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her in this bedroom—on the bed—doing more than talking…
    He glanced up, met her eyes. She blushed but he didn’t seem to notice her embarrassment. Mr. Business had other things on his mind. “Truman told me about your grandmother and Ivanov. Solomon believes you can be an asset for us, and retrieve certain sensitive information from the Kremlin. You help us, we’ll help you. We need evidence Ivanov is a real threat.”
    Anya hugged her knees, tried to focus. “I brought you the key. How much more do you need?”
    Ryan’s face was impassive, though his fingers moved to massaging her whole foot. Warming it up. Warming everything up. “Launch keys for nuclear weapons are old school collectors’ items. What we need is some kind of evidence Ivanov is actually violating the NPT.”
    Concentrate, Anya . “NPT?”
    “Nonproliferation Treaty for nuclear weapons.” He counted off the items on his fingers. “Nonproliferation, disarmament, and the right to peacefully use nuclear technology. We’re concerned about the first two obviously.”
    “He’s amassing everything. Weapons, royalty, genetic research.”
    He quirked a brow, stopped massaging. “Genetic research?”
    Oh, God. Don’t stop . “I think he wants me to do more than play the role of his princess at the summit. And I’m a two-for-one special.”
    “Meaning?”
    She wiggled her toes and he started kneading her foot again. Nice . “I’m a geneticist. From what I saw in the underground lab he showed me yesterday, I think he wants me to help him create a super race.”
    Ryan’s brow dipped in confusion.
    “He believes royal blood is superior, and wants to bring royal genes back to Russia.”
    Ryan released a low whistle under his breath and absently began rubbing her other foot. “Based on your blood?”
    “Possibly.”
    Hemophilia ran rampant in the royal genes, but Ivanov didn’t know about her disorder. She’d been cursed with von Willebrand’s, a hereditary blood abnormality that was fairly common and rarely fatal. Only she had the more dangerous Type 3 variety. Less common, sometimes fatal. Definitely not super-race material.
    Ryan’s gaze dropped to her side where her wound lay hidden. “Did he do that to you? Cut you?”
    Anya pinned her gaze to the floor. The memory of Ivanov’s rage, his attack with the dirk, slamming her hard. “I refused to wear the clothing he picked out for me. Couture dresses and shoes he believes a princess should wear. They’re all ridiculous. I look like a bridesmaid or a prostitute in them. When I said no to the red dress, he got mad, and cut off my shirt to teach me a lesson. In the process, he nicked me with the blade. Afterward, he claimed it was an accident. I’m not so sure.”
    Brief silence descended. A deep silence charged with anger. “He got that upset over clothes?”
    And there it was. The difference between a man like Ivanov and a man like Ryan. “He’s obsessed with me. With how I look, what I wear. I have to be a princess 24/7, no exceptions. Appearances are crucial.”
    Another silence. This one longer. Anya thought she heard Ryan’s teeth grinding. He released her foot but stayed on his knees in front of her. He scanned her face searching for more answers. “How did you escape, Anya?”
    She preferred Anya over princess, especially when Ryan said it. “After he cut me, Ivanov freaked out and apologized. He called in his personal doctor who bandaged the wound, but I refused to talk to Ivanov. I was…”
    Should she admit she was terrified of him? That he was a madman? Oh, hell, she’d come this far. “I was scared. Terrified, actually. He thought I was playing hard to get. He thinks this is a dream come true for me, being a Russian princess.” Hate charged her next words. “It isn’t.”
    She rocked back and forth on the bed, caught herself and stopped. Straightening her back, she grabbed the socks and shoved them on her feet.
    Ah, wool socks.
    Ryan’s wool socks. Not as good