by Misty Evans
She wasn’t sure if she was going to throw up or take a swing at him. She opened her mouth to say something, but words eluded her. All she managed was, “I …ah…”
Ivanov, however, took her stunned reaction as delight. He gripped her hands with his and drew her close. His breath reeked of alcohol and onions, and his eyes searched hers with a wild glee. “You and I are the last true heirs to the Russian monarchy. We can create a whole new empire of quality citizens. A whole new house of royals with superior blood, superior genes.” He gave her hands a squeeze. “Together we will rule Russia and lead the world.”
Anya choked back her response, letting the words dissolve on her tongue. Not if you were the last man on earth.
His grip was strong, so it took a bit of twisting to free her hands. She stepped back. “Russia doesn’t need a new house of royals, and our ancestry does not make our blood, or our genes, superior to our countrymen. In fact, my blood—”
A flush rose up his neck and stained his cheeks. He grabbed the vodka bottle and sloshed more in his glass. “We are descended from the Imperials. We are superior.”
Without warning, he grabbed one of her wrists and dragged her toward the sofa. One of her ankles twisted, and she lost her balance, but he kept moving, and she struggled to keep from falling. He shoved her down onto the sofa and stood over her, glaring, as he downed the vodka. “You do not question me.”
Her first instinct was to kick him in the knee, drop him to the ground. A sizable opponent, he was nevertheless threatening her with bodily harm, and she knew how to take down a man twice her size.
Fighting back at this point, however, would certainly doom her and Grams. She knew his threats were real. The wound on her side was proof. But it was better to use her brains to balance the playing field instead of tae kwon do to make him back off. His obsession with the royals was the best place to start. “I’ve never seen my family tree. Will you show it to me again?”
The change in his demeanor was Jekyll and Hyde. Elation replaced the glare and his grip on the glass loosened. He retrieved the book from his desk, returning to sit next to her and flipping to the beginning where he had detailed accounts of her earliest ancestors.
“All the Imperial Houses began with a Norseman back in 862 AD.”
As Ivanov walked her through the various histories of each person descended from the Norse ruler Rurik, he translated the factual information as well as folklore about them. A walking version of Ancestry.com, he was totally enthralled with the information, as if it were the first time he’d ever read it.
After a few minutes, Anya found herself enthralled as well. Like the fairy tales of the princesses who’d come before her, these stories were part of her. She was learning as much about her past as she was about the future Ivanov intended her to have. While she couldn’t forget his closeness, or completely ignore the fear still making her pulse race, she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t interested in her family’s history.
And putting Ivanov in a better mood improved her chances of finding out about Grams.
An hour later, the leader of Russia, who believed himself a czar, passed out on the sofa next to her, his family history open in his lap and one hand resting on her leg. His head was back, mouth open, bad breath filling the air as snores rumbled from his chest. Anya wanted nothing more than to shove his hand off her leg and flee the room, but she’d come this far, in spite of everything. Now was the time to play cowboy if ever there was one.
The fire in the fireplace had returned to a soft glow. Biding her time and listening to Ivanov’s breathing grow deeper and slower, she let her mind wander. The image of Ryan smiling at her surfaced, and the dark cloud in her mind lifted.
With slow, careful movements, she straightened her leg and brought her upper body forward. Ivanov’s breathing maintained its rhythm and she gave herself a mental high five. She hated the idea of touching him, and wondered if she could simply slide her leg out from under his hand, but the odds were slim to none he’d sleep through that. Gritting her teeth, she stuck out her hand over his, letting it hover in midair. Her heart beat as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. She took a silent deep breath to try and slow it. Ever so lightly, she touched the top of his hand, cutting her gaze to his face to see if he reacted.
He didn’t.
The hardest part was still to come. Not only did it make her sick to touch him, she had to do a lot more than just touch him in order to remove his hand. If she squeezed his hand too hard or moved to fast, he’d wake up. If she didn’t squeeze hard enough, she’d drop it.
