by Anna Zaires
I drum my fingers on the desk. “He’s from… kind of all over. But he was born in Eastern Europe.” I can’t lie about this; Peter’s accent, faint though it is, clearly marks him as being from that part of the world.
That must be why he chose a Russian-sounding last name instead of something like Smith or Johnson.
“What?” Marsha sounds on the verge of flipping out. “Where in Eastern Europe?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Russia.”
“You’re kidding me, right? Tell me you’re kidding.”
I open my eyes and steal a glance at the clock. To my relief, it’s almost time for my next patient.
“Look, Marsha, I have to run. You’ll meet Peter on Saturday and learn all about him, I promise. Now I have to see a patient.”
“Sara, wait—”
“I’ll email you all the details tomorrow,” I say and hang up, then mute my phone before she can call me back.
Four invites down, a bunch more to go.
I can handle this.
It’s not so bad.
55
Sara
It is that bad, I decide by the time I get off work, having spoken with Rory, Simon, Andy, Tonya, and my coworkers at the clinic during another fortuitous cancellation. After having essentially the same conversation a dozen times in a row, I’m wiped, and I still have to deal with the big kahuna tonight.
Dinner with my parents.
“I got it,” Peter told me at breakfast when I offered to pick up takeout on my way from the office. “Just come home on time and don’t worry about a thing.”
Danny is idling by the curb when I emerge from my building, and I roll my eyes at Peter’s overprotectiveness as I get into the car. This morning, the weather was too nice to drive the short distance to my office, so Peter walked me to work. And now I have an escort home as well.
At this rate, I’m going to forget what it’s like to be on the street by myself.
Impulsively, I dial Peter’s number.
“Hi, ptichka.” His deep voice caresses my ears. “Are you on your way home?”
“I’m in the car with Danny.” I glance at the driver, who’s doing a good job of pretending to be deaf and mute as he pulls out onto the street. “You already knew that, though, right?”
“Danny texted me a minute ago, yes. How was your day, my love?”
“It was good. I invited pretty much everyone I wanted to invite, and Simon is the only one who won’t be able to make it. He’s got a family thing in South Carolina.”
“Very nice.” I hear some kind of clanging noise in the background, followed by running water, and then Peter says, “Hold on one sec. Just have to strain this pasta.”
“Are you making dinner?” I ask when he picks up the phone again a minute later.
“Yes, Italian. Your parents like that, right?”
“They love it,” I say, smiling. “I’m sure they’ll be very impressed.”
“You mean once they get over the urge to call the FBI? Yeah, you’re probably right. This is coming out pretty tasty.”
I burst out laughing, my anxiety over the upcoming dinner transforming into pure giddiness. This is happening, really, truly happening.
Peter and I are becoming a normal couple.
“How was your day?” I ask. “What did you do today?”
What does a former assassin do with his time?
“I ran a few errands, picked up some more groceries and such,” Peter says, and I can hear the warm smile in his voice. “I also scoped out a couple of houses in the area for us to take a look at later. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you about it yesterday, but this apartment is probably too small for us—especially this kitchen. And if I’m not mistaken, they don’t allow pets, right?”
“Right. It’s one of the biggest downsides of this building,” I say, my heart tap-dancing in my chest. It’s happening, really happening. A life together—house, dog, and all. Tamping down on a spike of giddiness, I say, “I chose it because it was close to both my parents and my work, but I wouldn’t mind moving a bit farther now that Mom has recovered.”
“That’s what I figured,” Peter says. “Two of the houses I looked at are close by, and one is about a mile farther from your office. Of course, there’s still your old house…”
“They gave it back to you?” I ask and immediately realize it’s a silly question. Peter is no longer a fugitive, so the government has no legal right to keep the property they seized when they learned it belongs to him.
“Yes, of course,” Peter says. “Think about it and let me know what you want to do with it. Even if we don’t move back there, we can keep it just in case, or we can sell it. Your call.”
“Oh, really? And here I thought you’re making all the decisions,” I tease, then realize I’m only partially joking. Once again, Peter has swept into my life like a whirlwind, turning it upside down and wreaking havoc on my peace of mind. His force of will, coupled with his ruthlessness, makes it impossible to pretend that I’m in any way in control of my fate, that I have any real say in where our relationship is going.
And yet… maybe I do. We’re here instead of hiding out in some remote part of the world, and I’m about to be his wife, not his captive. Even if his methods are heavy-handed, Peter has demonstrated in the clearest way possible that he cares about what I want.
That my happiness matters to him.
“You mean about the wedding?” Peter asks, taking my teasing at face value. “Because we can still change a few things if there’s something you don’t like.”
“Such as the date?” I ask wryly. At the silence on the phone, I say, “Never mind. I already invited everyone. It’s all good.”
“Good, I’m glad.” There’s more clanging in the background as Peter says, “I’ll see you home in a couple of minutes, ptichka. Love you.”
Love you too. The words are on the tip of my tongue, yet I find myself saying, “See you soon,” as I hang up the phone. I’m sure Peter knows how I feel—he’s been convinced we belong together from the beginning—but because I’ve never said the words before, it feels wrong to casually blurt them out.
