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

by Nikki Navarre

  But the low rocky bulk of the isle of Capri was already looming before them. She was guessing they’d make port in twenty minutes. She desperately needed to speak with ICSI and the Embassy, and quickly, with Krasnov barely a day behind her. If she didn’t seize her moment, who knew when she’d be able to give Nikolai the slip?

  The phone shrilled again, and Nikolai shot her a cool glance. “Do you want me to answer for you?”

  The thought of what Alain would say if another man answered her personal phone was sufficient to send her scrambling to her feet.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it.”

  Hastily she climbed out of the recessed cockpit to the sun lounge in the stern before she picked up. Though she knew Nikolai couldn’t possibly hear over the hum of the twin engines, she cupped her hand around the receiver and pitched her voice low.

  “Alain?”

  “Mon Dieu.” The relief suffusing her deputy’s voice sent a twinge through her guilty conscience. “Skylar! Where the devil are you? They say you checked out of Khimgorod two days early. Our driver received a call to pick you up from the train station this morning, but he says your cabin was empty.”

  A cold chill snaked down her spine and made her scalp crinkle—a shiver not caused by the crisp ocean air fluttering against her blouse and trousers. No doubt if she’d boarded that train as planned, her driver would have found her body in that cabin.

  One-handed, she fumbled into the light sweater knotted at her waist and curled up on the rear seat, upholstered in cream leather. From this vantage, she could keep a wary eye on Nikolai—her lover, her protector, the enigma she still couldn’t trust—in the captain’s chair. Beyond the windshield rose the looming silhouette of Mount Solaro, the highest point on the island.

  “Listen, Alain, I don’t have much time to talk. I’d appreciate it if you could smooth things over with the locals in Khimgorod. And while you’re at it, can you please check something for me in Novosibirsk? I’d like to know if Dr. Anton Belov was admitted to the hospital there.”

  Because if he wasn’t, she thought grimly, the kindly old scientist was probably dead.

  “Belov? Wasn’t he supposed to be your host?” She could hear the frown in his civilized voice. “What’s going on, Skylar?”

  She wanted to trust him, but her instincts warned against it. She was too conscious that his phone, as a senior diplomat performing sensitive work in Russia, was undoubtedly bugged.

  “One more thing, if you would, Alain. See if you can convince the hotel in Khimgorod to ship my suitcase back home. I had to leave in a bit of a hurry, and there were visit notes in my briefcase I’d rather not leave behind.”

  Although the Russians would undoubtedly copy her notes before they returned them, at least she hadn’t committed the terminal error of carrying anything sensitive in her briefcase.

  “Do you mean to tell me you left town in such an infernal hurry you left your suitcase and your precious briefcase behind?”

  The concern in his smooth French voice had deepened. She imagined her Number Two removing his fashionable spectacles and pressing fingers to his temples in a silent bid for patience.

  “Skylar, cherie—talk to me. I’m worried to death about you. Where are you?”

  Don’t say a word, her instincts whispered.

  “I can’t tell you that, Alain. I need you to trust me.”

  “Trust you?” He muttered an obscenity, uncharacteristic in this urbane senior diplomat. “I’m losing my mind here, Skylar. If you’re in some kind of trouble, our governments need to know, to say nothing of my personal interest in your welfare. Where are you?”

  A fresh pang of guilt stabbed through her. Was she carrying caution too far? God knew, the events of the past thirty-six hours would be sufficient to make even Mother Teresa paranoid.

  Still, damn it, his phone was bugged.

  “Merda,” she said softly.

  Then a flash of inspiration made her gasp.

  “Listen, Alain. Do you remember the art gallery we visited during our weekend in Paris?” The weekend she’d slept with him and regretted ever since. “They were featuring framed prints from somewhere in the Mediterranean—don’t say where. But do you remember?”

  A bit cryptic, but Alain too was well aware their communications were not private. The seconds ticked past, while she eyed the back of Nikolai’s head and wondered if even this much contact with her ex-lover was a mistake.

  “I remember,” he said at last, guarded. She released a silent breath of relief. “Are you there, for God’s sake?”

