Read Online The Russian Seduction by Nikki Navarre - Free Book Online
Authors: Nikki Navarre
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sparkling water and strove to lock all stray thoughts of Victor Kostenko into their proper compartment: the one labeled security and disarmament engagement with Russia.
Gracefully, she wrapped up her conversation with the anxious Ukrainian Ambassador. The strain of recent events was showing on his good-natured features as the rotund older man pressed to know, in concrete terms, what actions his country could count upon its U.S. partner to undertake regarding the Russian aggression. But since her own Ambassador had been given no instructions from Washington, she could only prevaricate, despite her strong sympathy for the Ukrainian dilemma.
She was slipping through the crowd, nibbling at a salty triangle of black bread dabbed with caviar, when a silent alert pulsed through her like a telegraph message. Her skin tingling, she swiveled just in time to glimpse the broad-shouldered blond officer in the Russian naval uniform as he glided into the Winter Garden, with his distinctive prowling tread.
Alexis jerked to a halt as if her heels had engaged a parking brake, and felt her heart kick into overdrive. Blood rushed to her face—the curse of a fair complexion—as one thought pounded through her brain.
I’ve got to be hallucinating, since I can’t possibly be drunk. Because I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol all day.
As if he too had received the same silent broadcast, Captain Victor Kostenko stopped on cue and scanned the room. His electric-blue eyes swept the crowd like sonar pulsing through the ocean depths in search of a target. As if he were searching for her.
Don’t be obtuse. Of course he’s searching for you. The thought that he might have dropped by the U.S. Embassy for the benign purpose of wishing the CAO a happy birthday, never guessing she might be present, was patently absurd. She barely knew him, but she’d bet a week of vacation time that this was a guy who didn’t like surprises—unless he’d arranged them himself.
Determined to avoid another sex-charged encounter she couldn’t control in front of half the diplomatic community, Alexis veered away from the door. Ducking behind the tinsel-shrouded bulk of the Christmas tree, she plunged into the first conversation she could find.
Her bad luck that the group included her ex.
Now she must perform as the Political Counselor, commenting on the current status of a taxation debate in the Russian Duma, and feigning fascination with the anodyne topic. All the while, her ears were straining to discern the distinctive staccato of Victor Kostenko’s rapid-fire Russian behind her. Her nose was twitching like a rabbit’s, for God’s sake, trying to pick up the slightest whiff of Beckham. Firmly she resisted the temptation to sneak a peek behind her.
When the shifting crowd opened a path to the door, she confirmed the coast was clear, then abandoned ship with a murmured excuse about fetching another drink.
Typical of her luck today that Geoff cornered her at the bar, pouring her a glass of champagne without noticing her empty water glass.
“It’s unprofessional,” her ex muttered, darting a narrowed glance over the crowd. “We’re trying to defuse an international crisis, and that chap’s sniffing ’round you like a dog in heat.”
“I presume you’re referring to Captain Kostenko?” she said icily, unwilling to play stupid. “I’m certain he’s here for business, just like everyone else. As you may recall, my section is working several issues with his department, beyond the Ukraine crisis. He could be here to discuss the nuclear nonproliferation summit, the destruction of our chemical weapons stockpiles, implementation of the Biological Weapons Convention—”
“If Victor Kostenko has come to this birthday gala to talk about arms control,” Geoff murmured, “I’ll buy you dinner at Café Pushkin, Alexis. It’s the best restaurant in town, isn’t it?”
Alexis slanted him a wary glance. She recognized that smooth tone he used to
Gracefully, she wrapped up her conversation with the anxious Ukrainian Ambassador. The strain of recent events was showing on his good-natured features as the rotund older man pressed to know, in concrete terms, what actions his country could count upon its U.S. partner to undertake regarding the Russian aggression. But since her own Ambassador had been given no instructions from Washington, she could only prevaricate, despite her strong sympathy for the Ukrainian dilemma.
She was slipping through the crowd, nibbling at a salty triangle of black bread dabbed with caviar, when a silent alert pulsed through her like a telegraph message. Her skin tingling, she swiveled just in time to glimpse the broad-shouldered blond officer in the Russian naval uniform as he glided into the Winter Garden, with his distinctive prowling tread.
Alexis jerked to a halt as if her heels had engaged a parking brake, and felt her heart kick into overdrive. Blood rushed to her face—the curse of a fair complexion—as one thought pounded through her brain.
I’ve got to be hallucinating, since I can’t possibly be drunk. Because I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol all day.
As if he too had received the same silent broadcast, Captain Victor Kostenko stopped on cue and scanned the room. His electric-blue eyes swept the crowd like sonar pulsing through the ocean depths in search of a target. As if he were searching for her.
Don’t be obtuse. Of course he’s searching for you. The thought that he might have dropped by the U.S. Embassy for the benign purpose of wishing the CAO a happy birthday, never guessing she might be present, was patently absurd. She barely knew him, but she’d bet a week of vacation time that this was a guy who didn’t like surprises—unless he’d arranged them himself.
Determined to avoid another sex-charged encounter she couldn’t control in front of half the diplomatic community, Alexis veered away from the door. Ducking behind the tinsel-shrouded bulk of the Christmas tree, she plunged into the first conversation she could find.
Her bad luck that the group included her ex.
Now she must perform as the Political Counselor, commenting on the current status of a taxation debate in the Russian Duma, and feigning fascination with the anodyne topic. All the while, her ears were straining to discern the distinctive staccato of Victor Kostenko’s rapid-fire Russian behind her. Her nose was twitching like a rabbit’s, for God’s sake, trying to pick up the slightest whiff of Beckham. Firmly she resisted the temptation to sneak a peek behind her.
When the shifting crowd opened a path to the door, she confirmed the coast was clear, then abandoned ship with a murmured excuse about fetching another drink.
Typical of her luck today that Geoff cornered her at the bar, pouring her a glass of champagne without noticing her empty water glass.
“It’s unprofessional,” her ex muttered, darting a narrowed glance over the crowd. “We’re trying to defuse an international crisis, and that chap’s sniffing ’round you like a dog in heat.”
“I presume you’re referring to Captain Kostenko?” she said icily, unwilling to play stupid. “I’m certain he’s here for business, just like everyone else. As you may recall, my section is working several issues with his department, beyond the Ukraine crisis. He could be here to discuss the nuclear nonproliferation summit, the destruction of our chemical weapons stockpiles, implementation of the Biological Weapons Convention—”
“If Victor Kostenko has come to this birthday gala to talk about arms control,” Geoff murmured, “I’ll buy you dinner at Café Pushkin, Alexis. It’s the best restaurant in town, isn’t it?”
Alexis slanted him a wary glance. She recognized that smooth tone he used to
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