by Misty Evans
Ivanov raised a shot glass in acknowledgement, even though it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it. “To family.”
The clock on the mantel chimed eleven o’clock. One hour until Ryan would come. Smug that she had the map securely hidden, she took the second shot glass and clicked it against Ivanov’s. “To family.”
He sent his vodka down his throat and picked up one of the zakooska, patting the sofa next to him in invitation. His bloodshot eyes again zeroed in on her breasts, and Anya checked her gag reflex.
“I’m sorry.” She set down her untouched vodka and the family history. “But that twenty-four-hour bug really zapped my energy. I think I’ll retire early. We can go over those files you asked me to analyze tomorrow night.”
Before he could swallow the food in his mouth, she was on her way to the door. She didn’t get far, however, before he grabbed her upper arm and turned her around to face him. His grip was iron-hard and just as tight. “You are beautiful, Czarevna.”
His lips came down on hers without warning, cold, wet, and soft. Revulsion filled her senses. She jerked backward while at the same time pushing against his chest with her hands.
He released her and she stumbled, but caught herself before she fell, continuing to back toward the door as she put space between them. The look on her face had to be disgust. She didn’t care.
He smiled sweetly, advancing on her until her back was against the door. He brushed his thumb across one of her nipples. “You are welcome to spend the night.”
Her immediate fear was that he could feel the warrants through her shirt and bra, but the lecherous look on his face didn’t change. That fear aside, sickening disgust rose from her stomach into her throat, and spread through her body. Everything about him, from his touch to his suggestion, horrified her. Loathing burned in her veins.
Reining in the urge to slap him, she felt around for the ornate door handle with the hand behind her back and gave it a twist. “Good night, President Ivanov.”
She assumed he would stop her from going out the door, but he didn’t. Inga was not waiting in the hall for her, confirming Anya’s fears that Ivanov had indeed planned to seduce her, and keep her in his bedchambers until morning.
Another wave of disgust rolled through her as she marched down the hallway toward her suite, oblivious to the guard who walked two paces behind her.
Once inside the Golden Chambers, she locked the French doors and pushed the dresser in front of the hidden door in the bedroom. Ryan wasn’t due for another twenty minutes, and she needed to clean up without worrying a drunk Ivanov would decide to spend the night by force. He would one of these nights, she had no doubt.
In the bathroom, she turned on the hot water in the gigantic, jetted, spa tub, and while it filled, she poured mouthwash from a crystal decanter and rinsed her mouth over and over to get the taste of Ivanov off her lips.
Once she’d stripped off her clothes, she dropped them on a nearby chair. She secured the map, warrants, and Ryan’s business card in between a couple of folded plush towels on the rim of the tub. The water soothed her as she eased down until it came up to her chin.
She removed the bandage from her side and the water soothed the skin of her wound. A light scab had formed over each end, but the middle still seeped blood now and then. “Heal, dammit,” she whispered.
While she longed for her tiny, cramped bathroom at home, with its old-fashioned, claw-foot tub, this one was still a welcoming place after fleeing her captor. A lot had happened, and yet, there was still so much of the elephant to eat.
With a sinking feeling in her stomach warring with the hope Ryan sparked in her chest, she tried to numb her overloaded brain. When Ryan got there, they’d figure out their next move. She’d show him the map, soak up some of his calm demeanor, and everything would be okay.
I might even kiss him again.
Avoiding her wound, Anya scrubbed the rest of her body hard and fast, wishing that was all it took to scrub Ivanov from her life forever.
Chapter Twenty-Six
He was running late.
Georgievsky Hall was pitch-black except for shafts of faint moonlight falling from the second floor windows. The giant columns towered over empty floors, throwing massive shadows. Vague sounds rose and fell from elsewhere in the Palace, but inside the hall, all was suffocating and silent.
