The Russian Temptation (Book Two) (Foreign Affairs 2)

by Nikki Navarre

  But her would-be assassins, whoever they were, had already proven they could reach her anywhere in Khimgorod. Why would they need to lure her out?

  As little as she liked to think about it, those butchers could come after her in her hotel room as readily as on the street. It was no secret that Nikolai Markov planned to hustle her out of town on the evening train. Though she hadn’t fully resigned herself to the early departure, she couldn’t deny that locking herself into her Moscow apartment, behind her building’s solid twenty-four hour security, would be a relief after the unnerving events of the past two days.

  What if Anton Belov himself was trying to communicate with her through a third party? Neither the phone lines nor her email were secure. Her office in Moscow was crawling with bugs of the electronic moiety, planted by her own Russian staff. And she doubted she’d be returning to Khimgorod anytime soon.

  She might never have another opportunity to learn what Dr. Belov wanted to share.

  If she took the bait and went to the stolovaya, she’d need to be very careful, no question about that. And she’d need to rely again on Nikolai Markov to keep her safe.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Kotov syndrome: When a player can’t decide on a strategy after lengthy thinking, a sudden and terrible move.

  Several hours later, Nikolai followed the mark into the dingy foyer of the concrete apartment building that housed Khimgorod’s grubby excuse for a nightclub. Caution prickled through him and danced like heat lightning along his nerves.

  Thirty minutes ago, Skylar Rossi had emerged from her hotel room and calmly informed him that Anton Belov had recommended this grim Soviet-era drinking hole during a prior discussion. Allegedly she wanted to sample a bit of Khimgorod’s local culture before she boarded the night train.

  The move was uncharacteristic, inconsistent with the brilliant scientist’s solitary, hard-working façade. But he could find no immediate reason to refuse her, beyond his niggling certainty that something wasn’t right.

  Slipping a hand inside his coat, Nikolai checked the Walther TPH riding snugly in its holster at the small of his back. Loaded and chambered, ready for use. He’d slipped a spare magazine in his pocket and parked the Niva near the exit. Ilya was on his way back from a debrief with the absent Sasha. But Nikolai was far from satisfied with the flimsy excuses their associate had given for his uncharacteristic slipups.

  And now Artur was missing in action.

  There was plenty here to make a cautious man uneasy, even beyond his deep-rooted distrust of surprises.

  As the heavy door swung closed behind them, the mark hesitated in the foyer—no doubt wary, given her recent adventures, of the heavy shadows that cloaked the vacant room. The overhead light had burned out, and the pale beam of streetlights struggled to pierce the cracked and dirty windows. The iron grille of the radiator looked as though it hadn’t worked for decades. The bone-deep cold of the foyer bit deeper than the Arctic blast of the snowstorm outside.

  All par for the course in the common space of a provincial Russian apartment building. No one owned the public spaces, and therefore no one maintained them.

  Directly before them in a steel cage, the tiny lift waited. Beside the call button, a hand-lettered sign read Stolovaya No. 14, Basement Level.

  “We seem to have strayed from the tourist track,” Nikolai murmured, scanning the shadows with narrowed gaze. His breath froze white in the air. “Are you certain the hotel restaurant won’t suffice for your cultural excursion?”

  “They were out of everything on the menu except pork shashlik. And I’m a vegetarian. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  Briskly Skylar strode to the lift, boot heels ringing on the cracked marble, and pressed the call button. Deep within the bowels of the building, an ancient engine rumbled to life.

  She slanted him a curious glance, sleek raven hair swinging against her elegant jaw. “Haven’t you been here before?”

  He permitted himself a faint, noncommittal smile that could mean anything. In fact, before his arrival yesterday, Nikolai had never been to the closed city of Khimgorod in his life. His hurried reconnaissance hadn’t included the city’s so-called nightlife. But his current persona was supposed to be a local, so admitting ignorance would be out of character.

  The lift rumbled into view and the metal gate rattled open, saving him from the need to manufacture a suitable lie. Confidently she stepped onto the ancient machine, which creaked beneath even her trivial weight.