  “I am.” She thought rapidly. “I’m going to keep trying to reach the Embassy, but it’s hard for me to talk just now. I know it’s asking a lot, but can you go there in person and get a secure meeting with Ambassador Malvaux?”

  “I’ve heard he’s out of town.”

  “He is, but he should be back today.” She hesitated. “If he isn’t, you can speak with Geoffrey Chase, his deputy. Tell him where I am, that I may need some diplomatic backup—but don’t tell anyone else.”

  Over the cockpit’s Bimini roof, she glimpsed a jumble of stucco buildings in saffron and Pompeii red, glowing in the sun. In the turquoise sea below, sleek white boats bobbed around the low quay of the harbor at Marina Grande.

  Despite the tension nibbling steadily at her nerves, her heart lifted, buoyed by a rush of pleasure. Once upon a time, she and her mother had loved their summer holidays on this exclusive island getaway.

  She dragged her attention back to Alain, who was taking his time responding. Impatience hummed through her. She was preparing to terminate the call when he spoke abruptly.

  “Tres bien, cherie. I’ll call on your Ambassador or his Chargé.” He paused. “Where are you staying?”

  She uttered a dry laugh.

  “I haven’t got a clue. This isn’t a pleasure trip, Alain. Just give them this number and ask them to call.”

  She rang off before he could object and returned to the cockpit. As she sank into the companion chair, Nikolai cast her a curious glance.

  “We’ll be docked in five minutes. Where am I leaving you?”

  A sick feeling roiled her belly and plunged her heart to her shoes. She did her best to ignore it. Madonna mia, she’d always known he’d be leaving her. She wanted him to leave her, didn’t she?

  “You can leave me at the tourist office,” she said. No sense revealing anything about her plans, especially since she wasn’t certain where she planned to hole up—or if she’d be staying.

  But she knew she was staying, didn’t she?

  “No doubt you’ll want to find an ATM machine,” she said pointedly, “so you can check your balance.”

  “I can do that from the tourist office as well.”

  A spike of irritation drove through her. Was he really planning to dog her steps all over the island until the MFA paid his fee? She needed to get rid of him so she could figure out how to deal with General Krasnov.

  To hell with General Krasnov. She needed to get rid of Nikolai before he broke her heart. The more time she spent in his presence, relying on him, letting him take care of her, treating her to these little glimpses past his impenetrable façade of the bitter disillusionment and loneliness she knew so well, the harder it would be to get over him.

  She fished her shoulder bag out and placed it squarely in her lap. Gripping the handle firmly, she summoned her resolve.

  “Just to be clear, Nikolai. The tourist office is where we say our goodbyes. I’ve had a grueling few days. I intend to do my level best to forget about them, which will be difficult enough without you breathing down my neck.”

  “Last night you seemed to enjoy having me breathe down your neck,” he said softly. “Are you certain you’re not interested in an encore?”

  A wave of sinful heat flooded through her. She tightened her grip on the shoulder bag and fought down the blush rising to her face.

  “I’m afraid this is our swan song, Mr. Markov, no matter what the ATM says
about your bank balance.”

  He maneuvered the powerboat into the harbor and angled toward the quay.

  “By now, I anticipate the funds will be available,” he murmured. “But for the sake of curiosity, if they’re not and I continue to accompany you, what do you intend to do?”

  “I’m not going to make some dramatic bid for freedom. I’ll simply go to the harbor police and report there’s a strange man who’s been following me and harassing me for the past two days. Then we can see just how good a fake that French passport of yours truly is. I doubt your client will appreciate the attention, Maestro.”

  “No doubt you’re correct.” Calmly he removed his mirrored shades. Unshielded by the dark lenses, his ink-black eyes bored into her. “But that will require revealing your identity and your infamous last name, will it not? One imagines the Rossi clan cultivates a rather close relationship with the polizia in this part of Italy.”

  Meaning her Mafiosi uncles, whose overtures she’d been spurning for the past eighteen years, would know Dane’s daughter had finally come home. That was unacceptable, and the man beside her damn well knew it.

