by JoAnn Ross
She tilted her chin in a way that dared him to argue this all-important point. “All my life, while I was growing up, my mother told me stories about my father.” Exciting, wonderful stories that had made the dashing American reporter who’d swept her mother off her feet and kept her warm during that frigid Leningrad winter seem larger than life.
“That’s undoubtedly all they were,” he sniffed. “stories.”
It was not the first time the horrid immigration officer had suggested such a possibility. The other times, in an attempt to prevent annoying him—and getting into more trouble—Sasha had dared not challenge his remarks. This time she decided she had nothing to lose.
“My mother, Mr. Potter, was not a liar.” Maya Mikhailova had been the most honest, kindest woman Sasha had ever known. Since her mother’s death eighteen months ago, there had not been a day that Sasha hadn’t missed her wise advice, her warmth, her love.
“We’re getting off the point.” Frustration edged his voice and he waved his hand, brushing off her argument as he might a pesky insect. “The point I am attempting to make, Ms. Mikhailova, is that during your past year in this country, you have not resided at the same location—or for that matter, in the same city—for more than ninety days at a time—”
“It was important to keep searching.”
He frowned at the interruption. “Perhaps it was important to hide your tracks.” The accusation was, of course, preposterous. It was also one she’d heard from him before.
“I wanted to hide nothing.”
“That’s what you say. But I believe differently.” He gave her a smug look over the tent of his fingers. “And unfortunately for you, the U.S. government tends to take the word of a sworn immigration officer over an alien who is attempting to circumvent the laws of this land by disappearing into the general—legal—population.”
His evil, superior smirk made Sasha squeeze her damp hands tightly together in her lap to keep from giving in to the very strong temptation to slap the smile off his face. She had no doubt that he’d have not a single qualm about calling the police, which would, of course, result in her immediate deportation. Which would undoubtedly give Mr. Donald O. Potter vast pleasure.
He stood behind the desk, signaling that the interview was over. Sasha couldn’t help wondering if his less-than-average stature explained his seeming need to push people around so cruelly.
“Ten o’clock next Wednesday,” he reminded her. “You are, of course, entitled to legal counsel.”
This was Friday, which gave her only four more days. Sasha’s mind whirled. How was she going to find her father in so short a time when she hadn’t been able to locate him in the past twelve months? And where was she to find the money for yet another lawyer?
She felt as if an iron fist was clutching at her heart as she left the cold, sterile government office. Determined not to reveal her pain to all the clerks who were buzzing around like busy worker bees, Sasha held her sable head regally high. Her back was straight as an arrow and as she marched past the other grim-faced resident aliens waiting to learn their individual fates, she was reminded of her long ago royal Russian ancestors.
Granted, this was not a fatal verdict. Still, as Sasha waited for the elevator to arrive, she thought she knew something of what her mother’s relatives had felt as they’d prepared to face the Red Army’s firing squads. As the metal elevator doors closed behind her, she found herself alone with a dark-suited man who reeked of some no doubt expensive but suffocating cologne. And adding to her discomfort, instead of watching the lighted numbers above the door as everyone else did while riding in an elevator, he couldn’t seem to stop looking at her breasts.
Sasha had known it was a mistake to wear the snug uniform, especially when she would have preferred her single good black suit. But she knew from experience that she’d be kept waiting hours past her appointment time, which would not give her time to stop by the rooming house to change her clothes before work.
She kept her eyes straight ahead as she exited the elevator ahead of the other passenger, but she felt his predatory gaze all the way out of the building. Then she stood outside the towering black-glass office building, frustration escalating to the boiling point as she watched the city bus pull away from the curb. It would be at least ten minutes before another one arrived.
Which would, unfortunately, make her late to work.
