The Russian Seduction

by Nikki Navarre

  “It looks like we’ve managed to elude our friend,” he murmured. “I’ll come back for the car after we drop you at the Embassy. Of course, if the guy knows your identity, he’s going to know where you must have ended.”

  His ice-blue eyes narrowed as they slid toward her. Alexis tried to control the convulsive shivers rippling through her from their narrow escape—but it was no good. He laid an arm across her shoulders and rubbed briskly. And all she wanted was to climb in his lap like a frightened kid and wrap her arms around his neck.

  Get a grip, she told herself firmly. You’re being a cliché.

  “If they know where I’ve gone, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ll report the incident to the Marines on duty. Anyway, no one without a U.S. government-issued I.D. is allowed on compound at this hour.”

  “You’ll also report this to your Regional Security Officer, yes?”

  Again she was startled by his knowledge of USG-internal procedures. After a moment, she nodded.

  “Yes, though I won’t call him in on his weekend for it. On Monday, he can decide if further measures are called for. Though, really, tonight may have been a freak occurrence. I honestly have no idea why anyone would pursue me.”

  “It’s obvious, no?” The furrow between his brows deepened. “Although his incompetence was noteworthy, that was no random perpetrator.”

  Now he was scowling disapproval like the hard-ass he must’ve been on his boat. Probably he’d wanted to make their incompetent pursuer drop and give him push-ups.

  “He was following orders,” Victor said levelly, “either from my people, or from yours. And I’ve already told you why I don’t believe he’s one of ours.”

  Ours vs. yours. Them vs. us. His choice of words reminded her—if she’d needed reminding—that she and Kostenko weren’t playing for the same team. That would remain true even if he’d protected her from his own guys tonight. It would remain true no matter how much she was attracted to him, in more than physical ways.

  And hadn’t he been pretty damn impressive, eluding surveillance like that? It sharpened her curiosity about what he’d been doing in Washington before his current assignment. She’d already noticed his dossier was suspiciously sketchy on his whereabouts since he’d lost his command two years ago. She supposed she’d better call in a few favors from the boys at Langley, and find out.

  Now more than ever, she needed to know what her analysts hadn’t wanted to write down about Captain Victor Kostenko in a dossier that any American at post with the right security clearance could read.

  _____________________________________

  Alexis returned to her townhouse in the walled Embassy compound too keyed up to sleep, though her watch was now pushing midnight. And she certainly wasn’t about to wake the RSO at this hour to report the highlights of her love life.

  Uncorking a bottle of pinot noir, she sipped a glass while she wandered restlessly through the spacious residence. She found the pad a bit too roomy for a single woman, and too pretentious for comfort, but it came with her post as Minister-Counselor.

  Worrying about the goon in the black leather jacket who’d been tailing her, she cranked up the central heat and switched on the lights over her artwork. Her edgy collection of avant-garde paintings leaped out from the darkness, jostling uneasily against her dad’s sedate landscapes, the classical pieces she’d hung dutifully in his memory.

  Her favorite piece wasn’t here, of course: an early and little known Van Gogh that her father picked up from Sotheby’s to celebrate her return from Stanford. Naturally, she hadn’t wanted to subject the masterpiece to the vagaries of foreign travel and Russian customs, so she’d loaned it to the National Art Gallery—

  God, her head was still spinning. She’d never manage to sleep unless she ran a hot bath and indulged in a long soak.

  Gradually the steamy heat seeped through her stiff muscles. A vanilla-scented candle flickered nearby, perfuming the air with sweetness. She’d piped in Tchaikovsky’s sprightly Nutcracker Suite on her stereo, and told herself firmly the choice had nothing to do with Victor Kostenko. She had to get him out of her head, somehow. Had to keep him out of her bed…

  The insistent chime of the doorbell woke her as she floated in a sea of cooling water. Half-awake, she toweled off and fumbled into her thick periwinkle bathrobe. She stumbled downstairs with the doorbell still pinging her, and sleepily wondered whether she’d missed a call about an immediate cable. Occasionally they needed her to go in during the night, when urgent instructions arrived from Washington.