From his left breast pocket, Ryan removed a pair of glasses and slipped them on his face. The special glasses looked like a normal pair of transition lenses, darkening in sunlight and returning to clear when not. This pair, however, had been engineered by Del Hoffman. Night vision, here we come.
To avoid the security cameras in the more public areas of the Palace, Ryan slunk into one of the many service corridors adjacent to the grand hall. Staff, guards, and waiters used the service corridors to get from one area of the Palace to another without disturbing or interrupting the president and his guests. None of these narrow passageways had cameras.
Several of the grand halls concealed kitchens and elevators behind their imposing structures in order to serve fresh, hot meals during events such as the summit. Georgievsky Hall was one of them.
Since it wasn’t being used for entertainment tonight, the kitchen and staff areas were vacant. Leaving the kitchen behind, Ryan slipped into the hall. As he kept his back against the ornate wall, he stayed out of view of the six cameras he’d logged in his mental map of the place from the first night of the summit. That night, Ivanov and Anya had appeared as if out of nowhere on the east side of the hall, and Ryan was only a few feet away from that entrance. His challenge, besides staying out of the camera eyes, was to find the door release, which was no doubt concealed as expertly as the door itself.
While he was no stranger to covert ops, fieldwork had for the most part been left behind since he’d become director. His pulse beat steady and strong, if a little faster than normal, as he searched with his hands for any telltale bump or ridge around the nonexistent door frame. There had to be a release from this side as well as the hidden interior.
His nimble fingers found a super-thin wire, as fine as one of his hairs. Probably invisible to the naked eye. Even with the night vision glasses, he couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, and his fingers followed it to its source, a tiny, raised button on the right side of the door.
Bingo. He pushed the button and gave himself a mental high five when the door slid open with a soft whoosh.
The secret hallway was barely a yard wide, and lit by sconces every ten feet, before the passage turned at both ends. Definitely plain Jane compared to the grand hall he was leaving. The low lighting messed with his night vision, so, removing his glasses, he took a cautious scan to the right and left and concentrated, using his eyes and ears to determine if anyone was nearby. All was quiet, but since he could only see to the end of the passage, and there were no hiding places, he had to take it slow, and keep all his senses engaged so as not to be caught unaware.
After waiting a full minute and hearing nothing, he stepped into the secret hall, shut the door behind him, and released a pent-up breath. He pressed the button on his watch to light up the face: 12:06.
Better late than dead, he told himself, and followed the path to the Golden Chambers.
…
Twelve minutes later, he stood outside the door he thought was the right one. Across the hallway was a matching door, and on either side of that, larger, elaborate sconces that gave off more light and looked as old as the Palace itself. These, he guessed, were for the president.
The door in front of Ryan sported sconces that were more feminine and opulent, with jewels and crystals embedded in gold, suggesting he’d found his mark.
The deadbolt on the door was in place. To keep Anya locked inside.
Thunk, thunk, thunk. The heavy fall of footsteps echoed down an adjacent hallway. The hidden passageways were nothing more than tunnels that twisted and turned in many directions, making sound travel in odd patterns. The footsteps could be lite
rally around the corner or fifty yards away. There was no way to tell.
Because of that, Ryan couldn’t risk knocking. Flipping the deadbolt back with one hand, he watched over his shoulder as he slid open the door with the other, and hoped against hope he’d picked the right bedroom.
He stepped into the room without looking and ran into something hard.
An antique dresser. Anya had moved the dresser in front of the door. Apparently she hadn’t gotten his message. At least he knew he had the right room.
The bedchamber was bathed in soft white light, barely visible from a nightstand on the far side of the four-poster bed. Sheer white material hung from the posts to shield the bed, but he could just make out a form lying on it.
Thunk, thunk, thunk. The footstep echoes grew louder. A guard perhaps? Didn’t matter. Whoever those footsteps belonged to was definitely coming this way.
Moving the dresser would be noisy and take too much time. Ryan hoisted himself onto the top, and slid the door closed as quickly as he could without making a sound.
