The Russian Temptation (Book Two) (Foreign Affairs 2)

by Nikki Navarre

His face hardened.

  “This time I was the victim. A knife in a dark alley in Belgrade.”

  “Why do you do it?” She laid her palm flat against the plane of his cheek.

  An aristocrat’s face, an artist’s sculpture, fine-boned and refined. He was nothing like the hulking thugs he called associates.

  And she’d always had a definite weakness for urbane, sophisticated men. In fact, he reminded her a little of her first love, Kirill Danilovich. He too had been urbane and sophisticated, the son of a Russian émigré with Romanov blood.

  Or so he claimed.

  In the end, Kirill turned out to be an arms dealer with Kremlin connections. Thanks to Skylar, his deal with Dane Rossi had gone horribly wrong—

  “Hey, Doc?” The cheerful voice outside the closed door jolted her back to the present. “Knock knock.”

  Tossing his discarded shirt at Skylar, Nikolai muttered an explosive curse and rolled to his feet. She barely had the time to clutch the garment to her breasts. He cracked the door and spoke to Maxim Vasylko through an inch of space.

  “Dr. Rossi is resting comfortably, Major. Do you or do you not have a plane to fly?”

  “Sorry, Maestro.” Clearly audible if not visible, Max hardly sounded contrite. “Security camera’s on the fritz in here. Thought I’d give it a tinker. Safety issue, you feel me?”

  Skylar covered her mouth with one hand. Apparently Kostenko had told Max enough about the Maestro to make him suspicious about leaving the two of them alone. Not that his suspicions weren’t warranted, especially given the secret document in her trousers.

  Now, while Nikolai’s attention was otherwise engaged, was the perfect moment to address that little issue. Because she was hardly confident in her ability—or her desire, for that matter—to hold him off. While Nikolai described to Max, with punctilious precision, exactly what he could do with his safety issue, she slid the purchase order from her waistband and tucked it securely between the mattress and the box spring.

  No way Nikolai would discover it there, unless he stripped the bed and pulled the mattress off.

  “How about some grub, Doc?” Max called.

  “No thank you, Major,” she called back with admirable sang-froid, given the circumstances. “It’s a bit late for dinner.”

  “Want more of that Armenian cognac? Good stuff, ain’t it?”

  “Max.” Clearly Nikolai had reached his limit. “Go. Away.”

  The pilot started to say something else, but Nikolai closed the door in his face. This time, he took the precaution of locking it.

  Skylar wasn’t certain how she felt about that. Or why she hadn’t seized the moment and grabbed the safety line Maxim Vasylko was trying to throw her. She might have secured the incriminating document—but it didn’t mean she was fancy free to fuck her brains out with a Russian hit man.

  “Nikolai.” Resolutely she kept her eyes off the deadly distraction of his naked chest. “It’s very late, and this has been quite a day. I think we should call it a night.”

  He didn’t bother arguing with her—at least not in words. He silenced her by the devastating expedient of unbuckling his belt and releasing his zipper.

  _____________________________________

  Nikolai had spent decades studying the complex, contradictory, complicated woman who was Skylar Rossi. He knew she wasn’t promiscuous. In fact, she barely had a dating history—after Kirill. He’d known Vasylko’s little interruption would give her all the time she needed to recall why they shouldn’t be doing this.

  And he didn’t give a damn.

  This wasn’t a woman to engage in a war of words. She was a professional diplomat. So he simply released his zipper and dropped his trousers, which effectively rendered her speechless.

  Her jaw actually dropped as he stepped out of his slacks and folded them over a chair. Calmly he unstrapped the six-inch serrated knife from his ankle and laid it on top. He faced her unarmed, in black boxer briefs and Emporio Armani socks—six foot one of thoroughly aroused and determined male.

  Top that, Dr. Rossi, he thought.

  Hugging her knees protectively, she pressed against the headboard. Wearing nothing but a pair of bedraggled trousers he was hell-bent on getting her out of. Still clasping his shirt against her breasts—an observation which afforded him a certain gratification. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated with arousal.

