On the other hand, he’d like to send the chauffeur headfirst through the window.
“I’ll be right back, then.”
He dashed to his office, grabbed his mug and his container of instant coffee, and was out the door before Maxim even looked up from his desk.
Sprint-walking back down the hall, he saw two figures hovering near the conference room door, their backs to him.
“Spies, both of you!” he hissed as he approached. “What do you want?”
Yanna turned to him, looking sharp in a black skirt and white blouse. “She’s in there, isn’t she?”
Vicktor hid the coffee behind his back. “She came in to be questioned.”
His friends exchanged looks.
“There’s a killer after her, folks. What did you expect, that she would hide out in her village and cross her fingers?”
“You know,” said Roman, “Americans have this thing. As soon as they’re in trouble, they run right to the FSB for help. It’s a real epidemic.” Roman arched one eyebrow.
“I asked her chauffeur to bring her here today so I could question her. The Wolf, or somebody, ransacked her place yesterday and she was simply too shaken up to talk about it. She’s not a suspect, and she needs protection.”
“Your protection?” Yanna asked, and one side of her mouth tweaked up.
Vicktor frowned at her. “Yes.” Definitely. “She just may be on his hit list, and I don’t want any more dead bodies, especially hers.”
Yanna stepped up to him and peeked behind his back at the goods. “Well then, Stripes, I guess you need to protect her.”
Roman leaned close to him. “She’s cute. Need any help?”
Vicktor gave him a sharp look. “When did you see her?”
“We watched from our stakeout position in the hall when you made riveting conversation about our respected leaders,” Roman said, unsuccessfully concealing his grin.
Vicktor winced.
“It took about three seconds for the entire building to know you had an American in custody,” Yanna said, smiling.
“She’s not in custody.”
“You might want to rethink that. It might be the best thing for her to spend a few days under FSB lock and key.”
“Over my cold and rotting corpse.”
Even Roman remained speechless.
Vicktor shook his head. “I can protect her my way, without scaring her further.”
“I see,” Roman said. “I hope you know what you’re doing, pal.”
Vicktor let himself linger on Roman’s words, weighing them against his memory of the expression of trust on Grace’s face. “Me too. Listen, I have to get in there before the chauffeur sneaks her out the window.”
Yanna moved aside. “By the way, you’re not thinking of taking her back to your place, are you?”
“Yes.” Vicktor frowned at her. “It’s safe—and the last place the Wolf would look.”
Warning lit in Roman’s eyes. “Think, buddy. She’s not just an American woman, she’s a missionary. There’s no way she’s going back to your flat. The impropriety alone would send her into fits.”
“I don’t think she’s the type to have fits,” Vicktor retorted, but his throat tightened. Good thing Roman hadn’t been on the train. No wonder his threat to ride with her to Vladivostok had worked.
Roman raised his hands in surrender. “The point being, she’s not going to stay there with you…alone. Trust me on this one.”
Vicktor studied his two cohorts. “Why?”
Even Yanna looked astonished. “Vicktor, not to put it too bluntly, but according to Mae and David, Christians don’t like to have their honor compromised. Even I can figure that out.”
“I wouldn’t even think of it.”
“I know that, but she doesn’t.” Yanna flicked a glance at Roman, then smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling.” How about a chaperone?”
Vicktor squinted at them.
“What if Yanna and I come over tonight, just to keep tabs on you two?” Roman suggested.
“I sense a conspiracy here.”
Roman and Yanna exchanged expressions of horror.
Roman clamped him on the shoulder. “Vicktor, I’m on your side. You want to keep her safe? What’s better than having three trained FSB agents hovering over her? And she’ll feel better with another woman around.”
Yanna nodded, apparently enjoying the moment.
Vicktor shook his head but couldn’t suppress a smile. “You should both be working for Black Ops, the way you blindside your targets.”
They laughed.
“See you tonight,” he said as he entered the conference room.