He ran his hands over the door frame. There was no way to relock the deadbolt from the inside. Placing one ear against the door, he listened to the footsteps’ approach. They paused right outside. Ryan held his breath while reaching into another pocket, concealed inside his jacket, for a knife he’d stolen from the kitchen. He didn’t pull it out, but waited, every nerve screaming with tension. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he strained to hear sounds from the other side.
Behind him came the rustle of bedclothes. “Ryan? Is that you?”
In a heartbeat, he slid off the dresser, and dove for the bed, where Anya was drawing herself up into a sitting position. Her eyes went wide, and she started to speak again, until he clamped a hand over her mouth and pulled her body to his. “Shhh.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Anya’s heart thumped hard like it always did when she was close to Ryan. He was so big, so dangerous, so…in control. Face-to-face, his eyes bored into hers, willing her to trust him, to stay silent. Someone was listening.
On the other side of the door? Was it Ivanov? Her brain cried a warning, and she struggled for a second against Ryan’s tight grip, but he wasn’t hurting her, only holding her still. If he thought Ivanov was coming through the door, he’d most likely be looking for a hiding place, wouldn’t he?
He was so close, he invaded all her senses, and yet the invasion was calming, reassuring. Like in the library, and at the cabin, he was protecting her.
Determined not to act like a wuss, she forced oxygen in through her nose and breathed deep to calm her nerves. No aftershave smell tonight. Instead, he smelled like soap that reminded her of a summer day. Green grass. Sunshine.
Freedom.
Summer was her favorite season, and she was suddenly sure she would spend the coming summer back home in America. With Grams.
Relaxing, she smiled beneath his hand.
Ryan must have felt her lips move. She registered a small amount of surprise on his face. That made her smile broader. He took his hand away, placing a finger to her lips to signify she should stay quiet. She nodded her understanding, wishing he’d leave his finger there, and fighting her natural response to kiss it.
Sliding off the bed, he turned his ear toward the door and listened. After several heartbeats, he bent across the top of the antique dresser and listened for another long moment, body as motionless as the bust of Peter the Great in Ivanov’s study. Anya listened, too.
Another minute passed, and Ryan relaxed. He met her gaze and did the finger to his lips move. Anya frowned, not understanding this time. If the threat outside the door was gone, why couldn’t they talk? She almost opened her mouth to ask when Ryan started scanning the furniture, running his hands over and under the dresser, the nightstand, the lamp. He got down on the floor and looked under the bed, then climbed on the bed and began feeling his way over the back of her headboard. She scooted out of the way to allow him access, the female in her appreciating the way his shoulders and back muscles moved under his dark suit coat.
What was he looking for?
Spy. The word rang in her head. He was looking for bugs or cameras or both in her suite.
Why hadn’t she thought of that? That’s why he’d turned on the radio the previous night. Not because someone in the hall might hear them. Someone listening in on her room might have. So much for watching all the Bourne movies. She would never get this spying thing down.
Watching Ryan in full spy mode sent a thrill of excitement racing along her nerve endings. She ran to the letter desk in the main room, retrieving a compact flashlight and bringing it back to him. Comprehending her attempt at help, one corner of his lips lifted as he took the flashlight, and something passed between them. Anya felt it, and by the expression on his face, so did he. She swallowed hard and wondered if it was a spy thing, this easy silent communication between them.
Not a spy thing, her female instincts told her. A man and woman thing.
Just like that kiss had been a man and woman thing.
Ryan broke eye contact, turning back to his inspection, and leaving Anya a little light-headed.
As he continued to comb the rest of the bedchamber looking for bugs, she did, too, not sure what one looked like, but ready to find out.
They moved from the bedchamber to the bathroom, and gave it a once-over. When Ryan came to the air vent, he removed a pair of glasses from his jacket, pressed his thumb against one tiny screw, and suddenly, the earpiece was a small screwdriver.