  “There you are, Alexis, thank God.” Uncharacteristically, Geoff looked less than perfect—still wearing his three-piecesuit at this hour, eyes red-rimmed and the woody bite of well-aged whiskey on his breath. “Where the devil have you been?”

  She preferred not to stand shivering on the doorstep for a rousing row with her ex-husband that all her neighbors—who were also her colleagues—would hear. So, reluctantly, she let him in. Tightening her belt, she retreated to the brightly lit kitchen and poured herself more wine. She figured she’d need it.

  “Not that it’s any of your concern, Geoff, what I choose to do when I’m off duty. But I went out for dinner with a friend. Is that against the rules?”

  “Now you’re thinking about the rules?” Her ex raised a chiding finger, one of those paternalistic mannerisms that dated from their marriage. She fought down a surge of annoyance. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that? Did you fancy I was the only one who noticed when you and that smug bastard vanished from the Winter Garden? Do you think the Marines on the South Gate didn’t notice when you tailed him from the compound, or that I’m the only one they told?”

  “If the Marines are gossiping about my movements, that’s a matter I’ll take up with their commanding officer.” Moving into the dining room, she put the table between them and circled in the direction of her telephone, just in case. “I must say I resent your presence, your tone, and your assumptions coming into this conversation. It’s the middle of a Friday night, Geoff, and my personal life is none of your business.”

  “It’s bloody well my business.” His voice rose, loud enough for the ECON Counselor to hear him through their shared wall. A certain sign of agitation in her image-obsessed ex, who’d built his professional reputation on never losing his cool. “I’m your superior, I’m your friend—I’m your husband, for God’s sake.”

  “Ex-husband,” she corrected, keeping her voice down. “Geoff, I’m sorry that you’re upset, but I really don’t think this discussion is going to be constructive. Why don’t we meet for coffee in the cafeteria tomorrow, say around 9 a.m.?”

  “Good God, you really don’t get it.” Thankfully he lowered his voice as well, sliding his monogrammed handkerchief from his breast pocket and patting his temples. “I suppose I’d better fill you in.”

  “Geoff,” she sighed, “I’m really tired.”

  “I asked the lads to take another run at Kostenko’s dossier.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake—”

  “Alexis, you need to hear this.” He gripped the table and eyed her over its polished cherrywood expanse. “Did he tell you why he left his last post, at the Russian Embassy in D.C.?”

  Alexis hesitated, a stab of disquiet piercing her annoyance. She’d wanted to run that check herself, without bringing the local guys into it. Until she assessed the damage their ill-considered fling was likely to do, she didn’t want anyone else to know what kind of dirt on Victor Kostenko might turn up. But she hadn’t taken into account her jealous ex.

  Bracing herself, she folded her arms across her breasts. “Did they find anything new?”

  “Yes, quite. You’ll recall he left Washington abruptly six weeks ago, halfway through his tour of duty in their Defense Attache’s office?” He paused until she murmured assent. “Now it appears he left because our colleagues at State laid down an ultimatum. He was advised to leave permanently under his own steam, or else have his visa revoked and be expe
lled from country for ‘activities deemed incompatible with his diplomatic status.’”

  Dear God. That was the euphemism governments used when a diplomat stationed abroad was either caught red-handed or strongly suspected of espionage. The blood drained from her face as the blow connected like a stomp kick to the belly. She struggled to fill her lungs with air. Her worst nightmare was coming true.

  Not only had she just engaged in mind-blowing sex with a Russian naval officer. She’d just engaged in mind-blowing sex with a Russian intelligence agent. A guy who’d quite possibly seduced her for reasons having nothing to do with her as a woman, and everything to do with her sensitive Embassy position.

  God help her, what if there were pictures, a sound recording, maybe even videotape? “Live action shots” of her beneath him, experiencing the best climax she’d ever had? While he—Victor—was probably tossing back congratulatory shots of vodka right now, and accepting hearty accolades from his fellow apparatchiks.

