Under the guise of buttoning her coat, she edged away from his distracting closeness. At the hotel, she’d exchanged her torn and bloodstained ivory suit for a deep red wool blazer and pencil skirt that paired well with her sleek leather boots. She’d also used the rudimentary bathroom to clean and bandage her minor injuries from the Volga’s shattered glass. Despite what had appeared at the time to be an alarming loss of blood, she’d been relieved to discover the damage was minor.
Markov pushed open the heavy doors to reveal the bleak snow-blown expanse of Lenin Square. He dropped behind her, the ubiquitous telephone tucked against his ear.
“We’re coming out,” he muttered into it, presumably alerting their driver. “Get ready.”
As she emerged onto the portico, a frigid blast of Siberian cold struck her and sucked all the moisture from her lungs. Huddling between the stately stone columns, she pulled her hat over her ears and fumbled into her gloves.
Thick gusts of snowflakes whirled down from the leaden sky to obscure the classical theater building and the museum of local culture across the empty square. Snow piled in white drifts on the marble shoulders of the requisite Lenin, gazing forward into the bright socialist future. No cars were allowed in the square. Only a few solitary, scurrying figures were visible in the pewter-gray light.
Behind her, Markov was still muttering into his phone, so Skylar hurried ahead, skirting city hall to reach the street behind it. A block away, Artur and Ilya would be waiting in the boxy Niva utility vehicle with its tinted windows that had replaced their bullet-shredded Volga.
Thanks to the weather, the narrow street was empty of pedestrians. But the sidewalk was blocked by one of those typical Russian construction projects that dragged on for years, even when—as usual—no one was working. Resigned, Skylar stepped into the quiet street to circumvent the high barrier, head bowed against the icy wind that burned her face.
A flicker of movement at the edge of vision was her only warning. As she glanced up, startled, a dark figure loomed beside her. A hard shove knocked her sprawling, briefcase flying from her grip. A cry burst from her throat as the ground rushed up to meet her.
With bone-jarring impact, she landed in the street.
Cold wet snow seeped through her clothing as she lay dazed, limbs akimbo on the Tsarist-era cobblestones. A muffled figure sprinted past her into a narrow alley and vanished.
The sudden squeal of tires brought her heart into her throat. Pushing herself painfully into a sitting position, she dragged her attention to the road. A car engine roared as a familiar black SUV exploded through the blizzard and bore down on her.
For a heartbeat she froze, the instinctive deer-caught-in-headlights reaction to danger. Any sober driver would see her, even through the blowing snow, and stop in time.
Instead, he gunned the motor.
Desperately she scrambled to her feet, slipping and sliding in the snow. Her boot skidded on a patch of ice, dropping her hard on her injured knee. A jolt of raw pain seared through her.
Skylar stared at the opaque windshield that loomed to fill her vision, the steel bumper bearing down on her, and screamed—
From behind, a flying body collided with hers, arms wrapping around her like bands of steel, the momentum carrying her forward over the curb. Together they hit the pavement, two bodies entangled, rolling to absorb the force of the collision. The SUV roared past them, only inches away, snow spraying from the tires to sting her face.
From her slewed vantage, she caught a wild glimpse of the vehicle peeling across Lenin Square—in blatant violation of the traffic signs—to vanish in the storm.
Slowly she returned to her senses. Awareness seeped through her as she sprawled flat on her back, snow soaking through her garments. Nikolai Markov lay above her, his body shielding hers, sharp-planed features filling her vision as he loomed over her. She stared up at him, tendrils of chocolate silk hair falling over his eyes, the only indication that he’d been hurtling through the air just seconds ago, mere inches from death by blunt force trauma.
He wasn’t even breathing hard, she noted, bemused and probably hovering on the edge of shock. Up close, their faces just inches away, his eyes weren’t the impenetrable black she’d thought them. Flecks of amber floated in their depths, the tawny hue of brandy, screened by a decadent fringe of lashes.