Gracie cupped her hands around the hot mug of coffee, blew on the steam, and let Vicktor’s kindness wash over her. Offering her a cup of coffee, running down to his office to fetch it, then giving her his mug seemed such simple acts. But the generosity of them warmed her to her bones. Although the instant coffee was a poor imitation of fresh-brewed beans, with each sip, courage seeped into her spirit.
Next to her, Andrei fingered his teacup, muttering to himself. What was his problem? Wasn’t it his idea to drag her here in the first place?
Gracie didn’t know what to think about her chauffeur, but as sun cascaded into the dark room, turning the carpet rose-red and polishing the oak table, her fear of FSB Captain Vicktor Shubnikov was dying to an ember.
Vicktor sat next to her, a finger circling the brim of his cup, also filled with coffee. She noticed, as he entered the room, a fresh smile on his face. It ignited a strange feeling inside. Captain Shubnikov might just be a good bodyguard indeed.
The thought widened her eyes, and she gulped her coffee down. Way to go, Gracie. Look at his blue eyes and muscles instead of his heart. Had she learned nothing two years ago? Except, she felt as if she had gotten a glimpse of his heart…and something about it made her feel just a little…safe.
“First thing we need to do is change your appearance.”
“Change my appearance?” Now that suggestion hurt. What was wrong with her that he didn’t like what he saw? Or rather, why did she always let her heart make the decisions for her brain?
Vicktor ran his gaze over her, head to toe and back. Gracie cringed under his scrutiny, knowing she looked like she’d slept in an alley. “Why? What’s wrong with how I look?” Oh, there was way too much vulnerability in that question.
His expression turned apologetic. “Nothing.” He ran a hand over his cropped hair, his gaze darting away from hers. “You just look so…American.”
Gracie frowned, then kicked out her feet and surveyed her hiking boots, her thick white socks, and her ankle-length dress. A hand went to her greasy, unkempt hair. “Okay, you win. But I’m not dyeing my hair.”
He looked up at her, smiling. His eyes twinkled. “I wouldn’t even think it.”
So maybe she’d been just a little hard on him.
Vicktor squinted into the rearview mirror. Time to lose the chauffeur. The guy was like a bulldog. He not only bristled at the suggestion that Vicktor take Grace shopping, but now he drove so close, he’d ram right up their tailpipe if Vicktor touched the brakes. Vicktor bit back his irritation and answered Grace’s question.
“I learned my English at Moscow University.”
“You’re very good. Barely an accent. I can hardly tell you’re Russian.”
“Is that so bad?”
“No, I didn’t mean that at all.” She cringed, and he felt like a heel.
But still, it was telling. Maybe it wasn’t a strike against him to be Russian.
By her blush, he knew she was sorry. “No problem.”
She twisted her hands in her lap. “No, really, I like Russia. And Russians. I couldn’t be here if I didn’t. I have a lot of Russian friends, I like Russian food—”
He suppressed a grin and, without thinking, reached over and touched her hand, silencing her explanation. “It’s okay, Miss Benson. I’m not offended.”
She si
ghed, and he was achingly aware of the softness of her skin. He yanked back his hand, feeling it tingle. The rumble of street traffic and the tick of his ancient engine invaded the sudden silence.
“Please, call me Gracie,” she whispered.
Gracie. Yeah, he liked that. “And we can dispense with the Captain Shubnikov.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while they sat at a red light. “My name’s Vicktor.”
“I remember,” she said, staring out the window.
He wondered if she also remembered his arms around her, protecting her in the doorway of her apartment. He surely did. That and her smell, and the way she let her emotions unravel in the car…
So maybe a chaperone or two this evening was a good idea.
He parked in front of Dom Adezhda—the House of Clothing. In what had once been the State Department Store, a hundred budding capitalists hawked their recent clothing finds, from Italian leather to Chinese polyester, in aisle after aisle of crammed kiosks.
Gracie jumped out of the car and Vicktor opened the store’s door for her. He gritted his teeth as Andrei scooted in behind her. On their heels, Vicktor felt like a tagalong.
