by Misty Evans
Truman dutifully snapped pictures as the children filed by, Ivanov beaming at Anya with a strange kind of pride.
Once more something dark and dangerous flickered deep in Ryan’s gut. A need to protect Anya, shield her from the Russian president, spread through his veins like a drug.
He checked himself. He was there to do a job. Get in, find out what he could about Ivanov, and get out. He would help Anya and her grandmother if he could, but ultimately, the soap opera antics of the Russian president took second place to his mission to gain a bona fide asset inside the Kremlin.
As the children continued to file by, each glowed under Anya’s praises. Ryan concentrated on listening to her softly spoken words, automatically analyzing the cadence, vocabulary, and accent. She’d been well-schooled in American English. Her Russian accent was so faint, only he would notice. Probably because he found it so damn sexy.
Pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The princess and her grandmother who’d disappeared from Russia in the 1990s had apparently made the United States their home. The CIA had no doubt orchestrated their relocation and assimilation into American culture.
He made a mental note to check into that as well, but his gut told him another element of Anya’s story rang true.
After the last child handed Anya his rose and received a hug, the woman in the yellow dress herded the children out the door. As they were leaving, the Russian prime minister, who had been absent during the concert, rushed in and approached Ivanov. He whispered something in Ivanov’s ear and drew him aside. Ryan’s instincts went on high alert.
Barchai jumped up, hurried to the front of the group, and announced the evening’s entertainment was concluded. The dignitaries would be shown to their apartment suites inside the main building as soon as President Ivanov said his parting words. Then he turned to the piano player and motioned for him to play. The young man seemed caught off guard, but soft music soon filled the salon.
Ivanov and his right hand man continued conversing in the corner. People stood and broke into smaller groups, both Pennington and Morrow gathering with the embassy dignitaries to discuss the next day’s meetings.
The woman in the yellow dress returned and took the roses from Anya’s arms, said a few words to her, and hustled out the door with the flowers. Anya, now alone, glanced around the room, obviously unsure of what to do or who to talk to. She met Ryan’s gaze, gave him a small, sad smile, and walked to the arched window behind the piano to stare out into the snowy night.
Without taking his eyes off her, Ryan nodded to Truman. “See you tomorrow.”
He started to walk away, only to be stopped by Truman’s hand on his arm. “Surely you’re not about to chat up Ivanov’s new toy right in front of him.”
Ryan slid his arm from Truman’s grasp. “Surely not.”
Adjusting his bow tie as if he couldn’t wait to get it off, Truman smirked. “Right.”
He abandoned Truman and skirted several of the talking groups, a plan already forming. Turning Barchai into an asset inside a week was a pipe dream. Anya, already close to Ivanov, and willing to spy on him, was at Ryan’s disposal. If he agreed to help her with her grandmother, she’d do anything he wanted.
The window overlooked a courtyard filled with statues, trellises, and walkways, all carpeted in white. Anya’s face reflected in the glass as she stared out into the night, not seeming to see it. She leaned a shoulder against one side of the arch as if needing the support. Ryan edged closer, mindful of Ivanov, who continued to be engrossed in his conversation with the Russian prime minister. He was also mindful of the guards stationed around the room who kept a steady eye on the princess at all times.
Up close, he could see how pale her skin was under the cover of makeup. How tired she looked. The curve of her bare shoulder was enticing, but the rapid beat of her pulse at the base of her neck kept Ryan from enjoying it. Her fingers, folded together in front of her, twisted as she worried a ring on her left hand.
For all her display of bravado at the cabin and during the evening’s proceedings, bottom line, she was scared.
One last step and he faced the window, pretending not to stare at her reflection. “Beautiful night.”
Her startled reaction confirmed she was indeed a million miles away in her thoughts. She turned from the window and gave him a weak smile before looking outside again. “Beautiful, if you like winter.”
She was following his lead, making small talk. Good girl. “Hard to escape winter in Moscow this time of year.”
“Mmm-hmm. Harder still to escape foie gras.”
