The Russian Seduction (4 page)

“For God’s sake, Alexis.” Geoff Chase strode into her office, stylish as ever in his Brooks Brothers suit. “Would it kill you for once to answer the damn telephone?”

Alexis feigned a startled glance at her desk phone, where the message light had been flashing
Danger, Will Robinson
all afternoon, and whose clock now read quarter after six. Her secretary had warned her he’d been ringing, but certain knowledge of the topic had persuaded Alexis not to pick up.

She’d done everything she could to help Geoff overcome his buried insecurities, both professional and romantic, while they were married. Sometimes, she still wondered whether her failure made her responsible for his subsequent infidelities. Clearly, she hadn’t been supportive enough, hadn’t measured up as a wife, so he’d been forced to turn elsewhere.

“I was tied up with ECON,” she said briskly, referring to the economics section downstairs. “This presidential visit next month has us fully extended, and my team is still short staffed. Sorry that I missed your call.”

“
Calls
.” Geoff’s pointed gaze zeroed in on the captain’s photo. “I called you four times today, Alexis. Starting right after I read the report on your chit-chat last night with Kostenko. Please tell me you’re not planning to go out with the man.”

“It’s not a date, Geoff.” Struggling to contain a surge of exasperation, she tidied the train wreck of documents scattered across her desk. “I’m going to demarche the guy, who happens to be a senior MFA diplomat and my direct counterpart, on a situation which is causing our government grave and justified concern. I’m going to take detailed notes for Washington on his official reply. Then I’m going home to drink a nice glass of Grenache, read a romance novel, and go to bed. I trust that itinerary meets with your approval?”

“In fact, it doesn’t.” Irritably, he adjusted his cufflinks as she closed up her safe—a reinforced steel filing cabinet almost as tall as she was, with an industrial-strength combination lock. “But you’ll do whatever the devil you please, of course, just as you always have.”

Geoff darted a glance into the corridor, then eased the door closed. “Didn’t the captain’s dossier ring any alarm bells with you?”

“Yes, it did.” She dipped into her closet to snag the Russian-made shearling coat that kept her alive in the subzero Moscow temperatures. “It tells me our intel guys are getting lazy. They dug up almost nothing about Kostenko’s eighteen years of naval service. No explanation for why he rocketed through the ranks, despite his Ukrainian ancestry, and despite an apparent relish for bending the rules.”

“Obviously, he’s a loose cannon whose peccadilloes were overlooked for his father’s sake.” Geoff lent a hand as she struggled into the heavy fur-lined coat.

In the early days of their relationship, his Old World gentleman’s manners had charmed her. For a moment she was lost, swimming in a sea of painful memories. All those years she’d thought she loved him…

“And that’s not all,” he continued, clearly unaware of her reaction as usual. “There’s next to nothing in his dossier about the year Kostenko just spent at the Russian Embassy in D.C., did you notice? The boys upstairs can’t get a handle on this chap. And we both know what that means.”

“He seems a bit flamboyant to be an agent,” she murmured, moving away. A memory seared through her of the captain’s powerhouse build beneath that uniform—not to mention that toe-curling whiff of Beckham. Suddenly, her office felt way too warm.

“James Bond and
Mission Impossible
to the contrary,” she finished, “you know yourself that agents tend to be the blandest, most colorless, most blend-in-the-crowd kind of people. But this one—he’s into extreme sports: ice-diving, high-altitude climbing, you name it. A real adventure junkie.”

“Alexis,” Geoff sighed, with that air of elaborate patience she despised. “Our comrades at Lubyanka have figured out what turns you on, can’t you see that? They’ve created a legend for this fellow, and you’re buying it. Clearly, this so-called date is a clumsy attempt to compromise my new Political Counselor, just the way we compromised their gal last month. You’re playing right into their hands, and I won’t have it.”

“Don’t be paranoid, Geoff. It’s not a date—and it’s my call to make.” She slipped off her pumps and wiggled into the sexy boots that complemented her conservative pinstriped skirt and jacket. “Look, you said yourself that I need to nail this demarche. As you’ve reminded me so pointedly, the clock is ticking, and this is my chance to prove that I’m worth my salt. I can’t cancel this meeting.”

