The Russian Seduction

by Nikki Navarre

  “Right.” Chang nodded. “This was Ivashov’s protégé, the late addition replacing the man who fell under the train. Mishkin was the officer who reported an emergency on board?”

  “And the officer who informed Fleet Command—without permission—that he was surfacing the ship.” Alexis gripped her coffee mug. “The transmission was cut off, and the sub initiated a rather dramatic ascent. This is where the story gets interesting.”

  “According to information from other sources we’ve checked,” the ConGen added, “at 0635 an unknown submarine in the Lenin’s vicinity fired a tactical cruise missile armed with conventional explosives. That missile detonated over an isolated compound on the Crimean coast in Ukraine. Thank God it wasn’t armed with a nuclear payload. Our sources weren’t certain whether it might have strayed off target—since it landed almost on top of the Russian naval base at Sevastopol.”

  “Victor didn’t mention the missile.” Alexis hesitated. “Although perhaps he couldn’t, to me. But he did report that the sub’s final transmission came at 0640, when she’d nearly reached the surface. This was an unknown speaker, neither Kostenko nor Mishkin, and he was almost incoherent. Kept screaming something about water overwhelming the pumps. His last words, which he screamed twice, were ‘the captain—the captain.’”

  Even reporting the story for the third time, a chill crawled over her scalp. “Then several gunshots were fired, which the mike picked up. This means either someone had broken into the gun locker where all sidearms should have been secured, or else someone smuggled at least one firearm aboard. More screaming was recorded, a final shot, then nothing.”

  Pensive, Alexis sipped her coffee and grimaced at its bitter bite. The Russians were so much better at brewing tea. “Immediately afterward, the Lenin started to sink—fast. And apparently she sank all the way to the bottom. That was the boat’s final transmission.”

  “Jesus.” Alison Chang shook her head. “It sounds like all hell broke loose on that boat. Attempted mutiny at the very least, as your man noted.”

  My man. Alexis swallowed hard. Except that he isn’t. And never was.

  “But for me,” Chang pressed, “the most important questions can’t be answered. Who fired that damn missile—and who was the target?”

  “Unless it was an accidental launch.” Alexis shrugged. “Which is certainly possible, given the chaos on board. And what the hell were we doing that prompted the Russians to be there flexing their muscles in the first place?”

  “Well, at least it appears obvious what their ‘technical emergency’ was.” The ConGen tapped her pencil. “You said the captain was worried about faulty welds in the…let’s see…the seawater intake valves, right? Yet they needed those valves to keep the reactor cool. Obviously, the captain’s suspicions were well founded.”

  “Yes, except for one little detail.” Alexis leaned forward. “According to, ah, my man, the new welds had been checked out by radiograph at the captain’s request. This was after the Lenin finished her highly abbreviated sea trials, just before her final voyage.”

  “Right.” The older woman sighed. “You said the radiographs came back normal. Those welds were rock solid, according to the tests.”

  For several minutes silence reigned, as both women finished their coffee. Alexis’s brain ached as she tried, for the hundredth time, to fit the pieces together. Washington needed those answers now. And so did Victor, for vindication or at least closure.

  God knew she was no expert, but it felt like they were still missing a piece. Victor saw several possible explanations for what might have happened. And she wasn’t at all certain Taras Kostenko had been a traitor. That explanation felt just a bit too pat.

  While Alexis worried at the mystery, the ConGen studied her thoughtfully.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Alexis,” she smiled, “but it looks like you’re running a bit low on sleep.”

  “Yeah.” Alexis sat straighter and smoothed the charcoal suit from a nouveau Russian designer she’d picked up during yesterday’s hurried shopping spree. “Is it that obvious?”

  “It doesn’t appear to be affecting your performance so far,” Chang said tactfully. “But I couldn’t help noticing that you seem to be on a first-name basis with the younger Kostenko.”

  A blush heated her face, while she struggled to file away her sloppy emotions to deal with later. “We’ve had to spend a great deal of time together working on this issue. Has, ah, Geoff Chase been discussing this with you?”

