The Blood Code (7 page)

Too bad he hadn’t time at the cabin to give her more training about how to act around the bastard.

The Russian president was two steps away. Anya smiled at Ryan, a detached smile, as if he were nothing more than another politician she had to make nice to. Her eyes were just as impartial. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones. I hope you enjoy your stay here at the Palace.”

She may have lacked training, but she definitely could stand on her own two feet. She couldn’t suppress the shudder that rolled through her, though, as Ivanov slipped his arm around her waist.

The emotion Ryan most feared ignited deep in his gut. He nodded in response and acknowledged Ivanov’s presence. “Tonight’s dinner was exceptional, as was the entertainment.”

Ivanov didn’t even pretend politeness. He gave Ryan another scathing once-over. Translation: Ryan was nothing more than an ant under Ivanov’s boot.

Ivanov swept Anya away, moving her to the center of the room before releasing his hold and calling for everyone’s attention. He waited until the crowd quieted before thanking the leaders of Britain and the United States for attending the dinner. “The summit will begin tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp in Georgievsky Hall,” he said.

As he spoke, Anya took several steps back and to the left, sneaking a look over her shoulder at Ryan. Her face was no longer impassive, a hint of real fear in her eyes over the fact, he presumed, that the evening was done. At least the public part of it.

The resolve she’d had up to now was fading fast. She gave Ryan a half smile, as if letting him know she was sorry for the chilly brush-off. He winked at her in response.

Give him hell, sweetheart.

His silent message registered. She forced a little more courage into her smile before facing Ivanov, as if assuring Ryan, or possibly herself, she was okay.

Ryan didn’t believe her.

Whatever lay ahead for the night scared the crap out of her, and it wasn’t hard to guess exactly what she feared.

The anger in Ryan’s gut burst into flame.

Chapter Nine

Once she crossed the threshold, there was no turning back.

“Make yourself at home, grand duchess.” Ivanov opened the double doors of the presidential suite and made a sweeping gesture with his arm.

Every fiber in Anya’s body rebelled as the previous two nights’ memories assaulted her. Every warning bell in her head clanged. The muscles in her neck tensed and her feet tried to move backward. The wound on her side itched. Maybe it was finally healing thanks to Ryan’s expert care. Ivanov hadn’t even asked her about it.

Would the security guards on each side of the doors grab her if she tried to run? Would Ivanov force her inside? Yank out that stupid vintage Russian dirk he carried like a security blanket and cut her again?

Stupid man. The wrong cut at the wrong time and she could potentially bleed to death.
Wait till I tell him that
.

Gritting her teeth, she lifted her foot and stepped into the spider’s web.

Like all the various halls and rooms in the Palace, the Throne Chamber, or Czar’s Study, was a stunning example of architectural splendor. Domed ceilings painted a brilliant white and trimmed in gold made her think of a painting she’d seen in the Smithsonian depicting gold-edged clouds with cherubs resting on them. The deep blue walls, curtains, and upholstery of the chamber mimicked a late-afternoon summer sky. The dark wooden floor shone with multiple layers of heavy polish.

The effect would have been mesmerizing if not for the dread beating in her chest.

Antique guns and dirks were on display in glass cabinets everywhere she looked. Ivanov led her past his desk, a smaller version of the massive one made from Ural malachite in his official office, to a nineteenth-century Italian sofa in front of the white marble fireplace. Above the fireplace, a wooden clock told her it was after midnight. Orange flames simmered behind the iron grate, giving off little heat but adding charm to the overall effect.

Reluctantly, she sat on the sofa while Ivanov poked at the fire and added a log. The flames twitched and shuddered, climbing up the logs to reach for air. Satisfied that the fire was once more active, he headed to a sidebar filled with liquor bottles, decanters, and crystal glasses. Removing a bottle of chilled vodka from a hidden cabinet refrigerator, he poured two glasses, returned the bottle to the fridge, and brought a glass back to her.

She took the offered glass, even though she had no intention of drinking the vodka. By her estimation, Ivanov had downed half a bottle already, plus the champagne he’d used to toast over dinner. He was an inch or so over six foot tall, and probably weighed 220 or more, but the alcohol so far didn’t seem to be affecting him.

He sat on the edge of the sofa, entirely too close for comfort, unbuttoning his military coat with one hand, and swigging the vodka with the other. He smelled like alcohol and a thick, musky aftershave.

Anya shifted backward. The dress inched up her thighs, revealing more of her pale skin. She slipped her left hand down to the side and tugged at the hem as casually as she could, trying not to call attention to the fact her legs were so bare.