  He paused to scan the foyer again, listening for the scuff of footsteps, the whisper of breath, any minute indication of surveillance or a trap. Like a wolf, he sniffed the air.

  The faint floral sweetness of Skylar Rossi’s fragrance seeped into his senses.

  He’d seen the slender gold bottle on her nightstand during his covert search of her room earlier, while Skylar showered behind closed doors. He’d expected to find the experience invigorating—the mark he’d always dreamed of bagging, naked and defenseless behind a single door whose lock he’d already disabled.

  Instead he’d found himself imagining her supple dancer’s body, sleek and slippery with soap in the tiny cubicle, her lush mouth parted as she savored the sensual heat. Unexpectedly, the visual made him harden.

  Firmly quelling that distraction, he stepped lightly into the lift, and the doors clattered shut. Overhead, a harsh white light bulb sputtered to life.

  She’s the mark, he reminded himself. Don’t think of her like a woman you’re planning to take to bed.

  He knew some hit men who got off on that—violating the women they’d been hired to kill. His associate Ilya was one of them, a practice Nikolai privately found repugnant. Skylar should be grateful his client at the Ministry had demanded the Maestro’s finesse to handle the delicate task of getting this nosy American out of Khimgorod—one way or the other—without a diplomatic incident.

  So he’d been careful to keep Ilya firmly in the background. He meant to keep his hired muscle the hell away from Skylar Rossi. She was his—Nikolai’s. An uncharacteristic, possessive instinct squeezed his chest like a fist.

  She’s only the mark, damn it. Don’t forget it.

  As the lift lumbered into motion, the mark shrugged out of her ivory coat. The temperature in the lift shot up at least ten degrees.

  She’d finally shed her conservative business suit. Tonight, her sinuous dancer’s body was sheathed in a black cashmere sweater and slim-cut wool trousers. The diamond glitter of her ballet slipper charm dangled between her breasts and sparkled in the electric light. Lean and sexy, the supple curves beneath the snug-fitting cashmere made his throat go dry.

  Keep your mind on the job. You’re working here.

  Clearing his throat, Nikolai slipped off his coat for ease of movement. He kept a hand within easy reach of his pistol as the lift doors clattered open.

  According to his hurried inquiry, Stolovaya No. 14 had been converted from a Soviet-era cafeteria to a nightclub, or the closest thing to it in the closed city of Khimgorod. As they squeezed into a narrow corridor, the galloping pulse of techno and a heavy haze of cigarette smoke filled the air, lit by the intermittent flash of strobe lights.

  Cautious, he preceded the mark, staying close to the wall, walking lightly toward the noise with every nerve tingling.

  I don’t like this. Dark, noisy, undoubtedly crowded, and no chance for advance reconnaissance. With a thousand nightclubs at her disposal in Moscow, why is she so damned determined to visit this one?

  Despite the Siberian winds that raked the streets, every tiny table in the subterranean room was packed. Hardly a cosmopolitan crowd, mostly middle-aged or older, because the young and energetic swiftly fled the limited horizons of Russia’s closed cities.

  Near the bar clustered a handful of aging prostitutes, smoking cheap cigarettes and sipping Soviet-style champagne he knew would be sweet enough to make a man’s teeth ache. Several tables had been pushed aside to create a dance floor. Overhead, a mirrored ball tu
rned slowly, casting spangles of shifting light over the scene.

  Thus far, the dance floor was empty.

  Nikolai turned toward Skylar, hesitating near the door, and caught the flicker of uncertainty on her sculpted features. When she saw him looking, an expression of cool unconcern shuttered her cobalt gaze.

  “Welcome to Siberian culture,” he said wryly near her ear, beneath the hectic throb of techno. Feather-light, her jet-black hair brushed his cheek. Involuntarily he inhaled another whiff of her fragrance, the bright notes of hyacinth and citrus mingling with the sweet musk of woman.

  Keenly attuned to her as he was, he felt the subtle tremor that swept through her as his breath brushed her ear. His own pulse quickened in response—a predator’s instinctive flare of hunger for the prey.

  Or else it was his growing awareness of her as a woman—a distraction he would absolutely not allow.

