Seven Minutes in Heaven

Cherry adjusted her skirt and tucked the front of her blouse into it.

It had to look the perfect amount of haphazard, as though she'd been in a rush, but not as though she was trying too hard to look the part. Her feet were already starting to bother her; she lifted each out of its glossy black pump to tug at the material of her stockings. Highly impractical shoes. It was going to be a long evening.

She stood in front of the floor length mirror in the ladies bathroom, turning left and then right. She looked okay, she thought. The entire look was a bit more fitted than she was used to, the skirt ending a little higher on her thigh than would normally be appropriate for a professional. She knew that tonight, the other women from the embassy would select more modest hems, and it would make her stand out in just the way she needed to.

More lipstick, eyeliner, a touch of mascara. She scooped her hair back into a low bun and pinned it in place. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Tonight's project was one she'd been working on for some time now. A month, to be exact.

Step one was to infiltrate the British embassy. As a woman, it had been almost too easy to establish a cover identity. No one batted an eye at the new secretary to the ambassador, a bright-eyed young thing, Cherry St. Clair. New to the city. A little overeager, but who could fault a hard worker?

Cherry wasn't her real name, of course. She had to admit it made her sound like a hooker, but when she'd said exactly that to her case manager, he'd merely allowed her a small twitch of his lip before disregarding her opinion. So Cherry it was.

Just yesterday, the ambassador had told her she made a decent secretary, if she would only learn to smile a little more. At that, she'd given him a saccharine, glassy-eyed smile and Mr. Lynn had appraised it with 'Very good, then,' before returning to his work.

She prepared that same look now as she stepped out of the bathroom and back into the bustling office space.

Her trainer in the CIA had once told her that her eyes betrayed her intelligence. They were dark, piercing eyes in an otherwise sweet face. But it was a thing that could be learned like any other. Many hours in front of a mirror had mastered the distant, doe-eyed expression that was expected of her.

Sometimes she thought that Mr. Lynn appreciated that expression a little too much. He was an open book, a simple enough man who was a little too pleased to have an attractive young woman in his office. All it had taken was a few weeks of batting her eyelashes at him, and he'd spilled almost everything she needed to know. What remained to parse out was precisely the purpose of tonight's plan.

"Miss St. Clair!" Mr. Lynn called out when he saw her, "My briefcase, please. And my overcoat."

"Of course, sir," she said, her voice light and cheerful. She fetched the requested items from the closet, careful to bend at the hips instead of the knees. "And here you are," she said, handing him the coat and the case.

He smiled at her. When he smiled, he was a handsome enough man. His face was slightly rounded, his eyes a cheery blue beneath ruffled salt and pepper hair. He dressed well, and spoke with a certain authority, which made up for the slight paunch around his midsection. To tell the truth, Cherry wouldn't have minded a bit of a fling with the man, if it were required.

"That's a lovely outfit," Mr. Lynn said, appraising her. She curtsied, then stood and smiled as he continued. "I would hate for it to be soiled in the rain. Ride with me, won't you? I'm having the company car brought around."

"Thank you, sir," she replied, "That's very kind."

"Well, this is an important dinner," he said, rather impressively, "Several very important people will be there. From the House of Lords, the Russian consul..."

"They could not have picked a better person for the task than yourself," she commented.

He looked momentarily quite pleased with himself. "Yes, quite. Quite..."

"I imagine there will be much to keep track of tonight with many moving parts. It amazes me to no end to see you work with such important people."

"It's simply a matter of knowing how the world works," he replied.

"And how is that?" she asked, feigning a rapt interest.

"Oh, it's all about making the right connections. People like to feel like they are being listened to, that their concerns are valid. And most of them have no idea what is truly best for them, anyway. It's a simple matter of helping them along to the solution that is most beneficial for your side. They'll be grateful, even if they don't quite realize why. A lot of ego involved, and that's something else. It's not about who is right, but about who is more persistent."

It sounded quite familiar, actually. A lot of the work Cherry had done had involved exactly this sort of persistence. Plant the seeds, let them grow.

"So it's about manipulation," Cherry said.

Mr. Lynn smiled. "You are a quick study. You've been listening."

"I always listen," she replied.

"Yes," Mr. Lynn said, "It's good to see a woman who knows how to listen. Too many women have forgotten the skill."

She nodded, then looked down, her eyes demure. She was aware that her breasts were practically spilling out of the blouse, which may have ruined the expression somewhat.

"I think I shall keep you around, Miss St. Clair," he said, as he stood.

She smiled at him.

The embassy company car was sleek and black. The driver, a dour-looking man with a thin moustache, opened the door for Mr. Lynn, then for her. She sat on the plush leather seat, crossing her legs and adjusting her skirt so that it rode up. When she caught the ambassador staring at her, she blushed and shifted her legs.

The ambassador was an easy man to manage. The things she needed to know seemed to practically fall out of his mouth. She knew enough to guess the general outline of tonight's plan. Beneath the facade of a diplomatic dinner was an arms deal of some sort. She knew that the British and the Russians were working together, and that Mr. Lynn would have his hands full trying to keep them all on track.

What she did not know was who would be there, or the details of the deal. She had been given only enough information from the agency to recognize key words, which she would need when she searched the hotel room of the Russian consul.

The car rolled through the city. They had left the embassy compound, merging into the evening traffic of people headed home from work. The city was just beginning to light up for the night, the buildings glittering, their lights reflected in the rain.

Cherry could sense Mr. Lynn's nervousness. He fidgeted with the papers in his briefcase. He adjusted his cufflinks, his tie, his shirt collar. He was not looking at her, but instead out the window, at the rain.

"You seem distracted," Cherry commented.

He jumped, then smiled and waved a hand in the air, as though shooing away the thought.

"Not at all," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "Anything I can help with?"

