She gasped and fell back, her free hand rising of its own accord to spread across his chest. The rapid pound of his heart against her palm caught her by surprise—he, the man whose pulse never rose above 60 BPM even when he pulled the trigger.
A double shot of terror and dangerous excitement sizzled through her blood. As his dark gaze seared into her, the adrenaline rush made her dizzy.
From the bar, the sound of breaking glass announced they’d attracted an audience. Or at least the waiter.
“Are you planning to kiss me or kill me?” she said huskily. “Either way, you’ll have witnesses.”
“Do you think I give a damn?” he muttered, pulling her in. One hand closed around the back of her head as their lips met.
It was a savage kiss, stripped of subtlety or sophistication, a kiss that claimed her like a cattle brand from a man who’d given her every reason in the world not to trust him. Yet she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back like her life depended on it, every bit as starved and furious as he.
His hands gripped her hips and hauled her against him, making her intimately aware of the searing bulge of his arousal lodging between her thighs like he belonged there. The sudden flare of her own desire throbbed where they came together, slicking her flesh with wet heat. When he rocked against her, she moaned into his open mouth.
“Hell,” he got out, raking the patio with a distracted glance. “Where’s your room?”
“Wait a minute.” Still fighting for air, she pushed away and struggled to clear her head. “We’re a long way from there, Nikolai. You may be the world’s best kisser, but I need a hell of a lot more before I start trusting you. Where’s my inhaler?”
His face hardened. “It’s under the chaise. Take a close look at it, Skylar.”
Frowning, she examined the device. Its impact with the flagstones had damaged it, cracking the plastic case. When she shook out the canister that contained her medicine, she saw the laminated label peeling away, which had never happened before. Beneath was the dull gleam of army green metal.
Her belly gave a sickening lurch. She’d seen canisters like that before, during her stint as a research chemist at Edgewood Arsenal. The Soviets had experimented with a handheld aerosol gun for political assassinations—a single-use weapon loaded with VX nerve agent.
She recoiled. Barely in time, she controlled the instinct to hurl the canister as far away as possible. If it hit the pavement and cracked, every person within a quarter-mile radius would be dead within minutes.
She lowered the canister quickly to the table and stepped back.
Her stomach churned with nausea. She’d been five seconds from pumping her lungs full of lethal nerve agent. Nightmare images flashed before her of the warehouse, men foaming at the mouth, bodies arching in powerful contractions, heels drumming the concrete floor before they slipped into paralysis and staring death.
Someone had intended that fate for her. As a very special message for nosy American diplomats to keep out of CMA business.
Through sheer force of will, she shut down the horrific images. She’d had a lifetime of practice doing it, reinforced by years of therapy. The trick was to think about something else. As it had before, her brain latched gratefully onto science.
“I need two sealable plastic bags,” she said hoarsely. “Can you get some from the bar?”
Efficient as always, he returned within seconds. Swiftly she double-bagged inhaler and canister in two layers of protective plastic. Not nearly as good as the chemical protective hood and glovebox she wanted, or a full suit of PPE—personnel protective equipment.
Still, with proper precautions, the plastic would preserve the evidence safely until she could get it to Edgewood for testing. One more link in the rope she was weaving to hang General Krasnov and the CMA.
By this point, the waiter was definitely way too interested. Even the fat Sicilian dozing by the pool had woken up and was looking curious.
Swallowing a curse, she turned to Nikolai.
“I suppose you’d better come to my room after all.”
His black eyes gleamed wickedly. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Only to talk, Nikolai. For starters, I want to understand what happened to my inhaler and how you managed to find out about it.”
“How do you think I found out? While you were on the telephone with your boyfriend Victor, I watched a professional switch out the canister. From my vantage, I couldn’t identify the culprit.”
“Madonna mia! Victor isn’t my boyfriend. In fact, he’s my best friend’s husband. She’s the person I was calling.” Handling the double-bagged inhaler with care, she tucked the package into her shoulder bag, toed into her espadrilles and headed toward the gravel path.