“What did you think of the dinner tonight?” Ivanov scanned her face, looking for approval. His accent was heavier, thicker. The alcohol was affecting him after all. “Did you enjoy the children?”

She didn’t want to discuss the dinner or the children’s chorus, but as Grams had taught her, the best defense was a good offense. He wanted her approval, so that’s what she gave him. “The evening was a success, and I’m glad we finally have a chance to talk. About my grandmother…”

“President Pennington and Prime Minister Morrow were impressed,
da
?”

“Everyone was impressed.”

Ivanov smiled his Cheshire cat smile and lifted his glass to her. His eyes reflected the flames of the fire as he gulped the vodka. “I have special events planned all week. For you.”

His meaning was clear, his intent as well. The heat from the fire might as well have been the north wind blowing outside. Anya’s blood ran cold. “I need to know my grandmother is okay.”

Ivanov heaved up from the sofa, empty glass in hand. “There is something I want to show you.”

Her heart leapt. Was he going to take her to Grams? As he grabbed the bottle of chilled vodka from the refrigerator once again, she rose from the sofa to follow him.

The trip was disappointingly short, ending at the bookcases near his desk. He refilled his glass and offered to top off hers as well. Since she hadn’t even sipped her vodka, she shook her head, and set her still half-full tumbler on the malachite desk.

Ivanov threw another shot down his throat. Then he faced the books on the nearby shelves and skimmed his fingers over the spines. The titles were in Russian and Anya struggled for a second to shift to her native language and the Cyrillic alphabet. She was fluent in Russian, but after Grams insisted she purge the first eleven years from her memory, she was rusty.

He removed a twelve-by-twelve, leather-bound book and set it on the desk. The book’s Russian title was imprinted in gold lettering on the front—
Romanov Family Tree
—and Ivanov ran his fingers across it as if it were sacred. Opening the cover, he flipped through several pages, all of them encased behind page protectors. Anya tried to see what was on the pages, but she couldn’t without moving closer to him.

Finding the page he was looking for, he ran a finger down the plastic protector. “Here.” He tapped the page and glanced up. “Natasha Maria Romanov.”

Curiosity got the better of her and Anya inched closer. Like the title, the words were in Russian, but she recognized the name she had printed out hundreds of times during her school years before moving to America.
Romanov
.

The page held a diagram, labeled with various names. A horizontal line ran from Gram’s name to Anya’s grandfather’s name, Anton Radzoya. Below their union, a vertical line connected them to another name she recognized. Peter Romanov Radzoya. Anya’s father. His name connected to her mother’s, Ekateirna, and below them a new tier of the family tree held Anya’s full name.

“The great Imperial Dynasty,” Ivanov said, his eyes glowing with pride. With his empty hand, he motioned at a collection of books behind them. “I have researched and documented the complete ancestral history of each royal family dating back to the founding of our Russian monarchy.”

Our Russian monarchy
. The way he emphasized
our
made it sound like he and Anya shared dominion over it. And while she knew Russian history had been researched and documented by hundreds of scholars all around the world, she once again understood Ivanov wanted to impress her. He wanted her approval. He was bragging, as if he had done all the work himself.

She couldn’t bring herself to flatter him, so she went with a generic response. “That’s an impressive amount of work.”
Probably all done by someone else
.

Her feedback egged him on. He reached for another leather-bound book and took it from the shelf, opening it on top of her family’s history. Just like with the first book, he flipped through dozens of pages to find the one he wanted. He turned the book so it was easier for her to see, and pointed at the name he wanted her to read.

Maxim Yakovlev Ivanov.

Apprehension shivered down Anya’s spine. He was a descendent of one of the Imperial Houses as well.

Or was he? This was his book, his supposed research. He could insert any name he wanted in it, and no one inside Russia would argue with him…if they valued their life.

Surely it wasn’t a secret. If he was one of the last remaining grand dukes, the public, especially the one beyond the borders of Russia, knew it. Wouldn’t the press have made a big deal about it when he was elected president? As prideful as he was, wouldn’t he?

Maybe the press had. She didn’t follow politics. Specifically, she didn’t follow Russian politics. And while she’d spent the first eleven years of her life in Moscow, her parents had stressed math and science, not history, and pushed her to prepare for the future rather than fixate on the past.

Ryan. He was a Russian affairs expert. Would he know?

Possibly, but what good would that do her right now?

Up to that moment, she’d understood Ivanov was obsessed with her lineage. Now he’d confirmed what she’d feared since she’d seen the belowground lab, and heard him say he had a plan for the future Russian generations. He didn’t want her just for show.

Regardless of how American she appeared, he wanted her because he believed she was the only Russian worthy enough to produce his offspring. To start a new line of superior Russians.