  His mission was simple, his strategy direct. He wanted her lush mouth against his and her gorgeous breasts in his hands as quickly as possible. To be shortly followed by her sleek dancers’ legs wrapped around his waist when he came inside her.

  She had to clear her throat twice before she could say his name.

  “Nikolai…”

  “This isn’t a negotiation, Dr. Rossi.” He crawled onto the bed, gripped her ankles, and pulled her gently toward him. “It’s a coup d’etat.”

  She hung onto his shirt, but was no match for his strength. He crawled between her parted legs and slid up her thighs. Her legs were miles long, and he enjoyed every inch of the journey.

  His hands met at the juncture of her thighs, right over the seam of her trousers.

  Now he was the one who had to clear his throat.

  “Are you already wet for me, Skylar?”

  She voiced a small moan. He thought it was the sexiest sound he’d ever heard. When he cupped his hand over her warmth, she pressed into his touch. Slowly he slid forward, breathing in the mingled fragrance of hyacinth, citrus and feminine arousal.

  He was going to lose his mind.

  He snared the front of her trousers in his teeth and delicately unhooked the waist. In the charged silence, her soft gasp made him smile.

  But she didn’t stop him. If he wanted permission, that was all the authorization he needed.

  He closed his teeth around her zipper and eased it down. Beneath, she wore black lace panties that did little to shield her from his hungry gaze. They were transparent enough to reveal that Dr. Skylar Rossi, organic chemist and ambassador, kept a narrow racing stripe of jet-black curls that did absolutely nothing to hide her best-kept secrets.

  A growl rose from his throat, a predator goaded beyond restraint by the sight of his prey. He dragged down her trousers, revealing yards of sleek golden legs, and tossed the garment aside. Now only a pair of hip-hugger black lace panties stood between him and the best damn climax of his forty-plus years.

  His heart was pounding like a triphammer, cock erect and aching, his entire body tight with testosterone and humming with purpose. This was nothing like the detached sexual interest and cool functionality that fueled his customary encounters, engineered to induce the mechanical shock of orgasm without emotional investment.

  For the first time in years—decades—he felt alive. Like something mattered. And he didn’t care to ponder what that something might be.

  When he reached for her panties, she caught his hands.

  He met her gaze, so serious and direct. A crease appeared between her dark brows.

  “Are you going to report this?” she asked quietly. “Is this part of your orders? Standard operating procedure for the women you protect?”

  “Screw the orders,” he said hoarsely—as though he meant it. “This is about you and me.”

  She searched his face, her blue eyes thoughtful. He found himself holding his breath. If she pulled back now, he was going to lose his goddamn mind. He was going to explode if he couldn’t get inside her.

  “Allora,” she sighed, that musical, all-purpose Italian phrase that meant a dozen things, depending on the context. In this case, he thought it meant So be it. Her hands fell away as she lay back.

  A fist squeezed his chest, a sensation utterly foreign and vaguely alarming. With difficulty, he spoke through it.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Skylar. I swear it.”

  God help him, at that moment, he meant every word.

  Her kiss-swollen mouth curled in a languid smile.

  “Then what are you wait
ing for?”

  He got her out of her black lace panties in record time.

  _____________________________________

  Skylar was floating in a sea of unexplored sensation. She let it wash over her, sluicing away a lifetime of caution and restraint. She lay naked in a sea of champagne silk, head spinning, body tingling, toes curling as Nikolai crouched like a panther between her thighs. Her nipples were tight as buttons, clit swelling like a ripe cherry, flesh hot and damp with anticipation.

  He was the last man on earth she should trust. But here, now, tonight, he was the only man she needed.

  If it weren’t for Nikolai Markov, she’d be dead right now. As it was, she’d never felt more alive.

  Beneath his smoking gaze, she moistened her lips and whispered, “Are you just going to look at me?”

  “No.” Graceful as a leopard, he crouched over her. “First, I’m going to taste you.”