  How could she have been so stupid? She’d lost control of her love life and her career. And she’d trusted the wrong man. Again.

  As the bitter self-recriminations churned through her, Alexis stumbled into the living room and sank down on the sofa, hands hugging her knees. Dimly she could hear Geoff still talking, something about a missing year in Kostenko’s chronology between the navy and his D.C. assignment. During which he’d probably completed intel training.

  Apparently the analysts now thought the whole “loss of command” fiasco might be just a legend, crafted by Moscow to allow Kostenko to build his cover. In which case, the sad story he’d fed her about his father’s fall from grace would be no more than a handy fiction.

  “Look, darling, I’m sorry for springing this on you.” Perching on the sofa beside her, Geoff folded a sympathetic arm around her shoulders. “But I thought you should know before any more damage is done. You were with him tonight, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said hoarsely. This was her boss asking, after all, and she’d be in worse trouble if she lied about it.

  Pushing to her feet, she paced around the coffee table, chafing her arms for warmth.

  “Well, clearly, it only happened once.” He stared at her, concern etched across his elegant features. “You’ll report the incident ASAP, won’t you? You’ll be thoroughly debriefed, and then put the entire affair behind you.”

  “Right.” Still moving like a zombie, she drifted into the dining room, claimed her forgotten wine, and took a bracing swallow. The velvety palate of cherries and currants tasted sour as lemonade on her tongue.

  “Unless there’s something more you’d like to tell me?” Her ex leaned forward on the sofa, steel-gray eyes probing her. “After all, I’m your boss as well as your friend, aren’t I? In fact, since your report will be personnel-sensitive, perhaps the Ambassador doesn’t even need to know what happened. Shall we sort that out together?”

  Deliberately she turned her back on him and walked to the window, parting the curtains to look blankly at the barren, shoveled-clean expanse of the Embassy sidewalk. How sad that she’d been married to him for years, yet somehow she could still be horrified by the depths Geoff could sink to when he felt threatened.

  He knew just which buttons to push, which levers to pull in order to make her react. He knew she’d had to struggle to achieve the cool head and chilly composure he’d apparently been born with. But he didn’t seem to realize that his apparent hope for a reconciliation had been smashed to smithereens. Her little romp with Kostenko had given her that much perspective, at least.

  “Darling?” Sounding solicitous, Geoff came up behind her. “Do you want to talk about him?”

  “No.” Putting on her game face, she straightened her shoulders and faced her boss. “But I do need to give you new information from Kostenko on the Ukraine situation. Right now.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Church bells were chiming over the city’s Sunday hush when Alexis exited the concrete monolith that housed the Tretyakov Gallery’s modern art collection. Clamped in the painful vise of cold, she hurried through the bleak expanse of the sculpture garden, past the grim jumble of crumbling Lenins and Stalins that usually piqued her interest.

  Today, though, her mind was definitely not on Soviet art, and the museum visit had done nothing to distract her. Sixteen hours from now, she’d be in her office, filing a contact report on her little sexual indiscretion. And then, she supposed, her unforgivable lapse of control would be part of her personnel file forever.

  Burrowing into her shearling coat, Alexis angled her course along the ice-locked embankment of the Moscow River. As if she could outpace her worries.

  During this dangerous cold snap, the television was broadcasting nightly images of those unfortunates who passed out in the city streets, their bodies frozen stiff as cordwood by the time they were discovered. Under these conditions, the ramshackle stalls housing the outdoor artists’ market were nearly deserted.

  She hurried through the somber gray twilight, past splashes of colorful paint in a hodgepodge of styles, vendors hunched over steaming cups of tea and trying not to freeze. The best art bargains in town were here, if you had a good eye and could barter in the local lingo, but she wasn’t really in a buying mood.

  Hard to focus on art when she couldn’t shed the itchy feeling of being watched. Probably just a phobia after two years of living and working in this fishbowl, never mind the guy who’d maybe been following her and Kostenko on Friday. She wasn’t trained to spot surveillance, and if someone was following now, they weren’t being obvious about it.