Score. The lady had a sense of humor. He faced her, drawing her attention to him. “Ryan Jones. Russian affairs advisor for President Pennington.” He held up a hand, put it back down. “I’d offer to shake hands, but I’m not sure what the proper protocol is for introducing oneself to a modern Russian grand duchess…” He leaned in conspiratorially and shot his gaze around the room. “And I wouldn’t want to be shot by Ivanov’s police for violating it.”
Her smile had more punch to it this time and her eyes held a definite spark. “A Russian affairs expert who doesn’t know protocol when it comes to royalty? Seems like your schooling needs supplementation.”
Another direct hit. He chuckled, and damn if it didn’t feel good. “Having a direct royal source for guidance would certainly help.”
She extended her hand, still pretending they’d never met before. “Well, I never saw the brochure on How to Be a Princess, so I’m afraid my own education falls short of Russian protocol.” Now she leaned toward him and lowered her sexy voice another notch. “But don’t tell, okay?”
Flirting with her was a terrible idea. A terrible, horrible idea. It could get them both in serious hot water.
But Ryan couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t want to stop himself.
Her fingers were slim, nails short and manicured. He took her hand in his and was surprised when she gave him one firm, all-business shake. Like at the cabin, there was nothing demure or hesitant about it.
“How does it feel to be back in Russia?” he ventured, opening the lines of conversation subterfuge. He needed to confirm she was all right.
She shot a glance in Ivanov’s direction and tensed. Ryan jerked his gaze to the right and saw the man headed their way, his small, hard eyes narrowed into jealous slits.
Approaching enemy. The age old response of fight or flight kicked in and adrenaline rolled through his limbs. He’d had training to neutralize facial reactions the instinctual response generated, so he ignored the instinct, returning his focus to Anya. She, on the other hand, hadn’t had the same training.
Her eyes darted from Ivanov to Ryan and then out the window. Her breathing sped up and her body quivered. Flight was definitely on Anya’s menu.
Then, just as quickly as she’d given thought to it, she took a deep breath, and brought her gaze back to his. In her eyes, Ryan saw the same resolve he’d seen earlier. She was staying because she had a job to do, and she would handle Ivanov, whatever that job entailed.
Too bad he hadn’t time at the cabin to give her more training about how to act around the bastard.
The Russian president was two steps away. Anya smiled at Ryan, a detached smile, as if he were nothing more than another politician she had to make nice to. Her eyes were just as impartial. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones. I hope you enjoy your stay here at the Palace.”
She may have lacked training, but she definitely could stand on her own two feet. She couldn’t suppress the shudder that rolled through her, though, as Ivanov slipped his arm around her waist.
The emotion Ryan most feared ignited deep in his gut. He nodded in response and acknowledged Ivanov’s presence. “Tonight’s dinner was exceptional, as was the entertainment.”
Ivanov didn’t even pretend politeness. He gave Ryan another scathing once-over. Translation: Ryan was nothing more than an ant under Ivanov’s boot.
Ivanov swept Anya away, moving her to the center of the room before releasing hi
s hold and calling for everyone’s attention. He waited until the crowd quieted before thanking the leaders of Britain and the United States for attending the dinner. “The summit will begin tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp in Georgievsky Hall,” he said.
As he spoke, Anya took several steps back and to the left, sneaking a look over her shoulder at Ryan. Her face was no longer impassive, a hint of real fear in her eyes over the fact, he presumed, that the evening was done. At least the public part of it.
The resolve she’d had up to now was fading fast. She gave Ryan a half smile, as if letting him know she was sorry for the chilly brush-off. He winked at her in response.
Give him hell, sweetheart.
His silent message registered. She forced a little more courage into her smile before facing Ivanov, as if assuring Ryan, or possibly herself, she was okay.
Ryan didn’t believe her.
Whatever lay ahead for the night scared the crap out of her, and it wasn’t hard to guess exactly what she feared.
The anger in Ryan’s gut burst into flame.
Chapter Nine
Once she crossed the threshold, there was no turning back.