His voice crackled with irritation as he followed.
“How many times must I save your life before you trust me?”
“You may have just saved my cannoli for the fourth or fifth time.” He’s done it so often I’m losing count. “But you still have a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Brusov.”
His soft oath nearly made her smile. God knew, his laundry list of deceptions was nothing to amuse, but it felt good having the upper hand for once with Nikolai. It was a perishingly rare experience and she decided she might as well enjoy it.
Her lodgings were a top-floor suite with a balcony that overhung the Bay of Naples, the Faraglioni Rocks and a scattering of luxury yachts bobbing in the azure cove. As she unlocked her door, she wondered whether letting him into her sanctum was really such a smart idea.
How many times must I save your life before you trust me?
She snuck a glance at the man standing silently beside her, alertly scanning the corridor, taking note of the lift and the emergency exit. Unexpectedly, that insidious sense of safety whispered through her, seductive as the slide of his lithely muscled body against her naked skin when they made love.
Despite every lie he’d told her, she felt safer with him than she’d ever felt with anyone. Given her current situation, she had to be orders of magnitude safer with him than she was alone.
Then there was that other inconvenient, undeniable complication.
She loved him.
With a sigh, she slipped into the airy island elegance of her suite. Nikolai was a step behind, sweeping the room, checking the empty closet and the marble-floored bathroom, even sliding open the double doors to check the balcony.
I’m safe with him. But am I safe from him?
Frowning, she secured the double-bagged inhaler in an empty drawer and tossed her shoulder bag onto the bed. He was waiting for her outside, leaning against the balcony with ankles crossed, casually lighting one of his French cigarettes. Exquisitely aware of his hooded gaze lingering on her nearly naked body, she tugged up her sarong and knotted it above her breasts, transforming the floor-length wrap into a sleeveless sundress.
With no further excuse for delay, she joined him reluctantly.
Keeping plenty of distance between them, she stood at the stone balustrade and watched the pale form of a cruise ship floating against the blue horizon.
Nikolai had stationed himself with a direct line of sight to her door.
“Do you think I’m still in danger?” she asked.
Stupid question, Skylar. If you wanted to be safe, you should have gotten the hell off this island—and away from Nikolai Markov.
“The CMA wants you dead,” he said flatly. “And the Kremlin has ordered the MFA to stay out of the way.”
“The Kremlin?” she gasped. The world of sea and sky spun around her.
If the Kremlin was stepping in, she was in way over her head. And who could possibly help? The Embassy had washed its hands of her, while ICSI had no jurisdiction outside Russia.
“Merda.” She groaned.
“If your would-be poisoner was a professional—and he was—he would have waited at a distance to confirm the kill. When he realizes he didn’t achieve the expected outcome, he’s going to try again.”
A shiver worked down her spine, both from the words and his matter-of-fact tone. Pivoting, she hurried to the front door and engaged the sturdy safety bolt. She’d already locked it with her key, but her attacker could have gotten a master key from any number of hotel staff.
Feeling marginally calmer, she returned to the balcony. Under the circumstances, the closer she was to Nikolai, the better.
Of course, they’d be closer still if they peeled back the turquoise duvet and crawled into the king-sized bed…
Nikolai took a pull on his cigarette and waited. She spun away from the bed and her lurid fantasies and forced herself to face the facts.
“How did they find me here so quickly?”
“The same way I did.” He lifted one shoulder in a loose-limbed shrug. “You ought not to have involved the tourist office.”
“You’ll forgive my little slipups, I hope, Mr. Markov,” she said coolly. “I’m a newcomer in the spy business. What I’m asking is, how did General Krasnov know I’m on this island?”
“Who else knew you were here?”
She frowned.