The latest in European fashions stretched across modern silver mannequins, and ebony boots, in softened leather, lined glass showcases at the end of each long row of kiosks. Thankfully, the store was still empty, but Vicktor soon realized their liability. Vendors trailed them like hungry puppies, barking out sales pitches, prices, and fresh deals as they wandered up and down the aisles.
Gracie seemed to be in no hurry, stopping now and again to examine skirts. Andrei strolled beside her, translating quietly into her ear, hands shoved into his coat pockets. Vicktor pursed his lips, annoyance building with each step.
Gracie halted, staring at a wall of long, straight black skirts. She pointed to one, and the clerk took it down, then pulled it open to reveal an attractive side split. Gracie wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
Vicktor sighed. The skirts were either too short or too long or too tight. He would have liked to see any of them on her.
He sidled up to her and grabbed her elbow. She stiffened.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s okay,” Gracie said, but fear had leaped into her eyes.
He softened his voice and leaned close, noticing the whisper of floral scent skimming her skin. “Anything would look good on you. Please, hurry.”
She suppressed a smile. He was pleased to see her blush, but hoped his words hit home. The longer she clomped through the store in those painfully ugly hiking boots, the more dangerous her world became.
She continued to meander down the aisle. Vicktor buried his hands in his trench-coat pockets and followed her with as much patience as he could muster.
Two fruitless stops later, worry pushed him to his limit. Ignoring Andrei’s stinging glare, he placed a hand on the small of her back and maneuvered Gracie toward an unmanned kiosk.
“Pick something out, please.”
The expression on his face must have startled her, for her eyes widened.
“I don’t wear these kinds of clothes, Vicktor. I don’t know what to get.”
He liked the sound of his name on her lips. “I’ll help you.” Scanning the aisle, he made eye contact with a clerk. She hustled up to the booth.
“We’ll take that,” he said, pointing to a short black dress with a flared skirt.
She handed it to Gracie and motioned her toward a dressing room. Gracie screwed up her pretty face, unsure.
“Just try it on.”
She disappeared into the booth, looking doubtful.
Five minutes later she was grinning at herself in a long mirror.
Vicktor barely disguised his delight. Oh yeah, hidden under all that denim was a woman who just might kick up his heart rate if he wasn’t careful.
Who was he kidding? He could already feel the pulse in his ears.
The black dress skimmed her curves, flaring out just above the knees, conservatively longer than the latest thigh-high fashion but short enough to reveal some seriously shaped legs. Gracie wrapped her arms around her body. Vicktor stepped up behind her and pulled them down, revealing her figure. He could admit he wore his heart in the gesture, but he couldn’t help himself. She needed this dress.
“I’m getting this for you.” He pulled out his wallet and fingered two hundred-ruble notes.
“No, Vicktor, I can pay—”
“Now, boots and some stockings,” he said, and pointed to a pair of slender ankle boots under the glass countertop. The salesgirl handed them and a pair of packaged black hosiery to Gracie.
Gracie took them, but said, “I don’t know, Vicktor. They aren’t me. They’re too…Russian.”
Vicktor met her eyes. “That’s the point. Trust me, I won’t let it go to my head, even though it’ll be difficult.” Liar, liar.
Gracie blushed and fled into the dressing room, followed by the salesgirl.
Vicktor ignored Andrei’s glower.
Giggles, then Gracie emerged.
How he loved it when he was right. His breath caught in his chest. She’d swept up her hair, the color of creamy butter against the overhead lights, into a loose inverted bun, fastened with a gold clip provided by the inventive clerk. Her eyes sparkled and she wore a delicious expression of delight. Vicktor could barely swallow past the lump in his throat. He moved forward, intending to indulge her with a well-deserved compliment, but Andrei beat him to it.
“Wow.”
Vicktor couldn’t tell if Andrei was impressed or disturbed by his new Russianized girlfriend, but Gracie smiled, pleased by his comment.
Vicktor dredged up his voice and suggested lunch at a local café.
“I thought we were to stay undercover,” Andrei said.
