Watch Over Me

by Susan May Warren

  Only, obviously it had all been an act. She didn’t trust him. Why? Was he a monster? Obviously, from the way she’d stiffened, practically repelled by his touch, he’d offended her. His chest burned and he couldn’t figure out if it was from shame…or frustration.

  “Gracie,” he started, trying to figure out a way to apologize—

  She turned. Thick tears plowed down her cheeks.

  Oh no, now what had he done? He felt like a jerk. “Gracie,” he began again. She held up a hand, stopping his fumbled apology.

  “Don’t. It isn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong.” Her lip began to tremble and she bit it, wiped her tears, and continued. “You don’t know anything about me. You think you do. You take America and everything you think you know about it and you make assumptions. Then you put me in that pretty dress and think that I’m Russian. But I’m neither, Vicktor. I’m a Christian. I’m a unique package, designed for unique, eternal purposes—only God knows about. Each and every lesson I learn is to help me become that creation, His creation.” She swallowed and her voice gathered strength. “To answer your question, I think the lesson God sent me here to learn was that I don’t need to prove anything to Him to earn His love and forgiveness. I just have to need Him. He does the rest.”

  Vicktor blinked at her. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he stared beyond her, out into the dark street. It didn’t seem right. Or fair. Forgiveness had to be earned. If it wasn’t, then how could a person accept it?

  “I have to admit, that wasn’t what I was expecting. But…thanks.” He turned and noticed that she was smiling. Her green eyes shimmered, reaching out in acceptance. It moved him, and again he battled the urge to weave his fingers into her hair, pull her to his chest, and hang on tight.

  Only, it was more than just her sweet smile and genuineness that drew him. It was something she had. A feeling. A countenance. A strength.

  Peace?

  He rubbed the burning in his chest with the palm of his hand.

  “Thanks for the drink, Vicktor.” Gracie brushed past him. “Good night.”

  Vicktor forced a good-night past the lump in his throat. David was right.

  Gracie could never belong to him. And Vicktor was in big, big trouble.

  18

  Hot, slimy breath gusted across her face, and the odor of hair and flesh poured into her nostrils. Gracie snorted, opened her eyes, and screamed.

  Alfred licked her across the face.

  “Vicktor! Your dog!”

  Brown eyes stared at her and drool hung from his floppy lips. Gracie slid toward the center of the bed, praying the animal wouldn’t jump in next to her.

  The door slammed open and Vicktor careened into the room.

  “Help?” she pleaded weakly, eyes on the brute.

  Vicktor scrambled around the bed. “Alfred, you hooligan! Get out of here!”

  The dog dodged him, scooting toward the nightstand. The lamp wobbled and a tiny alarm clock fell to the floor with a crash. Gracie bit her lip, stifling a relieved giggle. Vicktor lunged for the animal, which fled across the bed, narrowly missing Gracie’s stomach. She ducked and pulled the covers to her chin. Vicktor threw a shoe at him. It banged against his bedroom door.

  He turned to her. “Are you okay?” The sweet concern in his eyes made her laugh.

  “If that’s your idea of an alarm clock, I promise I’ll never oversleep again.”

  “No, he just—”

  “I’m kidding, Vicktor.” She longed to enjoy the look of horror in his eyes, but the guy looked wrung out and just a little out of sorts this morning. She glanced toward the open door, and the aroma of frying bacon nearly made her leap for the kitchen. “Where’s Yanna?”

  “Eating breakfast.”

  “Save me some. I’ll be out in a second.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Vicktor said on his way out and closed the door behind him.

  Gracie pulled the covers over her head. Great. Just how she wanted to present herself—sleep-tousled and late. She scrambled out of bed and pulled on the black dress and hose. Shaking out her hair and twisting it into a bun, she vowed to buy a hairbrush before the day was out.

  Her satchel. She’d meant to tell him that she’d left it in the village at dinner last night, but enveloped inside the easy banter of his friends, well, she had completely forgotten. Or maybe it had been more than that.

  Maybe she’d simply wanted to escape. To hide inside this altered reality that made her feel at once reckless, and yet so safe.

