The Russian Seduction (33 page)

“When I took my first journalism class, there was no ‘right answer.’ You were expected to explore all sides of an issue, gather evidence, interview both parties and cite the facts. And you could take any position you were able to defend. Sometimes, you could actually sway others.”

Even now, twelve years later, the thrill fizzed through her blood like high-end champagne. “My readers actually
listened
when I spoke. For me, that meant freedom and purpose, plus recognition for something I’d truly earned. Something I could contribute to the world that was uniquely
me
, and not Wayne Castle’s daughter. The feeling was like a narcotic, and it was heady stuff.”

“One can see the appeal. Have you ever considered returning to this career?” His question was casual, but she felt the tension threading through his body. Somehow, her answer mattered to him, as it never had to Wayne Castle.

“Back to journalism?” She swung her head back to check him out. Though he was looking past her, scanning the floor, his eyes were narrowed. As if even his eyes were listening.

“I’ve thought about it,” she breathed, her heart fluttering with something like trepidation. It certainly couldn’t be hope. “But that would mean starting over, from the ground up. Jumping from the plane without a parachute, and praying it opens when I fall. My ego could handle the crash, I suppose. But I’ve, ah, never found a good reason to make the jump.”

Slowly his eyes shifted to her, his face grave, all his attention focused on her.

“Haven’t you found a reason, Alexis?” he whispered.

Alexis stared up at him, her heart slamming against her chest like a prize fighter with a punching bag.
The answer is no—just say it.

“I don’t know,” she breathed. “What reason would I find, Victor?”

Because as hard as she’d fought it, denied it, dreaded it, ignored it—she had to be honest with herself about the incredible feeling that swelled inside her chest whenever she looked at him. The painful bubble that squeezed her heart when she thought about him a million times a day. The way she couldn’t seem to think about anyone else.

He was everything she’d said he was when she spoke with Alison Chang. He was driven, brilliant, ruthless, enigmatic. He was complicated like she was; he was damaged by his past; he was angry and disillusioned, yet he still found the courage to fight for what he believed in. He shattered with relish every rule he encountered—while she’d broken only one.

The biggest one, the career-ending one. The life-changing, terrifying, crazy one.

Never love your enemy.

Yet she was crazy in love with him.

She was still staring up at him, trying to wrap her brain around what that meant, when Victor’s gaze sliced toward the door. In a heartbeat, the mask of the hunting predator hardened his features.

“He’s here,” Victor said curtly, and steered her from the floor. “Kindly remember to let me do the talking.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Victor linked her hand with his as he threaded through the crowd, and Alexis barely managed to grab her wired handbag from the table as they passed. Sudden inspiration flashed through her as she snared a flute of champagne from a nearby waiter.

She took a generous swallow of the stuff and almost choked on it. Sweet enough to make her teeth ache—not the top-end Dom Perignon she’d expected, but the Cold War-era Soviet champagne most Russians still loved. Yet it put the bite of alcohol on her breath, and that was what mattered.

She recognized Four-Star Admiral Igor Ivashov from his picture in
Red Star
: lean and fit despite his years, with patrician cheekbones and cold steel-gray eyes. Impeccable in his black dress uniform, with four gold bars and a marshal’s star blazing on his cuffs. And she’d bet her bank account the guy was armed.

Victor prowled toward him, unhurried and relaxed, and offered a brisk handshake. Of course, they’d met once or twice during Victor’s submarine days. Beneath the sliding electric throb of the music, she could barely pick up Victor’s Russian as he made small talk and reintroduced himself.

Surreptitiously, she maneuvered her slender clutch closer to the pair. God knew if the technician was picking up anything under the unholy din of heavy metal. But the kid had told her not to worry about background noise, that he could filter it out.

Victor’s fingers tightened around hers in reassurance as he introduced her to the admiral. As his girlfriend from Belarus.

Forcibly Alexis quashed every instinct of her ten-year career to project an authoritative and professional demeanor. Instead of offering a firm handshake, she teetered on her heels and let champagne slop over the rim of her flute. And worked her sexy vintage gown for all it was worth.

But damn if it wasn’t working. Ivashov’s chilly eyes slid over her and flicked away, dismissive. Under any other circumstances, Alexis would have been annoyed as hell. Now she congratulated herself for acting skills she hadn’t known she possessed.

Victor wrapped a possessive arm around her waist. And despite a severe attack of jitters, the deep throb of sexual pleasure rolled through her. The way she was mainlining nerves and adrenaline tonight, she could barely keep her hot little paws off him.

“Such a pleasure to see you here,” Victor was saying warmly, gripping her waist to steady her. “My father spoke highly of you. Comrade Admiral, would it be too much to request a private moment?”

Clearly Ivashov didn’t know Victor very well if he thought this chatty, laid-back version of Renegade Sub Captain 8.0 was normal for him. But the admiral only shot him a sharp, considered look before he inclined his aristocratic head.

“Very well, captain. Where shall we speak?”

Alexis fended off a fresh attack of nerves and focused on maintaining her tipsy girlfriend façade as Victor led them to the curtained alcove he’d paid for near the VIP cordon. They’d already cased the spot, and chosen it for the emergency exit that sprouted from the alcove. Now another discreet payoff, palmed to a security guard sporting Hugo Boss, ensured their
tete-a-tete
wouldn’t be interrupted.

