She glanced at him with sweetness in her eyes. “I love you.”
He smiled back. Marry me. The words were right there, but he couldn’t push them out, too paralyzed by her possible no. Instead, he cupped her face in his hand and kissed her.
She smiled as she leaned back, and her gaze traced his face. “Yeah, Roman, I’d let you carry me. Because I trust you.”
No, she’d trusted the man she wanted him to be. Yes, he was the bodyguard who followed her around Moscow, making sure she was safe. But when she’d gotten a taste of reality and a glimpse of what that really meant, she’d fled.
Thirteen years later, she could still turn his life in a circus. A real three-ring mess.
The wind buffeted his Jeep, pushing it now and again toward the ditch. His headlights carved out the darkness, revealing fields of chaff dusted with snow, and drifts outlining the road.
Please, Sarai, be in Smolsk. And please be in a good mood.
He was snared in that thought, pushing scenarios around when he caught the glint of light, then movement as something darted out into his peripheral. Roman crunched the brakes. He felt them lock.
Panic gripped his brain as he slid toward the figure standing frozen in the middle of the road.
A coup? What, did she have some sort of red-and-white target written on her head? Or worse, maybe her presence just inspired anarchy. Because, according to Sarai’s count, this was the third time she’d had the pleasure of being in a country under martial law.
It was starting to get old.
As she drove into Smolsk, she saw that the villagers had absorbed the information with the standard Russian unflappability. Oh. Another revolution? But will I get my daily portion of bread?
She probably needed a slap. But, she had to agree, when life crumbled, people across the world wanted the same basics. Life. Food. Family. And, sometimes, love.
Maybe the last one wasn’t a basic.
Sarai climbed out of Genye’s van and waved as he drove away. The clinic seemed forlorn tonight—two stories of gray concrete, dark, expressionless windows gazing out into the weedy snowdrifted yard. Inside, fresh paint, the smell of antiseptic, and the comforts of running water, heat and electricity welcomed her like a long lost friend. Sarai let herself enjoy a moment of congratulations. Maybe, a year from now when kids like Sasha fell ill, their parents would bring them to The Savior’s Hands, and she’d find a cure instead of finding a way to ease their pain as they died.
And then the people of Smolsk, and beyond, might see that Jesus cared about them. She wasn’t a fool to think that by her helping save lives, Russians would drop to their knees in repentance. But if she could earn their trust with their physical wounds, they might listen to her words of truth for their spiritual ones.
It seemed like a good plan, and one that she’d invested two years creating. She felt like a smuggler or some sort of spy half the time, meeting with shipping agents, negotiating red tape and tracking down the powers that be for yet another stamp of approval.
But, well, the clinic would officially open its doors on Thanksgiving Day, less than three weeks away. While it wasn’t a Russian holiday, it seemed especially poignant to Sarai. A day of gratitude—for her, and for the community—for God’s provision in this barren land.
Sarai unlocked the door to the clinic, closed it behind her and walked in the darkness toward her office. She’d long ago added a cot to the room—a necessity for her late hours and fitful sleeping habits. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept through the night.
No, that wasn’t true. She’d slept pretty well the summer she spent in Moscow so long ago. She thought it was jet lag catching up to her. Or maybe residual exhaustion from her last year in college. For the first time in her life, she didn’t have a goal pressing against her to keep her stumbling ahead. Just three clear months of hanging out with her brother before starting medical school. Still, despite the hours the sun reigned in the sky over Moscow lighting the nights, and the fact that she spent most of her waking hours with David’s best friend, Roman, she’d never felt so rested.
Probably that was because she never felt like she really caught her breath when she was with Roman. She always felt a gasp coming on that Mr. Charm looked her way, and more. So, at night she fell into an exhausted…and peaceful slumber.
Or, maybe it was because, despite being exhilarating, Roman, with his surety about life, his control of every situation and especially the way he filled out his muscle shirt, always made her feel safe. Even when she wasn’t with him, she knew he held her in his thoughts. She read it in his eyes.
