Christmas Tsar (Blood and Thunder 1)

“On the practical front, we’re shorthanded, Alexei. If nothing else, she can fulfill her shipboard duties. She’s signed the usual confidentiality agreement, and we can always put her off at the next port.”

“I’ll interview her. Bring her up to my study.”

“Of course, Alexei.”

Saluting as he would have done when they were both in Special Forces, the purser, once a lieutenant in the elite force where Alexei had served as his commanding officer, left the bridge to summon the new recruit.

~o0o~

“Alexei Riga wants to see me?” This opportunity to meet the man who had glowered at her from the screen in London had come much sooner than Amber had expected. She had barely had time to familiarize herself with her new quarters, let alone prepare herself for interview.

“Yes, ma’am, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Her heart was beating in double time as she studied the man in officer’s whites. He looked battle ready rather than like a purser working for a billionaire on his superyacht.

“Ma’am?”

“Coming.” After dropping her bag on her bunk, she tugged off her scarf, straightened her clothes, and prepared to follow him.

Another image stuck in Amber’s mind as they jogged up the companionway leading from the crew quarters in the bowels of the ship to the main part of the yacht, and it wasn’t the comparatively tame image of Alexei Riga she’d seen in London, but the flesh-and-blood man who’d stood watching as she’d boarded. Naked to the waist in cut-offs that left very little to her imagination, with a towel slung around his neck, still gleaming from his swim, Alexei Riga was hot, hard, and assault ready like his yacht. She’d done her homework and knew that Russian Thunder was faster than boats half its size. Boasting a knifelike prow and a rounded hull that made it almost impossible to board, drones and two satellites monitored its every move as well as the movements of other craft within a phenomenal radius. There were cameras and motion detectors on deck, as well as a night-vision system, providing a battalion of eyes. Two helicopters squatted menacingly on the top deck, while a submarine and twin landing boats that were mini superyachts in themselves were housed on one of the lower decks, and the entire floating fiefdom was protected by a missile defense system and bombproof glass. What type of man commanded that?

An ineffectual and pretentious billionaire, as suggested by one of Amber’s colleagues?

She didn’t think so. Alexei Riga’s superyacht was equipped to serve a small army, which was what she suspected it did.

The officer escorting her used iris recognition to open a door leading to a different part of the ship. “Have I done something wrong?” she asked as he held the door to let her through.

“Come with me, please.”

Mr. Chatty wouldn’t tell her anything, Amber concluded. She was growing nervous at the thought of meeting Alexei Riga face-to-face. She’d never imagined a man who carried such a potent sexual charge, let alone met one in the flesh. She might have other useful skills, but sexual technology wasn’t one of her qualifications, and rumors abounded where the founding member of the Blood and Thunder polo team was concerned.

This felt more like a walk to the gallows than to an interview with the elusive owner of the superyacht, Amber thought as she passed more hard-faced crew members, who treated her as if she were invisible. She was escorted into an elevator in the same tense silence and taken to an even higher deck, where the air, to Amber’s overworked imagination, appeared to be scented with an equal mix of wealth and ozone. The honeyed teak of the lower decks gave way to a thick, sound-absorbing carpet, and all the soft furnishings were white. Not yellowing white, or dusty white, or, heaven forefend, grubby white; this was the world of white perfection, the world of order and control.

Since when did Russian oligarchs with more money than Croesus interview lowly members of staff? Chills raced up and down her spine as she caught sight of herself in one of the many crystal-framed mirrors, prompting her to change the walk-to-the-gallows metaphor to that of lamb to the slaughter.

The next door opened onto an area that lifted her spirits. It was a surprisingly airy salon where Scandinavian minimalism predominated. Vivid acrylics on canvas enlivened the restrained décor with action scenes from polo matches, but even that wasn’t enough to stifle her apprehension as Mr. Chatty led the way to a highly polished door, where he knocked discreetly.

“Come…”

Don’t even joke, Amber thought as the deeply masculine, faintly accented voice of Alexei Riga took a leisurely ride across her senses.

~o0o~

He glanced up as she walked in. Twenty-four years old, according to her CV. Slender and pale, she had the type of Celtic fragility he’d steered clear of in the past. He preferred his women sophisticated enough to know the score. He reminded himself that she wasn’t here to share his bed but to work, and possibly advance within his organization. He took in the untidy red hair piled up haphazardly on top of her head and the casual outfit. Any resemblance to a woman who had undergone the most intense physical training the army could offer was lost on him. He might have wondered if her CV had been embroidered if it hadn’t come from an impeccable source.

“Please sit down.” He indicated a sofa.

“I prefer to stand, sir.”

As she straightened up and stared directly ahead, he got the first clue that she might be genuine.

“At ease. And sit,” he commanded.

She perched awkwardly on the edge of a leather chesterfield. She was a beauty, with clear jade-green eyes, and freckled, peachy skin. It was all too easy to imagine her lithe limbs wrapped around him and her lips parted as she panted out her pleasure, but none of that was relevant to him.

“Why do you want to see me?” she asked, staring up at him intently.

The bluntness of her question took him by surprise. “Speak when I invite you to speak. This is not a pleasure yacht, and you are not a guest.” Walking in front of his desk, he lost no time on pleasantries. “Do you know what I do, Amber Smith?”