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

by Nikki Navarre

His brow furrowed as he gazed at the ceiling. As he exhaled a slow stream of smoke, he looked thoughtful, even pensive.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” she said.

  “Not on your life.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “You’re full of surprises, Skylar Rossi. The reporters got it wrong when they labeled you a Mafia princess.”

  “And you’re surprisingly well versed in my family history.”

  A muscle flexed at his temple. “You were the mark. I was doing my job. And now, it seems, you’re someone else’s mark.”

  “Do you always make a habit of knowing your mark so well?” She glanced down at their entangled bodies.

  “If you’re asking whether I customarily sleep with them, the answer is no,” he said shortly. “It’s one of my rules never to mix business with pleasure. You were a special case, Skylar.”

  He frowned at the ceiling, and she sensed him weighing whether to say more.

  Abruptly he leaned over to crush out his cigarette. “There’s daylight leaking around the shades. We must be out of Russian airspace by now. I’d better make sure that damn Ukrainian hasn’t fallen asleep in the cockpit.”

  Deftly he slid from beneath her and rolled out of bed. The maneuver treated Skylar to a prime glimpse of his taut buttocks and the exit wound from the long-ago bullet that had gone through his shoulder.

  As he pulled his briefs over his lean hips, she wondered what secrets Nikolai Markov was still keeping.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Takeback: Both players agree to undo their last move.

  When Skylar emerged from the dark womb of the jet into the brilliant blaze of a Mediterranean morning, the memories threatened to overwhelm her. She’d made an ironclad rule never to think about her childhood. But Dane Rossi had brought his little family to the Amalfi coast every summer—a tradition that ended with his wife’s death. After that, Skylar had never returned.

  Until now.

  Before her, the expanse of tarmac shimmered in the sun. Around a handful of parked planes scattered around this regional airfield on the Italian mainland, baggage carts trundled and swarthy ground crews toiled at a leisurely pace. While late March in Siberia was still the dead of winter, spring had come to southern Italy. A brisk wind unfurled the red, white and green tricolor of the Italian flag above the control tower.

  The snatches of liquid Italian that drifted to her ears made her eyes sting with tears. Since her father’s death, she’d barely spoken his language—except to curse.

  At the foot of the rolling staircase, Maxim Vasylko grinned up at her, white teeth flashing in his tanned face.

  “Lookin’ good, Doc. Guess you found something in the bedroom closet to fit you.”

  Warmth tinged her cheeks as she glanced down at the garments she’d pilfered from the oligarch’s stateroom. A crisp blue blouse with French cuffs and a pair of slim-cut white trousers, belted at the waist, had proven a reasonable fit. On her feet, a pair of stylish navy topsiders felt a trifle snug.

  She’d been unhappy stealing these garments, despite the rubles she’d left on the nightstand. But her own clothes were trashed, her suitcase still sitting at the hotel in Khimgorod. And she guessed whoever owned this jet—which Max claimed he’d only borrowed—wasn’t likely to notice.

  It wasn’t as though she’d be wearing her stolen threads for long. As soon as she managed to contact the U.S. Ambassador in Moscow to alert the government about her situation, she planned to be on a commercial flight to the United Nations agency in the Netherlands that monitored the global ban on chemical weapons.

  Her former colleagues there would know just what to do with the VX purchase order, safely tucked into her trousers once more.

  She only hoped it would be enough to nail the Chemical Munitions Agency. The document proved someone at Khimgorod was smuggling nerve agent to the North Koreans, but it didn’t prove the CMA in Moscow had anything to do with it.

  Frowning, she glanced around the tarmac.

  “Where’s Mr. Markov?”

  “He went to get the limo. You’ll need it to reach the boat for Capri. Too bad there’s no airstrip on the island.” Max squinted into the hazy golden sun. “If you wanna give him the slip, now’s your moment.”

  “Now that I’ve exited Russian airspace, he should be more than ready to see the back of me.” She shrugged with forced nonchalance. If he’s telling me the truth about his orders. “While he’s away, Major, perhaps you’d care to tell me exactly why we’re here.”