  Pausing between stalls, she snuck a glance over her shoulder and scanned the river’s frozen expanse. Shivered to see a lone fisherman with his rod, squatted patiently over his dark hole, sipping vodka to keep warm.

  A footstep scraped on the ice behind her, and adrenaline spurted through her. She sucked in a breath, and picked up the spine-tingling hint of a familiar fragrance. The frisson of surprised anticipation—damn it—rushed over her skin like gooseflesh.

  “Privyet, Alexis,” Victor Kostenko murmured in her ear. “Don’t turn around. We’re not alone.”

  The warning hit her system like a jolt of caffeine on an empty stomach. Her hands knotted in her pockets as she stared doggedly at the icy river, through the fog of her quickened breath.

  “Why the hell are you following me, captain?” She fought a surge of anger. She’d screwed her career for this guy, and he’d screwed her for the SVR…the foreign intelligence service.

  “If you need to make an appointment,” she clipped out, “I’d suggest you call the Embassy during business hours. There’s no need to stalk me through the streets.”

  “The phones are not advisable.” Abruptly he stopped, uttered a curt dismissal to a hopeful vendor who was sidling up on them.

  Angling to see past her hood, she caught a searing glimpse of Kostenko. Out of uniform for once, but still an utterly commanding presence in dark civilian threads. This was a guy who’d never look anonymous. Even with a fur hat pulled over his brow and a muffler wound around his face so only his eyes were visible.

  But she’d recognize those icy blue eyes anywhere. He stood only a step away, turned with apparent interest toward an assortment of crudely-executed odalisques.

  “We need to talk.” Low and urgent, he addressed the painted nude before him. “Someplace private. Can you go to the Fili metro station, on the blue line?”

  “I don’t think so, captain.” Her voice was brittle, sharp as broken glass, honed by two days of smoldering fury over how well he’d played her. “Unfortunately, I don’t feel I can trust you.”

  Sharply, his eyes sliced toward her. Behind him, the polyglot murmur of dispirited vendors rose and fell on the wind.

  “I’m not asking you to trust me,” the captain said levelly. “But I need for you to listen.”

  Marooned somewhere between utter disbelief and a diplomat’s ingrained reflex to encourage dialogue, Alexis said nothing. T
hrough his muffler, Kostenko puffed out a harsh breath.

  “Goddamn it, Alexis. You trusted me enough to sleep with me.”

  “Well, that was before I knew,” she hissed, infuriated all over again, “that my own government expelled you from the country! Did you think I’d never learn why? That I wasn’t going to research the living daylights out of you and your affiliations, down to your kindergarten teacher?”

  “I was not expelled.” His clipped diction hinted at a degree of agitation, and a trickle of satisfaction coursed through her. At last she’d gotten a hit through that impermeable armor he wore like a Kevlar vest.

  “Bloody hell, we can’t talk here,” he muttered. “Where can you meet me?”

  “You can schedule an appointment through my secretary, like everyone else.” She turned toward the river, refused to weaken for one second.

  She’d be damned if she ceded control to him again. Despite a perverse stirring of curiosity to hear whatever he wanted to tell her. Despite the fact that he tempted her—God, how he tempted her—to imagine what might happen if she agreed to another illicit rendezvous. But this time, she wasn’t going to give in.

  Beneath the distant roar of traffic from the Art Deco suspension bridge, Kostenko uttered a curse in Russian. She supposed it was a new experience for a despot like him, having to tolerate someone who didn’t salute when he started firing orders.

  Shoving her hands deeper in her pockets, she steeled herself to brush past him and get out of there. Time to seek shelter, before she froze to death like those poor homeless stiffs.

  Ice crunched behind her as he edged in closer, right up against her back, and breathed the words against her raised hood.

  “Don’t you want to know who’s following you?”

  She hesitated, hooked by the one line she couldn’t have ignored, the one morsel of bait she just had to nibble. Even as she scoffed at her own gullibility, her dangerous weakness toward this sexy-as-hell Russian, she gave a grudging inch of ground.