The private recess was tricked out in vampire chic, featuring a claw-footed chaise and wingchairs upholstered in blood-colored velvet. A flickering branch of candles cast the only dim light, except for the epileptic flicker of strobes behind the drawn curtain.

Clearly Ivashov felt a bit edgy, since he declined a seat. Instead he stood erect near the curtain, hands clasped loosely behind his back, and slanted Victor a cool smile.

“What can I do for you and the MFA tonight, Captain Kostenko?”

“In fact, I’ve something of a personal matter to broach—nothing of interest to the MFA.” Despite Victor’s casual tone, Alexis felt the electric charge humming through him. Ivashov was poised near the exit. One wrong word, and the guy could summon help or escape entirely.

“Indeed?” Ivashov arched his brows. “In that case, the matter must be of little interest to your friend here. From where did you say you hail, my dear?”

Shit.

“From Minsk.” Naming the capital of Belarus, Alexis swigged another hefty swallow of champagne. So much for their futile hope that Ivashov wouldn’t notice her.

Time for Plan B—except that she and Victor didn’t have time to discuss one. This whole setup was starting to feel like a really bad idea. But it was way too late to back out now.

Plastering on a loopy grin, she parked her empty glass on the table and wiggled around behind Victor, positioning his broad-shouldered frame between her and the watchful admiral. The captain played along, but she felt his tension level ratchet up another notch when she wrapped her arms around him from behind.

Had to be careful, of course, not to dislodge his tux jacket and reveal the damn gun. Or to drop her clutch with its contraband cargo, now precariously swinging from her shoulder on its tiny strap.

“She doesn’t mind waiting.” Victor shrugged. “Obviously she’s had a bit much to drink, so I’d rather not abandon her. But this really won’t take very long. I’ve heard several rather preposterous theories, Comrade Admiral, and I want to clarify my thinking. I’d value hearing your thoughts regarding my father’s accident.”

A chasm of silence yawned between them. Under his tux, she could feel Victor starting to sweat. Had to be the only professional occasion where she’d seen his cool threaten to slip. But for him, this business was personal.

“I see,” Ivashov said, inscrutable. “Are you quite certain the young lady—?”

This was her cue. Moistening her lips, Alexis pressed her cheek against Victor’s muscled back and snaked a hand down his thigh in full view of the admiral. Pretty impressive that even under these distracting circumstances, she could still make the captain harden.

Victor coughed. If she didn’t know better, she might actually believe she’d managed to disconcert the adventure junkie.

“She’s more tipsy than I thought,” he murmured, his hand closing hard over hers. Holding her trapped against his rock-hard thigh, which she didn’t mind a bit. “I assure you, in the morning she won’t remember a word of our discussion.”

“Which information do you expect me to elaborate? I’m certain you read the lengthy article on the accident in
Red Star
.”

“Of course.” Victor nodded. “Several puzzling questions have not been resolved. For instance, it’s been suggested there are lingering questions about who was in command aboard the
Lenin
during its last fateful minutes—my father, or his brand-new
starpom
Mikhail Mishkin.”

Alexis couldn’t see Ivashov from where she stood, but she didn’t miss the pregnant beat of silence that thrummed through the air. Of course, Mishkin had been Ivashov’s protégé. And it was due purely to Ivashov’s intervention that Mishkin had been on board in the first place, a last-minute fill-in for the predecessor who slipped conveniently under a train.

“I appreciate,” Ivashov said tightly, “your natural desire to achieve closure after this unfortunate event and to grant your father the benefit of every doubt. However, all such questions were laid to rest when the investigation concluded.”

“Forgive me,” Victor murmured, “but I wasn’t admitted to the hearing. Those conclusions were…?”

“Quite simply,” Ivashov clipped out, “that Captain Taras Kostenko requested permission to surface his ship for an unspecified technical problem at the climax of a critical naval exercise. That permission was rightly denied by Fleet Command. Following this exchange, it was concluded that sometime during the
Lenin’
s last thirty minutes of useful life, the captain issued an unknown order that alarmed both crew and officers. It was concluded that
starpom
Mishkin acted appropriately when he—apparently—relieved Taras Kostenko of his command.

“Moreoever,” the admiral continued briskly, “it was concluded that, during the boat’s final ten minutes, an altercation occurred among the crew that resulted in violence. That violence led directly to the unfortunate loss of this ballistic missile submarine and her one-hundred-and-fifteen man crew.”

Hoping like hell the technician was successfully recording the exchange, Alexis heard the scrape of a lighter. The bitter aroma of Russian tobacco—harsher than Victor’s—seeped through the air as Ivashov lit up.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing more to tell you, captain. Although I’m certain it’s a difficult outcome for a dutiful son to accept, Captain Kostenko’s divided loyalties led him to commit a deliberate act of treason against the Motherland. Sadly, the consequences were lethal for himself and his crew.”

Alexis had to admire Ivashov for his sphinx-like composure while he shoveled out the bullshit. She supposed that, like any Russian bureaucrat, the guy had plenty of practice doing it. Because the scenario he’d just outlined was a pretty big leap, and ignored completely several key facts she and Victor had unearthed.

She could feel the painful tension that gripped Victor as he absorbed these devastating conclusions. Beneath his restraining hand, her palm was still pressed against his thigh. Subtly, she squeezed, trying to convey sympathy for the private hell he must be going through.