The Russian Seduction

by Nikki Navarre

  “I understand.” The weight of her mobile phone, with its embedded camera, seemed suddenly heavy in her briefcase.

  “No mobile telephones.” For a breath, his eyes flickered toward her, as though he’d read her mind. “No PDAs or any other communications device. If you disregard this rule, the device will be confiscated and destroyed, and you will be subject to legal penalties, possibly including detainment.”

  “I understand perfectly, Mr. Markov. This isn’t the first closed city I’ve visited.”

  “No laptop computer,” he continued, “no radio equipment, calculator, or other electronic device is allowed to visitors anywhere in the city. If you disregard this rule—”

  “My equipment will be confiscated and destroyed, and I’ll probably be thrown in jail. I catch the drift,” she said lightly, working to interject a note of humor. They hadn’t gotten off to an auspicious start. But if she intended to succeed, she needed to build goodwill and lay the foundation for future cooperation with the local officials, including the security office. “I believe I understand the seriousness of our situation.”

  “For your sake, I hope so.” He slanted her an ironic glance. “Immediately upon arrival at the hotel, you’ll be required to surrender your mobile phone and laptop, that automatic quartz watch you’re wearing, your alarm clock, PDA, and any other electronic devices secreted among your possessions. Your telephone may be used in the lobby, if a representative of our security office monitors your communications.”

  “I understand.” Carefully, she stepped around a patch of icy ground. If she went sprawling, she doubted the charming Ilya would catch her. Then they’d be airlifting her to the hospital in Novosibirsk.

  The security measures were identical to those in a dozen closed cities—usually locations where Russia was performing covert nuclear, biological, or chemical weapons activities. They didn’t appear on any Russian map, but they turned up in the satellite photos—far too extensive to camouflage. In fact, the existence of these top-secret regulations at Khimgorod, a city where the Russians insisted they’d never done military work, told Skylar her hunch had been right. Something nasty was going on at the Khimgorod Chemical Defense Complex.

  “I hope you do understand, Dr. Rossi.” Halting at the guard shanty, Nikolai Markov pivoted toward her. “Any violation of these rules will result in your deportation at minimum, and your Russian visa may be permanently revoked. In addition, you may face other… consequences. Regrettably, one can never be certain, in such a provincial region, whether the local militsia will recognize diplomatic immunity—or choose to ignore it.”

  “That would make my government very unhappy, Mr. Markov,” she said softly, and slipped past him to the guard window.

  Now the bastard was openly threatening her. No doubt he believed, like many Russians in this patriarchal society, that a woman was easily intimidated. Sooner or later he’d realize, as his counterparts in Moscow had done, that underestimating her was a mistake.

  She removed her black diplomatic passport from the travel pouch that hung around her neck, inside her jacket—a security precaution that had paid off in spades when her purse was snatched. As she passed it through the tiny window to the unsmiling matron who manned the post, the back of her neck tingled.

  Markov stood at her shoulder, clearly intent on the exchange, close enough for her to feel his warm breath brushing her nape.

  “Skylar Dane Rossi, age thirty-five,” he murmured. The unpleasant woman behind the glass darted them a suspicious look as she thumbed through the passport. “Named after your father, if I’m not mistaken. The same Dane Rossi who served five years in your American prisons for illicit arms dealing, wasn’t it, before his lawyers overturned the conviction? According to some rather unflattering coverage in Newsweek, he was convicted of selling chemical weapons precursors to North Korea.”

  Burrowed deep in her pocket for warmth, her hand knotted. This wasn’t the first time someone had connected her with her notorious father, but it was the first time a Russian had confronted her with it during a diplomatic mission. Usually, they were hungry for the foreign assistance funds she oversaw, and eager to engage in peaceful research with ICSI.

  Swallowing against the burning ache in her throat—the lump that still rose when she thought about her father—she pinned her gaze impersonally on the colorful visas filling her passport. “You’ve done your homework, Mr. Markov. If you know the story, you’ll also know that my father passed away eighteen years ago. His police record is ancient history, and I like to think he’s gone to a better place.”

  “Your father was a very well-known figure in certain circles.” He leaned forward, breath teasing her ear. “Gone but not forgotten, Dr. Rossi.”

