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

by Nikki Navarre

  Firmly he dragged his mind back to business.

  “As long as you’re on this island, Skylar, Vladimir Krasnov isn’t going to let a woman anywhere near this transaction. Not to mention, you’ve still got a hit man on your tail.”

  “There are some aspects of having a hit man on my tail I’ve rather liked.” Her eyes ran appreciatively over his naked chest. His cock stirred, but he ignored the damn thing.

  He settled his pistol against the small of his back and shrugged into his shirt.

  “The first thing we’re going to do is check out of this hotel. Until we do, you’re a sitting duck. You’ll ask the concierge to book you on a flight out of Salerno back to the States. Then I’m going to drive you down to the harbor, as visibly as possible, and we’re going to get into our rented boat and motor away.”

  She was already shaking her head, eyes darkening with anger.

  “Mannaggia! I’m not leaving.”

  “It’s a Potemkin village—an elaborate ruse designed to mislead,” he said patiently. “In chess, we’d call it a swindle. With any luck, it will throw off the hit man who’s tracking you. With you gone, having apparently given up, I’m hoping the CMA will cancel the hit. At a minimum, Krasnov should feel more secure when he meets his North Korean counterpart.”

  She nibbled her lip and said nothing, but he could sense her weighing his words. Deciding whether to trust him.

  Any rational woman would have stopped trusting him a long time ago. But this was Skylar. Brilliant, beautiful, stubborn as hell Skylar—who had somehow fallen in love with him.

  When he looked into her eyes, he looked into her soul. And his world fell apart.

  So he kept his eyes on his business and buckled his belt.

  “If you don’t wish to trust me, one can hardly blame you.”

  “I trust you, Nikolai,” she said softly, her eyes shimmering. “I’m just wondering what sort of disguise would work best on you.”

  She trusted him.

  Something inside him fractured. He had the feeling it might be the ice cube he’d been carrying around in his chest.

  “We’re going to need more than a clever disguise to pull this off,” he said gruffly, reaching for his mobile. “We’re going to need real backup.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Checkmate: To attack in such a manner that no escape or defense is possible, thus ending the game.

  “I never expected to hear myself say this,” Nikolai said to Skylar as they sashayed across the opulent lobby of Capri’s most exclusive hotel. “But would you mind not pressing your breast against my arm? It’s a bit of a distraction.”

  Despite the nervous energy coursing through her system like a triple espresso, a thrill of feminine satisfaction made her smile. She wrapped her hands tighter around his bicep, sheathed in a jacket of butter-soft suede, and snuggled up against him as she wiggled across the oriental carpet toward the intimate cubby of the lobby bar.

  “I thought distraction was the point,” she murmured.

  “It is, but you’re not supposed to be distracting me.”

  He sounded as sublimely untroubled as a man requesting the Wall Street Journal to accompany his morning cigarette. But she knew that, behind the mirrored shades that concealed his eyes, he was scanning the scene for their prey.

  At this hour, the denizens of this luxury hotel were gathering for dinner or cocktails, limousines purring smoothly along the circular drive, water taxis bobbing at the quay beneath the cliff. Their powerboat, like a dozen pleasure craft plying the aquamarine waters around Capri, was discreetly moored among them.

  If only she felt more confident that their splashy departure, laden with designer luggage and shopping bags, from her boutique hotel an hour ago had achieved the desired result and thrown her pursuer off the scent.

  If he’d followed them here, to the hotel Krasnov had already checked into, their cannoli was cooked.

  Nikolai seemed to sense her tension. He wound an arm around her waist, suede sliding against her naked back above the low-cut evening gown. Tremors skated across her skin along her bare arms.

  “It’s not too late to call this whole thing off,” he breathed in her ear. “According to my man upstairs, Krasnov hasn’t left his room.”

  The sophisticated fragrance of amber mingled with the perfume of French cigarettes, a scent whose subtle familiarity she drank in like a bracing cocktail. As they glided past a floor-length mirror, she caught a glimpse of their reflection. They looked good together.

  More importantly, they looked nothing like their customary selves.