He gave her a look. Then he looked back out the window, drumming his fingers on his thigh.

"I suppose the situation is delicate, Miss St. Clair. This evening must be handled just right."

"How so?"

"The Russians have something we need. We have something they need. It's a delicate negotiation, you see. Both parties must be happy. If one side feels like they have given more than the other, the entire thing falls apart."

She didn't press him. She already had a pretty good idea of what tonight's dinner entailed for him, or at least the significance of it. Instead, she let him stew in his own anxiety, while she looked out the window. Rain was streaming down now and it was hard to make out much outside the car.

She stared into the blurring drops as they raced down the window, her mind surprisingly quiet, for the five minutes left in their drive.

The driver left them at the doors of the hotel, protected from the rain by a tasteful overhang. The brightly lit interior of the hotel's restaurant, The Gilt, was visible through the frosted windows. Cherry shivered, eager for the warmth inside. Mr. Lynn offered his arm and she allowed it, giving him a small smile as he tucked her hand against his body.

"It's a lovely place," she commented as they stepped inside.

It really was. The front doors of the hotel gave way to a large atrium, bisected by a marble staircase curving up to a mezzanine. Soft golden light from three separate chandeliers cast the room in a warm glow. How many chandeliers was too many, really?

As the doors shut behind them, Cherry was hit with the scent of rich leather and faint cologne, not unpleasant. Behind the front desk was a low wall separating the lobby from the restaurant, and she could hear the soft hum of background chatter and the clink of glasses from beyond it.

"The owner is a personal friend of mine," Mr. Lynn said, letting go of Cherry's arm, "He's an interesting fellow. French. Hasn't got a lick of English. But a very fine businessman. And an even better host."

"How wonderful," she commented, still taking in the room as they walked towards the restaurant.

The maitre d' appeared before them. "Mr. Lynn," he said, bowing his head, "Right this way, please."

Cherry raised her eyebrows slightly. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised that they recognized Mr. Lynn, but sometimes seeing him bumble around at the embassy made her forget that he was a rather important man.

She allowed herself to be led along, following Lynn as the maitre d' escorted them through the dining room. The smell of delicious food, of roasted meat and rich sauces, made her stomach growl. At the very back of the restaurant was a set of doors opening to a private dining room. The maitre d' held the door open for them, and Cherry stepped inside.

Before all else, she assessed her exits. She didn't expect to make a dramatic exit tonight, but old habits died hard. Two other doors, one on either side, were closed. The main entrance was behind her, and two large, rectangular tables were situated in the middle of the room, blocking any easy aisles.

White tile floors gleamed in the glow of yet another chandelier, and the walls were covered in dark wood panels outlined in gold. The tables were covered with white linen tablecloths, and each place setting had been set with crystal and gold-rimmed plates.

As they walked towards one of the tables, Cherry spotted several faces she recognized from various diplomatic functions. Lynn hadn't lied - some very important people were here tonight. She made mental notes of who was seated where.

There were three empty seats at the end of one of the tables, two on one side and one on the other. Mr. Lynn led them over to it, stopping briefly to greet several political figures with a brief handshake as he went. Beside the empty seat, a man stood to meet them. Cherry recognized the Russian ambassador at once. She smiled at him.

"Evan, my good man," he said in a jovial voice, speaking accented English, "It's nice to see you."

"You've met, of course," Mr. Lynn said, motioning between them, "Mr. Vachenko. This is Miss Cherry St. Clair, my secretary."

"A pleasure, as always," said Mr. Vachenko, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. She was happy to see him here, and not only because she was planning to sneak into his room as soon as she could slip away. He was a short stout man with a balding head, and an altogether charming temperament.

"Likewise," she replied.

Lynn placed his hand at her lower back and pulled out the chair beside the head of the table, indicating for her to sit. Cherry gave him a sweet smile, gritting her teeth at the back of it. She felt a blip of annoyance at being manhandled, but it was quickly extinguished by the circumstances. She was seated beside the head of the table - she would be close to the Russian ambassador. This night would yield more information than the entire last month of work.

Lynn sat down beside her, and they made small talk with Vachenko. Cherry sipped at a glass of champagne, and she smiled and laughed in all the right places. She kept one eye on the door, and another on her host. Every so often, she glanced at the empty chair across from her, idly wondering who was late.

After the second round of champagne, the door on the opposite side of the room opened, and a man stepped through.

Cherry's eyes flicked up to examine the newcomer.

He was tall, handsome, wearing a suit that must have cost the equivalent of her yearly salary. He stood out immediately because he was much younger than most of the people in the room, and yet, he didn't seem out of place. He looked around the room for a moment, and his eyes finally settled on the empty chair across from Cherry.

"Sorry to be late," he said as he reached their end of the table, his words accented, "I was unavoidably detained."

The Russian ambassador stood, as did several others. Mr. Lynn, a moment too late, did the same.

"It's a pleasure to see you again," Vachenko said, shaking the younger man's hand. "You've met Mr. Lynn?"

"Many times."

He grasped Mr. Lynn's hand and they shook with a brisk familiarity, the three men exchanging greetings amongst themselves.

Cherry rose from her seat and Mr. Lynn touched the small of her back again. "May I introduce my secretary, Cherry St. Clair. My guest tonight. This is Mr. Volkov."

Cherry knew exactly who he was. Sasha Volkov, his father was the Russian minister of foreign affairs. No official ties to the unsavory business of his father, but not a complete question mark, either. He had a reputation as a playboy, an avid hunter, and a fickle personality.

She extended her hand. His palm was rougher than she expected for an aristocrat.

"A pleasure," he said.

"Likewise," she returned.

Volkov sat down in the empty chair across from Cherry, and the others followed suit.