Sometimes she wondered if that was what she missed the most.
Sarai flicked on the light to her office, let her bag drop and beelined to the cot. Fatigue already weighted her body, her eyes, and she didn’t bother to change clothes, just curled up on the cot, toed off her shoes and pulled up the blanket.
Ah. Yes. Sleep.
Only, just like every night, Roman filled her mind, and she gave herself a moment to smile into the memory before she blinked him away. Roman, looking tousled and dangerously handsome when she interrupted his game of street hockey.
“Roman, meet my sister!” David had called.
And, despite the sweat that spiked his tawny brown hair, dripped down his face, past his reddish blond whiskers and into his hockey jersey, she couldn’t help but decide she’d seen all the scenery necessary on this little vacation.
In fact, Russia just might be the most beautiful place she’d ever been, including Japan, Germany and Paris. She smiled, feeling young and free and decided that maybe she’d loosen up on a few rules this summer.
Perhaps she should have kept the one about not falling in love.
Sarai leaned up, slammed her fist into her pillow and drove Roman from her mind. He’d certainly forgotten her. So why did she hang on to him like a souvenir?
She should be glad he hadn’t been killed over the years. And that David still dropped tidbits of information about Roman now and then. She never told him she lapped them up like a ravenous wolf.
She secretly prayed that Roman would abandon his world-saving career and join her sowing seeds for the Kingdom in Siberia. All she wanted was a guy who loved God like she did. Was that so much to ask?
Apparently, yes. Because here she was, thirty-five years old, single and shivering under a wool blanket in the middle of nowhere Siberia. Alone. Forgotten.
She felt Julia’s wail again, deep inside the corridors of her heart.
The wind picked up and rattled the windowpanes. Hunger drilled at her but she didn’t have muscle to rise and heat so much as a pot of Ramen noodles. She drifted off, letting the embrace of fatigue draw her inside oblivion. At some point within REM she sensed a chill creep in, hover over her ears, linger at the foot of her bed. Heard a dog bark, once, twice.
A door slammed. It echoed through the clinic like a gunshot.
Sarai jerked. Opened her eyes. She heard feet shuffling on the concrete floor. Stiffening, she held her breath. On occasion the clinic had been vandalized and precious medicines stolen.
More footsteps. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Had she locked the office? She sat up, tried to listen past the rush of blood. Then a hand on her door rattled the knob.
Her mouth dried. Okay, think. Think! A weapon maybe? Or hide? Options rushed through her as the intruder knocked.
Knocked?
“Hello? Dr. Sarai Curtiss, are you in there?”
Accented academic English, and as she sat in silence, holding her breath, recognition clicked into place. No, it couldn’t be. But the voice resonated just under her skin, a rumble of pleasure, and the slightest thrill of fear. Oh. No.
“Hello, Sarai?”
Oh. Yes. “Roman?”
Down girl. Down, down. Don’t get your hopes up. She was simply dreaming. And, at the moment, liking it. So much, in fact, she rose, walked over to the door, unlocked it.
And nearly screamed.
; It was Roman Novik all right. All six-foot gorgeous of him, with short tousled brown hair, red-tinted whiskers, dressed in head-to-toe muscles and danger black and plenty of blood dripping from a head wound on his forehead.
Things hadn’t changed much in thirteen years.
He gave her a sheepish smile, and those knock-her-to-her-knees incredibly hazel eyes turned her brain to knots.
Nothing had changed, indeed.
Chapter Four
“I must be dreaming, because I can’t believe it’s you.” Sarai stood in the door, outlined by darkness, dressed in a rumpled sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, her blond hair escaping from her braid, those green eyes blinking at him as if she might be trying to wake up.
Perhaps it would be better if she just kept dreaming. Especially if he could just join her with his own version of altered reality…right in the middle of the what-could-have-beens.
Waking up meant things were going to turn ugly.
Or maybe not. That startled look could mean she’d been…missing him? Even expecting him? That maybe she might trust him, just a little, and believe him when he told her she had to leave?
