I have other plans for her, though.
She’s descending from the top of the wide, runner-covered stairway, three stories up, so I have plenty of time to drink her in while formulating my approach. After dropping off my champagne glass on an empty table, I weave through the crowd with my sights set on her, watching her every move to coordinate my own to match. She reaches the bottom of the steps just as I reach the edge of the crowd and enjoy an unobstructed view of her.
She starts by assessing every individual to find the perfect mark—who’s here, who’s vulnerable, who’s alone. She takes a step into the crowd but quickly realizes her task won’t be quite as easy as she thought. Most people don’t show up to these elaborate fundraising events alone, and for a good reason. They’re here to rub elbows and tap shoulders to get their own politicians more funding. Every connection in this circuit only helps the cause in the end—the more lips flapping and hands extending for handouts, the better.
When she identifies her target, her facial expression changes, and she morphs into character. She’s on the prowl now, stalking her prey as she moves past the elaborately decorated round tables and the throngs of people laughing and chatting each other up. Following her line of sight, I realize which victim she’s chosen for tonight’s performance, and I instantly recognize him.
She’s in way over her head, but she doesn’t have a clue.
Moving quickly and silently through the crowd, I slip around all the obstacles in my path until I’m directly in front of her. The tables line the walls, leaving enough room in the middle for a decently sized dance floor. Several couples are taking advantage of the slow, sultry jazz sounds carrying over the air. When she raises her arm to touch the man’s shoulder, I grab her hand just before her fingers have a chance to graze his jacket.
With my other arm wrapped around her waist, I walk her backward a few steps, surprised expression and all, until we reach the dance floor. We begin swaying to the music, our feet moving naturally to the beat, our bodies in sync without conscious effort. As if we’ve danced together our entire lives. Her intoxicating perfume fills my nostrils, making me want to bury my face in her neck and inhale every bit of her essence. She keeps her dark eyes glued to mine. The shock is still registered in them, but it’s now mixed with a little excitement and a little leeriness.
I’m curious to see which emotion wins in the end.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the dance, but I have to ask. Do I know you?”
She doesn’t know me—that’s not her real question. That’s merely a polite way of saying, “Who the fuck are you?”
“We’ve never met.” That’s not a lie. “But you were about to make a huge mistake, and I felt a strong need to save you from yourself.”
“I was about to make a huge mistake? What do you mean?” Waves of suspicion churn in her eyes.
“The man you were about to flirt with? I know him, and he’s not someone you want to double-cross. He’s not an unsuspecting senator’s aide who’s too scared to report he was outwitted by a young lady he snuck into his boss’s office. The man behind us has the means and the determination to hunt you down and kill you for much less.”
Her confusion clears, giving way to clarity. The angry red tingle creeps up her skin, starting at her neck and disappearing into her hairline. I tighten my arm around her waist, holding her against me before she decides to scale my body like a beautiful little spider monkey and choke me out with her bare hands.
“You. Son. Of. A. Bitch!” She hisses the insult at me in an irate whisper, enunciating each word with marked aversion. If we were alone, this would be a very different scene. She’s a bit of a wildcat when provoked. This may be an inappropriate time to tell her how fucking sexy she is when she’s mad. “You’re the one who broke into my house!”
“To be fair, you broke into my government first. Now, there are a lot of things I can sweep under the rug and pretend I didn’t see, but that’s not one of them. On top to that, you’re a Russian spy, and our countries historically haven’t been the best of friends. The only reason you’re not in custody right now is because of your father. Try that shit again, though, and you’re headed for Guantanamo Bay, where they’ll hold you for interrogation for as long as they want. I’m not that tight with your dad.”
“That’s a ridiculous accusation. I’m not a spy. But it’s very convenient for you to claim to know my father when I have no way to verify it. Especially since I don’t even know your name. Maybe you’re the Russian spy, trying to work me and turn me against my country. Maybe I should call for security right now.”
“Now, Kira, don’t try to bluff me. Dmitri is a friend, and he’s beside himself with worry about you. I gave him my word I’d help you as much as possible, but I won’t help you steal top-secret information from my country and hand it over to yours. I’ve done enough favors for you over the last eighteen months, tracking you down and keeping you out of prison, or worse—out of the real bad guys’ hands. And my name is Silas.”
She glances nervously around the room, her eyes jumping from one spot to another. I chuckle, mostly to myself, but I can’t hide my amusement.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re looking for an escape route. Do you really think I would’ve revealed my upper hand if it was my real ace in the hole?”
“There’s nothing you could possibly have on me, Silas. You have nothing to hold over my head to threaten me with. My laptop is completely clean. Thanks to you.”
“You may be surprised by the things I know. May surprise you even more when you realize you didn’t even have a clue about the truth of the matter. But I do have a few questions—a few holes in the story you can help fill in. So why don’t we call a truce—broker our own peace treaty right now—and help each other out?”
The music continues, we keep swaying, and the wheels keep turning in her mind. She has been trained to work assets, turn them to support her country, or give her the information she wants in exchange for something else. She hasn’t been in this situation before—where she’s the one being worked and giving up the information to the enemy. No time like the present to learn on the job.
