The Blood Code by Misty Evans

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.
    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