The Russian Seduction (32 page)

Oh man, she was in trouble here. The way that collar snugged up against the sun-gold sinew of his throat, the way the electric light spilled over his burnished hair, the hard diamond glitter in his narrowed eyes. Every woman here would love to walk out with him, while the guys eyed him like a pit bull that had slipped its leash.

Somehow Alexis managed to keep her cool as he closed in, though her temperature must have spiked ten degrees while his eyes slid over her. Taking his time, the way he always did, as if he didn’t want to miss a trick.

“Right on time,” she murmured, angling her cheek for a European kiss-kiss.

Instead he circled her to take in the view, then leaned in from behind with a knee-melting whiff of dark spice.

“Wow,” he rumbled, drawing out the word like a caress. His lips brushed the hollow beneath her ear, sending a sheet of goosebumps over her skin. “And you taste even better than you look.”

“It’s the frock,” she shrugged, keeping it flippant. “You’ve excellent taste. I feel like Grace Kelly must have when she wore it.”

And I hope you can return the gown later.
She was way too aware of the damn wire transmitting every word to the technician staked out in his car. And she could hardly help noticing every chick in the place looking daggers at her.

“Oh, I think it’s you.” Light, leisured, supremely confident that he knew what turned her on, his hands skimmed her body and settled at her waist—silently telling every guy in the room
Back off
. When he nuzzled her neck, she could have dissolved into a puddle of pheromones right there.

“Alexis,” he whispered against her skin, “I swear you slay me.”

And God help her, wire or no wire, all she wanted was to drag him upstairs, unzip his trousers, and shimmy out of her dress. Considering she was barely wearing panties, she wondered if he could smell—

“What would you say,” he breathed against her throat, “if I wished to start buying all your clothing? Would that offer interest you?”

What the hell was he asking her? She guessed he’d figured out how much it turned her on, wearing the items he’d chosen. Was he offering more of the same…or a more permanent arrangement? Suddenly she felt breathless, as if Hurricane Victor had sucked every particle of oxygen from the room.

Anyway, she wasn’t in the market for anything permanent with him, was she? Quite possibly, depending on what happened later, tonight would be the last time she saw him.

Swallowing past the ache of tears, she thrust back a light riposte. “Even you couldn’t afford my wardrobe, captain. Where are we going tonight?”

“Hmm.” His hands dropped from her waist as he stepped away, reserve hardening his Slavic features. Despite her resolve, a pang of regret knifed through her.

“As it happens,” he shrugged, “we’re invited to a little gathering for one of the fleet’s senior officers.”

“Oh?” She gripped her clutch. “But you’re not wearing your impressive uniform.”

“My uniform is still in Moscow. Does this disappoint you?” he murmured, his glacial eyes glinting. Guess he’d picked up that she liked it. “But this is hardly an official function. And, among the guests, we’ll reportedly find our friend Admiral Ivashov.”

Oh yeah. This was precisely what the boys had been hoping when they wired her. A fresh shot of adrenaline kicked through her bloodstream. Victor cupped her bare elbow in his calloused hand and ushered her into the breathtaking cold of the arctic night.

On the bright-lit bustle of St. Pete’s main drag, a valet had their car idling—a low-slung silver Alfa Romeo that hugged the pavement like a cruise missile. While Victor swung her door open, Alexis snuck a glance left and right, trying to find her tail. But if her untrained eye could spot the kid, she supposed he wouldn’t be hiding.

She squeezed into the passenger seat, grateful when the heater blasted warm air around her bare legs. The leather upholstery caressed her skin like satin, but she suppressed her sensual shiver. Tonight wasn’t supposed to be about seduction, and she’d better not forget it. Then Nevsky Prospekt blurred into a neon smear as Victor launched the car into one of his Mach 2 takeoffs.

Geez, she’d forgotten to warn the techie about Victor’s driving. She hoped to hell he’d be able to keep up.

Though she tried to entice the captain into divulging their destination, he wasn’t biting, and she didn’t want to push it. Every time his narrowed gaze zeroed in on the rearview mirror, her mouth went dry. Though she already knew he made a habit of checking for pursuit.

The car shot through the stately Old World city, rocketing over several of the city’s ice-locked canals, while Alexis briefed Victor on what little she knew about the missile the
Lenin
had fired. Technically the data was classified, and she could land in major trouble for leaking it.

But he probably knew more than she did—didn’t seem surprised about it anyway, though he rarely did. And she reckoned he needed as much line as possible to reel in their man.

Besides, after what she’d learned today about the source of her recent promotion, Alexis was going to play the game her way.

Captain Victor Kostenko wasn’t the only player who’d be breaking the rules tonight.

_____________________________________

The navy had bought out the city’s poshest club for their little shindig: a subterranean warren of cozy connected rooms, tricked out in an ultra-luxe Gothic motif. Everywhere she looked, convoys of tall scarlet candles smoldered on iron candelabra lifted straight out of Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
. Flotillas of blood-red cushions were moored on the boxy zebra-striped sofas. While curtains in purple velvet shrouded every door, making each room feel oddly intimate.

The over-the-top setup should have been a fashion disaster, but somehow it all worked.

In every room, an army of cold-faced men in Mafia tuxes mingled with the glitter of top-brass uniforms: FSB, SVR, Ministry of Defense, and special security services her government barely knew existed—they were all out in force tonight, rubbing shoulders with satin-skinned models poured into high-end couture. The sweet perfume of Cuban cigars—contraband in the west, but perfectly legal in Russia—curled in her nose. A champagne cork popped, followed by the fizz of Don Perignon. Beneath the blue-white flash of strobe lights, elegant couples packed the dance floor under a pounding beat.