  The hot wet slide of his tongue along her slit sent a bolt of electricity arcing through her. She cried out and rose into the caress.

  Madonna mia, he was the devil with that tongue of his. A woman would do anything, say anything, to feel what she was feeling. By rights, that ought to scare the hell out of her.

  Don’t think.

  Fists knotted in the duvet, heels digging into the mattress, she melted and ran like butter all over his tongue and fingers.

  The next orgasm was stronger, a coil of raw energy that slammed through her until she vibrated like a harp under the wet silk of his tongue. When he eased two fingers inside her, she tightened and convulsed around him like she never wanted to let him go.

  And that was going to be a problem, wasn’t it?

  Don’t think.

  Desperate to drown out that cautionary whisper, starving for him like the proverbial beggar at a banquet, she clutched his shoulders and dragged him toward her. His briefs quickly dispatched, his hard length seared her fingers when she closed around him. He groaned like a man in pain.

  She opened her eyes to find him braced above her, eyes closed, brow furrowed, his delectable mouth contorted as though the feel of her was killing him. When her legs twined around his lean hips and pulled him against her, his cock slid against her liquid heat until they both panted.

  “Skylar—Christ.” His teeth sank into her lower lip, a quick sting of pain that only heightened her pleasure. “Let me…”

  “Yes,” she whispered, a breathy exhale. Her final surrender. “Do it now.”

  Then his thick length was filling her, stretching her, claiming her—completing her. The force of the ultimate climax rushed toward her like a tidal wave and crashed over her. As it swept her to sea, far away from solid ground, she knew she was in way over her head—in more ways than one.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Exchange: A player captures a hostile piece but allows a piece of the same value to be captured.

  By the time he was inducted into the KGB, in the sunset of the old Soviet Union, Nikolai had conditioned himself to sleep lightly, if he slept at all. Thus, when a muffled sound jolted him from an uncharacteristically deep sleep, he was startled.

  But not startled enough to open his eyes.

  He lay perfectly still, every sense honed and active, gathering the information he needed before he moved. He was naked as a baby, weapons out of reach on the bedside table, tangled up in a sea of Egyptian linen and Skylar Rossi’s silken limbs.

  He’d been criminally negligent falling asleep in her arms, his body sodden and aching with sexual fulfillment. He’d had her half-a-dozen times.

  Yet he hadn’t asked her a single question about what she’d learned in Khimgorod.

  He hadn’t searched her clothing while she slept.

  He hadn’t done a bloody damn thing, in fact, except apply all his inventiveness, attention to detail and determination to make Skylar come as often and as hard as possible.

  Clearly he’d lost his edge. It was time to get out of wet work, before he started making dangerous mistakes that would inevitably prove fatal. He’d known it a long time ago, but hadn’t been prepared to accept what that meant.

  Until now.

  Just let him get Skylar to Capri, collect his fee and transfer the money to the offshore account of Irina’s crooked but brilliant neurosurgeon, and he was officially retired. He’d discard the identity of Nikolai Markov as he’d discarded others over the years, starting with the one he’d been born with.

  He’d build a new life for Irina and Misha, build a new life for himself on some tropical island with a lenient tax code—maybe Cuba. Havana had always been a safe haven for men like him.

  And he’d do his best to forget a woman named Skylar Rossi had ever existed.

  A soft cry snapped his eyes open, a sound very like the one that had woken him. In the stateroom’s subdued lighting, nothing seemed out of place, the door still securely locked, the muted hum of the jet engines a steady drone in his ears.

  But Skylar was having a nightmare.

  Beside him she tossed restlessly, limbs twitching, breath ragged. A fine sheen of perspiration glittered on her forehead.

  Her face was wet with tears.

  Something knotted in his gut—a sentiment he didn’t care to examine. Over the years, the professional hit man called the Maestro had made too many women cry for the men he’d killed—even if they were mostly bastards who’d deserved it.

  Yet for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t like it when Skylar wept.

  In her sleep, her lips were moving. When he leaned in to listen, he found she wasn’t whispering state secrets. She was abjectly miserable.