  The glittering sea-foam fabric of her designer evening gown swirled around her ankles and clung to her curves, the plunging halter neck revealing more cleavage than she’d ever dared. Her upswept red-gold hair, oversized silver ankh earrings, and smoky kohl-shadowed eyes made her look like someone else entirely. Even if she didn’t factor in the small, teal-colored octopus—surprisingly elegant for a temporary tattoo—nestled behind one shoulder.

  If the evening went as planned, no one would ever notice the button-sized digital camera embedded in the clasp of her silver clutch. Or the ultra-thin, credit card knife tucked inside—Nikolai’s idea of a fashion accessory, a weapon of last resort.

  She looked like the expensive, slightly outré girlfriend of a rock musician, which was precisely the effect they were going for.

  Although she knew he was a master of disguise, she was still amazed by Nikolai’s seamless transformation from the sophisticated, espresso-sipping, Armani-clad Maestro to a dashing reprobate with shoulder-length black hair and a stylish goatee. He rocked a pair of sleek black leather pants and motorcycle boots like nobody’s business.

  They were certainly attracting plenty of attention as they waltzed into the bar and perched on a pair of trendy stools. But it was the curious, slightly prurient attention of casual spectators wondering which platinum rock star had just strolled into their orbit.

  When Nikolai broke out a slim Cuban cigar and lit up, she considered their disguise complete.

  She ordered a flashy pink Cosmo for appearances’ sake, though she knew she wouldn’t touch it. The subtle buzz of Nikolai’s mobile phone set her synapses firing and kicked her system into high alert.

  He glanced at the tiny screen with an appearance of utter ennui for the benefit of their viewing audience.

  “Showtime,” he said softly.

  That meant General Krasnov was on his way downstairs, and Nikolai’s backup—an ex-colleague retired from Italian intelligence, she gathered—had texted him a warning.

  Nikolai lifted her hand and nibbled on her fingers, which did nothing whatsoever to calm her.

  “Remember not to look at him,” he said against her skin. “I’m the only man on this island for you. You’ve been fantasizing about me and angling for my attention since the day you saw my debut music video on MTV.”

  She managed a nervous laugh.

  “Can you even sing?”

  “Pray you never have to find out.” He eyed her above the rim of his mirrored shades and smiled.

  Despite everything—the imminent arrival of the kingpin of a chemical weapons smuggling ring, the presence somewhere on this island of a hit man who wanted her dead, the high geopolitical and personal stakes they were playing for—the thought crossed her mind that she loved him. She didn’t care what he’d been before, in the shadowy history he’d renounced. He was the only man who’d ever made her feel safe—who’d kept her safe in the face of impossible odds.

  Just the way he’d promised to keep her safe tonight.

  A minor commotion near the entrance pulled her gaze toward the revolving glass doors. A black stretch limo had pulled up to disgorge a phalanx of dark-suited men with ear buds and purposeful expressions. Clearly the security detail for someone important, they spread out and stationed themselves at strategic points around the lobby.

  Skylar didn’t think such a showy arrival would suit a North Korean arms smuggler, but she’d
been wrong before. When a tall, slender man with salt-and-pepper hair and golden Mediterranean skin strolled into the lobby, her heart nearly stopped.

  “Papà,” she whispered.

  The newcomer paused to raise a slim hand in casual salute to some acquaintance, and her world lurched back into motion. It wasn’t Dane Rossi, the Mafia kingpin she’d watched die in a burning warehouse.

  It was only his brother Marco.

  “Merda,” she whispered.

  Nikolai’s fingers slid along her arm, a caress that dragged her gaze away.

  “What is it?” he murmured.

  She stared into his mirrored glasses and found her reflection, wide-eyed and pale under her runway model makeup.

  “I was a fool not to anticipate this.” She clutched the stem of her martini glass in shaking fingers and touched her lips to the rim. The fruity bite of the cocktail tasted like salt on her tongue. “The Rossis own a piece of every shady transaction from the Amalfi coast to Sicily. Somehow I doubt a random, completely unrelated illegal transaction is about to occur in this hotel at precisely the hour Krasnov plans to close his deal.”

