by Misty Evans
She blinked once, twice, trying to focus, and half smiled up at him. Not saying a word, she slipped her fingers into the deep V-neck of her dress that showed off her cleavage to perfection.
Immediately, Josh stepped to Ryan’s side, gun drawn, as if he expected her to pull a weapon. What she slowly inched out of her bra was a weapon of sorts, but not one Ryan ever expected to see.
The shiny metal object swayed under his nose as she showed it to him. “Proof,” she mumbled, pressing it to his chest.
Even through his heavy knit sweater, the touch of the thing made his skin crawl. He frowned down into her eyes, searching their now cloudy depths. “Where the hell did you get that?”
In answer, her eyes, so pale blue they were ice-like, fluttered closed once more, and her body went completely limp, the key sliding back into her palm.
His shit meter went sonic.
Josh cleared his throat. “Jesus, is that what I think it is?”
Ryan nodded and took a deep breath, staring at the oversized key. It wasn’t just any key. In the slim hand of the beauty in his arms lay a titanium launch key to an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile. A weapon of mass destruction.
With no time to hide her in the bunker, his choices came down to two: risk an international incident over a woman he didn’t know, or open the door and hand her over to the cops now exiting their vehicle with guns drawn. One of the men crouched behind his car door, aiming a gun at the cabin, while the driver walked toward it.
Conrad, I am so going to kill you.
Ryan caught Josh’s eye, nodded once, and headed for the back bedroom, Miss Legs secured tightly in his arms.
Chapter Two
Anya Romanov Radzoya had been raised on Russian fairy tales. Vasalisa the Beautiful had been her grandmother’s favorite story, but Anya preferred stories about her ancestors, real Russian princes and princesses. They didn’t have happy endings, but the men and women in her family had lived fully and loved every minute of the drama, beauty, and strife.
When she woke, naked, in a strange bed with the handsome American spy sitting beside her, she dared believe she’d fallen into one of her family’s tales of daring and intrigue. Staring at the man who watched her intently, a tingle of anticipation ran up her spine.
Had she done it? Had she escaped Ivanov and found the man who would save her grandmother from certain death?
The key. Anya’s anticipation turned to panic as her memory came flooding back. Her gaze searched the room. Where is the key?
She tried to prop herself up and felt a sharp burning in her side. The damn cut from Ivanov’s antique dirk. “The Golden Weapon,” he called it. The slice of the dirk, a warning. If she didn’t do what he wanted, there would be consequences. Consequences to her and her grandmother.
Anya slipped back down into the sheets, a cold sweat breaking over her skin.
As if he guessed what she was looking for, the man leaned forward and opened his hand. Large and calloused in a few places, it was a strong hand, and if she remembered correctly, a warm hand.
Nestled inside that hand was her prize. Her proof of President Ivanov’s treachery, and the required show of faith to the CIA.
She reached out to take it, but the man pulled it away, balling his hand into a fist.
He scanned her face, assessing what he saw with guarded interest. “That cut is infected, and you lost a good amount of blood. That’s why you passed out. I patched you up and smeared some antibiotic cream on it. Keep the wound dry and covered, and you should be fine in a couple of days.” In the dimly lit room, his eyes were as dark as her favorite Baltika beer, and his voice just as smooth. “I can’t wait to hear how you got that.”
Under the cotton blanket, she ran a hand across a thick bandage on her left side. Outside of her grandmother, no one knew about her blood-clotting disorder. In her haste to get to Moscow, she’d forgotten her blood reconstitution kit, and she’d chastised herself repeatedly since Ivanov wounded her.
Forget the wound. She was naked. Had the American spy taken off her dress to stitch her up?
Her cheeks heated. Of course he did. He barreled out the door to save me, caught me when I fainted, and he’s sitting by the bed, waiting for me to wake up.
He’s the man with my key.
Anya was passionate about a lot of things. Her work on the Human Genome Project, and her other genetic mapping projects at GenLife Laboratories in Arlington. Her grandmother—the last of Anya’s family—and the secrets Grams had insisted the two of them keep. Hiding from the past, which had now caught up with her.
At twenty-six, though, those things—the very cornerstones of her life—had kept her from learning much about men. Their glances and open appraisals were a sign they found her attractive, but she’d worked diligently at her job, hung out with her grandmother, and worried about her secrets every time she received a hang-up call, or a strange vehicle followed her for more than a few blocks.
Besides the fact she was a mess of paranoia and lived with constant dread as her best friend, she didn’t have time to play mating games. No friends. No boyfriends. It wasn’t just her defective blood screwing up her life. Her family’s dark past, with all its secrets, murders, and betrayals, kept her from sharing even the basics about her life with anyone.
This American spy, however, seemed like a decent guy on the surface. He’d helped her so far, after all. He didn’t trust her, that was obvious, but could she blame him? He was a spy and she was a stranger.
He wanted to know who she was, why she was here…he wanted to know her secrets. Past and present.
So not going there. Not yet.
Doveryai, no proveryai, Grams would caution. Trust, but verify. Except Grams, being the paranoid woman she was, always changed it to Don’t trust until verified. Subtle but important difference.
