On the bright-lit bustle of St. Pete’s main drag, a valet had their car idling—a low-slung silver Alfa Romeo that hugged the pavement like a cruise missile. While Victor swung her door open, Alexis snuck a glance left and right, trying to find her tail. But if her untrained eye could spot the kid, she supposed he wouldn’t be hiding.
She squeezed into the passenger seat, grateful when the heater blasted warm air around her bare legs. The leather upholstery caressed her skin like satin, but she suppressed her sensual shiver. Tonight wasn’t supposed to be about seduction, and she’d better not forget it. Then Nevsky Prospekt blurred into a neon smear as Victor launched the car into one of his Mach 2 takeoffs.
Geez, she’d forgotten to warn the techie about Victor’s driving. She hoped to hell he’d be able to keep up.
Though she tried to entice the captain into divulging their destination, he wasn’t biting, and she didn’t want to push it. Every time his narrowed gaze zeroed in on the rearview mirror, her mouth went dry. Though she already knew he made a habit of checking for pursuit.
The car shot through the stately Old World city, rocketing over several of the city’s ice-locked canals, while Alexis briefed Victor on what little she knew about the missile the Lenin had fired. Technically the data was classified, and she could land in major trouble for leaking it.
But he probably knew more than she did—didn’t seem surprised about it anyway, though he rarely did. And she reckoned he needed as much line as possible to reel in their man.
Besides, after what she’d learned today about the source of her recent promotion, Alexis was going to play the game her way.
Captain Victor Kostenko wasn’t the only player who’d be breaking the rules tonight.
_____________________________________
The navy had bought out the city’s poshest club for their little shindig: a subterranean warren of cozy connected rooms, tricked out in an ultra-luxe Gothic motif. Everywhere she looked, convoys of tall scarlet candles smoldered on iron candelabra lifted straight out of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Flotillas of blood-red cushions were moored on the boxy zebra-striped sofas. While curtains in purple velvet shrouded every door, making each room feel oddly intimate.
The over-the-top setup should have been a fashion disaster, but somehow it all worked.
In every room, an army of cold-faced men in Mafia tuxes mingled with the glitter of top-brass uniforms: FSB, SVR, Ministry of Defense, and special security services her government barely knew existed—they were all out in force tonight, rubbing shoulders with satin-skinned models poured into high-end couture. The sweet perfume of Cuban cigars—contraband in the west, but perfectly legal in Russia—curled in her nose. A champagne cork popped, followed by the fizz of Don Perignon. Beneath the blue-white flash of strobe lights, elegant couples packed the dance floor under a pounding beat.
Alexis slipped through this hard-eyed crowd like a submarine cruising through Cold War seas, with Victor’s guiding hand beneath her elbow. When she snuck a look at his stern face, his ice-blue eyes glittered with danger, every inch the cold-blooded hunter the Russians themselves had trained. His body thrummed with leashed tension as he stalked beside her.
She tried her damnedest not even to think about what was in her purse. They’d gone through a metal detector on the way in, but she supposed the security goons were searching for weapons, not a wire.
In the club’s deepest sanctum, past the VIP cordon, they found a trio of gaunt leather-clad rockers, hammering out aggressive ballads on their electric guitars. Scoping the scene in one sweeping glance, Victor steered her to the dance floor, where couples writhed to the heavy beat. Alexis barely had time to park her contraband clutch at a tiny table—though she hated loosening her death grip on the thing—before his fingers laced with hers, and his free hand snugged her into position. Right up against the hard heat of his body.
Oh, this is not good. Or rather, it’s far too good, when it shouldn’t be good at all. She closed her eyes as his dizzying scent enveloped her.
Vainly she struggled to keep her head clear. “Where’s our boy Ivashov?”
“Not here yet.” His calloused fingers squeezed her cold hand. “You’re practically jumping out of your skin, Alexis. Try to relax.”
Easy for him to say. She supposed this was a cakewalk for Captain Victor Kostenko, compared to facing down the specter of death by torpedo at a depth of five hundred feet.