She found herself, somewhat uncomfortably, to be the subject of the man's scrutiny. She waited for him to say something, but instead he stared at her like he was reading a menu. She was sure that she had never met him before, but the way he was looking at her suggested otherwise.

Finally, he asked, "What sort of work do you do as a secretary?"

"Well, sir," she said, "I assist the ambassador in his daily affairs. You know, the filing, the phone calls, the appointments."

"Filing. How exciting."

Cherry gave him a slight smile. "I think it's important to keep things organized. It can get rather hectic otherwise."

"Do you assist him with all his needs, Miss St. Clair?"

Her smile wavered, but not enough to give anything away. "Whatever I can," she said.

"I'm sure there are plenty of ways you could be... useful," he said, leaning forward slightly.

Cherry's hand curled around the stem of her wine glass. Was he trying to insinuate something? Maybe she was misunderstanding his tone, some kind of cultural difference.

She didn't have to say anything, however, because Mr. Lynn cleared his throat. "She is a very hard worker," he said, "When it comes to paperwork and filing, she's a master of her craft. The girl doesn't miss a thing. We're lucky to have her." He gave her a smile before returning to his conversation with Mr. Vachenko, probably feeling as though he'd rescued her from a rather boring conversation.

"Yes," Volkov said, leaning back and raising his glass, "Lucky."

She took a drink from her glass. Her eyes met Volkov's, and neither looked away. She couldn't help but notice how attractive he was, in an arrogant kind of way. His black hair was swept back to reveal blue eyes, and a slight stubble covered his jawline.

"What about you, Mr. Volkov? What kind of work do you do?" she asked.

"I work for the Russian embassy, my entire family is in politics," he said, his eyes glittering, "But truth be told, I do as little as I can get away with."

"Well," Cherry said, "At least you're honest about it."

He leaned in a bit, and Cherry's heart skipped a beat. "I was being honest about something else as well," he said, his voice low, "I'd like to see if you can be useful... to me."

Cherry set her glass back on the table with slightly too much force, so that it clattered for a moment.

Mr. Lynn gave her a curious look, breaking off mid sentence with Mr. Vachenko, and Cherry realized she had to watch herself. She blamed the wine and the fact that her feet were killing her.

"How is your father, Sasha?" Lynn asked, interjecting again.

"Very well," said Volkov, "Thank you. And your son?"

"Oh, he's fine. He's in university now."

"Ah, yes. In England?"

"Yes, Cambridge."

"Smart boy."

"He's studying history, I'm not sure how much intelligence has anything to do with it."

Vachenko laughed heartily. "You should be proud of him. It is a prestigious university."

"Yes," agreed Volkov, "Very prestigious. You know, Cambridge is where my grandfather did his undergraduate studies. Before he joined the military."

As they prattled on, Cherry took a sip of her wine and pretended to listen.

She took the time to examine their surroundings, the people sitting at the table. The conversation was mostly idle chit chat. Some talk about politics, some gossip about mutual friends, the weather. Nothing that was of interest to her, or more so, of interest to the agency.

It didn't escape her notice that another woman at the table was doing exactly the same thing. A young blonde, pretty, in a tight fitting green dress, her hair pinned up with a sparkling comb. She was watching the others around the table with a certain intensity, and Cherry wondered if she was the wife or girlfriend of someone important.

They exchanged a look, and Cherry nodded at the woman, who responded with a slight smile.

Best to keep your friends close, and your enemies closer still. She wasn't sure what to make of her, yet.

She also wasn't sure what to make of Volkov.

He had fallen quiet again, watching her with a half-smile. It was unnerving, to say the least. She was used to being watched by men, but not like this. The way Volkov looked at her made it seem like he knew something he shouldn't, and she was torn between her intrigue and the fact that his mannerisms were not winning him any points.

"Miss St. Clair," he said after a pause, "Have we met before? I feel as though I've seen you somewhere."

"I've been told I have a familiar face," she said, "But, no. We haven't met."

He tapped his fingers on the table. "Hm. Odd."

"You probably just have me confused with someone else."

"I suppose that's possible, but I doubt it. You have a very memorable face." He leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, "Maybe it's the angle. Why don't you try getting down on your knees and looking up at me? That might help my memory."

She took yet another sip of wine. It was all she could do to maintain her composure. She didn't want to believe that a man could be so brazen, especially not in front of such important company. She wanted to kick him in the balls.

"Perhaps you've mistaken me for a prostitute," she said, her tone flat.

Volkov chuckled and leaned back. "I wouldn't be the first, I'm sure."

"Are you quite done, sir?"

"For now."

Cherry was saved from having to reply by the arrival of their dinner. Waiters filed into the room carrying plates piled high with food, setting them down on the tables. A plate was set in front of her, filled with a perfectly roasted duck and an assortment of vegetables. It looked delectable.

Upon tasting it, it was even more delicious than it looked. She was so used to take-out and microwaved dinners, the real thing was a bit of a treat. Lynn was right, the restaurant was a gem.

When she'd had a bit to eat, and her anger no longer felt so near the surface, she fixed Volkov with a look. "Mr. Volkov," she said, "Have I done something to offend you?"

He had finished eating, and was wiping his hands with a napkin. "Not at all. I'm only trying to get a better idea of who you are."

"There's not much to tell," she said.

"I don't think that's true."

"You're rather direct," she said, "And quite rude."

"That may be so, but I can't help but wonder..." He leaned forward, his eyes glinting. "Why are you here tonight?"

Cherry blinked. She didn't respond, staring at her dinner roll, as she spread butter across its soft crust.

Volkov's chair creaked as he leaned forward, and she glanced back up at him. He caught her gaze seriously as he spoke, "Do you know what these men are talking about? They are trying to decide the fate of the world tonight. I think it would be a great accomplishment to have a woman's input in these decisions. It's a shame to waste a mind like yours, isn't it, Miss St. Clair?"