  “No, nothing like that.” The older woman offered a reassuring smile. Like everyone else in the Foreign Service, she knew about their failed marriage. “Let’s just call it women’s intuition. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I have the impression you might have developed some kind of…involvement with the captain.”

  All her instincts were screaming at her to deny it. But she knew her only hope of surviving this fiasco with her career intact was to be completely forthcoming with the security office, and anyone else in the USG asking questions.

  “He’s impressive,” she admitted cautiously, toying with her battered briefcase. “Brilliant, bold, very sure of himself.”

  “I must admit I’ve reviewed his dossier.” The ConGen arched her elegant brows. “Including his photograph. I believe he’s what my youngest daughter would call ‘a hottie.’”

  “Yeah—he is,” Alexis murmured. No sense denying that. “I’d be lying if I claimed to be fully immune to his, ah, appeal.”

  “Well, he’s quite a bit like you, isn’t he?” the ConGen said calmly. “Intense, athletic, sophisticated, driven. Of course, I’m certain you realize that once this Ukraine issue is resolved, you’ll have to sever your ties with him.”

  “Believe me, I realize it.” Though the knowledge of what she’d have to do was killing her.

  “However,” Chang finished, “I have a feeling that the Ambassador and our people in Washington may want you to maintain your relationship with Captain Kostenko for just a bit longer.”

  The chime of a desk phone saved Alexis from having to craft a response. The older woman cast her an apologetic glance and raised a finger, signaling her to wait, before she picked up.

  While the ConGen was occupied, Alexis checked her new PDA—another of last night’s acquisitions—for messages.

  One from Geoff, wound tight as usual, understandably focused on the presidential visit. Exuding all his charm to propose a lunch date that she’d just as soon skip. Except for the inconvenient fact that the guy was still her boss.

  And a text message that made her heart pound, even before she clicked it open. Characteristically terse, and needing no signature:

  1900 hours tonight

  Meet hotel lobby

  Event will interest you

  Clothing in room

  Don’t be late.

  Alexis stared at the message, struggling between trepidation over the mysterious “event” and the booster shot of adrenaline that inevitably fired her nerves—damn it ten times—when she hooked up with Victor.

  And apparently he’d bought her another sexy dress. Had he known how much it turned her on last night, to be dressed from her lingerie to her shoes in items he’d chosen for her?

  “Sorry about that,” Chang murmured, replacing the phone. “I know you have quite a lot to accomplish today, Alexis. But, before you go, I’d like to tell you something.”

  “Yes?” Alexis poised her pen over her notepad.

  The older woman hesitated before she spoke. “You know I was one of the Foreign Service Officers on the review panel that approved your recent promotion. I’d like to say up front that I supported it one hundred percent. I thought your performance fully justified the jump. And I’ve seen or heard nothing since that leads me to conclude otherwise.”

  Alexis had been braced for less pleasant feedback, along the lines of what she’d been hearing from Geoff. Now she released her held breath, though she suspected something less enjoyable was coming.

  “I reall
y appreciate your support and encouragement, ma’am.”

  “And I know the others on the panel felt the same way.” The ConGen gripped her pencil in both hands. “What I’m trying to say, Alexis, is that I don’t think any of us were unduly influenced by your ex-husband’s campaigning on your behalf.”

  “Campaigning?” Alexis echoed, her stomach sinking with premonitory dread.

  “The phone calls, the unscheduled office visits.” Chang shrugged. “Perhaps you weren’t aware that he moved mountains trying to place himself on your panel—threw your father’s name around quite a bit, in fact. Of course, given the personal relationship between you, he wasn’t allowed on the panel.”

  “Let me get this straight,” she said carefully, struggling against the sting of anger. “You’re saying Geoff tried to influence the decision to promote me? Didn’t he think I could advance on my own merits?”

  “We all knew he was trying to win you back. But we certainly didn’t assume you’d asked for his involvement. And, as I said, our decision was not unduly influenced by him or by our memories of your father.”