  She and Andrei would have to call the village today, maybe drive down and pick up her bag. She made a mental note to mention it to Vicktor.

  She ran her tongue over her teeth. They felt covered in wool. She’d also pick up a toothbrush. She made the bed, folded Yanna’s clothes. Then, feeling like something the cat dragged in, she padded from the bedroom.

  Sunlight washed the kitchen in orange and gold. Roman stood at the stove, frying bacon with the movements of a master chef.

  “Hey there,” he greeted as she halted in the doorway. He looked comfortable in a pair of baggy blue sweatpants and gray sweatshirt.

  Yanna sat at the table, sleek and refined in an olive suit coat and black skirt. Her hair was pulled back and her face made up to subdued perfection. She fingered a morning newspaper, her eyes on a front-page article. Gracie fought chagrin and joined her at the table.

  “Coffee?” asked Roman.

  She nodded. “Sorry I overslept.”

  Roman set down a cup of coffee before her and she curled her hands around the mug. The rich scent fed her spirit.

  Yanna smiled warmly. “You snore.”

  Gracie paled. Yanna laughed, her brown eyes glinting in amusement.

  “Uh, where’s Vicktor?”

  “In the shower,” Yanna answered.

  Gracie glanced at Roman. “I thought you went home.”

  Roman handed her a plate with two slices of fresh wheat bread, a scrambled egg, and bacon. “Yep, but I just couldn’t stay away…Vicktor shouldn’t get all the girls.”

  Yanna kicked at him. He dodged but looked sufficiently rapscallion-like as he turned back toward the stove.

  Breakfast had never tasted so good before. Gracie devoured the meal. Usually she had a pickle or a piece of dry bread for breakfast.

  Vicktor entered the kitchen, looking crisp and dapper in a pair of pressed black suit pants, a white oxford, and teal diamond tie. She caught the enticing aroma of cologne and turned quickly back to her meal. Yikes, he sure could clean up when he wanted to. Then again, she liked the late-night, moonlit, rumpled look too.

  Danger, danger!

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  Gracie pushed a bit of food past the lump in her throat, cleared her head with a sip of coffee, then turned to him. “I forgot to tell you something.”

  He poured himself a cup of coffee. “What?”

  “I left my satchel at Andrei’s house.” Gracie dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and wished for a breath mint. “I need to go and get it this morning. It’s got my passport and visa, and I’ll need them to fly out tomorrow.”

  Vicktor shook creamer into his coffee. “You’re not flying out tomorrow.”

  The room went icy silent and only the sound of spitting bacon grease fractured the air.

  “What do you mean?” A chill rippled up Gracie’s spine as she stared at Vicktor.

  He looked at her, his face dark. “I mean we need to decide if it’s safe for you to go. The killer may try and follow you to America and, well, I can’t protect you across the ocean.”

  Protect me…across the ocean? Gracie gaped at him. “You really think some Russian murderer is going to get on a plane and follow me to Minnesota? I seriously doubt it.”

  “It’s not your decision.”

  Okay, his refined thug look was very, very convincing.

  Gracie shot a help-me look at Yanna. She met Gracie’s gaze with a feeble shrug. Gracie’s heart turned leaden. There would be no backup fr
om the other female in the room.

  “I can’t stay in Russia forever.”

  Vicktor said nothing, but stared at her, his eyes boring into hers, with fury…or desperation?

  She refused to shrivel under his scrutiny. “Listen here, Mr. FSB,” she said, forcing a cool tone. “I am going home and you can’t stop me.”

  Vicktor glanced at Roman. Gracie followed his gaze. Roman’s grim expression widened her eyes. “You all truly believe that a killer would follow me all the way to America?”

  Vicktor shrugged.

  Panic pitched her voice high and ragged. “No. Sorry, I don’t believe it. Listen, people—I am going home tomorrow. You can’t hold me hostage!”

  Vicktor’s look was hooded, dark. Then, quietly, he said, “Watch me.”

  Gracie felt the blood drain from her face and reached for the back of her seat.

  Vicktor’s stony expression slackened, and for a second his face muscles struggled for control. “Listen, that didn’t come out right.” He shook his head. “Gracie…trust me.”