I do love him, though. I can finally admit it to myself, even though nothing’s really changed. He’s still a killer, still a monster any sane woman would fear and loathe. But I’m no longer sane, because I love him and I’m about to marry him.
Of my own free will, I’m about to join my life with a man who once tortured and stalked me. Who, technically, still stalks me—if always having me followed fits that definition.
“We’re here,” Danny says in a gravelly voice, and I look out the window, startled to realize that we’re already parked by my building—and that the stone-faced driver actually spoke to me.
“Thank you,” I tell him, grabbing my bag, and Danny gives me the slightest of nods as I climb out of the car.
Wow. Progress.
I was just acknowledged by my driver/bodyguard.
The giddiness I’d all but banished returns—at least until I see my parents’ car pulling into the parking lot on the other side.
They’re early.
A full twenty minutes early.
Frantically, I redial Peter.
“They’re here,” I say breathlessly as he picks up. “My parents—they’re already here.”
“That’s good,” he says, unruffled. “The food is almost ready. See you in a minute.”
“Okay, yeah.” I hang up and stuff my phone back into the bag. I start to slide the ring off my finger to leave it in the bag as well, but change my mind.
There’s no point in hiding anything when they’ll meet Peter in a minute.
Taking a deep breath, I approach my parents’ car. “Hey, Mom, Dad.”
“Oh, hi, darling.” Mom opens the door and climbs out with only minimal stiffness. “Are you just coming home from work? Sorry we’re a bit early; your dad thought there might be traffic, so he made me leave with lots of time to spare.”
�
�There was supposed to be traffic, according to the GPS,” Dad corrects and comes around the car to give me a hug.
I hug him back and then kiss Mom on the cheek. “It’s all good. Dinner is almost ready.”
Mom grins. “It’s not takeout?”
“No, afraid not. The man I want you to meet—he’s cooking.” I look back to see Danny sitting inside the black car, silently guarding us, then turn back to face my parents. “There’s something I have to tell you,” I say carefully.
“What is it, darling?” Mom reaches out to touch my left hand, and her fingers brush against my ring. Instantly, her gaze hones in on the diamond, and her eyes widen to the size of quarters. “Sara, is that—”
“I was just about to get to that,” I say as my dad freezes, staring at my left ring finger in disbelief. “I have some really good news.”
“You’re engaged?” Mom tears her gaze away from the shiny rock to gape at me. “How? To whom? You weren’t even—”
“Mom, Dad.” I take each of their hands in one of mine. “Please listen to me and try to remain calm.” They stay frozen, staring at me deer-like as I say steadily, “Peter, the man I love, is back. He’s finally succeeded in resolving his misunderstanding with the authorities, and he’s no longer wanted for questioning. We can finally be together—and yes, we just got engaged.”
56
Peter
I look out the window again, where Sara is talking to her parents in the parking lot. They’ve been at it for a solid eight minutes, and I wish I had a listening device on Sara so I could hear what they’re saying.
Judging by the wild gesticulating by all three, emotions are running high.
Maybe I should plant a bug with listening capabilities on Sara. Maybe even a few—one in her phone, one in her bag, and another couple in her favorite footwear. I already track her phone, so I know where she is at all times, but this would give me an additional peace of mind.
The table is all set, but I hold off on putting out the food. Finally, the Sara-tracking app on my phone informs me that her phone is in the building and approaching the apartment, so I walk over to open the door for her and her parents.
“Mom, Dad, this is Peter,” she says as the elderly couple come in behind her and stop, eying me warily. “As I explained, he’s made a clean break with his old connections and now goes by the name of Peter Garin. Peter, these are my parents, Lorna and Chuck Weisman.”
“Pleasure to meet you both,” I say and extend my hand for Sara’s father to shake.
“Likewise.” Despite the polite response, Chuck’s voice is as hard as his grip, and his faded blue eyes are sharp as he glowers at me.
I shake Lorna’s hand next, being careful not to crush her fragile fingers.
“You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Garin,” she says softly, looking up at me, and I smile, seeing shades of Sara in the elegant lines of her aged face.
“Of course. I’m happy to explain everything.”
“Dinner is ready, so how about we sit down at the table?” Sara suggests, coming up to stand next to me, and warmth fills my chest as her slender arm slips around my elbow in a proprietary gesture.
My ptichka. Finally, she’s accepted us as a couple.
“Sure. Whatever’s cooking smells good,” Lorna says, and I smile at her again, realizing that Sara’s mother, at least, is willing to play ball.
When we get to the kitchen, Sara excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and I set the Caesar salad and the antipasti platter I prepared on the table.
“Sara said you like to cook,” Lorna says, watching me move around the kitchen, and I nod, taking a seat across from her.
“It’s a hobby of mine. I find it very soothing.”
“Hobby, huh?” Chuck’s glower deepens. “What’s your occupation then? We’ve never been able to get a straight answer from Sara.”
“I’ve done a couple of different things, but most recently, I worked as a security consultant and had a business along those lines,” I say and stand up. Picking up the salad tongs, I look at Lorna. “Salad?”