“We are.” Vicktor gestured toward Gracie. “Who is going to recognize her? A little red lipstick and she’d pass for my cousin from Moscow.”
“No red lipstick, please,” Gracie said, laughing.
Andrei frowned. “I don’t think that is a good idea. You never know who could be watching. Maybe they followed us into the store.”
“Who followed you?”
Gracie glanced at Andrei. Guilt darkened their faces, and Vicktor felt as if he’d been punched in the chest.
“We were shot at this morning in the village,” Andrei admitted in a low tone.
“Excuse me?” Vicktor clenched his fists to keep from turning this idiotic chauffeur inside out. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” He glowered first at Andrei, then at Gracie. She shrank before him. So much for the trust.
Gracie’s face conveyed her feelings of regret. “I’m sorry. When you told me about Leonid, well, I was so upset, I just forgot.”
“You forgot to tell me you were shot at?” The sarcasm in his voice was so biting, she winced.
He turned to Andrei and spoke in low, staccato Russian. “If you want to help your girlfriend stay alive, I suggest you start trusting me. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to find the killer and keep her out of trouble. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Andrei hooded his eyes. “Da, right, I’ve heard that before.”
What? Vicktor frowned, but before he could reply, Andrei grabbed Gracie’s arm and pulled her out of the booth and down the aisle, leaving Vicktor to pay the eager salesgirl.
14
The Wolf’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. His jaw muscles ached and sweat pooled in the etching around his right eye. They’d been inside for nearly an hour. He certainly hoped his little spy hadn’t conjured up any rash ideas about ditching him. The noon sun was beginning to bake the Moscovitz, the odor of dusty leather irritating his already raw nerves. Two days they’d been chasing the girl, and the closest they’d gotten to her was a parking spot thirty feet from the local department store where she was shopping.
That was about to change.
The words of a man greater than he rang in his ears. “Death solves
all problems. No man, no problems.” He should take Father Stalin’s advice and apply it to Sergei. The ineptitude of the man soured the Wolf’s empty stomach. He glowered at the entrance, willing her to appear.
Grace came barreling out of the double doors first, then, on her tail, her chauffeur, appearing pensive and annoyed. Relief washed over the Wolf and he felt the blood flow into his clenched fists. He fixed his attention on Grace and felt a smile on his face. What had happened to the missionary? The woman was a looker in that sculptured black dress and ankle boots. Except, who was she trying to fool? Without a hint of makeup, she was a walking Stars and Stripes. No Russian woman under the age of fifty in her right mind would leave the house without a thick layer of makeup.
The Wolf licked his lips and his stomach growled. He watched her stop on the sidewalk and talk with her driver. She seemed angry, her face screwed up in frustration. He wished he were close enough to catch her words.
A second later, the FSB agent joined them, pouncing into their conversation like a tiger. The Wolf couldn’t help but smile. Vicktor Shubnikov still couldn’t rein in his anger. That fact had worked to the Wolf’s advantage on at least one occasion and he hoped it would make Vicktor sloppy now. He was counting on Shubnikov to deliver Grace Benson safely into his arms.
“How can you expect me to protect you if you won’t trust me?”
Vicktor’s accusation stung, and Gracie flinched. He raked a gaze over her, then turned away, kneading the back of his neck. Remorse rushed through her.
Next to her, Andrei glowered at Vicktor. Leather squeaked as he folded his arms across his chest. The set of his jaw turned Gracie cold.
Andrei hated Vicktor. She placed a hand on Andrei’s arm. His eyes warmed slightly when they reached her.
“We should have told him,” she murmured.
“Why?” He leaned close. “Haven’t you learned not to trust Russian cops?”
Gracie drew a breath, unsure if she was being naive or acting in faith. “I think we can trust him, Andrei. There’s something about him…” She peeked at Vicktor and blushed when she saw his gaze on her. What was it about Mr. FSB I’m-full-of-surprises that drew her like a campfire, flickering yet dangerous. And the look in his eyes when he’d seen her in the dress… She liked that far more than she should, probably.
Watch Over Me Page 13
