His focus swept to her face for a brief moment, and that intense look in his eyes was a reminder that no, maybe not even work talk could totally crush the feelings inside of her. One look and she was blazing hot again. How was it possible? “We have any idea where the twenty-seven million went?” A.J. reset his attention on the computer screen.
“Twenty-two million went to an account in the Maldives, and if it weren’t for the help of Harper and Natasha, I may not have found that one so fast. But the five million that went to a bank account in the Cayman Islands was an easy find,” Jessica said. “I still haven’t cracked who the accounts belong to, but I’m working on it. The assumption is the five million is payment to The Huntsman.”
“If someone shows up to collect from the bank in the Maldives, the FBI won’t be able to make a move,” Ana said with irritation. “No extradition there.”
“Well, the good news for us is that the bank in the Maldives requires on-site access for removal or transfer of the funds. Someone will have to come and sign for it to access the twenty-two million,” Jessica commented. “We’ll have a team watching the bank and waiting. Once we identify the account holder, they’ll already be there to move in.”
She made it sound so easy. Bypassing red tape. No forms to fill out. No judge approval.
“The Feds only sent a team to the bank down in the Caymans since they haven’t actually tracked the other transfer yet, and we’re not in a hurry to tell them. We won’t be going to the Caymans. The Feds can handle that. Not interested in any run-ins with them.” Jessica’s explanation meant that whoever hired A.J.’s team to follow Ana’s unit wasn’t the FBI.
“So, who is heading to the Maldives?” A.J. asked. “Don’t tell me Luke and Knox have to hop back on a plane already.” He released the chair, which had it moving ever so slightly at the loss of his grip.
“Yeah, but hopefully it’s a quick trip,” Jessica answered.
“Twenty-two million is a pretty good motivator for kidnapping the Albanian accountant,” Asher commented. “But why take the scientist? The ballerina? Why go after the Volkov source in Miami now?”
“The mole at the FBI, assuming there is one, cherry-picked those sources for a reason. Maybe each one has the potential to provide a big payday, I don’t know. But until we figure out the motive, or possible connection between the missing sources, we’ll be chasing our tails,” A.J. said, eyes back on the screen. “But my money is on the Russians.”
“Which Russians?” Asher grinned. “Team SVR or Volkov?”
These guys and their humor. “Do you mind telling me who directed your team to identify the leak? What if they want you looking at my unit as a distraction from the real problem?”
Based on the way Jessica’s mouth tightened before peering at the father of her babies, it was clear she wasn’t going to offer a name. Classified. “We’re under good authority to believe the man or woman who hired us is clean,” Jessica announced after an uncomfortable few moments passed. “But the FBI did learn you may not be exactly who your file claims you to be. We’re waiting on an updated dossier now.” Jessica’s next pause spelled more bad news. “In fact, we learned the man you made a pass with yesterday near your office was Dominick Volkov. And well, Dominick hasn’t been seen in fifteen years, just like his older cousin Grigory Volkov.”
Ana’s eyes dropped to the shiny, new wood floors, taking a moment to breathe. To figure a way out of this mess. But there was only one way, wasn’t there?
Ana pushed back in her seat, slowly stood, and faced A.J. to look directly into his eyes. “My real last name isn’t Quinn,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “And my parents were Volkov spies.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ana clutched her arms tightly across her abdomen, concern about her see-through shirt forgotten at the sight of A.J.’s mouth dropping open in surprise. The hurt and shock in his green eyes struck her with fierce intensity and had her drawing in quick, panicky breaths. “I’m sorry.” She turned and brushed past him, bolting for the door.
“Ana, wait!” he called out, but his words only had her moving faster.
She paused in the hallway to determine a direction. The right would lead her outside.
“Ana,” A.J. called softly this time, his voice heavy with disbelief. When she glimpsed back into the room, finding his hands on his hips, his gaze set on her, there was more than shock in the lines of his face. Disappointment. Disgust. Her worst fears.
“I’m sorry,” she mouthed, then chose her target, the back of the house.
Once outside on the porch, she hurried to the railing that overlooked a landscape that appeared to go on for miles. She clutched the wide-plank strip of wood and sealed her eyes closed, gasping in fresh, although hot, air.
The sight of A.J.’s expression was enough to crush her, to stamp out her hope that something would develop between them. This was why she’d vowed to reveal her true identity before she let her guard down, let his lips touch hers.
The pained look on his face had enveloped his features like thick fog over San Francisco Bay. What if he still viewed her with apprehension even after she explained herself? What if a seed of doubt now grew in the back of his mind and he’d always worry she’d betray the country as her parents had?
Her body went rigid. Strung tight, like always. The relaxed sensation from their playful and flirtatious banter in the kitchen was gone, and she desperately wanted it back.
She wanted A.J. to look at her with affection and longing as he’d done when she was pinned against his strong, muscular frame. Like a woman deserving of love and passion. Not the daughter of Russian spies who made a career of betraying the U.S.
Tears leaked from her closed eyes. Unexpected and unwanted.
She clenched one hand into a fist and slammed it down onto the wood, so angry at herself for believing anything would ever change. Even if her mission was successful, she’d always be Anastasia Chernyshevsky, the daughter of Volkov spies. Daughter of traitors.
Years and years of punishing herself for her parents’ sins had a painful sob ripping free from her chest. All the signs she’d missed from her parents while growing up. Signs she’d probably, in part, ignored because she loved them.
My red angel, my sweet Russian doll, her dad had once said upon entering her bedroom while her mom brushed the tangles from her hair, the view of the Golden Gate Bridge out her window.
You’re silly, Daddy. I’m not a Russian doll. I’m an American one.
Her dad had revealed a surprise behind his back, and her mom had to stop combing her auburn hair when Ana turned to face her father, excitement in her eyes, knowing he was about to perform a little magic. The blank scrolled paper in his hand was much more than it appeared.
Abracadabra, her father had said with a broad smile and sprinkled his “magic potion” across the page. A drawing of a beautiful doll that resembled Ana appeared before her eyes.
Wow, Daddy. That’s your best sketch yet! She’d clutched the paper and lifted it to show her mom before the image would fade away like normal. Like “magic” as her dad had always said.