“When he shows, what’s the game plan?” she murmured. Hard to think straight with the electric sizzle of his body against hers. All that ruthless strength unleashed when he crouched between her thighs—
“Recall, if you will, that our plan calls for me to do the talking.” Deftly he piloted their course between dancing couples. Top marks for his dancing, just like everything else he did. With no awkward questions about which partner led. “Although I know you’d prefer to play a more active role, Ivashov can’t suspect your nationality. Or else he won’t talk.”
“Right.” She jerked a nod.
“Relax,” he repeated, mouth quirking in a smile. “When you speak Russian, your accent is almost undetectable. If you keep the social chatter to a minimum, I can tell him—if he asks—that you’re my girlfriend from Belarus.”
Despite her best effort to maintain her professional detachment, her heart skipped a beat. “Have you a girlfriend from Belarus, captain?”
“What does my dossier tell you?” A tripwire of intensity vibrated in his tone, dragging her eyes up to meet his brooding gaze.
“It’s incomplete, and I’m just curious,” she said lightly. But didn’t think she’d pulled it off.
“You can put this in my file, Alexis,” he murmured, eyes locking on hers like a homing beacon. “Because I wouldn’t want to mislead your colleagues in Washington, and risk having them launch another blonde diplomat like a bloody torpedo at my heart. The only woman whose body I’m sliding into at night is you.”
A throb of heat pulsed between her thighs. Damn, but he’d done it to her again. And she wanted like hell to believe him.
He’s lying to you, her inner cynic whispered. Like he’s been doing since the day you met.
Yet her sex melted when he eased closer, her hips nestling against his, her cheek coming to rest against his starched shirt.
“Victor,” she whispered, her throat aching. Why couldn’t she have met him any other way? If he’d been anything else—if he’d just been Ukrainian, without the dangerous Russian strain. But then he wouldn’t have been Victor.
And God, he was rock hard for her. She could feel him—right under the imprint of cold steel from the Walther PPK holstered under his jacket.
“Jesus.” She stiffened and lost her step.
Despite the hour she’d spent yesterday learning to handle the gun, dread still seeped through her when she touched it. While the possibility of having to fire the infernal thing, without Victor tucked up behind her for backup, made her break into a cold sweat.
“Don’t get excited, Counselor.” His arms tightened around her, nudging her back into the dance. “It’s only a sort of insurance policy. No one’s going to get hurt.”
“We hope.” She clutched his shoulder, worry and fear gnawing at her gut. “How did you get that pistol through the checkpoint?”
“Half the men in this club are armed.” Despite this alarming newsflash, his voice soothed her, made her feel he knew exactly what he was doing. Even though she herself didn’t have a clue. There’d been no gun in the scenario they’d run through.
And of course, he’d neatly dodged her question. To smuggle in the gun, he’d probably flashed that get-out-of-jail-free card of his when her back was turned. And how she’d love to get a peek in his wallet. She’d tried at the hotel, but he kept the damn thing under wraps like a state secret.
“I hope you know what the hell you’re doing,” she said tensely. And hoped to hell tonight’s little scenario wasn’t going to turn bloody—or even deadly.
“Easy,
Alexis. I’m going to take care of you.” His breath teased her brow, his heartbeat slow and steady. Like he was her only port in the storm, God help her.
“Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” Deftly he turned her, so the glittering throng and the burning candles revolved past her eyes. “How about…journalism?”
“Journalism.” She stared in disbelief as they pivoted past the band, which was still grinding through its sex-laced ballad. “You want me to talk about journalism now?”
“Yes.” Now he sounded amused, and she wanted to kill him. “You studied this at Stanford, no? Tell me what you love about it.”
But damn if that didn’t make her stomach flutter, hearing him say the ‘L’ word. Thoroughly distracted, she tried to focus on what he’d asked.
“When I was growing up,” she said hesitantly, “in my father’s ‘East Coast compound,’ there was only one correct position to take on every issue. One right answer to every question. My father was always right, and no one could argue with him. It made him an effective negotiator, I suppose, especially when Washington wanted a hard-line stance. But in negotiations he showed flexibility when it was called for, while at home…let’s just say it wasn’t his strong suit.”
