“I am the new Director of the Security Affairs and Disarmament Department,” he said coolly. “In that capacity, I oversee the Russian Federation’s military collaboration with the fourteen nations that comprise the post-Soviet empire. As even a newcomer to your position must be aware, this empire includes Ukraine.”
Given the classic sub skipper’s ego, she’d figured Kostenko would be annoyed to hear himself described as a glorified secretary. But he was a cool customer, this Russian, and his harsh-chiseled features gave nothing away as he parried her thrust with that little dig about her inexperience.
Still, she wasn’t going to let him rattle her. No matter what hair-raising exploits he might have piloted his submarine through, the man possessed substantially less diplomatic experience than she did herself.
As she pinned on her best game face, those narrowed blue eyes slid down her body from head to heels, then slowly slid back up. For a heartbeat, that chilly remoteness almost fractured. His gaze lingered on the immaculate silk suit she’d chosen so carefully to project her authority, the turquoise scarf she’d knotted at her throat to match her eyes.
She knew what he saw: the epitome of restraint and gravitas she took constant pains to reflect. Yet now, for some reason, she had to remind herself not to toy with the silver-blonde hair that brushed her shoulders, or tug at the costly jacket. Alexis tamped down that inner twitch of nerves and tightened her grip on her briefcase.
“I have talking points and a demarche from Washington for you, captain.” Pausing, she infused her tone with sympathy. “Since you’re new to your diplomatic responsibilities, I should explain that a demarche is an official position paper. In this case, it’s intended to initiate dialogue—”
“Thank you for the tutorial on elementary diplomacy, Counselor.” Now his tone was icy, but the furrow between his brows deepened. “Are you able to articulate the document’s subject—or are you merely functioning as a mailman?”
Touché, captain. She unclenched her jaw, and refrained from betraying a flicker of annoyance.
“I have a passing acquaintance with the topic,” she said dryly, “since I’ve been following your government’s evolving relations with its neighbors for the past several years.”
While you were cruising the North Sea playing war games. Her genteel condescension had to be getting under his skin. This wasn’t a man accustomed to being patronized—especially, she guessed, by a woman.
“My government is demarching you,” she finished, “to express its concern with the troubling presence of Russian naval vessels in Ukraine’s territorial waters.”
“It’s a training exercise.” Through watchful eyes he studied her, drawing on his cigarette and speaking curtly through the smoke. “If you have documents for me, I’ll give you a fax number.”
“I’m afraid that will not suffice.” Alexis worked to contain a sharp burst of irritation.
Though routine documents were often delivered via fax—not email, which was deemed too insecure—important messages like this one required the added emphasis of a personal meeting. And if he knew what a demarche was, Victor Kostenko damn well knew she wouldn’t be faxing this one. She wondered whether his inaccessibility was dictated by his superiors at MFA, or merely reflected his own difficult personality.
“My government would like a response to these concerns,” she pressed, “that goes beyond a confirmation of receipt from the MFA fax machine.”
And I’ll need that response by tomorrow, captain, if I want to hold on to my hard-won promotion.
Kostenko exhaled smoke, that ruthless mouth twitching as if he sensed her desperation. As if he too was scanning her for weaknesses, and had just picked up her “tell.”
“In point of fact,” he murmured, in his accented but impeccable English, “it will reflect poorly upon you personally if you are unable to entice a more substantive response from me, yes? It will reflect upon you: Alexis Castle Chase, who are the only surviving child of a legendary U.S. Ambassador, and the recent ex-wife of another senior U.S. diplomat.”
His eyes glinted like submerged glaciers in the North Sea as she clung grimly to her poise. No wedding ring, she noted, either on his left hand or his right, where an orthodox Russian would wear it. Which was more than a bit unusual for a guy his age—around forty, her analysts calculated—in this culture.
“It would reflect poorly,” he finished softly, “upon you: the new Minister-Counselor for Political Affairs, who are widely rumored to have obtained your impressive promotion through your connections with these two great men, rather than through your own merits.”
