed to his, as they jog out of the room. "Is he—?" I ask.
"I don’t know," Julian answers, squeezing me. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know."
The ambassador appears on the stage, drawing the attention of
the milling crowd, his voice over the microphone quieting the hush of conversation. "Please everyone, return to your tables. Mr. Petrov is in good medical hands. I'm so sorry about this...." I zone out, my eyes scanning the room.
Is this what was supposed to happen? Is he dead? Did I kill a man…again? But this time on purpose, knowingly?
Not knowingly. I didn't know what was in the pill. This is on Temperance. On Sing. I'm just the weapon; they are the ones that fired it. A wave of sickness washes over me, and I lean against Julian harder. I don't want to be a weapon.
“Let’s get out of here,” Julian whispers into my hair.
Steering me with a hand at my waist, we start toward the exit. Security stands on either side of the door—not the decorative Marines this time, but plain-clothed professionals. They watch our approach from under lowered brows. One steps forward, putting a hand out to stop us. "I'm sorry," he says. "But no one can leave."
"Excuse me?" Julian says, his voice loud.
"Everyone must speak with the police before they go.” Nausea turns my stomach. "The police?" Julian says, his voice softening in confusion. "Why?"
"Please sir, return to your table."
Julian leans toward the security officer. "She's had a rough night. Can't the police meet us at our hotel? This is very traumatizing."
A laugh tries to escape over the nausea, but I stifle it.
"I'm sorry, sir. We have our orders."
Julian stiffens but does not respond. "Come on," he says to me quietly. “Let's speak to the ambassador."
I let him lead me across the room toward the ambassador's table, but he is still on stage. "The police will be here soon," the ambassador says. "They ask that you all wait until their arrival to leave."
The room quiets, the air thickening with tension. Murmurs start up, people leaning toward each other. The candlelight glitters on the women’s jewels, which sparkle almost as bright as the glee in their eyes. This is an adventure. A story to tell.
When the ambassador leaves the stage, Julian moves quickly, leaving me standing by an empty seat. I grip the back of the chair to steady myself and take stock of my appearance. My head feels drained of blood; I’m sure I look it. Good. Eyes soft, scared. Yes, that's in line with what happened. My throat is still tight, my stomach upset. Yes. This all works. I am an innocent woman whose dance partner just had a seizure and possibly died underneath her.
A Spy Is Born Page 8