He removed the metal cover, inspected the vent, and then did the same thing to the bathroom fan before replacing the covers and progressing to the main living area.
The size of this room made their search more time-consuming. Anya didn’t mind. Watching Ryan in action as he ran his hands and eyes over every single object, door frame, and fancy molding in the room was mesmerizing. She caught herself wishing he would do the same to her.
Before she knew it, her wish came true.
Sitting at the czarina’s white and gold desk. checking under the drawers, she sensed him moving closer. She glanced up and there it was…that probing gaze. Just like at the cabin in the woods, his brown eyes deepened with a hundred questions. Was he sizing her up? Wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into? Thinking about kissing her again?
If only she could reassure him, like he had her.
Although he seemed satisfied there were no hidden bugs, he flipped on the radio anyway. He kept his voice low and discreet since he knew guards hovered outside the French doors as he strolled toward her. “Find anything?”
Anya replaced the last drawer and lowered her voice to barely more than a whisper. “There was a false bottom in one of the drawers.” She waved a hand over the recovered items…an antique revolver no bigger than her hand, a stash of cigarettes, and a bejeweled lighter. Two envelopes, brown around the edges from age and sporting postmarks from the early 1900s. A child’s drawing of four stick figures with the words I love you, Mother scribbled in Russian. “No bugs, though.”
Ryan picked up the revolver, flipped open the chamber, and scrutinized it from one end to the other as he were a connoisseur of antique guns. Someone who appreciated their intricacies, and not just for collecting in display cabinets. Maybe he was. “Any bullets?”
“Unfortunately, no. Otherwise, I’d tuck it under my pillow, fully loaded.”
He smiled, closed the chamber, and returned it to the desktop, glancing over his shoulder at the French doors. Seeming to decide to move their conversation away from possible detection, he took her hand and led her into her bedchamber, guiding her to the bed and sitting next to her. The room was so quiet, she could hear herself breathing. Or not breathing, since he was suddenly next to her in such an intimate setting. Her heart beat loudly in her ears, and she wondered if he could hear it.
He didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t seem to be bothered at all. He leaned forward and continued to speak in low tones, which seemed appro
priate for the midnight venue. “Sorry about the rude awakening earlier. Someone was in the passageway. The walls are fairly soundproof, but the door I’m not sure about. I didn’t want them to question who you were talking to.”
The memory of him so close and so intense on the bed at the cabin, combined with his current closeness, made her shiver. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Guess I was more tired than I thought.”
Ryan smiled his crooked smile again, reaching out, and touching the collar of his sweater. “You sleep in my sweater?”
Heat flooded her cheeks. She’d gone for comfort over sexy, needing to feel Ryan’s presence, and ignoring the provocative silk nightgown and robe hanging on the hook in the bathroom. After her soak in the tub, she’d felt relatively free of Ivanov’s manhandling, but the silk boudoir set made her skin crawl. She’d opted for soft cotton and heavenly Ryan scent instead. “I meant to throw on jeans and a T-shirt before you arrived.”
“Thought you were going to leave the dresser where it belonged instead of in front of the door. Or didn’t Truman deliver my message?”
His leg was up against hers, reassuring and solid. What would it feel like to run her hand over his thigh? Press her body closer? She blinked away the inappropriate thoughts and cleared her throat. “Ivanov was aggressive tonight and drunk like usual. I didn’t want to find him standing in my bedroom instead of you, so I pushed the dresser in front of the door while I bathed. Not that a dresser would stop him, but it would’ve given me a few seconds to get a running start in the opposite direction.”
His smile faded. His eyes went hard. “Did he hurt you?”
“Grossed me out big-time, but no, he didn’t hurt me. I can’t believe he can run this country when he’s always drunk.”
“Lots of leaders have been alcoholics. Boris Yeltsin was famous for his drunken antics.”
“Yeltsin?” Her memory of the man had faded over time, but she didn’t remember him ever appearing drunk. “Seriously?”