Which meant she’d miss Mitch Cudahy when he picked up dinner for the firemen of Ladder Company No. 13. Although Sasha knew that the chances of an American hero looking twice at a mere waitress, let alone one who was shorter, darker, and far less stylish than the willowy blondes she knew he favored, ever since Mitch had arrived, sirens wailing, to put out a fire she’d accidentally started in the diner’s kitchen, her heart had steadfastly refused to listen to her head.
After dousing the flames, he’d amazed her by apologizing for the three inches of water on the green-and-white checkered linoleum floor. Sasha had gazed into the depths of his eyes—their crystal blue absolutely riveting in his handsome, soot-smudged face—and against every bit of pragmatism she possessed, had fallen hopelessly, head over heels in love.
After that fateful day, whenever he came into the diner, with his cocky masculine stride, his compact body looking so wonderfully fit in the navy blue T-shirt and jeans favored by the city firemen, Sasha would feel light-headed and giddy.
The thought of having to leave Phoenix, to leave America, to never see Mitch again, was one more depressing thing in an already ghastly day.
She sighed, looking up at the clear blue sky. The morning rain had stopped. That, at least, was something.
She waited at the bus stop, her mind whirling, tossing up problems without solutions, dilemmas without answers. For a fleeting moment she considered running away, like the dreadful immigration officer had suggested she might be planning to do.
But where would she go? And how long could she hide before the government discovered her and sent her back to St. Petersburg in disgrace?
Her thoughts on the logistics of pulling off such an admittedly risky—not to mention highly illegal—plan, Sasha didn’t see the pizza delivery truck speeding down the street until it shot through a puddle in front of her, splashing a wave of muddy water that drenched the front of her bubblegum-pink uniform.
2
IT WAS MORE than forty-five minutes before the bus finally showed up.
“It took you long enough to get here,” the elderly woman in front of Sasha complained.
“Hey, don’t blame me.” The driver, who looked more like a roadie for a heavy metal band than a city employee, shrugged uncaringly. “The scheduled bus broke down.”
“What about the one after that?”
“Do I look like Dan freaking Rather?” he retorted as he punched her card. “How should I know?”
“Young man, I have been riding this route every day for twenty-five years.” The woman snatched her card back and jammed it into her already overstuffed shopping bag. “And never, in all that time, have I experienced such rudeness. I’ve a good mind to report you to your supervisor.”
“You’ve got me trembling in my boots,” he snarled in return.
As the woman stomped down the aisle, the driver leered at Sasha. “Well, hello.” His eyes, hidden behind a pair of purple sunglasses, slid over her, taking in the muddied uniform. “Looks like you’ve had a rough day, sugar.”
Although she certainly did not approve of the way he’d spoken to the previous passenger, Sasha was in no mood to enter into a confrontation with yet another government employee.
“I have had better.” She held out her card.
“Well,” he said, “this is my last run for the day. You need any help getting out of that wet outfit, just let me know.”
The lewd suggestion was every bit as annoying as the immigration officer’s earlier derision. “I do not think that will be necessary.”
“If you’re through insulting old ladies and trying to pick
up waitresses, do you think we could get this show on the road?” an irritated blue-suited Yuppie type behind Sasha inquired.
“Hold your water, man.” The driver punched Sasha’s card, purposefully brushing his fingers over hers as she took it back.
Assuring herself that this had to be the low spot of her day, that things could not possibly get any worse, Sasha sank onto a hard seat midway down the aisle.
Although she hated the idea of being late for work, Sasha couldn’t help feeling somewhat grateful for the delay. Because, as much as she looked forward to seeing Mitch Cudahy, she couldn’t bear the idea of his seeing her looking so disheveled. Once again, she compared herself with his latest lover, a sleek, blond television news reporter, and once again Sasha realized that her fantasies of a life with the sexy fireman were exactly that—fantasies.
In front of her, two teenagers sat, heads together as they exchanged warm looks and soft murmurs and light kisses. Their hands were never still, stroking each other’s hair, arms, faces all the way up Central Avenue.