  “Yeah. Right,” Gracie whispered.

  He stared at her, and she tried to ignore the look of pain that flashed in his eyes. She gritted her teeth against a rush of regret. If he thought he was going to keep her off that plane tomorrow—

  The doorbell chimed.

  Vicktor whirled and headed for the door.

  She cast a look at Roman. “He can’t make me stay.”

  He raised his eyebrows, suddenly looking one hundred and twenty percent like a Russian solider. Hard. Unfeeling.

  She grabbed her plate and cup and rinsed them in the sink, too furious to speak.

  “Are you okay, Gracie?” Andrei’s voice came from behind her.

  She turned, nodding, and hid a flare of alarm. The man looked freshly flogged. Bags hung under his brown eyes, he wore the same rumpled leather work coat reeking of the barnyard, and his face had aged ten years since the night before. He seemed worn out and…afraid.

  She longed to tuck herself inside his protective embrace. To wrap herself in their easy friendship and know nothing had changed. Except, they couldn’t rewind time, and yesterday had changed everything.

  “Thank you for coming.” She noticed Vicktor standing behind him, his eyes pinned to her every movement. She fixed her gaze on Andrei. “We need to go back to the village today. I left my satchel at your parents’ house.”

  His eyes settled on his scuffed loafers.

  “Your satchel isn’t there. I called my mother today and she told me it had been stolen.”

  Dread filled Gracie.

  Now she was a hostage in Russia. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so rash with her words.

  Vicktor snapped the lead on Alfred, turned and locked his steel door. Whirling to catch up to Gracie and his other houseguests, he nearly slammed into Roman.

  “Hold on, Stripes,” Roman commanded, his voice low.

  Vicktor heard footfalls echoing from the stairs below, dying as the women and Andrei headed outside.

  “What?” he asked. He had had enough of Roman’s teasing after last night’s chat with Preach. He’d finally sent the joker home, and after his pulse-jumping encounter with his American houseguest, he’d spent the night trying to figure out how to keep Miss Gracie Benson, feisty blonde and all-around distraction, alive.

  He couldn’t have Gracie. He knew that. But he wouldn’t let the Wolf get her either. Even if it cost him his life. He met Roman’s steely look with silence.

  No hint of tease remained in his friend’s voice. “I don’t know what you are thinking, pal, but maybe her best bet at safety is in the States. I don’t think the Wolf would follow her there.”

  “What about Valentine Timofeovna?”

  Roman winced and leaned against the stair rail. Memory stretched the silence taut between them. Colonel Valentine Timofeovna, FSB agent, slain while on vacation in Bali. A crime yet to be solved, but popularly attributed to the Wolf.

  “Don’t underestimate this guy,” Vicktor said, both to himself and Roman.

  Roman folded his arms across his chest. “Still, I can’t help but wonder if it would be best if you shipped her out on the next flight home.”

  “And just how am I going to protect her from Russia?” His tone emerged harder than he had wanted it to be. And a little too desperate to ignore.

  “Maybe you’ll have to trust her to a Higher Power,” Roman said quietly.

  Vicktor turned away, shaken by the urge to clock his best friend. “You just don’t get it, do you.” He felt himself fighting for control. “This is real life, Roman, not games. You don’t wish danger away and you don’t just hope that some unseen hero is going to save your skin.” He slapped his chest with a flat palm. “It’s up to me. I have to keep her alive. And no fairy tale is going to help me.”

  Roman didn’t blink. “God is using you to keep her alive, Vicktor. But He can do it without you also.”

  Vicktor glared at him, hating Roman’s steel grip on his childish religion. “What if she dies? What if the Wolf follows her home and kills her in her own backyard?”

  “Then she’s still safe.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “That’s what Christianity is all about. Safety in this life, and beyond. God doesn’t always protect our lives, but our souls are safe forever in His hands.”

  Vicktor threw his hands into the air. “Who cares about eternity when there is now to deal with?”