Alexis slipped through this hard-eyed crowd like a submarine cruising through Cold War seas, with Victor’s guiding hand beneath her elbow. When she snuck a look at his stern face, his ice-blue eyes glittered with danger, every inch the cold-blooded hunter the Russians themselves had trained. His body thrummed with leashed tension as he stalked beside her.

She tried her damnedest not even to
think
about what was in her purse. They’d gone through a metal detector on the way in, but she supposed the security goons were searching for weapons, not a wire.

In the club’s deepest sanctum, past the VIP cordon, they found a trio of gaunt leather-clad rockers, hammering out aggressive ballads on their electric guitars. Scoping the scene in one sweeping glance, Victor steered her to the dance floor, where couples writhed to the heavy beat. Alexis barely had time to park her contraband clutch at a tiny table—though she hated loosening her death grip on the thing—before his fingers laced with hers, and his free hand snugged her into position. Right up against the hard heat of his body.

Oh, this is not good. Or rather, it’s far too good, when it shouldn’t be good at all.
She closed her eyes as his dizzying scent enveloped her.

Vainly she struggled to keep her head clear. “Where’s our boy Ivashov?”

“Not here yet.” His calloused fingers squeezed her cold hand. “You’re practically jumping out of your skin, Alexis. Try to relax.”

Easy for him to say.
She supposed this was a cakewalk for Captain Victor Kostenko, compared to facing down the specter of death by torpedo at a depth of five hundred feet.

“When he shows, what’s the game plan?” she murmured. Hard to think straight with the electric sizzle of his body against hers. All that ruthless strength unleashed when he crouched between her thighs—

“Recall, if you will, that our plan calls for
me
to do the talking.” Deftly he piloted their course between dancing couples. Top marks for his dancing, just like everything else he did. With no awkward questions about which partner led. “Although I know you’d prefer to play a more active role, Ivashov can’t suspect your nationality. Or else he won’t talk.”

“Right.” She jerked a nod.

“Relax,” he repeated, mouth quirking in a smile. “When you speak Russian, your accent is almost undetectable. If you keep the social chatter to a minimum, I can tell him—if he asks—that you’re my girlfriend from Belarus.”

Despite her best effort to maintain her professional detachment, her heart skipped a beat. “Have you a girlfriend from Belarus, captain?”

“What does my dossier tell you?” A tripwire of intensity vibrated in his tone, dragging her eyes up to meet his brooding gaze.

“It’s incomplete, and I’m just curious,” she said lightly. But didn’t think she’d pulled it off.

“You can put this in my file, Alexis,” he murmured, eyes locking on hers like a homing beacon. “Because I wouldn’t want to mislead your colleagues in Washington, and risk having them launch another blonde diplomat like a bloody torpedo at my heart. The only woman whose body I’m sliding into at night is
you
.”

A throb of heat pulsed between her thighs. Damn, but he’d done it to her again. And she wanted like hell to believe him.

He’s lying to you,
her inner cynic whispered.
Like he’s been doing since the day you met.

Yet her sex melted when he eased closer, her hips nestling against his, her cheek coming to rest against his starched shirt.

“Victor,” she whispered, her throat aching. Why couldn’t she have met him any other way? If he’d been anything else—if he’d just been Ukrainian, without the dangerous Russian strain. But then he wouldn’t have been Victor.

And God, he was rock hard for her. She could feel him—right under the imprint of cold steel from the Walther PPK holstered under his jacket.

“
Jesus
.” She stiffened and lost her step.

Despite the hour she’d spent yesterday learning to handle the gun, dread still seeped through her when she touched it. While the possibility of having to fire the infernal thing, without Victor tucked up behind her for backup, made her break into a cold sweat.

“Don’t get excited, Counselor.” His arms tightened around her, nudging her back into the dance. “It’s only a sort of insurance policy. No one’s going to get hurt.”

“We hope.” She clutched his shoulder, worry and fear gnawing at her gut. “How did you get that pistol through the checkpoint?”

“Half the men in this club are armed.” Despite this alarming newsflash, his voice soothed her, made her feel he knew exactly what he was doing. Even though she herself didn’t have a clue. There’d
been
no gun in the scenario they’d run through.

And of course, he’d neatly dodged her question. To smuggle in the gun, he’d probably flashed that get-out-of-jail-free card of his when her back was turned. And how she’d love to get a peek in his wallet. She’d tried at the hotel, but he kept the damn thing under wraps like a state secret.

“I hope you know what the hell you’re doing,” she said tensely. And hoped to hell tonight’s little scenario wasn’t going to turn bloody—or even deadly.

“Easy, Alexis. I’m going to take care of you.” His breath teased her brow, his heartbeat slow and steady. Like he was her only port in the storm, God help her.

“Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” Deftly he turned her, so the glittering throng and the burning candles revolved past her eyes. “How about…journalism?”

“Journalism.” She stared in disbelief as they pivoted past the band, which was still grinding through its sex-laced ballad. “You want me to talk about journalism
now
?”

“Yes.” Now he sounded amused, and she wanted to kill him. “You studied this at Stanford, no? Tell me what you love about it.”

But damn if that didn’t make her stomach flutter, hearing him say the ‘L’ word. Thoroughly distracted, she tried to focus on what he’d asked.

“When I was growing up,” she said hesitantly, “in my father’s ‘East Coast compound,’ there was only one correct position to take on every issue. One right answer to every question. My father was always right, and no one could argue with him. It made him an effective negotiator, I suppose, especially when Washington wanted a hard-line stance. But in negotiations he showed flexibility when it was called for, while at home…let’s just say it wasn’t his strong suit.”

Amazed, she realized his little ploy was actually working. Talking about a fact of life like her father was actually calming her down. And she always felt safe in Victor’s arms, though she knew she wasn’t.