Although no one could pay her to relive her own tumultuous teenage years, Sasha couldn’t help being just a little envious. And when the boy bent his head and gave the girl a hot, lingering kiss that was obviously a prelude to many more before the night was over, she felt the ache all the way to her toes.
She’d never, in all her twenty-four years, had any man look at her that way. She’d never had any man kiss her that way. And until Mitch, she’d never met a man she’d even wanted to kiss her with such passion.
She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples where the Potter-caused headache throbbed painfully. With a six-hour shift yet to get through, Sasha could only hope that tonight would be a light one.
As the bus pulled up to the curbside stop on busy Camelback Road, Sasha viewed the shiny red fire truck parked outside the diner and groaned. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who was late today.
She debated staying on the bus, riding to the next stop, then walking back. But she was already late for work; it would be wrong to leave Glory Seeger to pick up the slack simply because she was uncomfortable having the man of her dreams witness her looking like some homeless person.
“He never notices you anyway,” she told herself as she exited the bus with the teenagers who were so besotted with each other. Reminding herself that she had far more problems to worry about than the lack of a lover, Sasha squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, pushed open the diner door and immediately found herself face-to-face with Mitch, who was on his way out.
CONTRARY to what she believed, Mitch had definitely noticed Sasha. He’d noticed her thick, wavy sable hair, her flashing dark eyes that revealed every emotion and the full rosy lips she was always forgetting to paint.
Since he was male, and human, he’d certainly noticed that her uniform fit a bit too snugly over her lush curves and that although she wasn’t tall, her legs were long and firm, with an attractive fullness at the back of her calves.
He’d also noticed, over the aroma of hickory smoke from Glory’s famed barbecued ribs, that the painfully shy waitress smelled damn good.
There had been a time, during a two-day lull between women, that he’d considered asking her out. But then Meredith Roberts had shown up at the fire station to interview him and one thing had led to another, and by the time the cameraman had packed up his videocam and equipment, Mitch had accepted her offer to take in the Cardinals football game from the television station’s executive box.
They’d been dating for about three weeks now. And although he thoroughly enjoyed his single life and had no intention of ever settling down with any one woman for any extended length of time, he did tend toward serial monogamy. Which meant that he’d never gotten around to asking Sasha out as intended. But he’d continued to look.
Today, however, the sight was anything but appealing. She looked as if she’d gone through a car wash. Without the car.
“What the hell happened to you?”
It was then that Sasha burst into tears.
Terrific. This was all he needed, Mitch thought as the question he’d unthinkingly blurted sent Sasha into a torment of noisy weeping that had the fireman behind him looking at him as if he were an ax murderer.
This was just one more lousy thing in an already rotten day. After falling out of the tree, he’d spent an hour having cactus needles picked out of his flesh. He figured that he had more holes in him than a damn sieve and had arrived at the diner in a filthy mood.
“What the hell did you say to the poor girl, Cudahy?” Jake Brown growled. Jake was his brother-in-law and also his best friend. But the look he was giving Mitch right now was anything but friendly.
“I only asked what happened to her,” Mitch retorted, his mood worsening by the moment.
“Mitchel Cudahy!” The booming voice coming from behind the chipped Formica-topped counter reminded him of his uncle Dan Cudahy, who worked as a logger in southern Oregon. With her wide shoulders and arms the circumference of Virginia hams, Glory Seeger even looked a bit like his uncle Dan. But without the mustache. “What are you doing, making my best waitress cry?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Mitch turned to Sasha for confirmation.
Lord, the lady was really pitiful. Unlike the women he was used to, who could weep genteelly on occasion to gain their own way, Sasha was bawling like a baby. Her dark gypsy hair was a wild tangle over shoulders that were shaking like the L.A. Coliseum during an earthquake. Tears were streaming down her face like the Niagara over the falls, and her nose was as red as Rudolph’s. There was an enormous wet brown stain covering the front of her Pepto-Bismol-pink skirt.