  Panic fluttered in her chest. Why was he raising this? The bastard probably wanted to throw her off-stride.

  She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “Aren’t there other security regulations you need to brief me? When I visit a closed city, I’m usually assigned a permanent security escort.”

  “Indeed. All visitors are prohibited from leaving the hotel without a security escort. In this case, your permanent escort is myself.”

  He paused. “I hope this is not unpleasant for you?”

  “I’m certain I’ll enjoy your company,” she said sweetly. This jerk was really starting to annoy her. When the matron behind the window stamped her passport, satisfaction surged through her—along with another pang of apprehension. Despite the obstructionism of the man behind her, she was making headway. From the hotel, she’d call her office. Once they knew she’d arrived, it became much more difficult for the FSB or the Munitions Agency to make her disappear.

  As she passed through the steel turnstile, she addressed Markov over her shoulder. “I do hope you’re not too bored or confused by our rather technical discussions on the science of chemical weapons. The lexicon can be a bit daunting for a layman. Have you brushed up on your organic chemistry, Mr. Markov?”

  “Unfortunately, I know very little about chemical weapons which are, after all, banned by an international treaty to which Russia adheres.” Though he appeared unruffled, a glint in his eyes told her he hadn’t missed her attempt to put him in his place. “You’ll also find that the scientific experts stationed here know nothing about these prohibited technologies.”

  And perhaps there’s a bridge in Brooklyn you’d like to sell me.

  “Then I trust our discussions will prove enlightening.” Tucking her passport safely away, she followed Ilya onto the snowy expanse of the parking lot, deserted under the harsh glare of floodlights. Directly before her, a black Volga sedan sputtered. Artur hunched behind the wheel.

  With a courtly bow, Markov opened the vehicle’s back door. Briefly she hesitated, struggling against a last violent instinct for self-preservation. Visiting a closed city always knotted her tummy, because she walked in places no American had ever been meant to visit. Even with every i dotted and every t crossed, she was too conscious that the biological and chemical agents cultivated in these Soviet-era laboratories were lethal. And the Soviet-era safety precautions were laughable.

  Unfortunately, the paranoia induced by six months of living under constant surveillance in Moscow hadn’t helped her.

  “If you please, Dr. Rossi.” Markov’s gaze assessed her hesitation.

  After his initial determination to corral her onto the train, her permanent escort’s courtesy suddenly seemed a bit too obliging. Still, balking at the last second would gain her nothing; she’d never find a taxi in this godforsaken outpost. Nor could she stand shivering on the platform, slowly freezing to death, for seventeen hours until the next train arrived.

  Drawing an unsteady breath, she climbed into the back seat and placed her attaché case across her lap. The unsociable Ilya heaved her suitcase into the trunk and wedged his hulking form up front. Markov closed her door gently and circled the car to slip in beside her.

  Though he was a slender man and the Volga spacious, sudd
enly the back seat felt crowded. In the enclosed space, a whiff of his fragrance curled around her: a masculine blend of amber and cedar wood, cut with the tang of lemon. Sophisticated like the man who wore it, that warm and layered scent. She wondered what else was hidden beneath that enigmatic FSB façade.

  Discreetly she edged closer to the window, putting a few more inches between them. As the Volga churned through the snowy lot, snowflakes began to swirl through the arctic night. When they turned onto a narrow road, a blaze of headlights swept through the car as another vehicle turned onto the road behind them. Otherwise, this barely-there road through the Siberian landscape seemed as deserted and devoid of amenities as the moon. The impenetrable blackness of the Siberian night closed in around her.

  The elegant Mr. Markov sat quietly beside her, seemingly at ease, but she sensed his eyes on her. Clearing her throat beneath that subtle regard, she snapped open her attaché case and pulled out her crowded itinerary for the next two days. Its contents had been scrupulously negotiated with Anton Belov and the Chemical Munitions Agency in Moscow—a process that had taken several weeks—but she knew all bets were off now. With Dr. Belov out of commission, she’d have to roll the dice and take her chances.