  The major’s wide mouth curled in a lazy grin.

  “You ain’t the vacationing type, are you, Doc? We’re here because our mutual buddy Victor figured Capri’s the best place for you.”

  “Because of my father’s family in Sicily?” she asked sharply. “We’re estranged.”

  “All we need is La Cosa Nostra to make your life perfect, hey?” His glib reference to the Sicilian Mafia made her stiffen. “Relax, Doc. This has nothing to do with your family. Victor did a little sniffing around for you. His network is still pretty good, and plenty of the higher-ups aren’t too hunky-dory with what’s been going down at Khimgorod. Risky for the whole bunch, ain’t it, when someone decides to play Lone Ranger?”

  Privately she wondered again about Max Vasylko. His easy familiarity with American slang and popular culture was remarkable in a Russian Air Force officer.

  If that’s what he really was.

  “I suppose so,” she murmured. “But no one has any proof. If we try to confront the CMA, those bastardos will deny everything.”

  “Yeah, I got that.” Max shaded his eyes with a big sun-browned hand. “Victor thought you’d want to know which bigwig Russian just booked a trip to Capri for a little unscheduled R&R.”

  Skylar’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Who?”

  His keen blue gaze drilled into her.

  “General Vladimir Krasnov. Head of the goddamn CMA.”

  She knew the name, of course. Vladimir Krasnov was a nasty piece of work, a Cold War relic who’d fathered the last generation Soviet chemical weapons program—a class of novel agents so nasty they made VX look like candy at a children’s party.

  Needless to say, Krasnov despised ICSI and everything they stood for.

  When she’d asked about Khimgorod, he’d flatly refused to meet with her—rebuffed her diplomatic overtures in a thoroughly unpleasant manner. Now she wondered if he was the cause of all her problems.

  He was taking a spur-of-the-moment trip to Capri?

  Excitement kindled in her chest. But Skylar reminded herself firmly not to jump to conclusions. Instead she concentrated on long slow breathing. She’d be truly happy to get to a drugstore and pick up a refill for her inhaler.

  “So he’s taking a vacation,” she said warily. “That doesn’t mean anything. It’s still twenty below in Moscow. He wouldn’t be the only one booking a warm weather holiday at this time of year.”

  “Yeah, but this trip came up real sudden. So sudden General Krasnov booked it himself. His assistant scratches the general’s ass for him, but even she doesn’t know he’s going. Krasnov booked his flight last night, right around the time you dropped off the grid. Victor figured you might want to check it out.”

  The cool breeze teased a tendril of hair against her jaw. Automatically she adjusted the white-rimmed sunglasses she’d perched on her head to hold the hair off her face. Maybe she’d pick up a little styling product at the drugstore as well. Stolen threads or no, she felt like a mess.

  There was only so much one could do with a travel toothbrush and a borrowed comb.

  So Krasnov was coming to Capri. It probably meant nothing. But the CMA had used the Sicilian Mafia before as middlemen to peddle their lethal merchandise. Witness her father’s involvement.

  Vladimir Krasnov was an old dog. Too old to learn new tricks?

  “Better make up your mind real quick.” Max gestured to a sleek black town car pulling around the terminal. “Here comes your hit man.”

  De
spite everything she’d learned that should have cured her little fixation with Nikolai Markov, her spirits lifted. She’d fully expected him to vanish into thin air like the ghost he was. Mission accomplished. End of story.

  Now a hum of excitement heightened her senses and warmed her face.

  Sternly she reminded herself that his reappearance was bad news. She needed to shake him loose before she started making calls and kick-started the slow engines of diplomacy and international law. After all, she’d be doing precisely what his client had hired Nikolai to prevent.

  If he figured that out, the MFA would give him new orders. They’d wanted a hit man on this job for a reason.

  Despite the warm Amalfi sun beating down on her, a chill scudded over her skin. She’d made the colossal error in judgment of sleeping with him. But her life now hung on the slender thread of her ability to deceive him.

  Or you could just trust him.