Heart racing, she struggled to catch her breath as he scanned her features. As she gazed up at him blankly, his hand lifted to smooth tousled hair from her eyes. Suddenly she was far too conscious of his body pressed against hers, the lithe supple strength beneath those well-tailored clothes.
Far too conscious of the living man behind the machine, the paragon of efficiency and violent action who’d just saved her life for the second time.
Her tongue traced her dry lips. “I think you can…let me up now.”
When he blinked, that unreadable façade dropped smoothly into place.
“Stay down for a moment.” He disentangled his slender frame from hers and uncoiled to his feet.
As he surveyed the scene, Skylar rolled onto her side and reached for her fallen briefcase. A glimmer of red, like a drop of blood, sparkled in the snow beside it—a tiny pin of some sort. Had it fallen from her case?
In that case, it’s probably a listening device, she thought dryly.
Hearing Markov’s footfalls crunch through the snow, she closed her fingers around it.
A slim hand closed around her elbow and lifted her to her feet. Despite a stab of pain from her injured knee, she took inventory and found her limbs shaky but intact. Her thick winter coat and knee-high boots had protected her from the scrapes and gashes she’d expect from a rough fall.
Somehow Markov had controlled their descent and taken the brunt of the impact.
“Everything all right?” His brows lifted.
“Just perfect.” Fighting the bubbling rise of hysteria, Skylar managed a breathless laugh as she slipped the red pin into her pocket and brushed the snow from her coat.
He collected her attaché case—the rich oxblood leather now scuffed and battered—and handed it to her. As she reclaimed it, their gloved fingers brushed. Again she found herself staring into those brandy-warm eyes.
“I, ah, think I need to thank you.” Her voice was husky. “For saving my life again. If you’re ever looking for work as a bodyguard, I’ll give you one hell of a reference.”
Something flickered beneath that cool reserve, another flash of intensity she couldn’t begin to fathom.
“Don’t,” he said abruptly. “Don’t thank me. This is nothing personal. It’s just a job, you understand me?”
Disconcerted, she blinked and fell back, feeling an absurd pang of hurt. “OK then, I’m just a job to you. I get it. Let’s go.”
A muscle flexed in his temple as he pivoted away, almost as though he was angry. Sharply he gestured to the Niva idling a short distance away. When the sturdy utility vehicle trundled up, Nikolai ushered her briskly into the back seat.
She slid all the way over until her shoulder brushed the opposite door, and stood her attaché case like a barricade on the seat between them—except that he hadn’t yet climbed in beside her. He stood on the sidewalk with snow swirling around his fashionable frame and gathering in his dark silk hair as he frowned down at his mobile phone.
Up front, Ilya was lumbering out of the vehicle. As he said something in an undertone to Markov, she leaned forward to hear.
“Find Slava,” Nikolai said flatly. “Make certain there are no more mistakes.”
What does that mean? No more mistakes defending me? No more slip-ups having the car ready and waiting when we are?
Suddenly she was shuddering, her body reacting to the adrenaline surge, heart pounding as though someone had clenched it in a fist. No one was going to claim that SUV hadn’t been gunning for her this time. Was it a “mistake” that the driver had missed her?
But that was crazy. If Nikolai Markov wanted her dead, all he’d had to do was stan
d back and watch the vehicle squash her on the cobblestones like a bug.
As the two men conversed softly, Skylar slipped a hand in her pocket and retrieved the tiny pin. When recognition flashed through her, she stifled a gasp. She’d seen these distinctive, red-bordered lapel pins before—during her lone diplomatic visit to the hermit kingdom of North Korea where everyone wore them, from starving workers to state officials. They bore the image of their current playboy dictator with his trademark coiffure.
She didn’t even have to wonder how this little souvenir had come to be lying in the Russian snow. It had to have fallen from the guy who’d pushed her…fallen, or been dropped. She hadn’t gotten much of a look at the face behind that dark hat and muffler, although her assailant’s broad shoulders and solid frame hadn’t called to mind the slender, often undernourished build of the North Koreans she’d seen.