Except she didn’t need a hero. She’d made that plain thirteen years ago. And, by the look of her—hands on her hips, jaw tight, eyes hard—things hadn’t exactly relaxed in that area.
Still, Sarai Curtiss.
It simply wasn’t fair that he could wake her from a sound sleep in the middle of the night and she could still take his breath away, turn words to paste in his mouth. Meanwhile, he looked like roadkill, which he’d almost become trying to avoid the deer. He’d barely coaxed his mangled jeep to the clinic door.
He inspired truckloads of confidence. He should probably be grateful she didn’t slam the door in his face.
Epcot fiasco or not, David owed him big. Especially if—no when at this rate—his boss discovered just what kind of midnight field trip Roman had taken. He’d hoped to be back in the office by, well, noon at least.
Sarai wasn’t the only one dreaming at the moment.
Roman braced his hand against the doorjamb and tried to compose himself. “Privyet.”
“Don’t you ‘Hi’ me!” she snapped. “I can’t believe you show up here bleeding.”
Uh-oh. Fully awake now, and getting right to the point. Never mind a “Hey, how are you, Roman?” Or, “How did you find me?” Or even—in his wildest dreams—“Glad to see you!” Just…not good enough, as usual. He should have guessed.
“I’m fine thanks, how are you?” He took a breath and slid the smile off his face. So much for trying to charm her.
She looked mollified. Her expression eased. “Sorry. I’m just—you scared me. You’re bleeding.”
He winced a little at that and she closed her eyes, rubbing them with a thumb and forefinger. “Let’s start over, okay?” She looked up. “Roman Novik. What are you doing in my neck of Siberia?” She smiled slightly, a gentle acknowledgment of their friendship, the kind he’d seen her give her brother when she was trying to hide fatigue. Then she stepped close and wrapped her arms around his waist.
Oy.
He took a breath, hoping she couldn’t hear how his heart pummeled his chest, as if trying to escape. Keep it cool, Roman.
He put his arm around her in a one-armed hug, hating the fact that while, to her, it was an “I know we’re old friends” gesture, to him it ignited all the hopes he’d been trying to douse for over a decade—especially the last two hundred klicks.
Of course, she fit perfectly into his arms. Just like she always had.
And she smelled great—part lilac soap, part Sarai. He resisted the urge to smell her hair and instead stepped away from her.
Remember the mission. Right about now he wanted to strangle David Curtiss. If Roman was lucky, he’d only end up chipping ice and sweeping streets and not in gulag. What had he been thinking?
“I’m here because of the coup.”
“Were you trying to stop it?” Sarai turned on the hall light. “Is that how you got hurt?” She reached up toward his wound. He jerked away.
“I’m just trying to get a look at it.” She withdrew her hand. “It looks like you have some glass in there. I’ll need to irrigate and dress it.” She took him by the elbow, pointed him down the hallway. “I promise I’ll try not to hurt you.”
Yeah, right.
“Sarai, we don’t have time—”
“I thought you were in Khabarovsk.” She flicked on a light to an exam room and led him inside. He felt like a twelve-year-old boy being led into the principal’s office. Where was his voice? His reflexes felt like they’d been slathered in honey.
Then again, like some allergic reaction, Sarai always had a calming…even paralyzing effect on him.
How did she know he was in Khabarovsk? For some reason, her knowledge of that information shook him.
Certainly she hadn’t been tracking him like he’d been her over the years. “I am, I mean, I was…. Oh, stop, Sarai. Listen to me. I’m not just passing through town and happened upon your clinic. I was looking for you.”
She turned, a frown creasing her face.
“There’s been a coup in Irkutsk.”
“I know.” She turned away and patted an examining table. “Sit.”
I know? She knew about Bednov’s deadline for foreigners? Then, did that mean she would come along nicely? “I’m not sitting. I…you should be packing.”