She set down the roll. "You seem to have a lot of opinions about me, Mr. Volkov. Well then, which am I? A genius or a whore?"

He smirked. "Can't you be both?"

She didn't know how to answer that. The truth was, she was a whore, just not in the sense he was implying. She was paid handsomely to do what she was told without asking questions, and if it were required of her, she would have slept with Mr. Lynn and Vachenko both. Volkov didn't have to know that.

Finally, she said, "I'm not wasting it. My mind."

He leaned back, "No?"

"I feel perfectly fulfilled in my service to Mr. Lynn."

He raised a brow. "Service," he murmured.

Why was this man so determined to torment her? Was he really that bored?

"You really must tell me more about yourself," she said, "It seems I'm the only one sharing my interests tonight, and that hardly seems fair. I suspect you lead an interesting life."

"Not as interesting as you might imagine," Volkov replied.

"Oh, come now. You must have some stories to tell," Cherry pushed.

"You have an idea in your mind of who I am, but I promise you, Miss St. Clair. We have a lot more in common than you realize."

She frowned at him.

Mr. Vachenko cleared his throat just then. "Gentlemen," he said to the members of their table, his tone light and jovial, "Shall we move the evening's discussion to more private quarters? It seems that some of our colleagues have already moved to the conference room. There's a bit more space, and I'm afraid we are running a bit behind schedule."

Cherry stayed behind as the men began to trail out of the room. This would be a perfect opportunity to slip away, once she had said her goodbyes.

She took a couple sips of wine, staring into one of the candles on the table, as she decided what she wanted to do. It would be easier to ask the front desk staff for a spare keycard, but she would have to make up a convincing enough reason. It was simpler, but more difficult, to extract the keycard directly from Vachenko. But where did he keep it, she wondered...

She took one more steeling sip of wine, then made her way into the conference room.

A large oak table sat at the center of the room, covered with papers and files, as well as a few laptops. A fireplace was on one side, burning bright and hot. Several couches lined the walls, and a cart filled with alcohol sat off to the side. As she approached, she could see several cheeks already flushed with wine and whiskey, lips and ties beginning to loosen for the evening.

Volkov was standing with his back to the wall, his arm resting against the mantle. The light from the fire cast him in a warm glow, and she couldn't help but glance his way. He was watching her. She still didn't understand why he'd singled her out, or what his game was.

She strode to where Mr. Lynn and Mr. Vachenko were talking in low tones. As she rounded the end of the table, she put a hand on Mr. Lynn's upper arm. "Unless you need anything more from me, I'm going to head back to the office to close up," she said. He nodded distractedly.

"Mr. Lynn, sir," Cherry added, leaning in to speak directly into his ear, "You'll call me if you need anything. Won't you?"

He cleared his throat, seeming to finally register her presence. "Yes, of course. I'll call you later. Let me see you out."

"It's alright," she said, waving a hand, "Stay. Don't worry about me."

Then she leaned in to Mr. Vachenko, saying, "So good to see you," as she gave him the slighest one-armed hug, the barest touch of her cheek against his. Her other hand was already sliding down into his jacket pocket, clutching his hotel keycard, by the time he realized what she was doing and returned the hug.

"Likewise, my dear," he said.

Then she turned away from him, and the rest of the men, and walked back out of the room, feeling Sasha Volkov's eyes following her the whole way out.

Once she was safely outside of the conference room, and the door was shut behind her, Cherry let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

It had gone well. Too well, perhaps. She couldn't shake the feeling that something had been off. It had almost been too easy, to get the keycard from Vachenko. She was used to a challenge, and this hadn't felt like much of one. But she shook the thought away.

She was being paranoid. She'd been trained to think in worst-case scenarios, and the reality was, sometimes things were easier than expected.

A hand touched her arm. She gave a small flinch and turned to see the blonde woman from earlier standing beside her. She hadn't heard her come up.

"Excuse me," the woman said, "I'm sorry, I don't usually do this, but your makeup is stunning. You're a natural beauty, of course, but I was wondering if you would mind giving me some tips?"

Cherry's interest was instantly piqued. Was she CIA, too? Or just an overly friendly guest?

She couldn't risk revealing anything, however, so she was careful with her words. "Of course," Cherry replied.

"My husband and I are staying on the fifth floor," the woman said, "Room 512. Would you mind terribly stopping by after drinks? I'd love to pick your brain."

Cherry smiled. "I'm not sure if I'll be able to, but if I find myself nearby, I'll drop by."

The woman gave her a knowing look. "Well, if you're not there by midnight, I'll assume you can't make it."

Cherry nodded and the two separated.

She was certain that the woman was a drop-point, one of the ways that the agency liked to obscure their tracks. Once Cherry gathered the documents she was looking for, she would take them upstairs and trade them for a similar package from the woman, which she could then deliver to an outside location. It was a contingency plan in the event that she was followed when she left tonight. No one would be looking for the documents a mere floor above.

As she climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, she couldn't help but feel a rush of anticipation. She could feel her blood pumping, and there was a lightness in her chest. Now, the night's work would really begin.

Her heels clacked on the tile as she walked down the hall, her skirt swishing around her thighs. It was unusual for a hotel to have tile instead of carpet, but it helped her understand why it was such a good place to hold clandestine meetings. It made it much harder for anyone to sneak around.

When she reached Mr. Vachenko's room, she pulled the keycard from her bag, then slipped it into the slot and watched the little light blink green. She turned the handle and stepped into the room, closing the door quickly behind her.

The suite was dark, illuminated only by the glow from the street below. The rain had picked up, and was hammering against the windows. She kept the lights off, and strode across to where a desk sat by the window.

