The Russian Seduction (29 page)

Again, with difficulty, she held her tongue and kept her composure. No way Grachev would keep talking if he glimpsed her burning interest. Her nationality alone would be enough to stop him. The more so after she’d managed to give the impression, without actually saying so, that she hailed from neutral (and harmless) Switzerland. If Victor hadn’t vouched for her, said that he trusted her…damn it, she was
not
going to tear up again.

“And so,” Grachev rumbled, from the depths of his vodka, “the
Lenin
sent a few garbled transmissions to the nearest ship before she sank. Based on these transmissions, the investigators concluded that Taras was trying to make off with the boat. It was speculated that he planned to intervene in the Ukrainian elections, and somehow to turn public sentiment against Russia.”

Scowling, Victor ground out his cigarette. “So, on these flimsy grounds—on the basis of bloody circumstance—these wise minds concluded that my father’s crew tried to mutiny. They also relied on this desperate hypothesis to explain the gunshots that were recorded just before the boat sank.”

A white-jacketed waiter chose this untimely moment to interrupt with a smiling offer to bring them another bottle of vodka. Victor dismissed him with a curt gesture.

“The
Lenin
sank in less than an hour, I’ve heard,” he said tersely. “If those valves failed catastrophically, the boat could have gone down that quickly. And given the depths she sank at, no salvage operation would be feasible.”

“So there she lies…the ballistic missile submarine that was once the pride of the Red Fleet.” Grachev smiled sadly. “And my dear comrade lies with her. More than two kilometers deep, crushed like an empty soda can on the ocean floor.”

“Too deep for divers,” Victor muttered around his cigarette. “And heavily contaminated by radiation from the destroyed reactor.”

“Yes, that’s been confirmed, when they sent the ROV to assess it.”

Desperately Alexis memorized the unfamiliar acronym, but Victor shot her a keen look and said briefly, “It’s a remote-operated vehicle. Standard procedure in deep waters, when it isn’t clear how a ship sank. Pavel Germanovich, were you able to see the resulting photos?”

“I never asked.” Pensive, Grachev studied his glass. “The nearest cruiser—the
Moskva,
if memory serves—sent Moscow a recording of your father’s last transmissions. I managed to obtain a copy. But by then, you’d already left the navy, and I couldn’t reach you.”

That would’ve been when the SVR got its claws in him, Alexis thought grimly. Apparently he’d spent time in some covert training camp before they shipped him off to spy on her country.

Finally showing signs of his heavy alcohol intake, Grachev mumbled the remainder into his chest. “And so I decided that I didn’t need to know what went wrong in the Black Sea during those ill-fated exercises. Taras was already dead, after all, and you seemed to have moved on. I didn’t want to stir things up.”

A typical Russian reaction, Alexis noted wryly. A holdover from the Soviet era, when any bureaucrat who stuck up his head risked having it lopped off.

“Do you still have the recording?” Victor leaned forward.

“Locked in my safe at the academy.”

“And the ROV photos?”

“I never asked to see them, for the reasons I explained.” Morosely the old man eyed his empty glass, and Alexis helpfully topped it off. “But I do still possess some modest influence in Moscow. If you wish, I can call a friend in the morning and discover if he’s willing to transmit this data.”

“Pavel Germanovich,” Victor said grimly, “however it started, you know this is no mere historical exercise. It isn’t a research project assigned to me by the ministry. Then as now, Ukraine is staring elections in the face—only this time the stakes are higher. If the current president loses the race, and his socialist opponent takes charge, it could well be the first step toward reunification of the old Soviet empire. Moscow will not wish any internal force to disrupt this process.”

To hell with fizzy champagne.
Alexis reached for her own Seven Samurai and tossed it back, feeling the high-octane burn as the vodka seared her esophagus. If the circumstances had allowed it, she would probably have gotten hammered, just to relieve the tension. She didn’t need Victor to tell her how high the stakes had gotten, for her government and his. Unfortunately, their respective capitals wanted opposing outcomes.

Looking troubled, the admiral furrowed his brow. “I too have suffered these doubts. If some hypothetical person tried two years ago to intervene in our neighbor’s political process, using the
Lenin
as a bargaining chip, that effort notably failed. The pro-Western forces retained their parliamentary majority, and our fleet lost another submarine. Certainly, one would not risk making the same mistake twice—”

Abruptly Grachev broke off, and the light bulb of a new connection fired behind his eyes.

“Victor Tarasovich, there is one thing,” he said slowly, sliding a glance left and right, “though you understand this information is restricted, and I cannot divulge the source. In recent weeks, our observers have reported a sharply increased U.S. naval presence in the Black Sea. So far, the Americans appear to have remained strictly within international waters, so we’ve had little justification to protest.

“However, we’ve also observed an increased traffic by certain ‘commercial vessels’sailing under various flags, lingering without purpose in the direct vicinity of the accident. Since commercial vessels as a rule do
not
linger, but steam about their business as efficiently as possible, one might conjecture…”

The admiral hesitated, and Victor finished the thought.

“One might conjecture that the American navy has used its own methods to discover the final resting place of the
V.I. Lenin
. They may be hoping to raise her. Or, more likely, to salvage at least one of her nuclear-tipped missiles or other sensitive systems. Such precise knowledge of our nuclear deterrent could tip the strategic balance well away from the Motherland.”