She looked at him, frowning, and shook her head. “I’m going to clean you up.” She gave him a benign smile, then she crossed to a cabinet, opened it and began pulling out supplies—antiseptic, an irrigation tray, tweezers, a needle. “Besides, I’m fine.”
Evidently. He felt his chest tighten, yet he moved toward the exam table, propelled by the hypnotic hold she had on him. He slid on to the table just as she turned toward him, hands gloved, holding a tweezers and a sponge.
“Hold still. I need to get the glass out. And then I’ll clean it.”
She stood so close he could feel her breath on his chin. He studied her face as she cleaned his wound. Tiny crow’s-feet around her eyes betrayed her years of stress and sacrifice. And she seemed thinner under that bulky sweatshirt, but maybe stronger all the same. He somehow knew that she would have changed, but this woman seemed even more determined, more resolute. He supposed years on the edge of civilization made her harder.
Oh, great.
“How have you been?” he asked softly. She didn’t answer, but dropped a piece of glass into the tray she held.
“You didn’t tell me how you got injured.” She took a bottle and ran fluid over his wound, catching it in the gauze pad, then mopping up the excess before it ran into his shirt. The silence of the building seemed to echo between them, and a chill ran under his parka, where before had been a thin layer of perspiration.
“I hit a deer.” He didn’t add that he’d had to track it into the forest and destroy the injured animal. Nor that he’d hit the windshield and had been sporting a killer headache for the past three hours.
Or maybe he should attribute the headache to sheer dread over what he had to say next.
Please, Sarai, try not to be…so…independent.
Mother Teresa had nothing on Sarai Curtiss for pure guts and stubbornness.
“This might hurt a little,” she said as she dabbed on antiseptic. He closed one eye against a slight sting. She glanced at him, smirked. “Oh, don’t be a baby.”
Oh, don’t be a baby.
Without a second’s warning, memory swooped in for the kill.
He’d been playing street hockey with David, who checked him hard. He’d smashed into a park bench, skinning his leg down to the ankle. Sarai had draped one of his arms around her shoulder and helped him home—and he’d let her. Then, because she knew how, he’d also let her dress it.
She’d called him a baby.
He’d pulled her into his arms and showed her indeed, how ridiculous her statement was.
He looked up at her, blinking ag
ainst the press of memory.
Her mouth opened slightly, and he noticed her blush. “I didn’t mean that.” She gathered up the used gauze pads. “I’ll do the stitches in a minute.”
“Okay. But hurry. We need to get out of here.”
She turned to him, frowning. “I told you, I’m fine. What are you talking about?”
He stared at her, a sick feeling in his gut. “What are you talking about? Of course you’re leaving, right?”
She stared at him, blinking.
Oh, no. He sighed. “Sarai, I’m here because David sent me. Bednov put out an order for all foreigners to leave Irkutia within seventy-two—” he checked his watch “—no, make that sixty-three hours and seventeen minutes. Or you’ll be arrested as an enemy of Russia.”
Sarai said nothing. Just stared at him. Then light filled her eyes and…she laughed.
“You think this is funny?”
“Roman. I so can’t believe you.” She shook her head. Trust David to turn one little skirmish—okay, martial law— into a reason for her to go back home to America and get a “real” job as he’d said last Christmas. This little outpost of hope felt more real than any carpeted, air-conditioned clinic in Suburbia, U.S.A. She picked up the suture tray and returned to the exam table. “I mean, really. I know you owe David from that stunt at Epcot, but I can’t believe you’d actually let him talk you into coming to Smolsk to try and drag me out of Russia. Do you think I’m stupid?”
He opened his mouth, as if in disbelief, and she only briefly glanced at it—stamping down the accompanying memories—before she picked up a needle and syringe. “Yes, I know about Epcot. Now hold still, I need to numb the area.”
“Stop.”
She nearly jumped as he grabbed her upper arm. “Roman, you’re going to get us hurt! I’m holding a needle for crying out loud.” She took a deep breath and set the needle down, pushing her heart back down her throat.
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