She gave the suite only a cursory glance, enough to make sure she was alone. It was comfortably furnished with a bed, desk, and a set of armchairs by the window.

Her eyes were already adjusting to the dark, and it was easy enough to find what she needed. The desk was sparse except for three piles of paper stacked neatly. One of the desk drawers was slightly open, which he had clearly been using to store documents. It was strange that he had left these papers exposed on the table, but fortunate for her - she hated picking locks.

She picked the first stack up, flipping through the contents. It was all written in Russian, of course. She pulled out a small circular camera from the inside of her shoe, hardly thicker than a credit card. Her foot ached where she had been standing on it. Then she snapped photos of the most important looking papers, letting her rudimentary Russian and gut instinct guide her. She would have plenty of time later to read them over, when she wasn't standing in a dark room, the Russian consul's keycard stolen out of his coat pocket.

She closed the file, set it aside, and picked up the second. She had just flipped it open when she paused. Had she heard something?

She tilted her head slightly, listening. There wasn't supposed to be anyone on this floor other than the embassy officials, and they were all absorbed in conversation below.

But it was clear. Footsteps, coming down the hallway. Thank that blasted tile floor.

Only... where could she hide?

Cherry glanced around, her heart beating faster. Her options were limited. Unless... There was a door beside the desk. A closet, perhaps? She crossed the room in a half-run, and had just slid the door open when the footsteps stopped. She slipped inside.

It was a small space, crammed full of hanging coats and shirts. She pushed a pair of expensive leather shoes aside with her foot, making room for herself. Then, carefully, she pulled the door shut, and tried to quiet her breathing.

She listened to the sound of her thumping heartbeat for a moment, her quick breaths slowing.

But as her body settled and quieted, there was something else.

Another set of breaths, just out of line with her own.

At first, she thought she was imagining it. But there it was again, a soft exhale. She felt her heart rate pick back up again.

She was being silly, there was no way anyone could have followed her into the room. No way anyone could be in this closet beside her right now. Unless they were already here when she arrived.

It was too dark to see, so she reached back tentatively and her hand met fabric. Coats. Buttons. And then something... firm. Warm. She pushed against it. Whoever was in the closet with her stumbled, and the coats rustled, but they didn't make a sound.

Her first instinct was to panic. To run for the door, and hope that she could slip away in the darkness. But the more rational side of her took over. She couldn't leave the closet now for the risk of revealing herself. Her hand was at her holster faster than it had ever been before, her finger curled around the grip of her gun.

The stranger was faster. A warm hand closed over her wrist, pushing her hand down, and she found her other arm twisted up behind her, a strong body pinning her against the wall of the closet. They struggled over the gun for a moment, until she was shoved her against the wall hard enough to force the breath out of her and her grip finally loosened enough for him to grab it.

The cold barrel pressed against her temple.

Was this how she would die? In the closet of a hotel room, shot with her own gun?

She couldn't decide if she wanted to laugh or cry when the door of the hotel room opened with an audible click. Scant light from the hallway flooded beneath the door of the closet. Two sets of footsteps treaded into the room as the main lights flickered on.

She and her captor listened as the two new guests in the hotel room began speaking.

"There's been a complication," said Mr. Lynn's voice.

"What sort of complication?" said his companion, and Cherry immediately recognized Vachenko's slow drawl.

Shit.

"The kind that means our window is going to be much smaller than anticipated. He's not here. But he'll be here soon."

"How soon is 'soon'?"

"Less than an hour."

There was a brief rustling as, presumably, one of the two men settled into one of the armchairs.

"An hour! I don't like it."

A pause. "Come have a drink, old friend. It'll put you at ease." The sound of a whiskey bottle being uncorked, ice hitting glass.

The conversation continued, muffled, as the two men took seats in the corner of the suite. She strained to be able to hear them.

She could, however, hear the soft, ragged breathing of the man behind her, and feel his body pressed firmly against hers. Her free hand was braced against the wall to keep him from pushing her into it any harder, and her other wrist was still held painfully behind her.

Cherry tried to twist her head around to look at him, but the gun dug into her flesh.

"Scream and we're both dead," a low voice said in her ear.

She recognized the accent. She knew that infuriating voice. Volkov.

It didn't make any sense. How had he gotten here so fast? She'd left the restaurant before him, and she certainly hadn't wasted any time. He must have suspected her plans, somehow. Or maybe he'd had the same idea himself.

She had no doubt he had to be a spy, probably for one of the three agencies that had their interests here tonight.

Things were starting to make more sense now. He had recognized her somehow. Had he seen her file? Had he known who she was all along? Regardless of how tonight ended, her cover was blown. This was a clusterfuck of the highest degree.

For several minutes, she did nothing but listen. She heard the low murmur of voices, the clink of glasses, and the steady pounding of rain on the window. Her body was beginning to protest against her awkward position, her neck and shoulder stiff. She was also uncomfortably aware that, behind her, Volkov was growing more restless.

She could feel the warmth of his body seeping through his clothing, and he was pressed close enough that his breath stirred her hair. She could smell his cologne, spicy and musky, and a scent that was distinctly male. It wasn't unpleasant. In fact, it was very pleasant. It was doing things to her to be pressed up against him, despite how much she wanted to punch him.

Her presence seemed to be doing things to him, too.

It was impossible not to notice the growing hardness against her hip. It was obvious even through the layers of fabric between them.

There was something undeniably hot about it. Maybe the danger, or the fact that they were trapped together in the dark. She was acutely aware of his presence, his closeness, and it made her heart beat faster. She'd never found a gun to the head arousing, and yet, here she was.

"Stop moving," Volkov hissed, his lips brushing her ear.

She hadn't even realized she was squirming, trying to ease the ache in her shoulders from her arm being twisted behind her.

"You're hurting me," she replied, just as quietly.