  Sadness, or something like it, darkened Roman’s eyes. “That’s the point. Our lives here are but a blink compared to eternity. That’s why Gracie is even here, risking her life. To tell others to care about eternity, about their souls.” He leaned close to Vicktor, his face grim. “Gracie’s not only safe in God’s hands, she’s ready for whatever the Wolf dishes out.” His voice softened. “Are you?”

  Vicktor clenched his teeth. He looked down at Alfred, who sat watching them with a mild expression. “I have work to do.”

  Roman clamped him on the shoulder. “I wonder. Maybe you don’t want her to go because you need her more than she needs you?”

  Gracie stood beside Vicktor, watching him pace in the tiny corridor, feeling like an intruder. Crouching beside his dog, she ran a hand down Alfred’s long, sleek back and waited for Vicktor to tell her what had his face screwed up in frustration. The smell of old cigarette butts and orange peels filled the stairwell, and only a shaft of morning light from a shattered window illuminated the dismal hallway.

  Vicktor couldn’t have been clearer about his feelings if he’d stood on the hood of his car and screamed with frustration. He didn’t want to babysit her any more than she wanted to be toted around.

  Maybe she should have told Andrei yesterday to floor it. What an idiot she’d been to be suckered by Vicktor’s warm smile, beguiling concern, rugged looks.

  Pay attention to your history, Gracie. A smart girl would be glad he was tired of hanging around her.

  Okay, that hurt.

  Suddenly, as if at the pinnacle of his courage, Vicktor marched up to a metal apartment door and shoved a key into the lock. Alfred immediately jumped to his feet and lunged for the door, nearly ripping Gracie’s arm from the socket. As Vicktor eased the door open and Alfred plowed past him, Gracie searched Vicktor’s face for an explanation. But his expression was stone, his eyes distant. Mr. Cold and Gray.

  She wanted to cry.

  He held out his hand, motioning her to enter.

  The tiny flat smelled old, of worn leather shoes, stale grease, and ancient dust. Vicktor made a face, which she wasn’t sure she was meant to see, and closed the door behind her.

  “Pop,” he hollered. Moving past Gracie, he left her in the corridor and strode toward a back room. Alfred had already settled himself on an indented, fraying green sofa, nudging himself into a worn afghan at one end.

  Gracie leaned against the doorframe, her heart sliding into her knees.

  The muffled sounds of voices reached her ears, and a mom
ent later an elderly man shuffled out of a back room, leaning heavily on a cane. Vicktor was on his tail, rubbing a hand over his neck, a sign she’d come to interpret as meaning he was stressed. Her heart twisted for him and she called herself a fool. Had she forgotten in the space of thirty seconds that he didn’t want her around?

  She forced a smile. “Who’s this?”

  Vicktor glanced from her to the old man, then sighed. “Okay. I have work to do at the office, and I don’t feel good about putting you in a holding cell, so…” He pulled in a deep breath. “My pop is going to protect you.”

  Holding cell? She didn’t feel so good about that either. Still, looking at the old man, she wondered just how badly Vicktor wanted to dump her. Gracie swallowed and forced a breezy tone. “Your pop?” The old man, although tall and broad shouldered with a mass of muscles stretching his green Army shirt, was…crippled. Who, in fact, was going to do the protecting here?

  She started to shake her head. Vicktor held up a hand. “It’s just until lunch. I’ll be back soon and your pal Andrei said he’d be back even sooner, so it’s probably for an hour at the most.”

  No wonder Vicktor had appeared relieved when Andrei suggested he sit with her after he reported in to work. It would have been nice if Vicktor had made those intentions known yesterday, before she burned her bridges with Andrei.

  “My pop is one of the best cops on the force,” Vicktor went on. “Well, I mean was one of the best on the force.” His eyes darted away when he said it.

  What was that? Pain flashing across his face? She stared at him, her heart stepping to attention. And when he forced a smile and met her eyes, she saw something that made her want to cry. Remorse.

  “Gracie Benson, this is my father, Nickolai Yacovich Shubnikov.”

  She held out her hand. “Glad to meet you.”

  The man took her hand and smiled. “Zdrastvootya.”

  Russian? “Vicktor, does your father speak English?” she whispered, keeping the smile firmly planted on her face. Her eyes met Vicktor’s and she hoped he read her panic.