  “Looks charming.” She stepped back as though she too felt uneasy with their closeness. “Thank heavens I have you here to protect me. Shall we sit?”

  The few tables were occupied by the hard-bitten, hard-drinking, hard-smoking denizens of Khimgorod—mostly low-level shift workers on the production line, he judged, and mostly male. They kept to themselves, minding their own business. But their hooded gazes slid sideways to follow Skylar Rossi’s sleek form in her stylish, subtly sexy couture as she slipped past.

  Remembering the day’s unscripted “close calls,” he watched their hands and eyes, but saw nothing that posed a threat.

  At least not yet.

  They could easily have been followed. But he’d told Ilya to come straight here and wait outside—safely at arms’ length from Skylar—to watch his back.

  The bar was less crowded. Skylar claimed a rickety stool at some remove from the prostitutes, her long legs twining gracefully around the rungs. While she ordered her cocktail in credible Russian from the shiny-faced malchik manning the counter—a dry martini with the local rotgut vodka—Nikolai leaned casually against the bar beside her.

  He stayed on his feet, alert and ready for action, as he scoped the scene.

  Only one exit, and he kept a clear line of sight. A narrow corridor probably led to the toilets, whose dubious environs he trusted their American guest would avoid.

  When he ordered a tonic water, she glanced toward him in surprise.

  “You’re not drinking?”

  “I’m working.” He allowed himself this small provocation, just to watch her respond. “You’re currently the sole focus of my attention, Dr. Rossi. Surely you prefer things this way.”

  A hint of color darkened her high cheekbones. So she wasn’t indifferent to him after all. Far from it, no matter what she pretended.

  A flicker of satisfaction curled through him. Although why he wanted her to be sexually aware of him was anyone’s guess.

  “As the focus of your formidable attention, Mr. Markov, I’d feel more comfortable if you behaved like a man off-duty tonight,” she murmured.

  He couldn’t resist.

  “Like a date, do you mean?”

  Her blush deepened. But she ignored the gambit, her gaze flickering away to scan the surrounding tables.

  “No one knew we planned to come here,” she pointed out, “since it wasn’t on my itinerary. Why not have one drink—just for show?”

  He couldn’t seem to resist provoking her, saying things to make her react.

  “Perhaps I’m simply not a drinking man, Dr. Rossi. Some men aren’t, in my line of work.”

  She gave an elegant little snort.

  “Don’t be absurd. You’re Russian, aren’t you? Go ahead and have your tipple. It will be our little secret.”

  As her lush mouth shaped the word secret, her gaze locked with his.

  Beneath the delicate line of her jaw, a pulse fluttered under her golden Mediterranean skin. Could the formidable Dr. Rossi actually be flirting with him?

  The way she’d flirted with Kirill, no doubt, using her cover model’s looks and her effortless sophistication and that spoiled little rich girl’s sense of entitlement to devil his brother straight to hell.

  The memory chilled the simmering attraction that heated his blood, hardened his resolve, snapped his mind back to business. The only reason Skylar Rossi would care if he started drinking was because she wanted him off his guard. Which only made him more determined to sniff out whatever she was plotting. Despite his disdain for her bourgeois pedigree, he’d acquired a healthy respect for the razor-sharp intellect that lurked behind her clinical gaze.

  It also made him wonder whether she really planned to board that train tonight.

  “Why not?” Casually he unbuttoned his jacket. “One drink.”

  While the bartender splashed two inches of tawny, twenty-year old single-malt Scotch into a glass, Nikolai focused on observation. Seemingly undaunted by the eye-watering fumes, corrosive as battery acid rising from her glass, Skylar fiddled with her martini and scanned the crowd. One booted foot swayed to the music.

  When a power ballad from the eighties began pouring from the speakers, the lights dimmed and a dozen people wandered onto the makeshift floor. Between the floating spangles of light from the mirrored ball and the cloud of smoke swirling in the air, he couldn’t see a damn thing.

  The entire setup put him on edge.

