The Blood Code (6 page)

“You like the food? Next will be sturgeon.
Bolshaya.
”

Her laughter had drawn Ivanov’s attention. He followed the direction of her gaze, saw Ryan—who’d had the good sense to look away from Anya and return to his conversation—and narrowed his eyes at her.

Grams needs you. Play your part
. Maybe if she pretended to have forgotten her native language, and seemed to be more American than Russian, it would turn him off. “
Bolshaya
means ‘a lot,’ right?”

One small act of defiance, but it worked to make Ivanov forget about Ryan, and take to instructing her. He stretched his arms out to demonstrate. “
Da
.
Bolshaya
. Big.”

He lifted his vodka shot glass and tapped it against her champagne glass. “The longer you are here, Czarevna, the more you will remember your Russian ancestry and learn about your Russian future.”

The longer you are here
. His summons had only required her presence for the summit, but every minute with him confirmed the truth about his true intentions.

He downed the shot and slapped the upturned glass on the table. “You and I, together.” He smiled, and in that smile she saw something that made her heart hammer. “
Vazhny.
Also big. Important.”

For years after Grams had removed her from Russia, shadowy monsters followed Anya everywhere. In her imagination, in her dreams. The man in black was always there. Now, staring at Ivanov, it was as if the Grimm tales had come to life. The monster of her youth had materialized in front of her.

But Grams had trained her well. Showing fear or uncertainty would send a fatal signal to the monster, giving him the upper hand. The reality was, she was a nobody, and Ivanov was the president of the Russian Federation. She had something he wanted, though. Something no one else could give him.

Her Imperial Russian genes. Defective though they were.

During her years in America, living under a false name and keeping a low profile, she’d had to pretend her royal blood didn’t exist. But, here in the place of her birth, the blood of her ancestors swirled in her body, alive and vibrant, and fighting to resurface. The princesses who’d come before her whispered in her ear, bolstering her for the coming five days of torment.

For Grams, she would survive. For Grams, she would face the monster and win.

Fighting the urge to throw her champagne in Ivanov’s face, Anya instead raised her chin and smiled back at him, Ryan’s steady presence reassuring her.

Chapter Eight

He’d finally gotten a smile out of the princess. More, she’d laughed.

A small thing, but it made Ryan’s chest warm with a sense of accomplishment.

Even though he couldn’t hear the laugh, the effect had been mesmerizing, transforming her face like it had back at the cabin, and his imagination had happily filled in the sound. Before the night was over, he wanted to see if the real thing matched the soft, sexy resonance his brain had conjured.

The laugh made her body language do a complete one-eighty. From the curve of her lips, the change rose up her cheekbones to her eyes. The rigid determination he’d seen in them earlier disappeared, and in its place, a conspiratorial look of appreciation. The chain effect then slid down her body. Her tense shoulders relaxed and she took another deep breath.

While the entire metamorphosis took less than a heartbeat, Ryan registered every component.

But then Ivanov spoke to her and the satisfaction brewing in Ryan’s chest had dissipated. Irritation took its place.

Luckily Truman had been sitting on his left, carrying on the conversation without him, and asking questions as if they were indeed new friends. Before Ivanov could follow Anya’s gaze, Ryan had answered one of Truman’s benign questions. When he dared look back, she was talking to Ivanov.

A dangerous emotion took root in Ryan’s gut.

Anger.

Anger was generally born out of fear, sometimes out of revenge. This anger, however, came from jealousy.

Emotions, good or bad, made an operative vulnerable, and a vulnerable operative was a dead operative.

Ryan shoved the jealousy behind a steel door in his mind and slammed it shut. Jealousy, mission or no mission, had no place in his life.

He couldn’t, however, pull his focus away from Anya.

The change he’d affected was still present. The smile she gave Ivanov was reserved, almost demure, and yet there was an edge to it. A sharp edge. As if she’d realized something that renewed her self-confidence.

While the Russian president didn’t seem to notice, Ryan saw it in every expression on her face, every move she made over the next few minutes.

Waiters served an apple tart along with coffee. Anya dug into her dessert with an odd gusto lacking during the previous courses, and once again, a sense of satisfaction took hold inside him.

Truman spoke around a mouthful of tart. “You really think Ivanov’s new plaything is a credible asset for the US?”

Ryan sipped his coffee, ignoring the way his gut rebelled at
plaything
. “If I say no, you going to proposition her?”

“I wish. Unfortunately, I’m stuck with an internal affair.” Truman cut his eyes toward the female British diplomat at the nearby table. From the way he emphasized “affair,” Ryan figured the woman was probably selling or sharing national security secrets with a lover.

He made a mental note to put his own eyes and ears in London on her in case she was jeopardizing US security as well. “You staying in the Palace?”

“No. You?”