The truth rang with gong-like intensity inside her head. He obviously wanted to sleep with her, but would he harvest her eggs to supplement the line beyond any children he hoped to conceive? Stockpile her DNA? While she’d suspected his scheme, she knew it now with certainty. He didn’t intend to let her leave when the summit was over.

And now that she was here, what reason did he have for keeping her grandmother alive?

The implication of his duplicity sunk in. Her head swam. She glanced up from the book and saw he was waiting for her to say something. His eyes shown with anticipation as if he thought she’d be ecstatic to learn he was a royal, too.

She wasn’t sure if she was going to throw up or take a swing at him. She opened her mouth to say something, but words eluded her. All she managed was, “I …ah…”

Ivanov, however, took her stunned reaction as delight. He gripped her hands with his and drew her close. His breath reeked of alcohol and onions, and his eyes searched hers with a wild glee. “You and I are the last true heirs to the Russian monarchy. We can create a whole new empire of quality citizens. A whole new house of royals with superior blood, superior genes.” He gave her hands a squeeze. “Together we will rule Russia and lead the world.”

Anya choked back her response, letting the words dissolve on her tongue.
Not if you were the last man on earth.

His grip was strong, so it took a bit of twisting to free her hands. She stepped back. “Russia doesn’t need a new house of royals, and our ancestry does not make our blood, or our genes, superior to our countrymen. In fact, my blood—”

A flush rose up his neck and stained his cheeks. He grabbed the vodka bottle and sloshed more in his glass. “We are descended from the Imperials. We
are
superior.”

Without warning, he grabbed one of her wrists and dragged her toward the sofa. One of her ankles twisted, and she lost her balance, but he kept moving, and she struggled to keep from falling. He shoved her down onto the sofa and stood over her, glaring, as he downed the vodka. “You do not question me.”

Her first instinct was to kick him in the knee, drop him to the ground. A sizable opponent, he was nevertheless threatening her with bodily harm, and she knew how to take down a man twice her size.

Fighting back at this point, however, would certainly doom her and Grams. She knew his threats were real. The wound on her side was proof. But it was better to use her brains to balance the playing field instead of tae kwon do to make him back off. His obsession with the royals was the best place to start. “I’ve never seen my family tree. Will you show it to me again?”

The change in his demeanor was Jekyll and Hyde. Elation replaced the glare and his grip on the glass loosened. He retrieved the book from his desk, returning to sit next to her and flipping to the beginning where he had detailed accounts of her earliest ancestors.

“All the Imperial Houses began with a Norseman back in 862 AD.”

As Ivanov walked her through the various histories of each person descended from the Norse ruler Rurik, he translated the factual information as well as folklore about them. A walking version of Ancestry.com, he was totally enthralled with the information, as if it were the first time he’d ever read it.

After a few minutes, Anya found herself enthralled as well. Like the fairy tales of the princesses who’d come before her, these stories were part of her. She was learning as much about her past as she was about the future Ivanov intended her to have. While she couldn’t forget his closeness, or completely ignore the fear still making her pulse race, she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t interested in her family’s history.

And putting Ivanov in a better mood improved her chances of finding out about Grams.

An hour later, the leader of Russia, who believed himself a czar, passed out on the sofa next to her, his family history open in his lap and one hand resting on her leg. His head was back, mouth open, bad breath filling the air as snores rumbled from his chest. Anya wanted nothing more than to shove his hand off her leg and flee the room, but she’d come this far, in spite of everything. Now was the time to play cowboy if ever there was one.

The fire in the fireplace had returned to a soft glow. Biding her time and listening to Ivanov’s breathing grow deeper and slower, she let her mind wander. The image of Ryan smiling at her surfaced, and the dark cloud in her mind lifted.

With slow, careful movements, she straightened her leg and brought her upper body forward. Ivanov’s breathing maintained its rhythm and she gave herself a mental high five. She hated the idea of touching him, and wondered if she could simply slide her leg out from under his hand, but the odds were slim to none he’d sleep through that. Gritting her teeth, she stuck out her hand over his, letting it hover in midair. Her heart beat as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. She took a silent deep breath to try and slow it. Ever so lightly, she touched the top of his hand, cutting her gaze to his face to see if he reacted.

He didn’t.

The hardest part was still to come. Not only did it make her sick to touch him, she had to do a lot more than just touch him in order to remove his hand. If she squeezed his hand too hard or moved to fast, he’d wake up. If she didn’t squeeze hard enough, she’d drop it.

With gentle pressure, she held his hand in place and shifted her thigh out from under it.