  That was the voice of naiveté—the same voice that had called the shots when she followed Kirill to Bangkok. As Nikolai himself had stated repeatedly, he was just a professional doing a job. Did she expect that to change just because she’d slept with him?

  She’d been wrong about Kirill. If she was wrong about Nikolai, it would be the last mistake she ever made.

  She ought to be in the terminal right now, booking her flight to the Netherlands. She wasn’t James Bond, for God’s sake. She was just a scientist, driven by a crippling need for atonement that was probably going to get her killed. Whatever Krasnov was planning in Capri, she ought to stay the hell away.

  But the VX purchase order wasn’t going to bring him down. It proved someone at Khimgorod was peddling product to the North Koreans, but it didn’t prove Krasnov had anything to do with it. If she turned in what she had, heads would roll at the chemical combine.

  But the guy who was probably the mastermind behind the entire operation was going to walk away scot-free.

  A year later, he’d be selling nerve agent—or even something better, one of the new compounds he’d cooked up—from some other site.

  Mannaggia! That’s not going to happen on my watch, you bastard.

  Thoughtfully she eyed Maxim Vasylko. “Captain Kostenko must have good sources.”

  Max shrugged. “Krasnov’s not much for the Internet. Still uses an old-fashioned travel agent. Victor had someone hack the chick’s computer. The guy’s scheduled to land right here tomorrow morning. And he’s booked at his hotel for one night only.”

  Stay out of it, Skylar. If you want to live, stay out of it.

  “Which hotel?” she asked.

  Merda.

  He named a famous, five-star plus hotel that made her smile wryly. Vladimir Krasnov had a taste for luxury and a reputation for living well beyond a Russian bureaucrat’s limited means.

  No wonder he needed to do a little smuggling on the side.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t be flying to the Netherlands today after all. The least she could do, she reasoned, was consult the Embassy and her people at ICSI before she made up her mind.

  _____________________________________

  “Why are you still with me?”

  Skylar pitched her voice to carry above the low hum of the powerboat’s engine.

  Convenient but not surprising, of course, that Nikolai had turned out to be an experienced captain.

  Behind the expensive console, protected from wind and spray by the plexiglass windshield, he manned the throttle with a capable hand. He too had pilfered the oligarch’s closet. He looked stylish and sophisticated in crisp khaki trousers, Italian loafers and a white linen shirt open at the neck.

  He’d given a French name, in an impeccable French accent, and flashed a French passport to the rental agent at the quay. Just another wealthy European playboy on holiday with his model girlfriend—that was their cover. En route to Capri for a photo shoot.

  But the shirt was loose enough to conceal the Walther he’d strapped at the small of his back. And there was plenty of room beneath his cuffed trousers for the knife with the serrated six-inch blade—a weapon whose discovery had made her blood run cold.

  Now he slanted her a glance, even less readable than usual behind mirrored shades.

  “I promised to get you to Capri,” Nikolai said calmly. “And the MFA hasn’t yet deposited my fee. I checked my bank account from the airport. Until they do, you’re my collateral. My security deposit, as it were.”

  Skylar swallowed down the bitter tang of disappointment.

  Stupida! If she’d believed he was hanging around for personal reasons, she was a first-class idiot. Worse, his presence made it impossible to use the replacement cell phone she’d picked up to call either the Ambassador in Moscow or Alain at ICSI. She’d texted Alain her new number, but didn’t dare entrust anything more to digital channels.

  Until she made those connections, she was flying blind.

  “What happens if the money never comes?” she asked. “Are you planning to kidnap me?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  He sliced her a look that smoked with sensuality, a silent reminder she didn’t need of the night she’d spent in his bed. Heat streaked through her and pooled between her thighs. Another indication she hadn’t gotten Nikolai Markov out of her system.

  Not that she planned to do anything about that.

  “Do you think there’s going to be a problem with the money?” she pressed. “Your friend’s surgery is, what, four days from now?”

  His slender hands tightened on the gleaming wheel, the only subtle indication the issue was on his mind.