  Parking her black-framed reading glasses on her nose and switching on her penlight, she flipped through her schedule. But it was difficult to concentrate under the intent gaze of the man beside her. However long she was allowed to stay in Khimgorod, evidently she’d be spending the time in his company. With a sigh, she tucked her glasses away, and initiated another effort at rapport.

  “Have you worked in Khimgorod for long?” She offered a friendly smile.

  “No.” He spoke without a flicker of warmth, or any other human emotion.

  She slanted him a look. He arched his brows, as if daring her to try again.

  “Where was your previous post—if it’s not a secret?”

  “Minsk.” He stared back, his gaze curious. The electric headlights from the car behind them illuminated half his face, and cast the rest in shadow. His eyes were black as the arctic night—and just as unknowable.

  “Minsk is a lovely city,” she said, her voice edged in challenge. Though she tried to camouflage her reaction, the man’s taciturnity was really getting under her skin. If there was anything she disliked, it was outright rudeness. “The Belarussians are quite hospitable people, I’ve found. Don’t you agree?”

  “That depends on your perspective, Dr. Rossi,” he murmured.

  I’ll bet it does, she thought wryly. If you did the same work in Minsk that you’re doing here, the Belarusians would despise you—if they knew about it. Quite possibly, his hosts hadn’t known the nature of his work.

  Casting about for an acceptable topic, she scanned the black expanse pressing against her window. Even that that view grew more obscured every second, as the accumulating snowfall clung to her window and froze there. The road they bumped over was rough, unlit, probably unpaved beneath the rutted snow. Beyond the narrow cone of lights from their vehicle, no glimmer of light pierced the darkness. This far north, it would be hours before the pale winter sun made its shallow swing above the horizon.

  The other vehicle was still following them, a black SUV that drove a discreet distance back, probably headed for the same destination. She wondered whether the driver behind those blazing headlights might be another of Nikolai Markov’s security measures. Even as the thought crossed her mind, the vehicle accelerated, clearly intent on overtaking them. Now the Volga slowed, as Artur invited the SUV to pass.

  This unexpected courtesy tightened her nerves as the SUV overtook them, accelerating rapidly until it cruised beside her window, its interior obscured behind the tinted glass. She sensed the sudden tension that rippled through Markov as the vehicle kept pace, only inches away. The SUV’s rear window slid down, revealing the pale blur of a man’s face as he leaned out—

  Nikolai Markov gripped her shoulder. “Get down.”

  Obeying on instinct, she dove forward, pushing her attaché case to the floor.

  Simultaneously, the loud stutter of a machine gun exploded through the night.

  DOSSIER FOR NIKKI NAVARRE

  DECLASSIFIED

  Subject: Nikki Navarre

  Assignment: Double Agent

  Cover: Diplomat. Playgirl. Author of The Russian Seduction.

  Nikki Navarre is the sinister twin of unsuspecting historical romance author Laura Navarre. In her other life, Nikki is a diplomat who’s lived in Russia and works on weapons of mass destruction issues. In the line of duty, she’s been trapped in an elevator in a nuclear power plant and has stalked the corridors of facilities churning out nerve agent and other apocalyptic weapons. In this capacity, she meets many of the world’s most dangerous men.

  Nikki’s literary credentials are suspiciously similar to those of her innocent sister. A member of Romance Writers of America’s Published Author Network (PAN) and a 2009 Golden Heart finalist, she has won the Emily Award for Excellence, the First Coast Romance Writers Beacon Award, the Georgia Romance Writers Maggie Award, the Golden Pen, the Duel on the Delta, Hearts through History’s Romance through the Ages, and other awards.

  Nikki holds an M.F.A. in Writing Popular Fiction from the University of Southern Maine, an M.A. in National Security Policy from The George Washington University, and other alarming credentials. Based in Seattle with her screenwriter accomplice and two Siberian cats, she divides her time between her writing career and other adventures for U.S. government clients. Her notorious adventures in the world of diplomacy will get her in trouble one of these days.

  NIKKI’S COORDINATES:

  http://www.lauranavarre.com/book/nikki-navarre-books

  http://www.facebook.com/NikkiNavarreAuthor

  http://www.twitter.com/Nikki_Navarre

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE RUSSIAN TEMPTATION

  DOSSIER FOR NIKKI NAVARRE