When he said nothing, she stifled a sigh. “I’m writing a reporting cable on it tomorrow, for God’s sake. You’ll know every word he says to me.”

“Oh, come on, Alexis,” he groaned. “Kostenko was their golden boy until his father’s mishap on the
V.I. Lenin
. Your new boyfriend was the youngest Captain First Rank in their entire navy! And surely you’ve noticed that the man’s wife left him? What does that tell you about his character?”

“She was the daughter of a former KGB chief, who left him the moment his father’s actions brought Kostenko under scrutiny.” And his wife’s abandonment must have been devastating for him—an event whose outcome, for once, he couldn’t control. In fact, Alexis was beginning to wonder whether the captain’s boundless arrogance might hide a few vulnerabilities of his own. “Our analysts think she left him because the match was no longer politically expedient. They promptly divorced, and now she dances in St. Pete with the Mariinsky Ballet. No kids, a clean break.”

“That seems rather tidy and convenient, doesn’t it?” he said dryly. “They’ve even gift-wrapped it for you. Merry Christmas.”

Alexis knew she shouldn’t, but the old bitterness coated her mouth like too-strong coffee. “Maybe she left him for the same reason I left you.”

“I made a mistake, Alexis. How long are you going to punish me for it?” His remorse sounded genuine, until he brought up the next old grievance. “It’s called being human! You may walk on water, but the rest of us mere mortals slip up from time to time. Barbara never meant a thing to me, not like—”

“Not like the one before, or the one after?” As she dug out her suede gloves, Alexis was surprised to realize their painful breakup was starting to feel like ancient history. Two years after she’d discovered his string of devastating infidelities, Geoff’s betrayal still hurt, but she no longer felt destroyed by it.

More than anything, she was pissed at herself for making what was so obviously the wrong choice, and for all the wrong reasons. Thank God she’d discovered the truth and found the courage to leave him, before she wasted her entire life on a man whose colossal ego and the insecurities it concealed would always take precedence over his wedding vows.

Yet she still struggled to overcome that crushing sense of inadequacy, to dismiss Geoff’s cool assertions that his need for other women was somehow her fault. She still struggled to put their divorce in perspective, and chalk it up to lessons learned.

Like millions of women before her, she’d trusted the wrong guy. And she didn’t intend to make the same mistake twice.

“It’s late, Geoff.” She mustered an apologetic tone, though she no longer felt contrite. “I need to get going.”

“Yes, I can see it’s six thirty. We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.” As she tried to slip past him, he nailed her with a flat gray stare. “You’re making a serious mistake, Alexis. And I’m going to be here when you realize that.”

Over the years, she’d worked hard to tune out his ominous predictions. After all, Geoff was a career Foreign Service Officer, so the ability to wring his hands with conviction was practically a job requirement. This time, as she stared into his cold eyes, a chill of unease shivered down her spine.

From what she knew of her ex’s unwieldy romantic history, he’d always been the one who did the leaving. Yet, ultimately, he
had
accepted her generous settlement—her way of regaining control, and maneuvering him out of her life. He’d needed the money to support his elegant lifestyle, he’d signed the papers, and she was back in the driver’s seat.

Swallowing the rejoinder that hovered on her lips, she opted for an impersonal goodnight and ducked past him into the corridor.

As Alexis hurried through the Embassy compound toward the barred and guarded South Gate, she told herself she’d only given Geoff the truth. Aside from the fact he was sending a car as a courtesy, there was absolutely nothing to distinguish Captain Victor Kostenko from dozens of Russian officials she routinely met—including in social settings—as part of her job.

Still, that wasn’t what her intuition was telling her. She only needed to recall the simmering heat when those Nordic blue eyes slid over her body, or the way his growly voice in her ear made her shiver like a patient spiking a 103 degree fever. Though she’d worked hard to convince herself this appointment was business as usual, hadn’t she known she was lying?