“What do you know that I don’t? You have to give me something to go on other than you know my dad’s name.”
“I know more than your dad’s name. Your mom, Nat, knows me too. She even cooked for me the last time I visited their house—the one Dmitri sweeps for bug himself so they can have private conversations. He also keeps a picture of you and Mira on his desk in his office at the Kremlin. It’s the only personal item he has there—the only one he’s ever been proud enough of to show others. I’m guessing he assumed his KGB days would keep his family safe, though he should’ve known his own government better than that. Communists aren’t known for their friendships or loyalty to anyone.”
“Haven’t you kept up with current political affairs? Russia hasn’t been a communist country for a very long time.”
“Ah, yes, of course. United Russia. Because the last election wasn’t rigged at all, right? Come on, Kira. I’ve given you enough information to prove I know you and your family. I also know that you secretly like me, even though you don’t want to admit it.”
Now she laughs, a genuine one that reaches her eyes and lights up her face. “And why would you say that, Silas?”
“Because you’re still dancing with me, without even noticing the music stopped a couple of minutes ago.”
Chapter 3
Kira
Tall, dark, and handsome. Fit, muscular, and stealthy. Not prone to following the rules, making plans up as he goes, and approaching life-and-death decisions as a game to be won.
Definitely CIA.
FBI agents follow the rules to the letter, never veering off the beaten path. They’re much more serious and don’t negotiate with outsiders. Silas is an officer who can change to fit his environment. The chameleon who can never be caught. He was invisible last night, leaving no trace of being in my hou
se, other than his deliberate acts of stealing my flash drive and wiping my computer clean. Now tonight, he’s dressed in an Armani tuxedo, tailored to fit his massive frame in an all-too-appealing fashion. His easygoing disposition is no doubt meant to subdue and disorient his victims, never seeing the runaway train that hit them until he’s long out of sight.
He’s not wrong about one thing, though. Once he started talking and I got lost in his deep blue eyes, everyone else in the room faded to black. His air of authority is innate. It’s in the way he moves, the way he speaks, and the way he commands respect with no effort at all. His dazzling features disarm me with barely any struggle. His thick arms enveloped me in a comforting cocoon, and his alluring cologne pulled me even further under his spell.
We were still dancing, our bodies aligned and swaying in time to our own song, and I didn’t even realize the band had stopped playing. He infuriated me and scared me and concerned me, but he also made me feel protected. I’ve never felt simultaneously so powerless and powerful in my life, and that is the very sensation that finally brings me back to my senses. The flashing red “warning” sign in my mind reminds me that spies can’t be trusted no matter how enticing their promises are. They’re trained to lie, steal, cheat, and kill to get what they need.
I should know.
What he needs from me is yet to be seen, but admitting my subterfuge right off the bat isn’t fucking happening, no matter how charming and dashing he is.
“I’m still dancing with you because I’m still entertaining this ridiculous theory you’re working on that I’m a Russian spy. Do you even hear the slightest bit of a Russian accent in my voice?”
“No, I don’t. You’re very good at what you do. And your English is perfect. That’s all part of your training. You’d be surprised how well I can speak Russian.”
He leans down, and his lips brush the shell of my ear. The deep and sensual timbre of his murmur makes goosebumps fan out across my bare skin.
“You look beautiful tonight.” He speaks in perfect Russian, giving away no hint of an American accent.
“That sounded very seductive in your gravelly whisper. If I spoke or understood Russian, I may have liked what you said, but we’ll never know.”
He laughs and rolls his eyes, clearly knowing I’m lying through my teeth. “Tell you what I’ll do. If this doesn’t prove it to you, nothing will.”
We walk to the edge of the dance floor, and he pulls out a chair at one of the empty tables for me to sit. He releases my hand, slides into the chair beside me, and reaches into his pants pocket, retrieving his cell phone. After a few clicks, he presses the phone to his ear and begins speaking in Russian. “There’s someone here you need to convince to let me help her. She’s being very stubborn, seems to be a strong family trait.”
Then he hands the phone to me.
“Hello?”
“Kira?” My mom’s voice fills the line, relief and fear fighting for first place in her tone. “Is it really you? Please listen to Silas. He’s our friend—he’s only trying to help you.”
I push the phone back into his hand as fast as I can, as if it’s a ticking bomb about to explode. Everything about this situation runs counter to my training, to what’s expected of me, to what’s keeping me alive. Speaking to my family back in Russia is expressly forbidden. The traced phone calls would absolutely blow my cover and put my entire family in grave danger.
“Hey Nat, she’s a little shy to talk right now. Probably afraid my phone calls can be tracked. I think hearing your voice did the trick, though. We’ll talk again soon.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.” I glare at him, ready to kill him with my bare hands and take my chances in this crowded room.
“Relax, Kira. My phone is secure, untraceable, and undetectable. No one except you and I know about that call. I had to show you I’m not bullshitting so you’d believe me. I’ll help you get on a plane back to Moscow, but then my part in any of this is over. If you step foot on American soil again, you’ll be detained immediately and indefinitely.”
“Why would you help me like this at all? What do you owe my father?”