  It was like her worst nightmare come true, like her own personal monster had just crawled out of the closet. Her prized promotion—the youngest Political Counselor to serve at the Embassy—and she’d been bursting with pride in her achievement. Certain that she’d done it on her own, and was finally good enough to stand on her own two feet. That she’d emerged from beneath her father’s shadow.

  She wasn’t going to start doubting herself again, damn it. Alison Chang hadn’t raised the issue in order to utter a few kindly bromides. The panel had felt Alexis deserved her promotion, and she did deserve it. The only one who seemed to question her merit was her charming ex-husband. The man whose polished veneer was engineered to cover his wrenching insecurities.

  Sensing the other woman’s concern, Alexis managed a polite smile and the appropriate words of gratitude. Managed to excuse herself, gather her briefcase, and reach the door without giving in to the red-hot anger that simmered in her chest. She was grateful when the ConGen turned back to her work, so Alexis could hightail it out of there.

  Striding briskly, knowing she needed someplace private to regain her composure, Alexis was halfway to the ladies’ room when someone called her name. Pivoting, she halted in surprise as the ConGen hurried after her. Alexis opened her mouth, but swallowed her words when the woman pressed a finger to her lips and slipped a scribbled note into her hand.

  Clearly Alison Chang didn’t want to risk saying aloud in the unsecured corridor whatever sensitive new information she needed to convey.

  Rapidly Alexis skimmed the few lines, and a finger of apprehension plucked at her nerves. She recognized the uncomfortable tug of conflicting interests. She’d just landed ass-deep in a classic “conflict of interest” dilemma.

  Seemed the boys upstairs knew more than she did about the unspecified “event” where Victor planned to take her. They wanted to help her “prepare” for the date. Which probably meant they wanted her to wear a wire.

  Of course they’d claim she wasn’t obligated, given the level of personal risk involved, since surveillance wasn’t listed among her job requirements. But if she cared about the crisis in Ukraine, they’d certainly expect her to do it. And not to let Victor know.

  Apparently, she was now officially in the spy business.

  And Victor stood squarely on the opposite side.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Alone in the decadent hotel suite, Alexis lingered before the bathroom mirror. Five minutes to showtime, and normally she disliked being late. But this full-blown attack of nerves had been building all day, and she wasn’t sure how to defuse it.

  Maybe it was the wire the technician had rigged in her slender silver clutch. The wire she was supposed to appear astonished by, if somehow the Russians discovered it. Now the little gadget was primed to transmit every word Victor or anyone else uttered within its range.

  If the wire was discovered and she played dumb, somehow she didn’t think Victor would buy the act.

  But she ought to be thankful the technician hadn’t wanted to tape it inside her clothes. He’d probably assumed that at some point during the evening’s festivities, Victor would figure out a way to get her out of them. Though it was absolutely not part of her game plan, the captain did have a way of surprising her. And thank God she hadn’t needed to spell that out for the geeky tech.

  But she was definitely feeling self-conscious about the dress, not least because she guessed Victor must have dropped a significant chunk of Mafia money to pay for it. Yet she couldn’t deny the guy had taste. Vintage evening gown with a pedigree as impressive as hers, glittering with blue-white fire from the tiny crystal beads sewn over every inch. The floor-length frock clung to her curves like nobody’s business, and the beads whispered seduction whenever she moved. While the tiny shoulder straps bared her arms and back, and showcased an intriguing slice of décolletage.

  When she swept her hair into a twist to show off her father’s diamond earrings, the overall effect was surprisingly classy. But the dress fit so snugly she couldn’t wear more than a thong underneath.

  Tonight, she decided, she couldn’t be the Minister-Counselor for Political Affairs, restrained and in-control on every occasion. Nope—given the stunt she had to pull off, wearing only a wisp of black lace and a dress picked out and paid for by the undercover lover she wasn’t supposed to have—she felt edgy, dangerous, and hot as hell.

  She swiped her lids with smoky shadow, slicked on her nude lipstick, and gripped her clutch with its risky little secret.