He shifted his hold, letting go of her trapped arm. Then he turned her around and pushed her up against the wall, and this time it wasn't quite as uncomfortable.

Cherry found herself face to face with Sasha Volkov. They stared at each other for a moment. In the dim light afforded to them from the hotel room, his eyes were in shadow. She could see the outline of his mouth, the sharp curve of his jaw. She was reminded suddenly of just how attractive he was, and her pulse picked up a little more.

He held the gun just beneath her jaw, pressing it lightly to where her carotid bounded helplessly.

He had held a gun before, she was sure. His hand didn't shake in the slightest. It was becoming clear he was more than the spoiled son of an aristocrat.

She held very still. The threat was clear, and besides, she couldn't exactly run out into the room screaming.

Volkov's gaze roamed over her face and then dipped down, lower, lingering on her breasts. Cherry realized that in their struggle, the buttons of her blouse had come undone, and the black lace of her bra underneath was peeking out. Her hair had fallen out of its bun, and hung in a dark tumble around her shoulders.

With his free hand, he touched her, tracing the slope of her shoulder, then down to her breast. Cherry held her breath as his fingers brushed her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He traced the lace, then the swell of her breast, and then he pushed aside the thin material and freed her breast completely. He squeezed her, kneading the soft flesh, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

It was so unexpected that she didn't even think to pull away. Cherry couldn't help the small sound that escaped her, somewhere between a moan and a sigh.

Then Volkov's eyes came back up to hers.

"What do they train you American sluts to do?" he asked, so quietly that she wasn't sure she heard him for a moment.

"What?" she whispered, her voice tense with anger.

"I saw the way you were looking at me, tonight. Practically begging for my cock... Do they teach you how to use your mouth, or are you only trained to spread your legs?"

She suddenly remembered why she hated him. She felt color rising in her cheeks.

Fuck him and his arrogance.

"Fuck. Off."

"Maybe I should put that mouth to better use," he murmured.

He motioned with the gun for her to get on her knees.

She stiffened but didn't move, refusing to give him a reaction, except for a small, resistant shake of her head.

"I wasn't asking, kitten. On your knees," he said softly, "Or I'll put a bullet through that pretty little head."

There was no humor in his tone. His eyes were cold. It was clear: the flirting was over, the games were done.

His hand went to her breast again, and he squeezed her nipple, hard, until her face scrunched up in discomfort. Then he shoved her down to her knees. She didn't fight him, letting herself sink down to her knees until her face was level with the front of his pants.

She didn't want to, and yet, some part of her did. That was the thing about this sort of work. It fucked with her head. The adrenaline rush, the thrill that she got from danger, and the constant sense that she was always on the brink of something. Something wild and untamable, something dangerous and exciting.

And Sasha Volkov was the perfect example. He was exactly the sort of man that her instincts told her to avoid, the type that could ruin her in a second. But there was something intoxicating about it, the way he had scrutinized her this evening like an insect under a magnifying glass. Somehow, he knew what she was. He was dangerous. And it turned her on.

She looked up at him. In the shadows, she could only see the outline of his face. She couldn't make out his expression, but she could feel his eyes on her.

She had the sense, for a moment, that the men outside the door might hear them. But they were speaking loudly now, arguing. The sound of whiskey glasses being set down and chairs creaking was audible. She had hardly a moment to wonder what they might be arguing about, before Volkov's hand came up to her face.

He put his thumb on her lower lip and she opened her mouth without a fight. She could feel the ridges of the fingerprints, the calloused pads of his fingers. She should have known as soon as she shook his hand. Those weren't the hands of a rich brat.

She looked up at him through her lashes, trying to laser him with the intensity of her glare, despite the humiliating position she was in.

She wanted to spit an insult at him. To curse him. But instead, she unbuckled his belt and unfastened the front of his pants, slowly and deliberately, with hardly a sound. The fabric of his underwear was soft beneath her fingertips, and the outline of his cock was unmistakable. She pulled the waistband down and let his cock spring free, her breath hitching in her throat.

He was much larger than she'd had before. She took stock of the giant cock she was looking at: the smooth skin, the dark hair surrounding it, the head flushed and dripping with precum. The thought of sucking him off was both frightening and incredibly erotic.

A bead of pre cum settled at the tip, and Volkov grasped his cock, rubbing it across her lower lip.

She could have bitten his cock, or closed her mouth. Instead, she licked the tip clean. Salty, slightly bitter, the taste of him.

He didn't give her a chance to change her mind, before he guided his cock into her mouth. As he fed his cock between her lips, she instinctively moved back, her head hitting the closet wall. That didn't stop him, and she found her head pressed hard against the wall, his cock pushing deeper into her mouth, pressing her tongue flat.

Her eyes watered as he hit the back of her throat, but she didn't gag. He had been more right than he knew earlier. Her training regimen had involved a lot more than just shooting guns and cracking safes. She'd had practice.

But she'd never sucked a man off while hiding from another, in the closet of a hotel room, listening to political officials talk shop while Sasha Volkov's cock slid in and out of her mouth. She could hear Mr. Vachenko and Mr. Lynn talking, and a third voice, garbled, as though through a speaker phone. She could only catch bits and pieces of what was being said.

"I'm sorry, it can't happen again."

"We had an agreement!" The creak of the floor as someone paced distractedly back and forth.

"I understand, but we don't want to risk our ties..."

Her thoughts were cut off as Volkov's hand fisted in her hair, forcing her forward until her nose brushed his stomach. Her lips stretched tight around the base of his cock, her eyes watering at the sensation.

And again, she had a fleeting thought that she should bite him, that she should pull away, that she should fight him. But his fist was wound in her hair, keeping her close, and his cock was hot and heavy on her tongue, and it would have been a lie to say she wasn't enjoying it, too.