  Casually Nikolai removed his shades, gaze flickering briefly toward the entrance.

  “One does discern a certain resemblance,” he said calmly. “That gentleman, I take it, would be…?”

  “My uncle Marco.” She groaned. “Of all the rotten luck!”

  “So the North Koreans sent a middleman instead of coming themselves. How likely is he to recognize you?”

  “Not very, I don’t think.” She frowned. “He hasn’t seen me since my father’s funeral. Sad to say, I’ve had to rebuff all overtures from the family since then. He certainly won’t expect to bump into me here, in this getup.”

  “Does this alter your plan?” He watched her keenly.

  “I don’t know.” She started to fumble for her spectacles—then, remembering her cover, took another sip of the appalling cocktail instead. If she never tasted another Cosmo, it wouldn’t be too soon.

  “My uncle is a known Mafioso,” she said slowly. “Being seen with him won’t help Krasnov make his case as the innocent party when that VX purchase order makes the media outlets. If he feels safe enough, he may well say something incriminating. I think we should stick to our plan.”

  Nikolai raised a brow. “Do let me know if you change your mind. Uncle Marco is headed straight for us.”

  Skylar buried her face in her wide-rimmed glass. From the corner of her eye, she watched her uncle fold his sleek, Versace-clad frame into a crimson-upholstered banquette along the wall.

  “Here comes our general.” Nikolai replaced his mirrored shades.

  Trying to act casual, she fiddled with her oversized earring and angled her clutch so the tiny camera was properly positioned. When she glanced toward the banquette, the Russian general was making a beeline straight for it.

  The head of the Chemical Munitions Agency was a bull of a man, short, squat and solid, sporting hard eyes and an iron-gray brush cut. Tan trousers and a navy-blue polo shirt did little to camouflage his military background. There was no question in her mind the general would be armed to the teeth.

  When he exchanged a brisk handshake with her uncle and squeezed his thick frame into the opposite banquette, she barely swallowed a groan. Presumably the automatic camera in her clutch was clicking away.

  The two men glanced up when the cocktail waitress appeared. While Marco Rossi flirted with the leggy blonde, white teeth flashing against suntanned skin, deploying all his trademark charm, the general sat back and scowled, clearly chafing with impatience.

  But he didn’t hesitate to toss back the double shot of vodka the waitress brought.

  “Ready?” Nikolai murmured.

  Not really, she thought, butterflies doing pirouettes in her belly. But she fished out her cell phone and pretended to take a call. While she prolonged her imaginary discussion, turning half-away from Nikolai, he fiddled and looked bored.

  Within minutes, he’d scooped up his glass of cheap American lager and wandered along the bar toward a sullen-looking Spanish girl poured into a clingy red evening gown who was drinking alone—not far from her uncle’s banquette.

  As Nikolai struck up a salacious conversation with the lady in red, Skylar prolonged her imaginary phone chat. Privately she marveled at how effortlessly he wore his dissolute, fashionably untidy rock star persona, so unlike the self-contained perfectionist she knew him to be.

  Do you really know him at all?

  Firmly she quelled her momentary misgivings. Appearances could be deceiving, but the truth was that he was standing there, running one hand up and down the Spanish girl’s silky shoulder, for Skylar’s sake.

  Under his suede jacket and burgundy shirt, he was wired with a compact device supplied by his Italian contact which, he’d assured her, was more than capable of sifting through the background noise to record the conversation between Vladimir Krasnov and her uncle Marco underway in the banquette nearby.

  Now she could do nothing but wait, adjust the angle of her clutch from time to time—and pray that neither the occupants nor her uncle’s scowling security noticed anything amiss.

  Tucking the phone against her ear, she was reaching for the bar menu when a hand clamped down on her bare shoulder. Simultaneously, something hard and cold dug into her naked back, directly over her vulnerable kidney.

  “Do yourself a favor, Mrs. Ambassador,” an ugly voice grated at her ear in Russian. “Don’t scream.”