With gentle pressure, she held his hand in place and shifted her thigh out from under it.
His hand was sweaty. While every instinct in her body screamed at her to drop it, she instead lowered his hand to the sofa with care.
Ivanov’s chest hitched and he let out a grunt. The book on his lap slipped an inch, ready to tumble to the floor. Anya froze, her hand still holding his. A glance at his face showed his eyes were shut, but his mouth kept opening and closing. He swallowed, his lips parted, and a soft snore escaped.
The hummingbird turned into a jackhammer inside her chest. She counted ten snores, and then another ten, before releasing his hand.
Free at last, she debated taking the book off his lap. The slightest movement would cause it to fall. Should she risk waking him in order to buy herself time?
Deciding to chance it, she left the book where it was, removed her heels, and tiptoed to the desk.
A spark of hope ignited inside her. There were navy blue files, red folders marked with the Russian Federation emblem, and dozens of loose papers covering the desktop. As she poked around and tried to read what she could, the spark dimmed. There was so much information, it would take her hours to read it all.
Uncovering a map of Russia, her hope rose again. Black dots marked locations along the border and around major metropolitan areas, Russian names next to them. There was a set of blue dots around Moscow. A set of red ones around St. Petersburg. Could one of the dots represent her grandmother?
She tackled reading the map with gusto, but none of the Cyrillic words matched Natasha’s Russian name. The manner in which the dots were laid out didn’t correspond directly to towns or other landmarks, and yet they seemed to shield the two major metropolitan areas. A defensive system of some sort?
Anya tossed the map aside and started on the blue files.
Frustration built as the words blurred and became meaningless. These appeared to be medical files of a dozen different people. What was Ivanov doing with those? This was taking too long and proving futile. She had discovered nothing about her grandmother and no proof for Ryan.
She moved on to the red folders. Ivanov continued to snore on the sofa and Anya eyed the book sitting precariously in his lap.
A few more minutes, she begged the book.
A few more minutes and the Russian words once more blurred in front of her eyes. She rubbed them, blinked, and ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach. Where would he keep information about her grandmother?
Giving up on the desktop’s mess, she carefully tried one of the desk doors. Expecting them to be locked, she was surprised when the file door popped open with a soft schick.
Five minutes later, she still hadn’t found Grams’s name in any of the files. She had, however, found two other names she recognized, printed on documents buried in a red folder at the back of the drawer. Not just any documents—they were KGB execution warrants.
Peter Radzoya—Executed.
Ekateirna Radzoya—Executed.
Anya’s hands trembled. At the bottom of each document, the initials of the assassin were listed. MYI.
Maxim Yakovlev Ivanov
Crash!
The book on Ivanov’s lap fell to the floor.
Chapter Ten
Anya jumped, heart solidifying in her chest. Ivanov sputtered and choked, sitting forward, elbows on knees. Pure instinct made her want to drop to the floor and hide behind the desk, but
what good would that do? She couldn’t hide from him.
The fire in the fireplace was gone and the room was cold. Even so, Anya clearly saw the sweat on Ivanov’s face as he coughed. Without taking her gaze off him, she slid the execution warrants into her lap and closed the red folder. If she was going to get caught, she damn well was going to confront the bastard about the truth.
Ivanov gave one more cough, wheezed a heavy sigh, and tipped to the left, disappearing behind the sofa’s high arm. When he didn’t reappear after a few seconds, Anya sat up straighter, peering over the edge. The most she could see was Ivanov’s body from the waist down. Too long for the sofa, his feet hung off the side at the far end.
Anya’s heart started beating again. She counted the seconds as she waited to see if he would wake fully and get up. If he would find her snooping in his desk.
An eternity passed before she heard the loud, congested breathing that told her he was dead to the world. She drew a thankful breath and swallowed the dryness in her throat. As quietly as she could, she returned the red folder to the desk. The click of the drawer closing made her flinch. Still Ivanov did not move.