Amazed, she realized his little ploy was actually working. Talking about a fact of life like her father was actually calming her down. And she always felt safe in Victor’s arms, though she knew she wasn’t.
“When I took my first journalism class, there was no ‘right answer.’ You were expected to explore all sides of an issue, gather evidence, interview both parties and cite the facts. And you could take any position you were able to defend. Sometimes, you could actually sway others.”
Even now, twelve years later, the thrill fizzed through her blood like high-end champagne. “My readers actually listened when I spoke. For me, that meant freedom and purpose, plus recognition for something I’d truly earned. Something I could contribute to the world that was uniquely me, and not Wayne Castle’s daughter. The feeling was like a narcotic, and it was heady stuff.”
“One can see the appeal. Have you ever considered returning to this career?” His question was casual, but she felt the tension threading through his body. Somehow, her answer mattered to him, as it never had to Wayne Castle.
“Back to journalism?” She swung her head back to check him out. Though he was looking past her, scanning the floor, his eyes were narrowed. As if even his eyes were listening.
“I’ve thought about it,” she breathed, her heart fluttering with something like trepidation. It certainly couldn’t be hope. “But that would mean starting over, from the ground up. Jumping from the plane without a parachute, and praying it opens when I fall. My ego could handle the crash, I suppose. But I’ve, ah, never found a good reason to make the jump.”
Slowly his eyes shifted to her, his face grave, all his attention focused on her.
“Haven’t you found a reason, Alexis?” he whispered.
Alexis stared up at him, her heart slamming against her chest like a prize fighter with a punching bag. The answer is no—just say it.
“I don’t know,” she breathed. “What reason would I find, Victor?”
Because as hard as she’d fought it, denied it, dreaded it, ignored it—she had to be honest with herself about the incredible feeling that swelled inside her chest whenever she looked at him. The painful bubble that squeezed her heart when she thought about him a million times a day. The way she couldn’t seem to think about anyone else.
He was everything she’d said he was when she spoke with Alison Chang. He was driven, brilliant, ruthless, enigmatic. He was complicated like she was; he was damaged by his past; he was angry and disillusioned, yet he still found the courage to fight for what he believed in. He shattered with relish every rule he encountered—while she’d broken only one.
The biggest one, the career-ending one. The life-changing, terrifying, crazy one.
Never love your enemy.
Yet she was crazy in love with him.
She was still staring up at him, trying to wrap her brain around what that meant, when Victor’s gaze sliced toward the door. In a heartbeat, the mask of the hunting predator hardened his features.
“He’s here,” Victor said curtly, and steered her from the floor. “Kindly remember to let me do the talking.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Victor linked her hand with his as he threaded through the crowd, and Alexis barely managed to grab her wired handbag from the table as they passed. Sudden inspiration flashed through her as she snared a flute of champagne from a nearby waiter.
She took a generous swallow of the stuff and almost choked on it. Sweet enough to make her teeth ache—not the top-end Dom Perignon she’d expected, but the Cold War-era Soviet champagne most Russians still loved. Yet it put the bite of alcohol on her breath, and that was what mattered.
She recognized Four-Star Admiral Igor Ivashov from his picture in Red Star: lean and fit despite his years, with patrician cheekbones and cold steel-gray eyes. Impeccable in his black dress uniform, with four gold bars and a marshal’s star blazing on his cuffs. And she’d bet her bank account the guy was armed.
Victor prowled toward him, unhurried and relaxed, and offered a brisk handshake. Of course, they’d met once or twice during Victor’s submarine days. Beneath the sliding electric throb of the music, she could barely pick up Victor’s Russian as he made small talk and reintroduced himself.
Surreptitiously, she maneuvered her slender clutch closer to the pair. God knew if the technician was picking up anything under the unholy din of heavy metal. But the kid had told her not to worry about background noise, that he could filter it out.