  “Merda! Just get me to the tourist office and check your balance, since that’s what matters to you. The sooner I get you off my back, the better.”

  Before them, an assortment of miniature pleasure craft tacked through the harbor, the little sorrentini that carried enterprising tourists to the grottoes, Roman ruins and rock formations that made Capri famous. Nikolai throttled back, his eyes searching hers as though she spoke a foreign language.

  Behind those perfect patrician features—etched with the refinement of an artist or a chess tactician, not the brutal killer she knew he was—a hint of bemusement surfaced.

  “If only it were that easy,” he said softly, “to get rid of one another. We’ve both gotten more than we bargained for from this temporary arrangement. Haven’t we, Dr. Rossi?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Overloaded: A chess piece with too many defensive duties.

  “Ludmilla,” Nikolai purred into his mobile phone. “I’m calling to find out what you’ve done with my money.”

  “Right on schedule, Nikolai.” The Deputy Foreign Minister’s whiskey voice was wry. But he detected the subtle strain beneath her diplomat’s composure. He’d had a lot of practice doing that lately. “Like a Russian train, you’re never late. I was expecting to hear from you, and there you are.”

  “You hired me for my precision, Milla. I’m a goddamn metronome.”

  Reining in his simmering annoyance, he took a bracing sip of bitter espresso and nearly groaned with pleasure. The art of brewing a fine espresso remained a work in progress in Russia and the hellholes where he spent his days. But the Italians had pioneered the craft.

  While his ex-lover said a few more complimentary things about his abilities, he shifted his position at the standing espresso bar to keep an eye on Skylar. Through the wide glass windows of the tourist office, she stood at the counter, waiting with thinly veiled impatience while an attendant searched for a hotel room in Capri. She looked cool and glamorous in the stolen couture of an oligarch’s mistress, sculpted features concealed behind oversized sunglasses.

  As though that would protect her from the all-seeing eye of her Mafiosi relations.

  He’d have to check his Skylar Rossi scrapbook, but he’d bet she hadn’t been so close to their Sicilian hunting grounds since Dane Rossi died drumming his heels against that concrete floor in Bangkok.

  “You’re stalling, Ludmilla. And my offshore bank account is empty, which comes as a disappointment. So tell me, my dear. Where—is—my money?”

  Despite the hissing static of a poor connection through the overloaded Moscow line, he detected the dry click of a nervous swallow. His instincts kicked into high alert.

  Damn it. He’d known something was wrong when the transfer hadn’t happened. He wasn’t the sort of man one could put off paying. It wasn’t as though he referred the matter to a collection agency when one of his clients was late.

  “Relax, Nikolai. The transfer’s arranged.” She inhaled deeply, and he imagined his ex-lover sitting behind an untidy pile of papers in a cloud of cigarette smoke in the Ministry’s Stalin-era skyscraper. “I’ve got it open on my screen. One click and it’s done.”

  Anticipation zinged through him. He needed that money—Irina needed that money—so badly he could taste it.

  “Then…?” he prompted.

  “I needed you to call in. You haven’t been answering your line.”

  “I’ve been somewhat busy, as you might recall.”

  He’d been busy peeling off Skylar Rossi’s expensive clothing, becoming exquisitely familiar with every supple, sinuous inch of her dancer’s body as they flew through the Arctic night. Now it seemed his client had been trying to reach him.

  Across the cheerful piazza, bustling with suntanned tourists and souvenir vendors, Skylar was digging into her designer bag, probably searching for a credit card to complete her transaction.

  He muttered a curse. “Talk, Ludmilla. I haven’t got all day.”

  “Listen, Nikolai.” Another harsh inhale. Like any proper Russian, Ludmilla Dyakova smoked like a chimney. “I want you to take the damn money and get on the next boat to the mainland, and the next plane out of Italy after that.”

  “That was certainly my intent,” he murmured.

  Click the damn mouse, Milla, and let’s finish this. The sooner he disentangled himself from Skylar and put the past two days behind him, the sooner he’d forget about her.

