Page 31 of A Spy is Born

"Sorry about that," he says.

"No need to apologize," I say, waving a hand. "We have all evening."

The ambassador, upstaging the consul general as our host for the evening, takes the stage and a spotlight focuses on him. "Welcome, dear guests," he says. I can't concentrate on his words; I'm too busy staring at the back of Vladimir's head, wondering…did he drink it?

I clap when everyone else does and then a band takes the stage and waiters arrive with salads. I pick at my food. Vladimir inhales his then returns his attention to me. "Would you like to dance?" he asks.

"Dance?" The floor is empty, the band is playing soft, slow music meant for eating.

"Yes," Vladimir says. Are his cheeks pinker? Is it an effect from the substance I put in his drink? Or am I the cause?

"I'm not sure..."

"Come," he stands, pushing his chair back.Did he stumble slightly?Vladimir holds his hand out. I hope to see it shaking, but the big paw is steady.

I look up at him. Julian leans over and whispers into my ear. "You don't have to."

Vladimir's expression darkens, but when I nod, light jumps back to his eyes. I take his hand, rough with callouses, and so big that again, I get that sense of smallness, so rare for me. I'm tall and thick for a woman in my profession—hard muscle and lush, full curves. I move through the world with a sense of strength and size, especially traveling in Asia the past few weeks. This man makes me feel tiny and fragile.

I lift my head and smile at him, pretending that I like the sensation of smallness. We make our way to the stage, where he speaks quietly with a sound guy. Then Vlad pulls me onto the dance floor, his stride steady.

His right hand spans my lower back, and I rest my left on his shoulder, our free hands twine, his thick fingers almost painful between mine.

Vladimir steps backward, and I follow, surprised by his sudden grace on the dance floor. In my first film role, I played a secondary character in a film about professional ballroom dancers. It went straight to streaming, but I'll never forget how to fox trot. "You're a good dancer," I say as he whisks me across the floor.

"I was inspired by your film, Ballroom Badness," he smiles down at me.

I tilt my head back and laugh. "You saw that?”

"I've seen everything you've done." Something shifts in his accent…slurred?

"Really? That's so sweet," I say, knowing that the word sweet is the wrong one. Calling this man sweet is like calling a docile pit bull sweet—just before it turns on you..

"Yes," he coughs, his eyes unfocusing and his feet stumbling for a moment.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

He nods, but his feet are slowing down. We grind to a halt, his fingers tightening on mine, the palm on my back slips down to my ass…loose…like he's lost control of it.

"Vladimir?" I say.

His eyes are unfocused; he can't hold me in his gaze any longer. He trips backward, pulling me against his chest, and we both go down, me on top of him. The band falters, and a collective gasp rises up from the crowd when we hit the hard wood floor, his one hand still gripping mine, the other shaking.

His whole body is seizing—stiff and quaking under me as his eyes roll into the back of his head.

Chapter Eight

A perfume of fine silk,musky cologne, vodka, and sweat rises up around me. My pupils dilate, a biological response to my own fear I can't control.

Vladimir's body is vibrating under me, and I push to get away, but he's still gripping my hand. He pulls it close, gritting his teeth, eyes rolled into the back of his head.

My free hand is on his shoulder. I push hard, getting my chest off of his, creating enough space between us that I can see his face. So that I can watch the horror show I’ve created.

Power flows over me.I did this.

A flood of guilt follows.I did this.

Hands come around my waist and pull, loosening me from Vladimir's grip. My feet wheel through the air, trying to help propel me away…away from what I've done. From that burst of power, of the pure adrenaline it gave me.Dear God, I liked it.

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