stopped in front of her, an inch closer than was polite, then offered a formal nod. Her understudy melted away, muttering something about needing a plate of food.
The scent of musk, expensive tobacco and dominant male was far too unsettling, the handsome face far too attractive.
In a purely self-defensive move, Katia gave her head an arrogant little toss. Lifting a single eyebrow, she concentrated on the planned greeting she was supposed to use with him tonight. “Did you enjoy the play?”
He nodded and stuck to the script, as well. “It was enlightening.”
The words rolled off his tongue in perfect German, with just a hint of Austria clinging to the edges.
Relief had her fear smoothly vanishing. He was her British contact, after all.
She kept to the words MI6 had given them for this first meeting. “I’m glad.”
“Perhaps we could discuss the finer points of your performance in a more private place?”
She swallowed but held his stare. He was following the script, so why did she get the sense he was toying with her? “Yes, I would like that.”
His smile deepened in response, revealing a row of straight, white teeth. Her heart gave one powerful kick against her ribs. The charm was there, urging her into complacency, and yet his eyes were so stark and empty.
For a moment she glimpsed something that looked like despair behind his flawless performance, giving her the impression that this man needed someone to reach him, perhaps even to save him.
For a second she felt herself softening toward him, but only for a second. This was no romantic interlude. This was a serious game of war. Loss of control, even for a moment, meant death. And then who would protect her mother?
Katia quickly adjusted her thoughts by focusing on her mother and all they had to lose if Katia became reckless.
She started to take a step back but her contact captured her hand, turned it over and studied her palm.
Her pulse raced at his light touch.
Not wanting to draw attention to them, she tried to ease her hand free, but he released her first.
“Perhaps we should go to…” He allowed his words to trail off, as planned, giving her the choice of the location for their real meeting.
Happy to take the lead, she cocked her head toward a room off to her right. “My dressing room is just over there.” Her territory.
His smile turned into a roguish grin. “Perfect.”
The boyish tilt of his lips made her want to believe everything he said from this point on, even when she knew—knew for a fact—he made his life telling lies and using intrigue to accomplish his mission.
She opened her mouth to speak, reconsidered and then snapped it shut. Let him take command for a while, as expected.
“You were remarkable,” he drawled, his words no longer following their scripted first meeting. His expression dared her to remark on his audacity.
She couldn’t. She was too busy trying to shove aside the pleasure that swelled inside her at his impulsive remark. If there was anything she didn’t trust it was a spontaneous, sincere compliment. It hit at a vulnerable spot deep within, the place no one had touched since her father’s murder. The place that had once believed in a loving God.
She lifted a shoulder, pretending his deliberate shift in the conversation didn’t bother her in the least. “Dying onstage has its own unique drama. Poetic and sizzling.” She smiled, opened her heart just a little. “Wonderful, really.”
His eyebrows drew together in an expression of genuine fascination. “Is that why you do it, then? For the drama?”
They both knew he wasn’t talking about the stage.
Oh, he was a smooth one, intentionally forcing her further off track with an intriguing question. She would not be defeated by such a transparent maneuver. “Among other reasons.”
She slanted him a warning glare. His questions were getting too personal. Too insightful. Too…dangerous.
Just how much did this man know about her?
Their association was supposed to be simple. But the curling in her stomach told her this mission had become entirely too complicated already. She had to remember they would work together only three days, then never see each other again.
She wouldn’t even learn his real name. As far as she was concerned, he was Friedrich Reiter, a wealthy shipbuilder who frequented the theater.
Pushing the spark of remorse aside, Katia touched his arm, but then quickly dropped her hand at the shocking sense of comfort she felt on contact. “Why don’t we—”
Her words were drowned out by voices coming from the backstage door leading into the alley.
Happy greetings rang out, one after another. Katia turned toward the sound of a familiar feminine voice, barely catching sight of her elegant mother before being greeted with a kiss on her cheek.
Taking a step back, Katia scooped a breath into her lungs and tried to focus her chaotic thoughts.
What was her mother doing here, tonight of all nights? Elena Kerensky rarely attended the theater and she never appeared backstage. Mingling with the masses was simply not done. It was one of her mother’s cardinal rules.
So what had sparked this unprecedented visit?
Katia took another long breath and swept a furtive glance over her mother. Elena Kerensky was still a striking woman at forty-seven, one who knew how to dress for any occasion. Tonight, she’d chosen a form-fitting gown of ice-blue that matched the color of her eyes. She’d pulled her pale blond hair into a refined chignon, showing off the expensive jewels around her neck. The ensemble made her look every bit the brave Russian princess in exile.
“My darling Katarina.” Elena spoke in her trademark breathy whisper. “You were lovely this evening. Perfectly charming. I am a very proud mother.”
For a moment Katia’s practiced facade deserted her. She, unlike her mother, had very few rules in life and only one unbreakable commandment: never, under any circumstance, involve her mother in a mission.
She had to send Elena on her way before propriety required Katia to introduce the MI6 operative. Even though he had backed off a few steps, most likely to give her room to deal with this unexpected interruption, he remained close.
To further complicate matters, her mother wasn’t alone. She’d brought her favorite escort of late, Hermann Schmidt, a cold-hearted naval officer in his early fifties.
Despite the air clogging in her throat, Katia needed to concentrate. What was Elena thinking? Not only did Schmidt hold the high-ranking position of captain in the Kriegsmarine, he had an unholy obsession for the Fatherland and a stark hatred of Jews.
Perhaps her mother didn’t recognize the risks. Or perhaps she was simply hiding in plain sight.
“Katia,
