The Blood Code by Misty Evans Page A

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