Anya’s voice croaked when she opened her mouth to speak, her throat so dry she could spit wool. Embarrassed, she licked her parched lips and swallowed.
The movement wasn’t lost on him and his gaze dropped momentarily to her lips. Her cheeks heated more. Nerves, she told herself. It was only nerves.
How she got hurt—hell, why she was in Russia in the first place—was a complicated story and not one she intended to share with just anyone. Maybe someday, she’d tell it to her granddaughter as a fairy tale, but until then…
She shivered under the blanket. “The police, what happened to them? Why didn’t they arrest me?”
The man studied her face for a moment as he chewed on the fact she hadn’t answered his question. “I sent them after your car. They found it in the woods a kilometer from here and believe you walked off and left it to avoid capture. The sun has set and they couldn’t find footprints even if they tried in that dark forest. Why were they chasing you?”
“I was speeding.”
One of his brows rose. He didn’t buy it, although it was a plausible answer. The damn police had nothing better to do on M9 than harass speeders. Luckily, they hadn’t caught her and figured out who she was.
He jiggled the hand holding her key. “Where did you get this?”
Like her great-grandmother on the Radzoya side who’d survived Hitler’s invasion of Leningrad during the Second World War, Anya prided herself on being careful and shrewd. The spy who’d promised his help would be the only man she would discuss any of this with. “Are you Solomon?”
Nothing changed in the man’s face and yet she sensed him tensing. “Solomon who?”
Anya’s stomach tightened. “You are CIA, right?”
He didn’t answer, his face staying flat, neutral.
“You know. Solomon,” she insisted, panic setting in. This guy wasn’t her contact, so…“Your boss?”
At this, the right corner of his mouth quirked up ruefully, as if he were trying not to smile. “Solomon”—he said the name with a funny emphasis—“is not here. I’m filling in for him. You’ll have to talk to me.”
The panic hit full force. No Solomon? Now wha
t? She chewed her bottom lip, praying for a lightning strike of inspiration.
The man leaned in, turned serious. “Where’d you get this key?”
The hint of his smile had made her want to see more, and his eyes…they nearly swallowed her in their brown depths. So different from the mad blue eyes of Ivanov. Even though he didn’t trust her and didn’t like her asking for Solomon, this man’s eyes told her she was safe with him.
Anya drew in a deep, cleansing breath. What would Grams do?
As if her grandmother whispered in her ear, the answer came. Make him see you as a person. Not exactly a lightning strike, but she’d take what she could get.
Anya held out her hand, sincerely wishing for a do-over. “My name is Anya.”
Her wish was granted. He gave her a strained smile, seeming slightly surprised, and shook her hand. “Ryan.”
For a moment, he looked younger, less worried. She liked him better that way. Unfortunately, she couldn’t divulge where she’d gotten the key to anyone but Solomon. He and the key were her fail-safe. “Where’s my dress?”
He hesitated and glanced away. “You won’t be wearing it out of here.” His tone was soft, apologetic. “The side seam ripped when I was trying to examine your wound, um…discreetly.”
Was he blushing? She rolled onto her side, gritting her teeth against the pain, and patted his knee to let him know it was okay. She wasn’t mad about the dress—although she was blushing again, too, since he’d seen her naked—but she needed clothes. Time was running out. She had to tell Solomon about what she’d discovered and get back to Moscow before Ivanov realized she was missing. “Perhaps you have an extra sweater and pair of pants you’d loan me?”
His gaze landed first on her hand perched on his knee, then rose to her face. “Information first. You need to take it easy on that wound for now and getting dressed will only aggravate it.”
Tough guy with a heart again. Drawing her hand back, she ignored her tight stomach. She could be tough, too. “Solomon first. Then information.”
“Did Solomon send you to steal it, or did you do that on your own, cowboy?”
Cowboy. Yes, that’s what she was now. American men loved cowboys. Some of the women she worked with did, too. Even her grandmother loved cowboys and watched old Clint Eastwood movies. Ten-gallon hats, grand gestures, and vigilante justice. Although Anya preferred TV medical dramas and sitcoms—she’d learned most of her Americanisms from them—she’d be the best damn cowboy this side of the Atlantic if it meant saving Grams and bringing down Ivanov.
Sitting up carefully, she gestured at her bandaged wound, the blanket drooping low on her chest. “Thank you for doctoring me, Ryan. I owe you my life.”
His focus dropped to her exposed skin, but only for a second. Then it was back to eye-to-eye contact, serious expression, tight frown. All business once more. “It wasn’t life threatening, but you’re welcome.”
Little did he know.
She swung her legs out from under the blanket and over the edge of the bed, keeping vital parts covered. Even though it cost her some pain, the move claimed Ryan’s full attention. She forced a bright tone into her voice while he stared at her legs, unblinking. “Please, Ryan, I have to talk to Solomon. It’s a matter of national security.”
At that, his eyes went hard. He was tiring of the game, whether he liked her legs or not. “When and where exactly did you meet Solomon?”
“I’ve never met him, per se. I’ve only spoken to him once. Briefly.”
“Who are you working for?”
“Sorry?”