“I beg your pardon.” Gripping her briefcase until it cut into her fingers, Alexis responded with steely control. “Notwithstanding my ‘connections,’ your colleagues across five ministries consult me on a regular basis, as do your counterparts from the Russian Security Council and the Presidential Administration.”
She arched her brows. “I’m not certain how things worked on your submarine. But in diplomacy, it’s generally considered appropriate to coordinate your views with your superiors.”
An electric pulse of annoyance flashed in his eyes. He might be compelled to take his marching orders from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but she’d bet her trust fund this alpha male didn’t like it.
“At my level,” he bit out, “I possess the authority to make Russian policy and dictate its positions myself. Of course, I appreciate that an Embassy functionary stationed thousands of miles from her capital cannot enjoy the same privilege.”
And that smug son of a bitch had just impugned her professional abilities again. No doubt he’d intuited, with those aggressive instincts, how hard she worked to suppress her doubts—her secret fears that her performance could never live up to her star billing. He knew she was under the spotlight, and needed to deliver a stellar performance.
But the trick to dealing with Russians, as Alexis well knew, was never to blink. Now she drew from the sketchy information she’d read in his dossier to prepare for this meeting.
“Have they really let you off your leash at MFA, captain?” she murmured. “You must know those diplomats downstairs are buzzing about you. They’re asking each other what kind of misstep would impel the Ministry of Defense to pull its most talented captain from commanding an attack sub to sail a desk in the backwater of another ministry.”
Though she shouldn’t have said it, and her Ambassador would probably faint if he heard it, her pointed riposte finally drew blood. Her adversary went utterly still, a muscle ticking in his jaw the only indication that she’d hit a nerve. His cigarette hovered, clamped between his fingers, a cylindrical ash growing on its tip.
“You must inform your Defense Attaché,” he said with dangerous softness, “that his dossier on me contains certain… inaccuracies. For the Kostenko who was the fleet’s most talented captain was not myself, but my father. As a submarine captain, I cannot claim to surpass him. And the so-called crime for which he was convicted—after his sub was lost at sea with all souls aboard, including his own—was nothing more than his Ukrainian ancestry.”
He paused. “The same so-called ‘deficiency’ which I, of course, must share.”
Kostenko’s Slavic features brooded, as he flicked the ember from his cigarette into a brass ashtray. “When we were united under the Soviet Union, the question of ethnicity was a trifling matter. Now, in these…more complicated times, a loyal soldier and citizen of Mother Russia must be all the more zealous—as you will appreciate—in discharging his responsibilities.”
That would hold especially true for a senior officer whose mixed ethnicity straddled both sides of the Russian-Ukrainian conflict. Cool and dispassionate though he might appear, Victor Kostenko had to be feeling some heat.
As she stood at attention before the enormous desk like a soldier on parade, with tension simmering in the air between them, Alexis felt an unwilling pang of sympathy for the officer’s dilemma. She understood, all too well, how it felt to be trapped by
a father’s legacy. She too, in her own way, had struggled all her life to escape.
But in the end, she’d understood that she would never escape being the daughter of the venerable Undersecretary Castle. She could only atone for her own inadequacies. She wondered if Victor Kostenko had yet learned that painful lesson.
Back to business, she reminded herself, and smoothed her face to professional detachment. “As I’ve mentioned, I have the talking points and paper outlining our concerns in my briefcase. Allow me to convey these documents to you now. Then you can consult your superiors, and respond to me tomorrow—”
“I fear that is impossible, Ms. Castle,” the Russian said curtly. His clipped words did nothing to camouflage a simmering impatience with these diplomatic niceties, his tangible scorn for the protocols forced upon him. “I am not permitted to accept without prior authorization any documents on military matters, outside the physical boundaries of a ministry or agency of the Russian Federation. This is for your protection as well as mine.”