Even as he told himself that he hadn’t done anything to cause this outburst, that he owed the sweet-smelling, Russian-born waitress nothing but a tip whenever she served him a cup of coffee and a piece of Glory’s incomparable pecan pie, Mitch felt the familiar, unbidden sense of responsibility raise its nagging head.
It was the damn cat all over again. Sasha was a grown woman. The fact that she’d managed to make it out of Russia and come to the U.S. in the first place proved that she was more than a little capable of taking care of herself. Besides, whatever her problem, it had nothing to do with him.
He’d done his good deed for the day.
So why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone?
Mitch wanted desperately just to walk past her and get back to work. Instead he sighed, set the foam containers he was carrying on a wobbly white wooden table close by, then took hold of her quaking shoulders. “Hey, Sasha.” His smile was friendly and encouraging, not unlike the one he’d first given that ungrateful kitten. “Whatever it is, darlin’, it can’t be all that bad.”
Darlin’. It was a word Mitch used indiscriminately with women in general. Today he’d already tossed it at the cat’s seven-year-old owner and Meredith—even though he’d been ticked off about her bringing along a cameraman to record his indignity. He’d also used it on the pretty blond nurse who’d wielded those treacherous tweezers at Good Samaritan Hospital, and who, after plucking the cactus needles from his bare ass had given him her telephone number.
It was an all-purpose, friendly endearment. It didn’t mean anything. Not really.
But when Sasha heard that drawled “darlin’,” that same tender term she’d dreamed about so many times over the past weeks, her yearning heart turned a series of dizzying somersaults. For a fleeting, wonderful moment, hope sang its clear sweet song through her veins.
Then she made the mistake of looking up into Mitchel’s thickly lashed eyes. The pity she saw in those crystal blue depths stimulated a fresh torrent of hot tears.
“Christ.” Mitch wondered what he’d done now. He turned to Glory, who was watching the little drama, meaty arms folded over her abundant chest, her expression every bit as daunting as the meat cleaver she was holding.
“Would you please do something?” Mitch demanded with overt frustration. He’d had his fill of other people’s prob
lems today.
“You’re the one who made the poor little girl cry.” Glory’s broad face reminded him of a threatening dark thunderhead. “You do something.”
Mitch turned to Sasha, who’d turned her back and had buried her face in her hands. Her life was none of his business, he reminded himself yet again. It had nothing to do with him.
Aw, hell....
“You know, darlin’,” he said soothingly, “if you don’t turn off the waterworks, you’re liable to flood this place worse than I did when I put out the grease fire in your kitchen.”
At the reminder of that fateful day when she’d fallen so totally, helplessly, in love with this man who was now witnessing her humiliation, Sasha’s response was to sob louder.
Mitch threw up his hands. “I give up.” The lady was about as volatile as an open can of gasoline next to a lit match. Having already used up his daily store of patience even before he’d arrived at the diner, Mitch sought assistance from his brother-in-law.
“You’re used to dealing with hysterical females. Talk to her.” The way Mitch figured it, any man who could handle Katie Cudahy Brown’s PMS-induced tantrums could undoubtedly calm this sobbing, near-hysterical woman down.
“Ain’t that just like a man,” Glory broke in before Jake could answer. “Breaking a woman’s heart, then leaving someone else to clean up his mess.”
“Mess?” Mitch couldn’t believe this. “What mess? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about whatever you did to Sasha.” If looks could kill, the diner owner’s glower would have put Mitch six feet under. “So help me, God, Mitchel Cudahy, hotshot hero or not, if you dared to get this poor, sweet, innocent girl in the family way—”
“What?” Mitch immediately went beyond disbelief to honor. He might not be a monk, but he was definitely not the irresponsible bastard Glory had just accused him of being. Hell, he’d practiced safe sex before it had gotten popular. “I didn’t... I never... Whatever gave you the idea—”