“That’s the plan. Pennington wants me at his beck and call. Not sure why, other than he’s completely out of his safe zone here.”

“I assume Michael Stone planted a bug in his ear. Gave you a gold star and all that.”

“The deputy director wouldn’t tell the president that I’m a spy, even if he is his brother-in-law. Lutz has his suspicions, but he’s been around a long time. Seen a lot of spies posing as various aides and advisors. I think I’ve convinced him I’m not, but if he tips my hand, he can kiss his ambassador title good-bye.”

Polishing off the last of his tart, Truman followed Ryan’s gaze to Anya. “Anything you want me to pass on to Langley about her?”

After seeing firsthand the extent of Ivanov’s “security” measures, Ryan was sure even with his high-tech communication gear, he couldn’t get anything in or out of the Palace without Ivanov’s people intercepting it. Truman could very well be his only safe link to the outside world.

Ryan didn’t like being in another spook’s debt, but this time, the risk might be worth it. “I’ve already asked Stone to confirm Anya’s story about her grandmother’s kidnapping. Conrad’s still out of commission, so check with Del and see if he’s heard anything. Tell him not to risk contacting me yet. He’s only to send information in with you.”

Truman gave a brusque nod.

“In return, what do you want from me?”

The British spy played with his fork, thinking it over. “I’ll let you know.”

After dinner, they were led to a salon off Georgievsky Hall, which continued the gold, marble, and crystal theme. A group of young children hovered around a grand piano at the far end, while a twenty-something man in a tux complete with tails sat at the piano, playing soft show tunes. A large arched window framed the group, and outside the window, snow continued to fall.

British and American security details fanned out around the perimeter. There were fewer Russian guards inside the salon, but the rest were outside the doors. As in any situation, worst-case scenarios ran through his head. Even with all the security keeping outside dangers from getting in, the people were sitting ducks if the danger came from within.

Ryan trusted Ivanov about as far as he could spit. Crazy Russian dictators were a cliché for a reason. As nonchalantly as possible, he watched Ivanov’s every move. Anya’s, too.

The seating in the salon was less formal and Ryan snagged a spot next to Barchai. The deputy prime minister was still keyed up, fiddling with his cufflinks, straightening his tie over and over again. Ryan took the opportunity to introduce himself and made a few polite comments about the evening’s meal, but Barchai’s responses were short and pointed, as if he weren’t really listening. Ryan let further socializing go.

An older woman, a grandmotherly type in a pale yellow dress, gathered the waiting children into a semicircle and cued the accompanist to begin. The oldest of the children looked to be eight or nine, and yet the quality of their voices as they sung traditional Russian folk songs for the dignitaries was truly amazing.

As the children’s voices echoed through the room, Ryan glanced at Anya, who was at the front beside Ivanov. From his vantage point behind her, Ryan couldn’t see her face but her body language continued to demonstrate confidence. At the end of the concert, she clapped heartily.

Each of the children in the chorus held a white rose. After accepting the applause, the first young boy on the end stepped forward and presented his flower to Anya with a small bow. The other children lined up behind him to do the same.

Next in line was a short, thin girl. With her blue eyes and white-blond hair, she could have been Anya’s sister and seemed to know it. Her eyes rounded with awe as she handed Anya the rose and curtsied. “
Dlya vas, Czarevna
.”

For you, Princess.

Anya’s surprise over the presentation was genuine, and even sitting three rows behind her, Ryan could feel it as well as see it as she wrapped the young girl in a hug and praised her singing.

Truman dutifully snapped pictures as the children filed by, Ivanov beaming at Anya with a strange kind of pride.

Once more something dark and dangerous flickered deep in Ryan’s gut. A need to protect Anya, shield her from the Russian president, spread through his veins like a drug.

He checked himself. He was there to do a job. Get in, find out what he could about Ivanov, and get out. He would help Anya and her grandmother if he could, but ultimately, the soap opera antics of the Russian president took second place to his mission to gain a bona fide asset inside the Kremlin.

As the children continued to file by, each glowed under Anya’s praises. Ryan concentrated on listening to her softly spoken words, automatically analyzing the cadence, vocabulary, and accent. She’d been well-schooled in American English. Her Russian accent was so faint, only he would notice. Probably because he found it so damn sexy.

Pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The princess and her grandmother who’d disappeared from Russia in the 1990s had apparently made the United States their home. The CIA had no doubt orchestrated their relocation and assimilation into American culture.

He made a mental note to check into that as well, but his gut told him another element of Anya’s story rang true.

After the last child handed Anya his rose and received a hug, the woman in the yellow dress herded the children out the door. As they were leaving, the Russian prime minister, who had been absent during the concert, rushed in and approached Ivanov. He whispered something in Ivanov’s ear and drew him aside. Ryan’s instincts went on high alert.