So that neither of them could be accused of espionage for the transaction. Alexis swore silently at the emergence of this latest bureaucratic obstacle. Indeed, to defend against such allegations, both of them were already required to report this private discussion to their respective authorities.
Conscious of the scrutiny of those cobalt eyes, Alexis placed her briefcase squarely at her feet—a silent declaration of intent. The embattled country of Ukraine was counting on her to flex some muscle. Her assignment was to wield the threat of U.S. wrath convincingly enough to strong-arm the Russian navy back into international waters, without resorting to violence. She had to deliver her message, come hell or high water, and persuade Kostenko to respond to her government’s very real concerns.
If she didn’t, it was her ass on the line. And the newly independent state of Ukraine might be breathing its last gasp of freedom.
“In that case,” she said calmly, “I must call on you at MFA tomorrow to discuss these pressing issues. When will it be convenient for you to see me? Shall we say 10 a.m.?”
A flicker of something—wry acknowledgement of her persistence, maybe—surfaced beneath the arctic chill of his features. Thoughtfully, he ground out his cigarette. Then, with an abruptness that disconcerted her, he pushed to his feet.
She couldn’t help noticing the guy towered over the hapless desk, way over six feet tall. And the breadth of his chest beneath that gold-braided jacket was, admittedly, impressive. She wondered what he’d been doing on his submarine to give him that physique. This was hardly the body of a man who spent his days scowling into a periscope—or hunched over a desk at MFA, for that matter. While the suntanned skin stretched over those Slavic bones in December hinted at an outdoor man.
Alexis cut short her wayward thoughts, every nerve tingling with wariness as he rounded the desk with the silent glide of a hunting shark. She stood her ground as he prowled toward her, surprisingly graceful for such a large man, with the athleticism she respected in her sparring partners at the dojo or the fencing salle. In the narrow confines of the library, he passed close enough to touch. If she’d wanted to touch him, which of course she didn’t.
Still, she couldn’t help noticing how the lamplight glittered on those epaulets and the double column of gold buttons marching down his torso. Or the way the caramel-colored light picked out sun-streaks in his hair, thick enough to tempt a woman to run her fingers through it.
And she definitely couldn’t help breathing in the fragrance exuded from his rough-shaven skin: an enticing blend of Davidoff cigarettes and the woody spice of David Beckham’s Signature cologne. It didn’t help that she was probably the only woman left on earth who actually liked the rich acrid perfume of a high-end cigarette, though she didn’t smoke herself.
Clearly Kostenko was escalating his offensive because he hadn’t managed to pierce her composure with his pointed words. Well, if he thought she’d be intimidated by his proximity, he was destined for disappointment, because she wouldn’t show him an ounce of weakness. She stood her ground as he circled her, like a great white smelling blood in the water.
Though she was definitely not afraid of him, she couldn’t deny being hyperaware of his every silent step. Warm breath stirred her hair and brushed her ear, making her toes curl, as he leaned in close from behind.
“Tell me, Ms. Castle, how far will you go to accomplish your mission?”
“What are you asking me, captain?” she countered. “Obviously, I’ll do nothing illegal, or even remotely inappropriate.”
But her voice sounded breathless, which was unsurprising given the way her stomach was fluttering. A dead giveaway to a perceptive man, which he definitely was, that she wasn’t as firmly in control as she pretended to be.
Now he lingered behind her, so she couldn’t see his face, and she seized the moment to shore up her defenses. But when he spoke—whisper-soft—his voice seemed thicker, his accent more pronounced, as though he too felt distracted.
“I’ll inform my colleagues that your government is planning to demarche us about our legitimate military collaboration with Ukraine.” His breath teased her ear. “I’m able to make no guarantees, you realize. However, one might possibly avoid an official refusal…if you were to give me the relevant documents when I see you tomorrow evening.”
A swell of satisfaction flooded through her at his apparent capitulation, even though he’d hedged his bet. But she caught her breath at his unexpected last word.
