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lips. No talking .
    If she talked, Ryan would hand her over to the cops. If Ivanov had figured out she’d stolen the key and taken it to the CIA, the cops would turn her over to the Federal Security Agency, Ivanov’s modern-day KGB. She would disappear, like so many before her, never to be seen again.
    Strong hands gripped her shoulders and dragged Anya up off the floor. She heard her name being said over and over as the hands shook her ever so slightly.
    She knew the feel of those hands.
    Her eyes were closed and she forced them open. The room was lit once more. The men were packing up the equipment. Ryan held her and her knees buckled with relief.
    His eyes searched hers for something she couldn’t discern. She tried to open herself up and let him see how grateful she was.
    “You’re safe, princess,” he said. His gaze dropped to her lips, down to his sweater, and back up to stare into her eyes. “At least from the Russians.”

Chapter Five
    Anya banged her toe on a kitchen chair as Ryan led her around the table, his big hand wrapped securely around hers.
    Damn, that hurt. She sucked in a breath and kept going. No way would she act like a wimp even though her teeth chattered from fear, her feet were ice blocks, and her knees shook with pent-up adrenaline.
    He hustled her through the living room and she nearly had to run to keep up. Her legs were long, but his were longer, and he covered the distance with quick, hard strides. Just adrenaline, she told herself, not anger making him whisk her away from the hidden bunker. Away from his men.
    Well, maybe a little anger. Fear, too?
    What a position she’d put him in, protecting her over the safety of the men. Even now, his group was removing equipment from below and scurrying out the back door with it. Loading up to leave.
    Was he leaving as well?
    Propelling her into the bedroom, Ryan closed the door behind them. He released her hand and cocked his chin at the bed. “The best I could do. They’ll be big on you.”
    Clothes. Thermal underwear bottoms, a pair of gray sweatpants. Socks.
    Ryan’s clothes.
    Anya wasn’t a hugger—who would she hug besides her grandmother?—but her arms went around his neck of their own volition and she pressed herself against him. He was calm and solid and so handsome, she almost kissed him. Out of gratitude, she told herself. Not because she wanted to touch all that heat and strength and solidness. “Thank you,” she murmured against his neck. “For everything.”
    He stiffened at first, then relaxed, one hand coming to rest on her back. “They’re just clothes. Nothing fancy, but they’re clean.”
    Just clothes . The irony struck her and she smiled into his shoulder. If only he knew what a few items of clothing had cost her in the past few days.
    He gently pressed her away. “We need to talk.”
    Her turn to stiffen. Embarrassed at her display of emotion, she kept her eyes averted and faced the bed. The supply of clothing didn’t include a shirt, so it looked like she got to keep the sweater.
    Good . She hugged herself and rubbed the soft cotton. Her teeth chattered and she clamped her jaw to stop them as she grabbed the long underwear. She tugged them on, followed by the sweats. Resigning herself to telling Ryan at least some of the truth, she flopped down on the bed, raised her knees to her chest, and rubbed her red toe. “What do you want to know?”
    Seemingly without thought, he bent down and took over the rubbing, and massaging, of her injured toe.
    Her breath caught at the shock of his warm hands against her cold skin. Oh, God . She’d never had a man touch her feet before.
    So good .
    Too good. Her brain went fuzzy. On his knees in front of her, the action appeared to help him concentrate, his forehead creasing as the wheels in his head turned.
    He stroked the injured toe, base to end, over and over. The fuzziness left and her thoughts became clear once more…although they were anything but appropriate. Ryan and