Anya folded the warrants in half, then in half again, continuing until they’d formed a small square. Executed. She shuddered.
She needed time to think. Needed to get away from Ivanov. Now.
Rising from the chair, a new thought struck her. The posted guards outside the suite’s door might stop her. Might wake the monster.
How would she get back to her suite without passing the guards?
The czarina’s Golden Chambers were next to Ivanov’s personal quarters. She’d noticed a hidden door in the bedroom the day she’d arrived. The door itself was part of the wall, a pocket door, which slid back and forth on a rail. There was no lock on her side, but she hadn’t been able to open it, which meant it was locked from the other side.
Kings and queens, czars and czarinas, had kept separate quarters throughout history, and yet they could come and go from each other’s rooms without being seen by the rest of the Palace. If Anya’s bedchamber had a secret pocket door, odds were it led to the presidential bedchambers.
Tiptoeing to the sofa, Anya scooped up her shoes and made sure Ivanov continued to sleep. She crept past him and the fireplace, remembering the layout of her suite and where it had to be connected to his.
A few steps later, she stood inside his bedchamber. Soft light emanated from half a dozen wall sconces, spotlighting a massive bed, draped on all sides by heavy blue curtains. Anya ignored the dark premonition that rolled through her at the thought of Ivanov’s plans.
While the connecting door on his side was also a pocket door, it was much easier to find amidst the furniture, oil paintings, and elaborate wallpaper, because his door had an obvious lock. An ornate gold one that stood out like a neon sign. Czars could apparently visit czarinas at will; wives, however, could only visit their husbands if invited.
Holding her shoes by the straps in one hand, Anya slowly turned the lock. She was pleased to hear the click of the bolt sliding free.
Almost home.
Funny how even the smallest amount of freedom felt good. She slid the door back with a small smile. The smile fell off her face when the door made a high-pitched squeak.
She froze in place, listening for the rasp of Ivanov’s snores. The edges of the stolen documents scratched the skin under her breast as her chest heaved.
Her body demanded she fling herself across the connecting hallway to the door of her own suite, but she held still. She’d come this far, avoiding Ivanov’s advances, snooping through his official papers and stealing secret documents. She would not blow her chance of making an escape to her own room by panicking.
No shouts erupted from behind her. No sounds of marching feet coming for her. With trembling limbs, she stepped out of Ivanov’s bedchamber, and with slow, protracted movements, slid the door closed. This time the squeak was minimal.
There was no way to relock the door from the other side, so she left it.
Sconces dotted the hallway between the rooms, casting dim light and eerie shadows. Anya reached out and found the small lever to her suite. As suspected, there was a lock on this side, but a twist of her hand released it.
Anya slipped inside her dark bedchamber, closed the door, and leaned against it, pulse racing. As her eyes adjusted to the shadows, she dropped the shoes and collapsed onto the four-poster bed.
Two seconds later, she got off the bed and pushed a short, fat dresser in front of the secret door. The dresser—made out of seventeenth-century Italian mahogany—outweighed her and she grunted with the effort. Once it was in place, however, a sense of calm pervaded her mind and body. She may not have been able to lock Ivanov out, but by God, she wouldn’t be a sitting duck in case he decided to sneak into her room. He hadn’t tried it yet, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.
She grabbed the bedside table lamp and several ornate silver candlestick holders, stacking them on top of the dresser for good measure.
Her muscles trembled from utter exhaustion. She had no intention of sleeping in the blue satin dress, but the bed called to her and she once more sank into the soft silk bedspread, drawing the white gauze curtains around the sides. While they were no real protection from prying eyes, they gave her comfort.
I’ll just rest for a few minutes. Then I’ll wash my face, take my pill, and put on my pajamas.
She tugged the documents from her bra. It was too dark in the room to read, but she didn’t need to see the Russian words. She knew what they said and more important she knew what they meant.