  And she was saying Papà.

  He uttered a soft, vicious curse and gripped her shoulder. Her eyes flew open, breath catching in mid-sob.

  Looking into her tear-washed eyes, he felt the knot in his gut pull tighter. He barely fought down the lover-like urge to smooth the hair from her damp face.

  “You were crying out in your sleep,” he said tersely. “Everything all right?”

  She blinked. Comprehension sharpened her sleep-muddled features.

  “I—I must have been dreaming. I’m sorry to wake you. You’ve certainly earned your right to a good night’s sleep.”

  She spoke dryly, but a hint of color in her cheeks gave the lie to her composure. She had to be struggling, just like he was, as the heated memories of the past few hours came trickling back.

  Her fingers brushed her tearstained cheeks, and a look of chagrin chased across her face. She didn’t want him to see her crying.

  Taking pity on her discomfort—another reaction as foreign as mercy to the man called the Maestro—he reached for the handkerchief in his jacket.

  Except that he’d left the jacket flung over a chair in the passenger cabin, along with the wallet containing his excellent fake I.D. and the ceramic knife, slim and compact as a credit card, which was his weapon of last resort.

  Criminally careless of him, an uncharacteristic mistake. Another sign it was time for the Maestro to disappear into genteel retirement, sipping mojitos on a beach in Cuba.

  He found a box of tissue on the nightstand and passed it to her. While she took care of business, he glanced at his watch. They’d been chasing the long Siberian night west into the Urals, but the first trace of daylight should soon be leaking around the shades over the porthole windows. He ought to get up, get dressed, see what mischief that reprehensible Ukrainian was up to in the cockpit.

  But first, he needed to question the mark. After all, he still needed the money.

  While she composed herself, he extracted a cigarette and his gold lighter from his trouser pocket and lit up. Then he reclined for a smoke, like a man well satisfied by a night’s passion.

  Which, in fact, he was. Despite the hidden currents that swirled beneath the surface of their every encounter, a sense of primal male satisfaction infused him. If he wasn’t mistaken, Skylar had marked him with her manicured nails and those sharp little teeth. Quite the little vixen she was… />
  Firmly he applied his mind to the mission and took a long pull of the cigarette. The smoky perfume of nicotine curled around his tongue, which made him crave his morning espresso.

  Later, he told himself. You’re working here.

  He baited his first trap.

  “What were you dreaming about?”

  If she told him she’d dreamed about the monster under the bed, he’d know she still didn’t trust him. Of course, with a father like Dane Rossi, the word monster was hardly misplaced.

  “Old times,” she said lightly, smoothing back her tumbled hair.

  But she didn’t quite pull off the show of nonchalance. She was vulnerable, off-balance, just where he needed her to be.

  He propped his cigarette against the ashtray on the bedside table. Smoking might be verboten aboard a western plane, but Russian planes came well equipped to cater to the national habit. He was willing to bet this was some oligarch’s sky toy.

  The only question in his mind was whether Vasylko had altered the call sign when he’d stolen it.

  “Does the smoke bother you?” he asked. “Your asthma?”

  “Compared to the inferno at the nightclub last night?” She managed a wobbly smile. “Cigarettes have never bothered me. My father smoked like a chimney.”

  Her father. The mark had just exposed her tender underbelly. The problem was that he no longer saw her as the mark. His obsession with her was a streak of sentimentality, a weak spot a mile wide. She was a weakness a man like him could hardly afford.

  You’d better give something to Ludmilla if you want the MFA’s money. Get Skylar talking and keep her talking.

  “Italians and their little vices,” he murmured.

  Her sleek arm lay outside the sheets. He eased one finger slowly along the silken skin from her wrist to her shoulder and watched goose bumps pebble her sun-kissed skin.

  “Recently, I find I’ve become rather fond of Italians.”

  His voice had deepened. That telltale hint of physical response was enough to make him hard again. He still wanted her, wanted her under him, on top of him. He wanted to circumvent her Maginot Line of careful defenses and figure out what made her tick.