His jaw tightened. “Why were the cops chasing you for speeding, and not for having this key?” Said key dangled from his hand. “I want answers.”
Handsome, but bossy. “Why?”
“The safety of my men depends on it.”
“I am not a threat to you or your men.”
“You bring an ICBM launch key and a pair of Russian police to my door, and you don’t think you’re a threat?”
Okay, he had her there. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this spy thing. But I have to talk to Solomon. Now. My grandmother assured me he could help.”
“Then you’re up a shit creek, sweetheart, because he’s not available.”
“Fine. Give me back the key.” She stood on wobbly legs, determination locking her knees so she didn’t fall. “I have to get back to Kremlin Palace before I’m missed.”
“Kremlin Palace?” He eyed her with new curiosity. “You work there?”
A knock on the door startled them. The man she’d seen rush out to her car before she’d fainted walked in without waiting for an invitation. He wore the same expression as Ryan. Closed, flat, hard to read.
Ryan stood as if anxious for the piece of paper the man handed him. As Ryan read, the man approached Anya, held out her passport, and bowed ever so slightly. “Princess. A pleasure to meet you.”
Oh, God. He knew? Her passport was under her American name, Anya Radcliff, and her American identity had been built by the best her grandmother’s money could buy. How had they discovered her true name so easily?
They’re spies, Anya. Duh.
Taking the passport, she refocused. The man’s accent pegged him as British. That could work in her favor. The Brits respected bloodlines and royalty. Maybe he would take her to Solomon.
She returned his nod. “Please call me Anya. And you are?”
“Truman.” He stepped back to stand at the door again. “At your service.”
Ryan glanced up at her and back to the paper several times, as if trying to make the facts in black-and-white mesh with the woman. He ran a hand through his fair hair, making it stand up. A little unnerved, Anya sat, covering her legs, and lifting the blanket higher around her breasts. What was on that paper other than useless facts? Her date of birth. Her bloodline. The death of her parents all those years ago. Her move to America with her grandmother…
Did it tell him red tulips were her favorite flower? That she could whistle the entire second movement of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 4, or that one whole drawer of her desk at work was filled with chocolate bars? That her life was all about helping people uncover the mystery of their gene pools?
Did it tell him President Ivanov had kidnapped her grandmother, and was blackmailing Anya to stay by his side and play the dutiful princess during the summit meeting?
Finished reading, Ryan returned to the chair and scooted it close to the bed. So close their knees touched. Another tingle of anticipation—or was it dread?— rolled down her spine as he drew out an oversized cell phone. “Well, princess”—he used the same funny emphasis as he’d used before with Solomon’s name—“I think it’s time we call Solomon and get this situation straightened out.”
Finally, they were getting somewhere. Anya nearly laughed with relief, her stomach muscles unknotting. This was no fairy tale, but somehow, someway, she would rescue Grams and bring President Maxim Ivanov down.
Chapter Three
As Ryan dialed Conrad’s number on his encrypted cell phone, he wondered what it was like not to be the responsible one. To be the one making the mess, instead of cleaning it up. He was tired of putting out fires. Tired of fixing what was broken. Tired of pretending it never bothered him.
He’d been cleaning up other people’s messes since the age of eight. His father had left his mother with two kids, a fat mortgage, and an empty bank account, and Ryan, being the oldest, had stepped up to do the duties his old man left behind.
In high school when his younger brother decided his absentee father and alcoholic mother were good reasons to set the chem lab on fire, Ryan went to the principal and school board and talked them out of pressing criminal charges. The unruffled but impassioned negotiator was born.
When his mother lost yet another job, Ryan enrolled her in AA and gave up basketball to get a second after-school job. By college, he’d already earned a degree in Most Responsible with a double major in Peacekeeping and Troubleshooting.
It had been a hell of a ride on the spy train and, now, at thirty-three, the negotiator was burned out.
But when he glanced up and saw the Russian princess smiling at him with anticipation, he knew he’d meet the cops at the door, smooth talk them in his fluent Russian, and send them on their way all over again. In fact, if called for, he’d draw the gun from the small of his back and shoot to kill.
It’s what he did. He rooted for the underdog, cheered for the renegade, helped the damsel in distress. Never mind that his logical mind told him she wasn’t any of those. His gut said different.
Pushing the chair back, Ryan stood and walked away from those killer blue eyes and dazzling smile. The service was there, but even with his high-tech, encrypted phone, it took time to connect to the other end.
Conrad’s wife, Julia, answered. As young spies in Susan Richmond’s group, the three of them had been stationed together and spent many nights in different parts of the world listening to music, drinking wine, and coming up with new ways to recruit assets for the United States government. For code names to use with the assets, Julia had immediately designated her and Conrad as the ill-fated Biblical couple, Solomon and Sheba. Ryan had steered away from damnation and went with his favorite rock guitarist instead.
“Sheba, this is Eddie.” He made sure to emphasize the names, even though Julia was no longer a spy, but had defected to the FBI. While Ryan’s secure phone wouldn’t allow their conversation to be picked up by unwanted sources, he wouldn’t jeopardize Julia or Conrad by using their real identities in front of Anya.