“If this is true,” Grachev murmured, “Moscow will do almost anything to prevent it—even at the risk of triggering a war with our old adversary.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

After their five-star dinner, Victor left with the admiral to pay a late-night visit to the naval academy. There, the two would listen to the last transmissions broadcast by his father’s sub before it went down for the last time.

Tough job for anyone, Alexis figured, but she should be relieved to have the suite—and the bed—to herself. No way she could have managed to conceal how upset she still was, not when Victor was already suspicious. Before he left with Grachev, he’d shot her a searching look that made her heart miss a beat.

As if he actually cared.

She’d made a diligent effort to find another room, but in the peak season that proved to be impossible. And she’d already told the Consular General she’d be sleeping here tonight. So it would seem pretty strange if suddenly—an emotional wreck—she rang her colleague, frantic for a place to crash.

In the end, she tossed and turned for hours in the king-sized bed with its thousand thread-count sheets. Finally she managed to drop off.

Now she was dreaming, and it was oh so good.

Of course she dreamed of Victor, tucked up against her back, those powerful sun-bronzed arms wrapped around her, his breath raising goosebumps on the back of her neck. Dreamed those rough-skinned palms were cupping her breasts, teasing her nipples until they tingled and her toes curled with pleasure.

She dreamed of his hand easing down her belly, and leaned into his questing touch. Dreamed his growl of satisfaction in her ear when he found her already wet for him.

This had to be the best, most intense wet dream she’d ever had. Though of course, she’d figured out by now that it wasn’t a dream.

Alexis pried open her eyes to find the bedroom still dark, and the illuminated clock flashing 4:15 a.m. Beside the clock, a cream-colored candle flickered, unfurling a tendril of patchouli-scented smoke. And mingling just beautifully with the woody spice of Beckham.

Victor was stretched behind her, half covering her, like a predator claiming its kill. His lips grazed her neck, sending tingles down her spine. His clever fingers explored her slick secrets, but somehow avoided the spot she most needed him to touch.

He’d lied to her, set her up and compromised her. She couldn’t do this anymore.

“Stop,” she whispered, though her body was on fire for him.

“Not likely.” His breath in her ear made her shiver. “I’ve been imagining doing this to you all night. While you sipped your champagne in your sexy dress and ignored me at dinner. Tell me, do you like this?”

“No.” She forced out the lie. But he only deepened the foreplay, one finger easing inside her. A moan slipped out as she clenched around him, feeling her resolve spin away like leaves in an autumn wind.

“How about this?” His voice deepened as he worked in a second finger, his breath quickening in her ear.

God, she loved that she turned him on. Couldn’t help it, even while she hated what he’d done. He played symphonies on her body like one of the maestros he loved, even when she wanted to kill him. Though she knew this had to be the last time. She was walking away from him in the morning and she’d never look back.

A whimper of surrender spilled out as she rolled on her back, arms stretching overhead as she arched into his touch. She snuck a look at the way the candlelight caressed his naked body, every muscle defined under that burnished skin—fully aroused and focused on her. His eyes intense as lasers under his tousled, sun-streaked hair.

He’d sported the same expression in their photo close-up. Now she knew it meant nothing to him, just sex. She closed her eyes against the sting of tears.

But she let him ease her out of the silky slip she’d been wearing. His hands closed over hers, drew her arms overhead, curled her fingers around the wrought-iron headboard.

“Don’t let go,” he murmured.

Her eyes flashed open, caught him with a look of brooding tenderness as he crouched over her. Maybe he read something in her eyes, because the furrow between his brows deepened.

“On second thought.” He coiled the slip into a rope of fabric, and wound it around her wrists. “I think I’m going to tie you.”

As usual, he didn’t ask, though she knew he’d stop if she resisted. But the predatory gleam in his electric-blue eyes, the sensual slide of silk around her wrists—the foreplay gripped her with a pang of desire so powerful she couldn’t even breathe, much less speak.

Obviously he felt the shiver work through her, since his mouth quirked up as he knotted the silk. “I’ll take that for a ‘yes’, shall I?”

Then he showed her the truth about her body and its needs, secrets about what turned her on that she’d always kept so carefully hidden, even from herself. Showed her how yielding to him so completely gave her power over both of them. No matter what he was hiding, her body trusted his, even if her brain couldn’t.

Somehow, the kinky set-up liberated her from the constant need to show a diplomat’s restraint—the need to guard herself, her heart, and its deepest secrets. Freed by the very ties that bound her, she writhed under his teasing fingers…sobbed when his tongue played against her pulsing clit…begged in both languages for his cock inside her. When he finally gave in, his cries were as hoarse as hers, his breathing as ragged, his body as driven when he thrust against her. He needed them to be together as much as she did for that brief moment, when he released hard and deep inside her.

Afterward he tugged her bonds loose and tumbled her against his chest, kissed the tears that had spilled when she climaxed. Murmured in her hair words of endearment she could almost believe he meant.

“Next time,” he rumbled, pressing her face against his neck, “I’m going to blindfold you as well. I promise you’re going to like it.”

Next time.
She shivered at the sensual promise in his tone, even while she knew she couldn’t let it happen. Tonight had been their swan song—the end of their disastrous little liaison.

She gathered her resolve. “Why did you decide to tie me?”