“Tomorrow evening, captain?” She’d be squeaking in just under Geoff’s deadline, and she didn’t like cutting it that close. “Are you planning to attend the Embassy reception? We’re hosting an event for the Russian scientists who’ve won slots in our exchange program—”
“Hardly.” Victor Kostenko snorted as he completed his stroll around her. “And neither are you, Ms. Castle, if you really want to give me those unpleasant documents you’re carrying.”
She bristled at his peremptory tone. “I’m afraid my presence at that reception is a command performance. May I suggest an earlier appointment?”
“Unfortunately that will be impossible given my schedule. I’ll send a car for you at 1830 hours,” he finished, those vigilant eyes glinting as they catalogued her reaction. “Don’t be late.”
Anger flared through her as Alexis stared up at him, absorbing the calm certainty in his tone, his utter conviction that she would yield to his diktat without a syllable of protest.
Of course, her father had thought nothing of regimenting her life in precisely that manner, without even consulting her. And she’d resented the hell out of it. When Wayne Castle passed away, she’d seized control of her own life, and vowed not to let anyone else behind the wheel. She couldn’t tolerate being pushed around by another man who projected her father’s unquestioning authority. Especially not this Russian skipper, who exuded all the arrogance and aggression that were archetypes of the breed.
But she had to deliver that message, and he’d just outlined the circumstances under which he would concede to take it. Yet she couldn’t deny—and couldn’t hide, damn it ten times—the wicked thrill of challenge that rippled through her.
No doubt about it, Captain First Rank Victor Kostenko was far too sure of himself for any woman’s good.
“I’ll report your proposal to my colleagues, captain,” she said blandly. “Will any of your comrades from MFA be joining us?”
“No.” Looking amused, the captain extracted a fresh cigarette and a slim silver lighter from his pocket. “Do you think I’m going to require reinforcements to deal with you, Counselor?”
She’d bet he didn’t allow himself to require or rely on anyone. But if she agreed to take this meeting tomorrow, she’d be on his turf. She wasn’t so blind cocky that she’d pass up the opportunity to secure some allies of her own.
“As you like,” she said crisply, lifting her chin. “For my part, I’ll be accompanied by our Defense Attaché, General Baker.”
“We
won’t require the general’s presence for the dialogue I’m envisioning.” His voice deepened an octave. “Kindly arrange to leave your minders at home.”
For a nanosecond he actually smiled, fine lines creasing in the suntanned skin around his eyes, and that flash of bad-boy charm hit Alexis like a triple shot of espresso.
Whoa. He hadn’t picked that up at the Russian school for sub skippers. That smile made it impossible to overlook the inconvenient distraction she’d been struggling to ignore since she’d walked into the German Ambassador’s library. All his Russian brusqueness and glacial chill notwithstanding, Victor Tarasovich Kostenko was a rather unusual specimen.
In fact, he was the type of guy she might possibly have gone for—except for that minor detail about being a high-ranking Russian officer. Which was the show-stopper, of course. He was the very last liaison any career-minded American diplomat would ever dare indulge.
And he was doubly dangerous to Alexis, since her boss Oliver Grey had just been expelled from country for an unsanctioned sexual relationship with Kostenko’s female predecessor. Their capitals were still scrambling to establish who’d been spying on whom. As for the luckless Russian diplomat, rumor had it the Minister of Foreign Affairs had sacked her personally. While the Embassy’s security office had already warned Alexis the pissed-off Russians could target her for the payback.
So don’t overreact to the fact that the guy’s somewhat attractive…borderline interesting…and apparently single. You’ve probably just been celibate too long—ever since Geoff. But even as she cautioned herself, she bent to retrieve her briefcase and caught another mouth-watering whiff of that Beckham fragrance.
Holding her professional composure like a shield between them, she uttered a brisk goodnight and hightailed it out of there. But she was still vibrating beneath the sweep of his eyes, like a targeted vessel pinged by Russian sonar, when she swept around the corner and out of firing range.
The Russian Seduction Page 2