In her tired mind, Ivanov and the man in black morphed into one.
Closing her eyes and swallowing her tears, she held the names of her parents close to her chest, missing them, and her grandmother, even more than her freedom.
Chapter Eleven
Anya woke with a start to a hand gripping her shoulder and shaking her hard.
A woman’s voice, strangely familiar and thickly accented, spoke over her. “Czarevna Anya. Wake up, pazhaloosta.”
Blinking her eyes open, Anya looked up to see Inga wringing her hands and frowning at her.
Inga had been assigned to her as an assistant by Ivanov. Bodyguard in sheep’s clothing was more like it. Today the older woman was dressed in a dull brown suit, but her favorite color, yellow, was represented by a scarf. She’d helped Anya unpack when she’d arrived, kept her apprised of Ivanov’s schedule, and been in charge of last night’s entertainment. In some ways, Inga reminded her of Grams. Only Inga didn’t have the same grace or regality.
Inga appeared to be the helpful personal assistant, but like it or not, Inga was trouble.
Two feet behind the woman stood Ivanov’s prime minister, Fyodor Andreev. Short and boxy, he reminded Anya of a bulldog. He was also frowning.
Beda ne prikhodit odna. Trouble never comes alone, Grams would have said.
“What’s going on?” Anya struggled to sit up. Her head hurt, her eyelids were rough as sandpaper, and she was light-headed. She’d just fallen asleep. How could it be time to wake up already?
“Breakfast is being served.” Inga’s dark eyes cut to the side, over her shoulder, as if fearing Andreev would yell at them both. “You must get ready, and hurry.”
Anya was still wearing the blue dress and it was off center, revealing a great deal of her right breast. Reaching up to adjust it, she realized she still had the papers she’d stolen from Ivanov’s desk in her hand. Projecting modesty that wasn’t all faked, she turned her back to Andreev and made a production of correcting the dress’s top. As she did so, she once again slipped the folded documents into her bra. Standing up, she shooed Inga away. “Give me fifteen minutes.” She sent an unwavering look to Andreev. “Alone, please.”
Inga glanced between Anya and Andreev. The prime minister narrowed his eyes a fraction before nodding once and heading for the outer door. His gaze raked over the out-of-place dresser before he marched out of the bed
chamber.
“Please,” Inga whispered. “Hurry.” She followed on his heels.
Anya waited until she heard the outer doors close, then she, too, followed and locked them. While it obviously did no good in keeping anyone out if they really wanted in, pretending it did helped her sanity.
She didn’t have to wonder what to wear to breakfast. Inga had laid out a conservative suit with a white blouse. Anya brought the suit and blouse into the bathroom and went to work on waking up in the shower.
Her wound was seeping. She cleaned it carefully, wishing again she hadn’t forgotten her kit. Being a walking defect didn’t mean she was helpless when it came to taking care of herself. After cleaning and re-bandaging the wound, she took her birth control pill—at least she hadn’t forgotten those. All she needed was to get her period and not have her pills.
The irony of the situation hit her all over again. She’d been taking birth control pills for over twelve years—not to prevent pregnancy, but to control the heavy periods her blood disorder produced—and the only man to have ever seen her naked was Ryan. A man she didn’t know, and who didn’t know her.
She just wished she had her kit. The antibiotic cream Ryan had used on the wound had cleared up the infection, but without an infusion of clotting agent, the wound refused to heal completely.
Make do for now. And stay the hell away from Ivanov’s dirk.
As promised, she was ready for breakfast in fifteen minutes. The Palace of Facets was the largest banquet room Anya had ever seen. Italian frescoes decorated the walls, mammoth columns and domed ceilings in a beautiful balance of blues and golds. Tiered candelabras hung from the high ceilings, each tier holding white electric candles.
There was no time, however, to take in all of the beautiful surroundings. As Anya entered the banquet hall, Inga on her left and Andreev on her right, she was at once under Ivanov’s scrutiny.