Barchai jumped up, hurried to the front of the group, and announced the evening’s entertainment was concluded. The dignitaries would be shown to their apartment suites inside the main building as soon as President Ivanov said his parting words. Then he turned to the piano player and motioned for him to play. The young man seemed caught off guard, but soft music soon filled the salon.

Ivanov and his right hand man continued conversing in the corner. People stood and broke into smaller groups, both Pennington and Morrow gathering with the embassy dignitaries to discuss the next day’s meetings.

The woman in the yellow dress returned and took the roses from Anya’s arms, said a few words to her, and hustled out the door with the flowers. Anya, now alone, glanced around the room, obviously unsure of what to do or who to talk to. She met Ryan’s gaze, gave him a small, sad smile, and walked to the arched window behind the piano to stare out into the snowy night.

Without taking his eyes off her, Ryan nodded to Truman. “See you tomorrow.”

He started to walk away, only to be stopped by Truman’s hand on his arm. “Surely you’re not about to chat up Ivanov’s new toy right in front of him.”

Ryan slid his arm from Truman’s grasp. “Surely not.”

Adjusting his bow tie as if he couldn’t wait to get it off, Truman smirked. “Right.”

He abandoned Truman and skirted several of the talking groups, a plan already forming. Turning Barchai into an asset inside a week was a pipe dream. Anya, already close to Ivanov, and willing to spy on him, was at Ryan’s disposal. If he agreed to help her with her grandmother, she’d do anything he wanted.

The window overlooked a courtyard filled with statues, trellises, and walkways, all carpeted in white. Anya’s face reflected in the glass as she stared out into the night, not seeming to see it. She leaned a shoulder against one side of the arch as if needing the support. Ryan edged closer, mindful of Ivanov, who continued to be engrossed in his conversation with the Russian prime minister. He was also mindful of the guards stationed around the room who kept a steady eye on the princess at all times.

Up close, he could see how pale her skin was under the cover of makeup. How tired she looked. The curve of her bare shoulder was enticing, but the rapid beat of her pulse at the base of her neck kept Ryan from enjoying it. Her fingers, folded together in front of her, twisted as she worried a ring on her left hand.

For all her display of bravado at the cabin and during the evening’s proceedings, bottom line, she was scared.

One last step and he faced the window, pretending not to stare at her reflection. “Beautiful night.”

Her startled reaction confirmed she was indeed a million miles away in her thoughts. She turned from the window and gave him a weak smile before looking outside again. “Beautiful, if you like winter.”

She was following his lead, making small talk. Good girl. “Hard to escape winter in Moscow this time of year.”

“Mmm-hmm. Harder still to escape foie gras.”

Score. The lady had a sense of humor. He faced her, drawing her attention to him. “Ryan Jones. Russian affairs advisor for President Pennington.” He held up a hand, put it back down. “I’d offer to shake hands, but I’m not sure what the proper protocol is for introducing oneself to a modern Russian grand duchess…” He leaned in conspiratorially and shot his gaze around the room. “And I wouldn’t want to be shot by Ivanov’s police for violating it.”

Her smile had more punch to it this time and her eyes held a definite spark. “A Russian affairs
expert
who doesn’t know protocol when it comes to royalty? Seems like your schooling needs supplementation.”

Another direct hit. He chuckled, and damn if it didn’t feel good. “Having a direct royal source for guidance would certainly help.”

She extended her hand, still pretending they’d never met before. “Well, I never saw the brochure on
How to Be a Princess
, so I’m afraid my own education falls short of Russian protocol.” Now she leaned toward him and lowered her sexy voice another notch. “But don’t tell, okay?”

Flirting with her was a terrible idea. A terrible, horrible idea. It could get them both in serious hot water.

But Ryan couldn’t stop himself. Didn’t
want
to stop himself.

Her fingers were slim, nails short and manicured. He took her hand in his and was surprised when she gave him one firm, all-business shake. Like at the cabin, there was nothing demure or hesitant about it.

“How does it feel to be back in Russia?” he ventured, opening the lines of conversation subterfuge. He needed to confirm she was all right.

She shot a glance in Ivanov’s direction and tensed. Ryan jerked his gaze to the right and saw the man headed their way, his small, hard eyes narrowed into jealous slits.

Approaching enemy
. The age old response of fight or flight kicked in and adrenaline rolled through his limbs. He’d had training to neutralize facial reactions the instinctual response generated, so he ignored the instinct, returning his focus to Anya. She, on the other hand, hadn’t had the same training.

Her eyes darted from Ivanov to Ryan and then out the window. Her breathing sped up and her body quivered. Flight was definitely on Anya’s menu.

Then, just as quickly as she’d given thought to it, she took a deep breath, and brought her gaze back to his. In her eyes, Ryan saw the same resolve he’d seen earlier. She was staying because she had a job to do, and she would handle Ivanov, whatever that job entailed.