  Her throat closed and her mouth went dry. Her brain flashed back to the harsh electric light of a warehouse in Bangkok, the bark of a pistol, the spray of blood and brains as Kirill’s head exploded, the scream that tore her throat…

  Fighting the flashback, she glanced toward the banquette. Krasnov still hunkered there, focused on his tete-a-tete with her uncle. Nikolai stood with his back to Skylar—a position that presented the best listening angle for the device taped inside his shirt.

  Skylar swallowed hard and tried to ignore the alarming feeling of tightness in her chest. She was carrying a new inhaler in her clutch—along with that credit-card knife.

  “Very well,” she said softly, dredging up her Russian. “I won’t scream. What happens next?”

  “First you put down the telephone, da?”

  As slowly as she dared, she complied, painfully aware of the concealed firearm digging into her back. Though she shivered with sudden chill, her palms were sweating. As she lowered the phone, her thumb grazed the redial button.

  Her last call had gone to Nikolai when she gave him this number.

  The gun dug into her back, making her cringe.

  “Now you come with me.”

  As she slid off the stool, she gathered her clutch and glanced toward Nikolai. The phone had to be buzzing in the pocket of his leather pants. But he was draped all over his would-be conquest and oozing rock star mojo.

  As her stilettos hit the floor, she snuck a glance back at her captor. Her gaze locked with a pair of mud-gray eyes set in a scruffy face under a thatch of dirty black hair.

  Her heart missed a beat.

  She was being kidnapped at gunpoint by Nikolai’s sidekick Ilya.

  The same Ilya she had to thank, she suspected, for the canister of nerve agent in her last inhaler.

  Her breath hitched and rasped in her throat, but Ilya closed right in behind her and prodded her toward the exit. If only he weren’t gripping her so tightly, she might have tried stumbling or crying out. But she knew without doubt he’d blow her intestines out through the front of her torso.

  And he’d enjoy doing it.

  Reeking of cheap cigarettes and muttering obscenities in her ear, her kidnapper nudged hard to hurry her along. She had no choice but to comply—hoping every moment Nikolai would turn and raise the alarm. But not a soul in the crowded lobby intervened to prevent the scowling Ilya from muscling her out a side exit.

  She found herself on the rocky path that wound down through the gard
en to the cove.

  “Where are you taking me?” she nearly wheezed as they hurried along, leaving the brilliantly illuminated palace of the hotel behind. Soon she’d have to reach for her inhaler and pray he let her do it.

  Maybe he’d think she hadn’t found the VX.

  “For a private boat ride, Mrs. Ambassador,” Ilya grated. “Just you and me and many kilometers of open sea.”

  She took her courage in both hands.

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Eventually.” He chuckled. “First I have some little toys I’m going to enjoy showing you. And a good friend in my trousers who wants to get better acquainted.”

  Her stomach churned. She couldn’t repress a small sound in the back of her throat.

  He grunted with satisfaction.

  “Actually, I’m grateful to Nikolai for intervening at your hotel. The poison gas in your inhaler was Krasnov’s idea, da? But this new plan is all mine.”

  Her heart pounded against the narrowing cage of her lungs as he propelled her roughly before him. Somehow she had to get away from this madman before he forced her into his boat. Once they’d left the relative security of the island, she knew without doubt she’d never see dry land again.

  Yet he was still digging that hidden weapon into her spine.

  She feigned a stumble in her stilettos—anything to slow him down. His grip on her upper arm tightened until her bicep throbbed. Wildly she threw a question.

  “So you took the MFA’s money for protecting me, but all along you’ve been working for Krasnov?”

  “Protecting you?” He snorted, breath rank on her cheek as he puffed on the rough path. “Is that what Nikolai told you? Our orders were to scare you off. If you wouldn’t leave, then we could kill you.”

  The breath rattled in her lungs. But she’d known it all along, hadn’t she? Even though Nikolai had skirted the truth. She’d forgive him every lie he’d ever told her if only he came to her rescue one last time.

  “Myself, I hoped you wouldn’t scare so easy.” Ilya’s ugly laugh grated in her ear. “I assumed, with your history, Nikolai was hoping the same. But I could tell the moment he saw you something was fucked. Obviously he wanted to get between your legs. Who could blame him, da?”