“Just Alexis and Victor—and Max, of course. But they’re on our side—my side, I mean. I spoke to Geoffrey Chase, but that was only an hour ago. Yesterday, I only spoke to Alain…”
He waited. A horrible suspicion bloomed in her gut. Her immediate impulse was to scoff, even though she’d always known her Number Two coveted her plum position. But Alain had seemed terribly interested in her whereabouts. He’d pressed to know where she was staying, where he could find her…
“Alain,” she whispered. Dismay fluttered in her chest. Was he truly capable of murder? To think she’d actually slept with him!
She glanced toward Nikolai and found him watching her, quiet understanding in his gaze.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he murmured, “he also lied to you about his divorce. He has a wife tucked away in Munich. She runs an art gallery there. They spend a weekend together every month.”
“A wife?” Her voice rose. “Zio porco! I knew I shouldn’t have slept with him. I can’t say I ever fully trusted him—but this!”
Thank God she hadn’t made the mistake of falling in love with the bastard. Still, she struggled to absorb the unpleasant shock of one more betrayal. Was there no one she could trust?
Not even the enigma beside her?
Slowly she turned to face him.
“While we’re on the subject of trust, Nikolai, why are you here? Eighteen years is a long time to nurse a grudge. I know the MFA hired you. But if they’ve paid you, that job is finished.”
He exhaled a torrent of smoke and watched it curl upward.
“It’s not about the money, Skylar. Not anymore.”
“Then what is it about?” She drew an unsteady breath. “If you hated me the way you must have done for all those years, why do you keep saving me? If they wouldn’t let you do the job yourself, why not watch and enjoy while someone else finished me off?”
He made a noise deep in his throat.
She ought to let it go. Not look a gift horse in the mouth. He was here, wasn’t he? That ought to be enough. It wasn’t like he was going to fall on his knees and say he’d fallen in love with her. Nikolai Markov wasn’t capable of love.
Except that he was. He’d gone to desperate lengths to save his sister from the disease that was slowly killing her. She’d glimpsed his love for Irina and his nephew Misha in his face, heard it in his voice. He’d cared for his mother. And he’d clearly loved his little brother.
He was capable of love, she thought intently. He only believed that he wasn’t.
“Come on, Nikolai,” she pressed. “Tell me the truth for once. Didn’t you take this job in the first place because it brought you close to me—the star of your scrapbook?”
His face tightened. Turning away, he took a last drag from his cigarette and sent it spinning over the teal-green cove.
Taking his silence as an admission, she pushed ahead.
“Did you want a good look at me, up close and personal? Or were you hoping for a chance to finish me off?”
He bit out a curse in Russian and pivoted to face her. In his elegant, surgically reconstructed face, an uncharacteristic anger blazed.
“The job was to scare you, Skylar, make you give up your search for answers—and yes, it was an assignment I more than relished! I thought you were a spoiled, self-centered child who’d grown into a spoiled, self-centered woman. I thought your selfishness caused my brother’s death. The accidents in Khimgorod—the highway shooting, the car that nearly ran you down. The goal was to drive you away, not kill you. But I fully intended to enjoy the process.”
“And did you?” she fired back. “Did you enjoy watching me sweat? Watching me cry? Watching me bleed?”
“God knows, I intended to.” Vibrating with emotion, his voice dropped an octave. “But you weren’t what I expected. You were smart, strong, stubborn, brave, and sexy as all hell. You were nothing like the monster I’d painted in my head. Instead of hating you, I found myself drawn to you.”
He paused. “Attracted to you.”
His eyes smoked. A shiver snaked through her.
“Compelled by you.”
“That must have been quite the dilemma.” She tried to speak lightly, but her voice wavered. “If you truly changed your mind, when did that happen?”
“When you finally talked about what happened in Bangkok. I realized then I was wrong about you—that I’d been wrong about you for eighteen years.”
His hands clenched around the stone barrier that guarded the drop.
