Take Me for a Ride

by Karen Kendall

  He lunged at her, seized her despite her shriek of alarm, and wrapped his arms around her. He buried his face in her neck and spun around like a lunatic top. “Thank God, thank God, thank God . . . ,” he repeated.

  “Eric,” she squeaked, “I can’t breathe!”

  “Neither can I.” But he set her down. He held her by the shoulders and drank in her features, the dazed navy eyes, the sprinkling of freckles on her slightly pug nose, the gorgeous cheekbones, the pale pink of her bolster-like lower lip.

  Then he set about kissing her properly, which took some time, because he had to do a safety check on every square millimeter of her mouth. He would have double-checked, but the silly girl kept trying to speak to him.

  “I am furious with you,” he told her as he unwrapped her scarf, pulled her sweater awry, and buried his face between her breasts.

  “Er . . . you are?” She sounded breathless.

  “Enraged. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Thank you, God. She’s wearing a dress,” were his next words. He sat down on the bed again, slid his hands up under her skirt, and ripped her panties by the seam at each hip as she squeaked again in shock.

  “Eric! What are you—”

  “Please,” he said thickly. “It’s not just sex. I need you. I thought I’d lost you . . .”

  Wordless, she looked down at him, tears gathering in her eyes. Good tears or bad tears? He didn’t know.

  “Please let me in. Please, Natalie—I need to be inside you.”

  She hesitated. Then she took his face in her hands, bent down, and kissed him.

  That was all the permission he needed. He freed himself from his pants, pulled her on top of him, parted her, and thrust into her.

  “Ohhh.”

  He held her by the hips as his eyes damn near rolled back into his head, moving in and out of her tight, wet heat. She came first, her head collapsing on his shoulder, and he wasn’t far behind.

  “Um,” she said when she could catch her breath. “Will you get mad at me more often?”

  McDougal let out a ragged groan. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  He brought his head up and looked straight into her eyes. “Would that be a promise that you’ll actually keep?”

  “Depends,” she said coolly.

  “On?”

  “Whether you keep yours.”

  “I do.” He was still wearing his jacket, even if his pants were around his ankles. How dignified. He reached into the inside pocket and withdrew the lacquered box. He placed it into her hands. “This belongs to you, Natalie.”

  To his surprise, her whole body stiffened. She slid off his knees and pulled her skirt down. “Wh-what is it?”

  He straightened his own clothes. Not a man alive could look sexy naked from the waist down and wearing black shoes and socks. Not even a certified chick magnet like him. “I think you know what it is, sweetheart.”

  She put a hand to her mouth and shook her head.

  “It’s the St. George necklace.”

  “Oh, no.” Her eyes filled again, overflowed, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “No,” she said brokenly. “It’s not.”

  He was puzzled by her reaction, to say the least. “It is. Open the box.”

  She did open it, with shaking fingers. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t have faith in you, Eric,” she said.

  “What?”

  “But you’ve been a little hard to trust.”

  In front of his disbelieving eyes, she pulled out a bundle of fabric that he’d never seen before, and tossed it into his lap.

  He untied the corners and stared down at a jumble of coins.

  “I . . . um. I repossessed the necklace, Eric. We took it to the cathedral this morning and made the exchange for my family’s belongings. That’s where I’ve been.”

  His mouth opened and closed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “But I didn’t think you’d give it back to me—you’ve taken me for quite a ride.”

  He took a moment to absorb the shock.

  Natalie had stolen the necklace right out from under his nose. It was poetic justice.

  It damn well served him right, but he didn’t know how to react. “You—,” he said, then shook his head. “You didn’t.” He pulled a hand over his face. “You’re not the type—”

  Finally, McDougal hung his head between his knees and laughed until his ribs hurt.

  “I do love you, Eric,” she said uncertainly. “Even though you’re an asshole and I’ve been really, really pissed at myself over the whole thing. I can’t help but love you.”

  “Natalie,” he said, lifting his head and mopping at his own streaming eyes with his sleeve. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He looked at that sweet, straightforward face of hers. “I love you, too. You have no idea how much. But I was afraid you were way too honest for me, sweetheart.”

  She lifted her shoulders, then let them drop again. “Guess not,” she said sheepishly.

  “Come ’ere.” He grabbed her hands and kissed her. “I may be a thief with a permit. I may enjoy a good con.

  But you can trust me on this, at least: My heart is one hundred percent yours, and nobody else will ever repossess that.”

  Thirty-nine

  Natalie, Eric, Nonnie, and the colonel stood at Poklon naya Gora, Moscow’s monument to World War II. In front of it was a massive granite slab displaying the year 1945.

  Beyond that, on a raised pedestal, was the monolithic figure of a dragon, its mighty head severed from its scaly body. St. George, his cloak rippling in the breeze, sat astride a rearing horse, which trampled the dragon’s body while the saint’s great spear fatally pierced it.

  Natalie described the monument for Nonnie as they walked closer to it and ascended the stairs so that she could touch it, run her old hands over the gigantic sculpture.

  “There’s a huge obelisk behind St. George, Nonnie, and it seems to reach all the way to the sky. On the four faces of it, soldiers emerge from the stone, men who fought bravely for Russia and its territories during the war. Their courage is immortalized for everyone to see.”

  “Men like my father,” the old lady murmured. “Before he forfeited his right arm.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know he would have gone back to fight, Natalya? He just wanted to see us to safety. He was no coward.”

  Nat slid an arm around her grandmother’s shoulders and squeezed. “I never thought he was.”

  “St. George,” Nonnie said, reverently. “Hero on a mythical, religious, and symbolic level. The dragon at this monument stands for the Nazis. St. George is Moscow.” A smile crossed her face.

  She touched the new, sparkling ring on the fourth finger of her left hand, then turned her old blind eyes toward Eric with a coy expression. “St. George also operates on a personal level, eh, Natalya? He has brought us love in spite of all odds.”

  “Yes, he does.” Natalie squeezed Eric’s hand and he flushed. “My knight in—”

  He shook his head. “Lady, I keep trying to tell you—I’m no knight!”

  “—tarnished armor. I think it’s beyond tarnished, actually. It’s creaky, kind of rusted out, truth to tell, so it’s a good thing I have contacts in the restoration business.”

  “Hey!” He poked her in the ribs, and she batted at his hand.

  “Be serious, children,” said Nonnie. “I have a question to ask you.”

  They waited.

  “Will you come with me on my next quest?” she asked. She groped and found Ted Blakely’s hand, while he gazed at her fondly. “All of you?”

  “What quest would that be?”

  “I’m going to find Wiemar von Bruegel, the Nazi bastard who killed my father and many others. Inside the necklace was a safety-deposit key. Inside the safety-deposit box was proof of his true identity and of his crimes. He’s been living under an assumed name, right
here in Moscow! And I will hunt him down if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Er,” Eric said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mrs. Ciccoli? His assumed name is Oleg Litsky, and my coworkers already have him in custody. They ‘repossessed’ him for the World Court. Someone will probably be calling you soon so that you can confront him and testify at his trial.”

  Nonnie stared sightlessly at him, her eyes filling and her mouth working. Then she threw her arms around him and kissed him on both cheeks. He could feel himself blushing, probably borscht red.

  “See, Natalya?” her grandmother said. “What did I tell you? That necklace has mystical qualities. It calls forth the true spirits of those who handle it. Your young man and his colleagues were sent by St. George himself.”

  “Of course they were,” Natalie agreed wryly. “Was there ever any doubt?” And then she leaned over to kiss Eric deeply.