  Skylar too seemed on edge. A frown creased her brow as she studied the crowd, eyes moving restlessly from face to face as though looking for someone. Suddenly she turned toward him and caught him staring, a bit of carelessness on his part that annoyed him.

  A thick fringe of black lashes dropped over her gaze. She took a slow swallow of her martini, tongue sweeping across her lower lip to catch the last glistening droplets. His own mouth went dry.

  Without thinking, he tossed back a swallow of Scotch. Its sharp burn bathed his throat with pleasurable fire.

  “Tell me, Mr. Markov,” she said huskily, beneath the slow pulse of music made for sex. “Do you ever dance?”

  That depends on my persona—the façade I happen to be wearing at the time, he imagined telling her. Just like my clothes and my cocktail and the way I seduce a woman.

  As for himself, the real Nikolai…whoever that was…he hadn’t one bloody clue.

  “Let’s find out.” Indulging the impulse, he pivoted toward the dance floor and gripped her elbow. Beneath the soft cashmere, she was electric, a ballerina’s delicate lines fired with supple heat.

  A frisson of awareness, purely sexual, arced between them. His pulse kicked up like the recoil of his Walther TPH.

  Keep your mind on your business. Find out what she’s up to.

  When she slid gracefully from her stool, a buzz of masculine satisfaction hummed through him. Together they wove between tables to reach the crowded patch of floor beneath the mirrored ball.

  The faceted orb revolved slowly overhead as he positioned them beneath it, within striking distance of the exit. Sparkling light swirled over the swaying couples, camouflaging every casual movement, distracting him all over again.

  Swiftly he spun her into his arms. His fingers laced with hers, palm to palm. His free hand closed around her waist.

  She was tall for a woman, eyes level with his, which he found refreshing. He didn’t see many women who approached his own six-foot height wearing low-heeled boots. Her tapered fingers twined with his, cool and capable, impersonal as a handshake. Her sinuous form undulated, heating the scant few inches of space between them.

  But she kept turning her head, studying the neighboring couples—especially the men.

  Unexpected anger flashed through him, a sensation as foreign to him as carelessness or impulse. Suddenly impatient with the waiting game, the check-and-checkmate tension of the geopolitical chess match their governments had set them up for, he tightened his grip on her waist and pulled her toward him.

  Her lithe dancer’s body collided with his. All the breath spilled from her lungs in an audible gasp.

  The soft fullness of
her breasts pressed against his chest, sending a flash of heat pulsing through him. One lean thigh slipped between his as she shifted to regain her balance.

  Darkening to navy, her eyes snapped toward him. She tilted her chin to confront him.

  “Pardon my language,” she said tautly, “but what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “My sentiments precisely,” he countered, low and swift. “I was about to ask you the same. Why were you so determined to come here tonight?”

  _____________________________________

  Startled by the sudden flare of confrontation, his lightning shift from urbane and accommodating companion to the sharp-eyed predator he was, Skylar’s thoughts eddied into a tailspin. Fighting for composure, she sucked in a ragged breath, heart racing as adrenaline spiked through her.

  He was holding her far too intimately, their legs entwined like lovers, her palm spread across the hard plane of his chest. The expensive lapels of his jacket had fallen open. The snug-fitting silk blend of the black turtleneck was soft as a kiss, barely shielding her from the understated power of his knife-slim body.

  She stared into his dark gaze, shimmering with amber like the expensive Scotch he’d barely touched. A searing awareness burned through her of the inconvenient and downright dangerous fact she’d been battling since the moment they’d met.

  She hated the cloak-and-dagger shenanigans his government was pulling. He was the man behind the curtain, the one calling the shots. All the same, a dangerous attraction smoldered between them.

  Her body was tingling with sensual response, the breath short and tight in her lungs, her face warm with the heat building between them. And his fragrance was making her dizzy, that blend of amber and cedar and expensive cigarettes that purred money and sophistication like a purebred cat, claws barely sheathed under velvet.

  “Well, Dr. Rossi?” he murmured. “I’m waiting. After the close calls you’ve had today, why are you here in this working-class dive bar wrapped around a Russian security official instead of safely locked into your hotel room, packing your suitcase for the overnight train?”