“Nothing. This isn’t for him, exactly. He benefits from my interference, but I’m mainly looking out for a friend.”
“I don’t understand. How do I know your friend?”
“You don’t. But your sister Mira does.”
“Mira?” I’m so confused. Silas acts as if I should understand his explanations and reasoning without questioning him, but none of this makes sense to me in the least.
“She’s a good person, and I don’t want to see her end up in a supermax federal prison, or worse, because you refuse to comply with the laws of this country. Years of living in a soundproof isolation cell would be worse than death for her. I’m only trying to spare her from trouble with immigration, interrogation, and prison time for as long as I can.” His charming smile and easygoing personality instantly change, revealing the lethally serious man underneath.
“But…” I pause, trying to connect my thoughts and words coherently. “Mira’s already in prison. Are you saying you can get into the prison where she’s being held?”
He tilts his head to the side and the corners of his eyes contract. Then he lifts his eyebrows and immediately lowers them again, putting his own pieces of the puzzle together. “Someone told you Mira’s in prison, huh? My guess is they’re using that cover story to make sure you keep toeing the line.”
I sit up straighter, instantly more interested in what Silas has to say. “Don’t play games with me, Silas. Do you know her? Is she okay?”
“She’s perfectly fine. She’s safe, she’s happy, and she’s living with a very loving family.”
His answers are intentionally vague regarding where she is, I understand that. He’s doing his job, getting ready to put me on a plane back to Russia for stealing top-secret and other classified documents from a secure server in a controlled-access government building. But she’s my twin—and I’ve felt like half of me has been missing without being able to talk to her. All this time, I’ve believed my handlers—and they lied to my face every fucking day about my sister. What else have they lied about? What else do I not know?
My throat starts to clog, burning with tears that I force back down and refuse to let fall from my eyes. So many emotions run through me at once—but the most prevalent feeling of them all is regret. Because if Silas has his way, I’ll never see Mira again.
“Can we go somewhere a little quieter and more private so we can talk? I’d like to hear more about Mira.”
“We can talk on the way to the airstrip. There’s a private jet waiting to take you to Moscow tonight.”
He stands and extends his hand to help me up. I robotically accept his offer while trying to formulate how I’ll ditch him once we step outside the building. If I get into the car with him, my life as I know it will be finished. There’s no way I’m going back to Moscow. Not ever. Not even to see my parents, as much as I miss them. He has a job to do—I respect that. But his succeeding at his job would mean certain death for me. Had he been captured in Russia under the same circumstances, no one would give him the second chance I’m hell-bent on taking for myself.
We move through the crowded room, and I try to keep my expression neutral. All I can think is I’m being marched out to face the firing squad. My every step is harder and harder to take until my feet feel as if they’re weighted down by concrete shoes.
A large crowd of interns—judging by how young they appear to be—with huge smiles on their faces and nearly empty glasses in their hands, weaves between the tight spaces around the tables and chairs, heading for the dance floor. At least some people are having fun at this party. A few of the girls start dancing well before they’ve moved out of our way, obviously a little tipsy and ready to have a good time. One of them grabs my arms and urges me to dance with her.
The unwitting stranger pulls my hand loose from Silas’s grip.
Then I
realize I’m free—and I allow her to pull me farther away from him while her friends fill in the space between Silas and me. He starts to push his way through the crowd, walking toward me, but the young studs in hot pursuit of the pretty girls prevent him from getting closer. The easygoing man I first met is long gone, replaced by the serious officer underneath. His facial features turn to stone. His eyes are as sharp as an eagle’s and as cold as a marble slab—and he’s determined to have me in custody.
But this is my chance, the only one I will have in the foreseeable future since my cover is blown and my real identity is out. While the horde of young revelers enjoys the upbeat music coming from the band—jumping, dancing, and forming a human wall separating me from Silas—I make a run for the exit door at the back of the room. If the alarm sounds when I run through the door, so be it. Maybe it’ll create more of a diversion and give me extra time to get away.
When I push the door, I’m relieved to find it’s unlocked. No extra bells and whistles are going off, so I can only assume it’s because the enormous space is packed with people for tonight’s fundraising event. Whatever the reason isn’t important now that I’m in the clear, so to speak. I can still almost feel his hot breath breathing down my neck. In my rush, I left my coat in the cloakroom, and the thin material of my evening gown doesn’t offer much protection from the winter winds whipping between the buildings. Running in heels isn’t exactly graceful, but the line of taxis dropping off passengers along the sidewalk provides a modicum of cover, making it seem as if I’m only hurrying to reach an open cab before it’s gone again.
When I slide into the back seat and slam the door closed behind me, I give the driver my address. “There’s an extra $50 tip if you get me there in less than ten minutes.”
“You got it, lady.”
He guns the engine, and the tires squeal as he pulls away from the curb. I turn to look out the back window and realize how narrowly I escaped Silas’s grasp. He was reaching for the door and just barely missed the handle when we sped away. He lowers his chin and narrows his eyes, watching intently with the expression of an assassin who just accepted a direct challenge. That’s not what gives me chills, though. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the sidewalk despite the distance the cabbie has already put between us.
BLURRED LINE Page 3