  “I notified the client of our safe arrival. I’m certain the funds transfer is in progress. One doesn’t double cross the Maestro, as my client knows quite well.”

  The wind was playing havoc with his chocolate silk hair. He sleeked it back with a graceful hand. “If they don’t intend to pay me, they’ll have to kill me.”

  Despite his nonchalant tone, her stomach knotted. She tried without success to match his matter-of-fact tone.

  “Do you think that’s likely?”

  “I think it’s possible. It’s always possible. Men like me don’t age into genteel retirement.”

  His elegant profile was hard. But something lurked in his tone that was almost bleak. “This passport in my pocket belongs to Philippe Fabray, a thirty-five year old designer for a major fashion label who paid in cash for this boat. But I’m a bit older than that, Skylar. Nearly too old for a man in my line of work.”

  Again she wondered how old he was. Beyond a few fine lines around his opaque eyes and the delectable mouth that could deliver such mind-blowing pleasure, he seemed ageless.

  For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder if he’d had work done on his face. A hit man must need to change his appearance from time to time. She’d probably never know.

  Sudden frustration spiked through her.

  “Are you saying you’ve begun to develop a conscience?” she challenged. “A hit man with a sense of scruples?”

  A muscle flexed in his temple.

  “I’m saying that whatever satisfaction I once derived from this business, a lifetime ago when country and patriotic duty meant something—that life ceased to hold meaning for me a long time ago. The country I learned to kill for no longer exists. Nor do the youthful ideals that drove me. I have no home, no nationality, no past and no future.”

  His brittle tone made her chest ache. He was an outcast just like Skylar, a nomadic expatriate shorn of family ties, forever searching for a home she’d probably never find. Her vocation, her calling to rid the world of chemical weapons and the lawless men who used them was all she had.

  Lately, she’d begun to feel even that wasn’t enough.

  He throttled forward with a hard hand, sunlight flashing on his gold watch.

  “I’ve killed so many men I’ve forgotten their names and the reasons they had to die,” he said flatly. “When I look in the mirror, I see a stranger’s face. When a man feels that way, he
starts getting sloppy. A smart player knows when it’s time to put away the chessboard.”

  Her heart bumped hard against her sternum. She lowered her hand to the pricey shoulder bag stowed beneath her seat, where she’d packed a few essentials including the refill for her rescue inhaler.

  Whatever his fate, she told herself, it was no affair of hers.

  “Put away the chessboard? What does that mean?”

  He steered in silence, the powerful engine throbbing as they sliced through the choppy sea. Her hair blew around her face.

  “It means,” he said at last, “that when I’ve finished with you and tied up a few loose ends, I’m out of the protection business. I’ll disappear, change identities the way a man changes his shirt, alter my appearance until I could stand beside you in a crowded elevator and you’d never know me.”

  I would know you anywhere.

  The thought snuck in below her radar. It was the kind of thought she found herself confronting since she’d thrown caution to the four winds and slept with him.

  More than slept with him, Skylar. You’re falling for him.

  That was the worst mistake she could possibly make. Whatever name he went by, whatever passport he carried, Nikolai Markov was trouble with a capital T for any woman who was foolish enough to love him. She’d made more than a few mistakes in her colorful life.

  But she hadn’t been a fool since the last time she fell for another dishonest Russian with an ice cube for a heart.

  Even if Nikolai was telling the truth—for once—there was no place in her life for a reformed hit man. He would always be running, always hiding, always lying.

  The shrill chime of her new phone floated from her shoulder bag. It pierced the muted rumble of the powerboat’s engine and the rhythmic chop of waves against the hull. Grateful for the interruption, she fished it out.

  On her screen flashed the familiar digits of Alain Devereux’s mobile phone.

  She snuck a glance toward Nikolai, seemingly absorbed in the gleaming array of chrome-fitted instruments on the dash—looking for all the world like a wealthy playboy on holiday.

  He couldn’t leave the helm unattended. Still, he was far too perceptive for her peace of mind. She thought about letting Alain’s call ring through to voice mail.