Leaning forward to peer out, she made inadvertent eye contact with Ilya. When he scowled at her, she shivered. His mud-gray eyes were almost angry—as though he blamed her for that close call. Perhaps Nikolai’s curt comment had been a personal rebuke and Ilya resented her for it.
“All right, Maestro,” he said gruffly to Markov.
Skylar frowned.
As Ilya marched off toward the square, Nikolai folded himself gracefully into the seat beside her. As he murmured a command to Artur behind the wheel, she tucked the pin away.
Beneath the noisy sputter as the vehicle accelerated, she barely heard the buzz of a mobile phone set on vibrate. Since her own phone had been locked in the hotel safe, Skylar seized the moment to regain her composure while Nikolai took his call.
Merda.
The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea—which was neither democratic nor a republic—the good old DPRK. Her mind flashed back to the Asian businessmen she’d half-noticed in the hotel lobby, who could have hailed from anywhere. Of all the rogue states in the world, why did she have to find a North Korean lapel pin in the chemical city of Khimgorod? Because they were the one geopolitical bad guy she couldn’t possibly turn her back on. The global villain Skylar Dane Rossi, with her particular history, could never, ever ignore.
According to Embassy intelligence, the Khimgorod Chemical Combine was churning out metric tons of nerve agent per year in direct violation of the international Chemical Weapons Convention. Could the North Koreans be buying it?
If not, someone was messing with her head, leaving her that particular pin as a nasty reminder—a possibility she forced herself to consider. Anyone who’d read the coverage of her Mafia father’s murder in Newsweek, the chemical weapons smuggling ring Dane Rossi had masterminded that exploded in his face, would know how to push her buttons.
If the reclusive regime actually had sent someone to this company town whose chemical combine was the only game around, either the North Koreans were buying the real deal or learning to make it themselves. The isolated rogue state, famous for chest-thumping and aggressive missile tests, openly trumpeted their weapons of mass destruction arsenal.
It was the western world’s worst nightmare, precisely the type of scenario her visit was intended to prevent. She was the only American in Khimgorod, the only one who could gather evidence—something more compelling than a cheap trinket in the snow—of these covert transactions if they were going down.
And this meant something else, didn’t it? It meant someone had upped the stakes. Madonna mia, no way was she walking away from this place now, without getting the answers she’d come for!
If the North Koreans were striding through the streets of this closed city like they owned the place, she’d need to rely on the protection of Nikolai Markov and his hired muscle just a little longer.
_____________________________________
As he tucked the phone away, Nikolai glanced toward her. “You seem to be a rather fortunate woman, Dr. Rossi.”
“Indeed. Two close calls in one morning.”
She tried for a flippant tone, but knew her effort fell flat. She was still shaken—no use trying to hide it.
“That wasn’t quite what I meant.” One dark eyebrow lifted—a versatility of expression she rather envied. “Evidently, your new friend the mayor was quite sincere when he promised his support. That call was from Anton Belov’s deputy at the chemical combine, the man responsible for international scientific cooperation.”
She leaned forward, hands clenching around her knees.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Mr. Markov.”
One corner of his mouth curled up.
“It appears your guided tour of the Khimgorod Chemical Combine will go forward after all. Unless you’d prefer to return to the hotel or file a report with the militsia?”
“You’ve already told me I’d be wasting my time with the militsia.”
“It’s your time to waste.”
He raised one shoulder in a graceful shrug.
She couldn’t deny that the prospect of barricading herself in her hotel room, with her door locked and a chair wedged beneath the knob, held a definite appeal. Nikolai Markov could hardly argue that her latest near-fatality had been a random incident.
Someone wanted her gone from Khimgorod—or worse. And she couldn’t pretend that didn’t scare the hell out of her. Her father had done his best to shield his innocent young daughter from the family business. But both her parents and her first boyfriend had died by violence.
She understood very well how her visit to Khimgorod could end.