“I loved my brother, but he was young and arrogant and headstrong. He was supposed to be a professional. He should never have laid a finger on you.
“In short, he made his own mistakes, and you were the one who suffered for them. The one who’s still suffering.”
He drew a ragged breath.
“Skylar, for the love of Christ, you don’t have to die for him. If I can let this go, if I can—forgive his death—you ought to be able to forgive yourself.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Nikolai.” She smiled sadly. “You of all men ought to know that. Will you ever forgive yourself for the mistakes you’ve made?”
His face twisted. “Forgiveness is a human emotion. I stopped being human a long time ago.”
“Yet, somehow, you’ve forgiven me,” she said softly. “Haven’t you? That’s why you’re here.”
His gaze hooded, dark lashes falling over the midnight depths.
“In part.”
“It’s an act of absolution.” She pressed harder, driven to uncover the truth. “You’ve said you’re leaving the game—starting a new life. Saving me is some kind of redemption, isn’t it?”
“Redemption?” A bitter smile curled his lips. “If you know my real name, the name I left behind, then you know what I am. I’m a machine at best and a monster at worst. There’s no redemption for a man like me. There’s only justice.”
“You think I haven’t felt the same way?” Burning with the need to persuade him, she gripped his arm. Beneath the fabric, tension ran through the corded sinew of his forearm. “You’re not a monster, Nikolai! If you were, you’d never stop killing. You’d have left me to my fate without a second thought—and I’d be dead by now. If you’re not looking for redemption of some kind, why would you be here?”
His hands closed around her shoulders. The heat of his touch sizzled through her.
“I’m here so I can sleep at night, Skylar,” he said, low and intent. “So that after all this is over, after I’ve changed my name and changed my face and vanished into an assumed identity on some island in the South Pacific, I’ll know you’re alive and safe, wearing a white lab coat and peering into a microscope, or standing behind the podium in one of your tailored suits and those oddly appealing spectacles, delivering the keynote address at some diplomatic function.
“I’ll know you’re living your life, doing what you l
ove, instead of lying cold in the ground under a marble headstone.”
Her heart tripped and stumbled in her chest. Rash and heedless, the words tumbled out.
“What if I don’t want you to vanish into an assumed identity in the South Pacific?”
A beat of perfect silence fell between them, a stillness broken only by the muted susurrus of the sea and the uneven rasp of her breath. A part of her longed to turn back the clock and take the words back, undo the revelation she’d never intended to make.
But her secret was out now. There was no turning back.
At least he didn’t pretend not to understand.
“Someday my sins will catch up with me, Skylar. The farther away you are when that happens, the better.”
Anger sparked through her.
“You don’t think I ought to have a voice in that decision?”
His face tightened, but he said nothing.
So then, she had her answer. Surely she hadn’t expected to hear anything else. Nikolai Markov—or whatever name he went by—wasn’t a happily-ever-after kind of guy. Falling in love with him had been one of many mistakes she’d made over the past few days. She only hoped she’d live long enough to regret it.
“Be reasonable,” he said softly. “It’s for your own protection.”
“That’s bullshit.”
When surprise flitted across his face, she smiled grimly. Even a smooth-talking diplomat, raised by an Old World father to be the perfect lady, could speak frankly when circumstances demanded it. He’d just had to drive her far enough.
What did she have to lose? Not him, because she’d never had him in the first place. He was smoke and shadow, a silhouette against the light, a fleeting image in the mirror, a whisper in the dark. He’d vanish from her life, leaving her trapped in a minefield of painful memories.
“I beg your pardon?” His brow lifted.
“When you talk about hiding under an alias in the South Pacific for my own protection? That’s bullshit,” she repeated. “You’re running away, hiding from this and from me, not for my protection—but for yours.”
His face was smooth and inscrutable, the perfect enigma—a master chess player executing the perfect bluff.
The Russian Temptation (Book Two) (Foreign Affairs 2) Page 25