She let her mouth go slack, opening her throat for him. He didn't seem to need further encouragement. Volkov began thrusting into her mouth, his movements achingly slow and controlled. And yet, he was quiet, not making a sound beyond the occasional soft exhale. She wished, in the darkness, that she could see him better. The light from beneath the door cast a dim glow over the bottom half of his face, highlighting his jaw and his slightly parted lips.

She made a soft sound, and the hand in her hair tightened, as though warning her to be quiet.

Her hands gripped his thighs, her nails digging into the expensive fabric of his pants. She could feel his muscles flexing, the strength of his body. She wasn't sure if she was pushing or pulling on him.

The voices in the other room had gotten louder, and Volkov took it as encouragement to increase his pace, hitting the back of her throat with every stroke now, and the sounds that he was forcing out of her, wet and lewd, were getting harder to control. It felt like he was going to push her through the wall, fucking her face like it was his personal sex toy.

She felt a jab of fear that she couldn't breathe, that she was choking, that they were going to be discovered. She tried to push him away, but her struggles were pointless. Volkov only pushed her harder against the wall, and she felt tears springing into her eyes, sliding down her cheeks. He seemed to enjoy that, and the hand in her hair pulled tighter.

And then he pulled her off his cock, and a thin line of saliva trailed from her lip.

She had no time to catch her breath, as he tugged her up and spun her around, pushing her chest-first towards the wall. She managed to catch the impact softly with her hands.

His hands were at her waist, working at her skirt. He flipped the short black fabric up, baring her ass, and took a moment to admire the pantyhose clinging tightly to her legs, and the black garter belt and lace thong. His hands ran up and down her stockings, tracing them, squeezing her ass.

He pushed the strap of her thong aside, and his fingers dipped between her thighs. She bit her lip, stifling a gasp, as his fingers brushed against her pussy, then slid inside. She was soaking wet, her clit already swollen. Her knees almost buckled.

"Fuck, kitten, you're so wet."

He worked her slowly, his fingers pumping in and out of her, until she was gasping, her forehead pressed against the closet wall, and he was pushing her up against it.

It didn't take long. A minute more and she was grinding herself on his fingers, desperate for release, and he was whispering in her ear, "That's right. Fuck yourself on my fingers, little whore."

She came silently, her muscles trembling, her pussy clenching around his fingers. She had never come so fast in her life.

Cherry knew this was wrong, and not just because she was meant to be working. This man was a threat, a stranger, and they were trapped together in the closet of a hotel room while his colleagues were just a thin wooden door away.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back, and she was forced to arch her back. The thought slipped unbidden across her mind that if he had one hand on her hip and one in her hair, then the gun was probably not pointed at her head. She could grab it.

But Volkov pushed the tip of his cock against her slick opening, and she didn't.

He thrust in with a quick, rough jerk of his hips, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. His cock felt like it was splitting her open. It had been at least a year since the last time she'd had a man, and never anyone the size of Volkov. He held himself deep inside her, letting her pussy stretch and adjust to his girth.

Volkov didn't give her long to adjust, however, and he set a punishing pace, slamming into her so hard that she could feel her tits bouncing with the force of it. His cock was hot and throbbing, and every thrust forced her to rise up onto her toes, as if to get away from him.

"You're such a good little slut," he said into her ear.

His words should have repulsed her, but instead, her pussy tightened. He was talking to her like a whore, like a bitch in heat.

And maybe she was, because his pace was making her mind numb. There was nothing but the sensation of his cock pumping in and out of her, the way it filled her, and his hands gripping her body, her waist, her hips.

She could almost forget about the men in the room beyond. The voices from outside seemed to be winding down, the discussion coming to a close.

Volkov must have noticed it too, because he leaned forward, his body covering hers, his hips grinding into her ass. Each thrust was slow and deliberate, as quiet as he could make them. She could feel every inch of his cock as it sank inside her, the head sliding against her cervix.

She was breathing heavily, her eyes screwed shut. He was hitting something deep inside her, and her legs were shaking. If he hadn't had her pinned against the wall, she wasn't sure how much longer she could stand.

He seemed to know just what her body needed. His hand slipped around her waist and found her clit, and her knees almost buckled at the contact. She could only bite her lip to muffle a whimper, as his cock and his fingers both worked her relentlessly.

She could feel her climax building, the warmth pooling low in her belly. The hand holding her hip shifted, his arm wrapping around her middle. His chest was pressed flush against her back, and she could feel the fabric of his shirt brushing her skin. His breath was warm on her neck. He was so close. It should have frightened her, but she found herself leaning into it, into him, his cock filling her and his fingers teasing her clit.

She came with a sudden shudder, and he had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep her from making a sound.

The sensations were overwhelming. His fingers were working her swollen clit, and her pussy was tightening around his cock. She was barely conscious of the fact that her whole body was trembling. He continued to fuck her through her orgasm, and the overstimulation was almost painful.

He pulled out of her, his fingers still playing with her clit, and she felt suddenly empty. Instead, she felt the tip of his cock nudging her, and then slipping further up.

Oh. No.

He pressed the head of his cock against her asshole.

She shook her head furiously and reached behind her, pushing at him, trying to dislodge him. He was strong enough that she couldn't push him back, and the tip of his cock pressed harder against her.

Then pushed the head of his cock past her entrance, forcing his way into her tight, virgin asshole.

She had a moment of panic. He couldn't possibly fit. The head of his cock struggled to breach the tight ring of muscle, and her body protested, pain blossoming in her abdomen. But the head was the hardest part, and once it was past, the rest followed.

She was glad he'd fucked her pussy first, because there was plenty of lubrication to ease his entry. But it still hurt. Her legs were shaking, her eyes screwed shut. His cock stretched her painfully, but he kept pushing, his hips rocking slowly, feeding inch after inch of his cock into her.