She nods regally. “Please.”
I lean over the table and place a sizable portion of salad on her plate, then look at Chuck.
“None for me, thanks.” He spears a marinated artichoke with his fork and transfers it from the antipasti platter onto his plate, eyeing me balefully the whole time.
“What kind of business?” he demands as soon as I sit back down. “Sara said you were a contractor of some kind. Was that the security consulting business? Who were your clients, and how does all this tie into your recent troubles with the law?”
I suppress the urge to smile. The old man doesn’t pull his punches.
“My background is Spetsnaz—the Russian Special Forces,” I say, deciding I can disclose that much. “After I left the military, I traveled all over the world and consulted for a number of organizations and individuals who had reasons to be concerned about security. I can’t tell you the specifics of what got me in trouble, as that’s classified, but I can assure you that it’s all resolved now.”
“Resolved how?” Lorna asks as Sara returns to the kitchen, and I smile as my ptichka takes a seat next to me and eagerly reaches for the salad.
“I made a deal with the authorities that was advantageous for both sides,” I say as Sara begins eating, apparently content to let me field her parents’ questions. “So now I have a new last name and a clean slate—and Sara and I can finally get married.”
“A clean slate from what?” Sara’s father asks, his nostrils flaring. “I heard people had been killed.”
“I can’t tell you anything more than what you already know, I’m afraid.” I place some salad on my own plate. “It’s part of the deal I made.”
Chuck’s face reddens, and for a moment, I’m convinced he’s going to stab me with his fork. However, he must be more civilized than I am, because the only thing he spears is a juicy green olive from the antipasti platter.
“Mr. Garin,” Lorna says, putting down her fork. “I hope you—”
“Please, call me Peter. We’re about to be family.”
Her carefully painted mouth tightens slightly. “Okay, Peter. I hope you understand that we have a lot of concerns, both about your background and your connections. Not to mention the fact that Sara disappeared for five months after the two of you… well—”
“Started dating?” Sara helpfully suggests, and her mother frowns at her.
“Right, started dating.” Lorna turns her attention back to me, and I recognize the backbone of steel within her. It’s the same one her daughter possesses, the one that has enabled my ptichka to handle the kind of trauma that would’ve destroyed a weaker person.
“Listen to me, Peter.” Sara’s mother leans forward, and though her voice remains soft, her gaze is as sharp as her husband’s. “You might’ve resolved your ‘misunderstanding’ with the authorities, but we’re not convinced you’re not a danger to our daughter. We don’t know anything about you, and what we do know is, frankly, quite unsettling. Sara says that the two of you are in love, and that she went with you of her own accord, but we have serious doubts about that. You are not the kind of man our Sara would ever—”
“Mom, please.” Sara pushes aside her plate. “I’ve told you over and over again that Peter is not what you—”
“Your parents are right, ptichka.” I cover her hand with my palm and squeeze lightly, then turn to look at her mother. “Mrs. Weisman,” I say, using the formal address to show my respect. “I completely understand your reservations. If I were you, I’d be just as concerned because you’re absolutely right: your daughter and I come from different worlds.”
Lorna and Chuck stare at me, obviously taken aback, and I use the moment to prepare what I’m going to say. I have to be very careful here, walk a fine line between letting them feel like they know me and terrifying them out of their minds.
I decide to start at the beginning. “I grew up in an orphanage
in Russia,” I say. “I have no idea who my parents were, but I’m almost certain they were nothing like the two of you. Most likely, my mother was a teenager who found herself pregnant, but that’s pure speculation on my part. All I know is that I was left on the doorway of the orphanage when I was maybe a few days old.”
Sara covers our joined hands with her free one, silently lending me her support as I continue.
“It wasn’t a great place to grow up, and as a youth, I was perpetually in trouble,” I say as the Weismans continue to stare at me. “However, when I was seventeen, I got recruited into a special counterterrorism unit of Spetsnaz—which is where I served my country for a number of years.”
“He was really good at that,” Sara interjects, sounding as proud as any fiancée. “At twenty-one, he was already head of his team.”
I smile at her, the warmth in my chest intensifying even though I know she’s just putting on a show for her parents. Sara knows what I did as part of that unit, and I doubt she’s truly proud of how many terrorists and radical insurgents I caught and tortured for my country. Still, it feels good to have her approval, fake though it might be.
“That is impressive,” Lorna says, and I turn to see her and Chuck regarding me with a slight lessening of hostility.
“Thank you,” I say and smile at them. “I was good, thanks partially to my misspent youth.”
“So why did you leave then?” Chuck asks, reaching over to spear another olive. “How did you end up here?”
My mood darkens, the warmth inside me dissipating despite Sara’s continued gentle touch. I didn’t know if I would go there—if I could bring myself to go there—but I see now that I have to, that if I omit this important part, the Weismans will sense it and I’ll lose a chance to gain their trust.
“A few years into my service, work brought me to a small mountain village in Dagestan, where I met a young woman,” I say evenly, pulling my hand out of Sara’s hold. “She became pregnant, and we got married.”
Lorna’s eyes widen. “You have a child?”