“Make yourself at home, grand duchess.” Ivanov opened the double doors of the presidential suite and made a sweeping gesture with his arm.
Every fiber in Anya’s body rebelled as the previous two nights’ memories assaulted her. Every warning bell in her head clanged. The muscles in her neck tensed and her feet tried to move backward. The wound on her side itched. Maybe it was finally healing thanks to Ryan’s expert care. Ivanov hadn’t even asked her about it.
Would the security guards on each side of the doors grab her if she tried to run? Would Ivanov force her inside? Yank out that stupid vintage Russian dirk he carried like a security blanket and cut her again?
Stupid man. The wrong cut at the wrong time and she could potentially bleed to death. Wait till I tell him that.
Gritting her teeth, she lifted her foot and stepped into the spider’s web.
Like all the various halls and rooms in the Palace, the Throne Chamber, or Czar’s Study, was a stunning example of architectural splendor. Domed ceilings painted a brilliant white and trimmed in gold made her think of a painting she’d seen in the Smithsonian depicting gold-edged clouds with cherubs resting on them. The deep blue walls, curtains, and upholstery of the chamber mimicked a late-afternoon summer sky. The dark wooden floor shone with multiple layers of heavy polish.
The effect would have been mesmerizing if not for the dread beating in her chest.
Antique guns and dirks were on display in glass cabinets everywhere she looked. Ivanov led her past his desk, a smaller version of the massive one made from Ural malachite in his official office, to a nineteenth-century Italian sofa in front of the white marble fireplace. Above the fireplace, a wooden clock told her it was after midnight. Orange flames simmered behind the iron grate, giving off little heat but adding charm to the overall effect.
Reluctantly, she sat on the sofa while Ivanov poked at the fire and added a log. The flames twitched and shuddered, climbing up the logs to reach for air. Satisfied that the fire was once more active, he headed to a sidebar filled with liquor bottles, decanters, and crystal glasses. Removing a bottle of chilled vodka from a hidden cabinet refrigerator, he poured two glasses, returned the bottle to the fridge, and brought a glass back to her.
She took the offered glass, even though she had no intention of drinking the vodka. By her estimation, Ivanov had downed half a bottle already, plus the champagne he’d used to toast over dinner. He was an inch or so over six foot tall, and probably weighed 220 or more, but the alcohol so far didn’t seem to be affecting him.
He sat on the edge of the sofa, entirely too close for comfort, unbuttoning his military coat with one hand, and swigging the vodka with the other. He smelled like alcohol and a thick, musky aftershave.
Anya shifted backward. The dress inched up her thighs, revealing more of her pale skin. She slipped her left hand down to the side and tugged at the hem as casually as she could, trying not to call attention to the fact her legs were so bare.
“What did you think of the dinner tonight?” Ivanov scanned her face, looking for approval. His accent was heavier, thicker. The alcohol was affecting him after all. “Did you enjoy the children?”
She didn’t want to discuss the dinner or the children’s chorus, but as Grams had taught her, the best defense was a good offense. He wanted her approval, so that’s what she gave him. “The evening was a success, and I’m glad we finally have a chance to talk. About my grandmother…”
“President Pennington and Prime Minister Morrow were impressed, da?”
“Everyone was impressed.”
Ivanov smiled his Cheshire cat smile and lifted his glass to her. His eyes reflected the flames of the fire as he gulped the vodka. “I have special events planned all week. For you.”
His meaning was clear, his intent as well. The heat from the fire might as well have been the north wind blowing outside. Anya’s blood ran cold. “I need to know my grandmother is okay.”
Ivanov heaved up from the sofa, empty glass in hand. “There is something I want to show you.”
Her heart leapt. Was he going to take her to Grams? As he grabbed the bottle of chilled vodka from the refrigerator once again, she rose from the sofa to follow him.
The trip was disappointingly short, ending at the bookcases near his desk. He refilled his glass and offered to top off hers as well. Since she hadn’t even sipped her vodka, she shook her head, and set her still half-full tumbler on the malachite desk.