Finally, her ass met his pelvis, and she could feel the warmth of his thighs, and the coarse hair tickling her. He'd finally managed to sink the entirety of his cock inside her, and her body had stretched to accommodate him. She let out a shaky breath. It didn't feel quite as bad now. In fact, it was beginning to feel...

Her thought trailed off as he began to fuck her in earnest. He'd given her time to adjust, and now he was going to use her ass the same way he'd used her pussy. She tried to quell the tiny huffs of strained breath that kept slipping from her as he slowly fucked her into the wall.

The sounds of voices had fallen silent in the room beyond. And she was sure that the only thing they'd hear was the creaking of the closet door, and her quiet gasps, and Volkov's quiet, controlled breaths. Her mind was hazy, and she was barely aware of anything but his cock filling her ass, and the feeling of him stretching her wide.

She couldn't hold back the smallest sound as he grabbed her hair again and yanked her head back.

"What's the matter?" he murmured, "You like it when I fuck your little ass?"

She shook her head, the movement completely ineffective. But he was right. Her body was responding eagerly. His cock was pumping in and out of her, and each thrust pushed her harder against the wall.

Volkov's other hand, still slippery with her arousal, found its way back between her thighs. She had forgotten how sensitive her pussy was, and his fingers were sending shivers of pleasure through her. He was going to make her come again. She was already halfway there, and he was working her with his cock and his fingers. Her ass was sore, but the pain was starting to feel good, and her pussy was clenching around his fingers.

Cherry couldn't believe what was happening. That she was here, pinned up against a wall, with a man's cock buried inside her ass, and his hand between her legs. It felt too good to fight him, and she was enjoying being used, and dominated, and controlled.

His fingers worked faster, and his hips rocked harder, and she could feel his cock pulsing, and his breath coming in ragged bursts.

Her muscles spasmed and tightened, her orgasm ripping through her once again, and Volkov buried his cock in her ass, his body tensing. Then, as his own climax hit, she felt his cock throb and twitch, and he came with a soft groan, his seed spilling deep inside her.

They stood for a moment, his cock still buried inside her, their bodies shaking, and panting softly. Cherry's heart was beating rapidly, and her thoughts were scrambled. What had she done? Volkov's arm was still around her middle, and her fingers were wrapped loosely around his wrist as if to push him away.

Volkov's hand left her pussy, and her thighs clenched. She was oversensitive. The muscles of her ass were sore and trembling, and her body ached.

Then the sound of voices filtered through the door. Behind her, Volkov was still breathing hard, his body pressed up against her, and his cock was softening and slipping out of her. His face was buried in the crook of her neck, and she could smell his cologne and sweat.

The sound of two chairs being pushed back.

"He's here... Thank you for waiting, Vachenko. I know this has been a trying evening."

"I can't say it's been a pleasure."

The sound of the main door opening.

Then, finally, silence.

Volkov let go of her, and she heard the soft hush of fabric as he pulled his clothing back into place. She looked down. The buttons on her blouse were still undone, her skirt was rucked up, and her garter belt was peeking out beneath the hem. She could see the marks his fingers had left on her waist, and her pantyhose had been ripped in several places. But Cherry's priority wasn't her clothes, it was her gun.

She turned slowly, her legs unsteady, and looked at Volkov in the dim light. He looked slightly disheveled, his pants unbuckled and his jacket rumpled. The buttons on his shirt were undone, and his tie was gone. He was buttoning his shirt up, but when he saw her looking, he met her gaze and smiled wickedly.

She spied her gun, discarded on the floor beneath the coats.

Volkov didn't seem to realize she was looking for it. He straightened his collar, running a hand through his hair, and watched her with amusement. When she took a small step towards the gun, his expression changed.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," he said.

Cherry stopped moving.

"What are you going to do? Kill me?"

"Actually, no, that would be rather messy. It would also put me in a bad position with my employer. Although I suppose if you tried to kill me first, I might have a case for self-defense."

"Your employer..." she said slowly, "You're KGB, aren't you? There's no point in lying."

"KGB," he scoffed, "Certainly not."

"Then who?"

"You really have no idea, do you?"

"You're right. I don't know why you're here, or why you singled me out, or who the hell you think I am. But I'm not interested in playing games."

He crossed the small space of the closet, until they were face to face. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him.

"No more games," he murmured, "I know exactly who you are. It's only fair that you should know who I am, too."

Then he reached down and picked up the gun, and for a split second, she thought he might shoot her. But he turned the gun and handed it back to her, handle first.

"I'm CIA," he said, "We're on the same side."

Her mouth went dry. "That's not possible."

He shrugged. "If you say so."

"Why the hell are you telling me this?"

"Because we're not enemies. You and I can help each other."

For a minute, she just looked at him. Taking in the man standing before her, the events of the night, and everything that had happened between them. She thought about the things he'd done to her, and the things she'd allowed him to do.

And for a brief moment, her anger flared. If this man was in fact CIA, he certainly hadn't been in a rush to clarify, letting her believe that he would shoot her if she didn't do what he asked.

So she swung, the gun clutched in her fist.

But he was ready for her. Volkov caught her by the wrist and pushed her back, his hand finding her throat and pushing her against the wall. Her head thumped hard against the closet door, and a small sound escaped her.

His face was very close to hers, his eyes dark and his expression serious.

"Stop fighting me, kitten," he murmured.

She looked at the man in front of her, the man who had fucked her ass not minutes earlier. The way he'd spoken to her. The way he'd treated her. Like a whore. Like a slut. And the fact that he now dared to tell her that they were allies, and he hadn't done a thing to stop her thinking otherwise.

She lifted her chin to meet his gaze, defiant, and smiled her most wicked smile.

"Make me."

***

Thank you for reading!