_____________________________________

Her heart hammered when Alexis spied the sleek black Mercedes with its red diplomatic plates, conspicuous as a pro wrestler at a ladies’ tea party, rumbling in the snow-lined residential street outside the South Gate. Despite the intrigue of its opaque windows, the captain wasn’t waiting for her in the MFA vehicle—and Alexis told herself she was definitely
not
disappointed.

The stone-faced driver replied brusquely to her questions. His orders were to bring her to the captain for their appointment, about which he knew precisely nothing. And the flunky hardly cared whether she climbed in or not.

Settling into the heated leather seat, Alexis expected to be driven the short distance to the gothic Stalin-era skyscraper that housed the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Instead, the car plunged into the solid bumper-to-bumper traffic that crawled toward the Kremlin, in the oldest part of town.

As the car idled in traffic beside the colorful cluster of onion-domed churches that sprouted around Red Square, she drew on ten years of discipline and passed the time constructively. She reviewed the documents she needed to deliver, ensured her familiarity with every aspect of her instructions, tried to anticipate any curve balls Kostenko might throw at her.

Still gridlocked in a logjam of trolleybuses, filth-caked minivans, and the sleek SUVs driven by Moscow’s wealthy New Russians, she snapped open her compact and brushed her hair. She outlined her mouth in pale lipstick, slicked a coat of mascara over the lashes fringing her turquoise eyes. Then, firmly, she stopped herself from any more primping.

This wasn’t a date, after all.

While she cultivated a polished look, she’d always preferred to downplay her feminine assets in the office. Bad enough that colleagues who barely knew her assumed her accomplishments were due to her redoubtable father the Undersecretary, or her serially-unfaithful ex-husband—who would still make Ambassador before his next post. When she was working, she didn’t want her gender taking center stage.

Of course, in this career, she was nearly always working.

But the current international emergency wasn’t about Alexis or her insecurities. The recent incursion by the Russian navy into the territorial waters of their neighbor, the former satellite state of Ukraine, was only the latest crisis in a complicated U.S.-Russian relationship. President Cartwright herself had expressed grave concern with the Russians’ recent chest-thumping, and Alexis wasn’t about to let the ball drop on her watch.

She glanced up as the driver cut his engine and switched on his flashers—double-parking illegally, with Russian bravado, in front of the classical high-pillared hall that housed the world-famous Bolshoi Ballet.

“I don’t believe this!” she murmured, shivering as she emerged onto the icy pavement. Still no sign of Kostenko. Thankfully, the scowling driver thawed enough to grasp her arm against the real possibility of a bone-breaking spill on the uneven pavement.

Maybe the captain was going to stand her up after all. What were the odds he’d try to head off her demarche with a high-end ballet ticket? He’d probably seen in her dossier that she patronized the arts. Wasn’t that more likely than the prospect of Victor Tarasovich Kostenko, renegade captain of the Russian navy, talking global security while watching
Swan Lake
?

Well, if he’d wanted to throw her off-balance, he’d definitely succeeded, though she’d never let him know it. She was still wondering if he’d even show up as they squeezed through the crowd into the venerable theater. Gripping her briefcase, Alexis felt anticipation and nerves knotting her stomach as her driver opened the door to a private box.

Left and right the paneled walls reared, framing the dazzling expanse of red-and-gold stage curtain—five stories high—embossed with the two-headed Russian eagle. Beneath chandeliers blazing with light, a glittering throng of spectators milled on the parterre below, their hushed whispers rolling toward her in an ocean of sound.

Yet somehow the opulent surroundings seemed tame and overdone behind the dark solitary figure who stood straight-backed at the rail, overlooking the crowded tiers like a general reviewing his troops.

He pivoted at her entrance, the electric light flashing on his epaulets like an officer’s salute, gold against stark black. Playing up the sun-bronzed column of his throat, barely civilized in his loosened collar and tie—more deviations from regulation. Bars of shadow sliced under his Slavic cheekbones, making him look relentless, even cruel.