  Despite her fidgets, she managed to arrive first in the dark-paneled lobby bar that reeked of New Russian money. As she slipped in, the lively strains of Mozart tinkled from the pianist’s corner. But still she drew way more attention from the well-heeled cocktail crowd than she’d ever felt comfortable with before.

  Nervously she ordered a tipple: vodka martini, what the hell, though she preferred it stirred rather than shaken. Then stood near the Old World bar, sipping liquid courage and reminding herself not to fiddle with her clutch. What if she dropped it and the wire?

  Though she faced away from the door, the atmospheric pressure in the room ratcheted up when Victor closed in on the place like a force of nature. Pulse pounding, she swiveled toward him—just like every other woman in the room. Cool and elegant, he glided through the crowd like the king of predators, his powerhouse physique barely civilized in impeccable black tux and a white shirt crisp enough to crackle.

  Oh man, she was in trouble here. The way that collar snugged up against the sun-gold sinew of his throat, the way the electric light spilled over his burnished hair, the hard diamond glitter in his narrowed eyes. Every woman here would love to walk out with him, while the guys eyed him like a pit bull that had slipped its leash.

  Somehow Alexis managed to keep her cool as he closed in, though her temperature must have spiked ten degrees while his eyes slid over her. Taking his time, the way he always did, as if he didn’t want to miss a trick.

  “Right on time,” she murmured, angling her cheek for a European kiss-kiss.

  Instead he circled her to take in the view, then leaned in from behind with a knee-melting whiff of dark spice.

  “Wow,” he rumbled, drawing out the word like a caress. His lips brushed the hollow beneath her ear, sending a sheet of goosebumps over her skin. “And you taste even better than you look.”

  “It’s the frock,” she shrugged, keeping it flippant. “You’ve excellent taste. I feel like Grace Kelly must have when she wore it.”

  And I hope you can return the gown later. She was way too aware of the damn wire transmitting every word to the technician staked out in his car. And she could hardly help noticing every chick in the place looking daggers at her.

  “Oh, I think it’s you.” Light, leisured, supremely confident that he knew what turned her on, his hands skimmed her body and settled at her waist—silently telling every gu
y in the room Back off. When he nuzzled her neck, she could have dissolved into a puddle of pheromones right there.

  “Alexis,” he whispered against her skin, “I swear you slay me.”

  And God help her, wire or no wire, all she wanted was to drag him upstairs, unzip his trousers, and shimmy out of her dress. Considering she was barely wearing panties, she wondered if he could smell—

  “What would you say,” he breathed against her throat, “if I wished to start buying all your clothing? Would that offer interest you?”

  What the hell was he asking her? She guessed he’d figured out how much it turned her on, wearing the items he’d chosen. Was he offering more of the same…or a more permanent arrangement? Suddenly she felt breathless, as if Hurricane Victor had sucked every particle of oxygen from the room.

  Anyway, she wasn’t in the market for anything permanent with him, was she? Quite possibly, depending on what happened later, tonight would be the last time she saw him.

  Swallowing past the ache of tears, she thrust back a light riposte. “Even you couldn’t afford my wardrobe, captain. Where are we going tonight?”

  “Hmm.” His hands dropped from her waist as he stepped away, reserve hardening his Slavic features. Despite her resolve, a pang of regret knifed through her.

  “As it happens,” he shrugged, “we’re invited to a little gathering for one of the fleet’s senior officers.”

  “Oh?” She gripped her clutch. “But you’re not wearing your impressive uniform.”

  “My uniform is still in Moscow. Does this disappoint you?” he murmured, his glacial eyes glinting. Guess he’d picked up that she liked it. “But this is hardly an official function. And, among the guests, we’ll reportedly find our friend Admiral Ivashov.”

  Oh yeah. This was precisely what the boys had been hoping when they wired her. A fresh shot of adrenaline kicked through her bloodstream. Victor cupped her bare elbow in his calloused hand and ushered her into the breathtaking cold of the arctic night.