Ivanov threw another shot down his throat. Then he faced the books on the nearby shelves and skimmed his fingers over the spines. The titles were in Russian and Anya struggled for a second to shift to her native language and the Cyrillic alphabet. She was fluent in Russian, but after Grams insisted she purge the first eleven years from her memory, she was rusty.
He removed a twelve-by-twelve, leather-bound book and set it on the desk. The book’s Russian title was imprinted in gold lettering on the front—Romanov Family Tree—and Ivanov ran his fingers across it as if it were sacred. Opening the cover, he flipped through several pages, all of them encased behind page protectors. Anya tried to see what was on the pages, but she couldn’t without moving closer to him.
Finding the page he was looking for, he ran a finger down the plastic protector. “Here.” He tapped the page and glanced up. “Natasha Maria Romanov.”
Curiosity got the better of her and Anya inched closer. Like the title, the words were in Russian, but she recognized the name she had printed out hundreds of times during her school years before moving to America. Romanov.
The page held a diagram, labeled with various names. A horizontal line ran from Gram’s name to Anya’s grandfather’s name, Anton Radzoya. Below their union, a vertical line connected them to another name she recognized. Peter Romanov Radzoya. Anya’s father. His name connected to her mother’s, Ekateirna, and below them a new tier of the family tree held Anya’s full name.
“The great Imperial Dynasty,” Ivanov said, his eyes glowing with pride. With his empty hand, he motioned at a collection of books behind them. “I have researched and documented the complete ancestral history of each royal family dating back to the founding of our Russian monarchy.”
Our Russian monarchy. The way he emphasized our made it sound like he and Anya shared dominion over it. And while she knew Russian history had been researched and documented by hundreds of scholars all around the world, she once again understood Ivanov wanted to impress her. He wanted her approval. He was bragging, as if he had done all the work himself.
She couldn’t bring herself to flatter him, so she went with a generic response. “That’s an impressive amount of work.” Probably all done by someone else.
Her feedback egged him on. He reached for another leather-bound book and took it from the shelf, opening it on top of her family’s history. Just like
with the first book, he flipped through dozens of pages to find the one he wanted. He turned the book so it was easier for her to see, and pointed at the name he wanted her to read.
Maxim Yakovlev Ivanov.
Apprehension shivered down Anya’s spine. He was a descendent of one of the Imperial Houses as well.
Or was he? This was his book, his supposed research. He could insert any name he wanted in it, and no one inside Russia would argue with him…if they valued their life.
Surely it wasn’t a secret. If he was one of the last remaining grand dukes, the public, especially the one beyond the borders of Russia, knew it. Wouldn’t the press have made a big deal about it when he was elected president? As prideful as he was, wouldn’t he?
Maybe the press had. She didn’t follow politics. Specifically, she didn’t follow Russian politics. And while she’d spent the first eleven years of her life in Moscow, her parents had stressed math and science, not history, and pushed her to prepare for the future rather than fixate on the past.
Ryan. He was a Russian affairs expert. Would he know?
Possibly, but what good would that do her right now?
Up to that moment, she’d understood Ivanov was obsessed with her lineage. Now he’d confirmed what she’d feared since she’d seen the belowground lab, and heard him say he had a plan for the future Russian generations. He didn’t want her just for show.
Regardless of how American she appeared, he wanted her because he believed she was the only Russian worthy enough to produce his offspring. To start a new line of superior Russians.
The truth rang with gong-like intensity inside her head. He obviously wanted to sleep with her, but would he harvest her eggs to supplement the line beyond any children he hoped to conceive? Stockpile her DNA? While she’d suspected his scheme, she knew it now with certainty. He didn’t intend to let her leave when the summit was over.
And now that she was here, what reason did he have for keeping her grandmother alive?
The implication of his duplicity sunk in. Her head swam. She glanced up from the book and saw he was waiting for her to say something. His eyes shown with anticipation as if he thought she’d be ecstatic to learn he was a royal, too.