Still, in the mayor she’d made at least one important ally. And she wouldn’t jump to conclusions, even if she had cause to suspect a rogue state sniffing around this closed city. If the Russians were really serious about showing her their chemical research and production site, any information she gained would be invaluable.
She might even get a chance to ask about foreign collaboration, and see how they reacted when she mentioned North Korea.
Besides, even if she did hole up in the hotel, that was no guarantee of safety. Since she was literally taking her life in her hands on this disastrous visit and stuck here until the night train, for better or worse, she might as well maximize the opportunity—and hope it outweighed the risk.
Grimly she squared her shoulders.
“Let’s go to the chemical combine.” She shot a defiant look at Nikolai Markov and caught what might have been a glimmer of appreciation in his dark gaze, before he smoothed it all away behind his inscrutable FSB façade.
“You’re a rather unusual woman, aren’t you, Dr. Rossi?” he said softly, watching her. “Plenty of women—and men—would have had more than enough of Khimgorod and its secrets by now. Aren’t you afraid of what might happen next?”
The guy might have just saved her cannoli, but Skylar wouldn’t admit vulnerability to him or anyone else. A lifetime of practice holding her would-be confidants at arms’ length couldn’t be overcome in a day, no matter how well he’d guarded her.
“How can I be afraid, Mr. Markov, when I have you to protect me?” she countered, keeping it casual. “What was it Ilya just called you? Maestro?”
His face turned inward. He shrugged and looked away.
“An old nickname, nothing important. He’s been my associate off and on for many years.”
“Are you a musician in your spare time? A composer, maybe?”
She wasn’t quite ready to let it drop. Wryly she recognized in herself the burn of curiosity.
He certainly seemed the type for a symphony conductor: precise, controlling, an eagle eye for detail, a compulsive high performer—rather like herself. He was probably hell to work for, not the sort of man who gave warm-and-fuzzies to his subordinates. But his team clearly functioned like a well-oiled machine. She had the feeling men vied for the privilege.
The man was such a cipher—an enigma, really. With a degree of intensity that surprised her, she yearned for some insight into what made him tick.
“Musician or composer, Mr. Markov?” she pressed.
“Neither.” He
frowned down at his telephone, gaze narrowed on the glowing screen. “If you must know, I’m a bit of a chess enthusiast. I once competed at the international level. Maestro is an honorific—a term of respect. And I really should return this call.”
Skylar definitely wasn’t the only one who specialized in keeping people at a distance. She’d bet Nikolai Markov was a master at more than chess. Between her defense mechanisms and his, it was a miracle they could even share the same seat.
Which was fine with her, wasn’t it? No personal contact, no interactions that could hurt her. No so-called intimates who could betray her. She’d learned that lesson well.
Not the way she liked it, perhaps, but that was the way it had to be.
CHAPTER FOUR
Swindle: When a player in a losing position tricks her opponent, thus achieving a win or draw instead of the expected loss.
An hour later, Nikolai followed the mark down the subterranean corridor of the Khimgorod Chemical Combine. Despite the peeling paint, the burned-out bulbs, the moisture pooling on the green linoleum of the chemical research and testing facility, the mark strode quickly, almost running. Nikolai was obliged to quicken his pace to remain the optimal ten meters behind her and her scientific escort.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d been upset by the dirty and overcrowded vivarium they’d just exited.
But Skylar Rossi had always been a pampered princess, too selfish to care about anyone else’s welfare—not his brother’s, not even her own father’s. The unhygienic living conditions of the laboratory rats in the ancient animal breeding facility could hardly trouble her.
Above the decisive ring of her boot-heels on the scuffed floor, her earnest voice filled the corridor.
“—U.S. Department of Agriculture has issued detailed animal care and use guidelines, which you can find on the Internet. I’ll give you the link. You’ll have to adhere to those guidelines to be eligible for U.S. assistance—”
“I appreciate the offer, Ambassador. However, this institute is not currently seeking any scientific cooperation with U.S. partners.”
The Russian Temptation (Book Two) (Foreign Affairs 2) Page 5