Victor’s fingers tightened around hers in reassurance as he introduced her to the admiral. As his girlfriend from Belarus.
Forcibly Alexis quashed every instinct of her ten-year career to project an authoritative and professional demeanor. Instead of offering a firm handshake, she teetered on her heels and let champagne slop over the rim of her flute. And worked her sexy vintage gown for all it was worth.
But damn if it wasn’t working. Ivashov’s chilly eyes slid over her and flicked away, dismissive. Under any other circumstances, Alexis would have been annoyed as hell. Now she congratulated herself for acting skills she hadn’t known she possessed.
Victor wrapped a possessive arm around her waist. And despite a severe attack of jitters, the deep throb of sexual pleasure rolled through her. The way she was mainlining nerves and adrenaline tonight, she could barely keep her hot little paws off him.
“Such a pleasure to see you here,” Victor was saying warmly, gripping her waist to steady her. “My father spoke highly of you. Comrade Admiral, would it be too much to request a private moment?”
Clearly Ivashov didn’t know Victor very well if he thought this chatty, laid-back version of Renegade Sub Captain 8.0 was normal for him. But the admiral only shot him a sharp, considered look before he inclined his aristocratic head.
“Very well, captain. Where shall we speak?”
Alexis fended off a fresh attack of nerves and focused on maintaining her tipsy girlfriend façade as Victor led them to the curtained alcove he’d paid for near the VIP cordon. They’d already cased the spot, and chosen it for the emergency exit that sprouted from the alcove. Now another discreet payoff, palmed to a security guard sporting Hugo Boss, ensured their tete-a-tete wouldn’t be interrupted.
The private recess was tricked out in vampire chic, featuring a claw-footed chaise and wingchairs upholstered in blood-colored velvet. A flickering branch of candles cast the only dim light, except for the epileptic flicker of strobes behind the drawn curtain.
Clearly Ivashov felt a bit edgy, since he declined a seat. Instead he stood erect near the curtain, hands clasped loosely behind his back, and slanted Victor a cool smile.
“What can I do for you and the MFA tonight, Captain Kostenko?”
“In fact, I’ve something of a personal matte
r to broach—nothing of interest to the MFA.” Despite Victor’s casual tone, Alexis felt the electric charge humming through him. Ivashov was poised near the exit. One wrong word, and the guy could summon help or escape entirely.
“Indeed?” Ivashov arched his brows. “In that case, the matter must be of little interest to your friend here. From where did you say you hail, my dear?”
Shit.
“From Minsk.” Naming the capital of Belarus, Alexis swigged another hefty swallow of champagne. So much for their futile hope that Ivashov wouldn’t notice her.
Time for Plan B—except that she and Victor didn’t have time to discuss one. This whole setup was starting to feel like a really bad idea. But it was way too late to back out now.
Plastering on a loopy grin, she parked her empty glass on the table and wiggled around behind Victor, positioning his broad-shouldered frame between her and the watchful admiral. The captain played along, but she felt his tension level ratchet up another notch when she wrapped her arms around him from behind.
Had to be careful, of course, not to dislodge his tux jacket and reveal the damn gun. Or to drop her clutch with its contraband cargo, now precariously swinging from her shoulder on its tiny strap.
“She doesn’t mind waiting.” Victor shrugged. “Obviously she’s had a bit much to drink, so I’d rather not abandon her. But this really won’t take very long. I’ve heard several rather preposterous theories, Comrade Admiral, and I want to clarify my thinking. I’d value hearing your thoughts regarding my father’s accident.”
A chasm of silence yawned between them. Under his tux, she could feel Victor starting to sweat. Had to be the only professional occasion where she’d seen his cool threaten to slip. But for him, this business was personal.
“I see,” Ivashov said, inscrutable. “Are you quite certain the young lady—?”
This was her cue. Moistening her lips, Alexis pressed her cheek against Victor’s muscled back and snaked a hand down his thigh in full view of the admiral. Pretty impressive that even under these distracting circumstances, she could still make the captain harden.
The Russian Seduction Page 23