  She was walking away from their liaison with her heart still beating—an outcome he would never have predicted a few short days ago. But she hadn’t been responsible for Kirill’s death. Instead, she’d been a victim herself.

  In fact, she was still a victim of her over-sensitized conscience. Someday it would probably get her killed.

  So he was walking away, because that was the only outcome that could possibly allow her to live. He was death incarnate for any woman. He had no friends, no sweethearts, no personal ties. Definitely no one he loved. Just look what loving him had done to his own sister. Irina lived like a damn fugitive—

  “You’re not hearing me, Nikolai.” Ludmilla’s raspy voice dragged him back to the conversation he’d nearly forgotten he was having. “I had a call this morning from the Kremlin—from that bastard Makarov on the president’s Security Council. I’ve been ordered in no uncertain terms to butt out of CMA business. General Krasnov and his gorillas are running this show. They’re on the brink of a major deal that will keep the cash-strapped CMA in hard currency for the next five years.”

  “Complete the transfer and I’m out of it,” he said coolly. “This is nothing personal for me, remember?”

  But his skin was prickling. If the goddamn Kremlin was now involved, this business had acquired a higher profile than any hit man wanted within a mile of his work. No professional in his line liked to operate under a spotlight.

  Makarov was a nasty bastard, Krasnov even more so. What the hell had Skylar gotten herself into?

  “You’re not hearing me,” Ludmilla repeated. “Are you still on Capri?”

  “Still?” He frowned. “We’ve just arrived.”

  “Skylar Rossi is on Capri?”

  “She’s two hundred meters away, arranging a hotel reservation.” Across the piazza, Skylar bent over the ticket counter and scribbled her signature on a receipt of some kind. He needed to get back there before she vanished.

  If he was still tracking her.

  “Within twenty-four hours, General Krasnov is going to be on Capri too,” his client said flatly. “Along with his business partner from a certain rogue neighbor to the east.”

  In a flash, his mind shuttled through the series of anomalies that had been niggling at him since they boarded Captain Joystick’s borrowed airplane in Khimgorod.

  Vasylko’s odd insistence that Skylar travel here rather than any of a thousand convenient sanctuaries to
escape the CMA’s wrath.

  Her uncharacteristic willingness to cooperate—to take an unplanned vacation in the middle of her so-called mission, a cause to which she was powerfully committed.

  Her inexplicable decision to return to a region she’d been avoiding like smallpox for close to twenty years. Home sweet home for the Mafiosi family she’d rejected.

  “Shit,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. His pulse hammered hard against his fingers.

  That’s what she’s up to. Krasnov’s closing the deal here on Capri, and somehow she’s gotten wind of it.

  A dangerous piece of intelligence for which he could presumably thank the mysterious Victor. The only question was, what was she planning to do about it?

  She wasn’t a CIA operative or an Interpol agent. She couldn’t be planning anything operational, could she? Surely she wouldn’t be so foolish.

  But it was the North Koreans his client was alluding to. The same global slime who’d been responsible for Dane Rossi’s death.

  For Skylar, this crusade could hardly be more personal.

  But Skylar wasn’t his problem anymore. He should say whatever he needed to, let Ludmilla finish the damn transfer, and get the hell out.

  “Does Krasnov know she’s here?” he heard himself ask.

  Hell.

  “It was Krasnov who put out the hit in the first place. He knows.”

  He went rigid. “How?”

  “Loose lips sink ships, Nikolai.” Ludmilla sighed. “Ambassador Rossi doesn’t choose her confidants very wisely. She should have stayed away from the telephone. But you know diplomats—always talking.”

  “She isn’t indiscreet, Milla. Far from it. The only person she’s spoken to since we landed, as far as I know, is her own deputy—”

  He broke off abruptly.

  Son of a bitch.

  Alain Devereux wanted Skylar’s job. Despite their fleeting sexual liaison, the little prick resented the hell out of her. Did he resent her enough to kill her? If so, he was perfectly placed to tip off the CMA about his boss’s whereabouts.