by JoAnn Ross
Assuring herself that she was only worried about waking him if she tried to pull away, she decided to stay right where she was. As she finally drifted off to sleep, Sasha was smiling.
Mitch dreamed he was in the islands, making love to a beautiful woman on a sun-drenched, deserted beach. Somewhere in the distance, a deep voice was crooning “Blue Hawaii.” The woman fit against him perfectly. Her smooth, oiled skin carried the scent of tropical flowers. As he covered her mouth with his, her lips trembled apart on a sigh as soft as the island tradewinds. She was every bit as delicious as he’d known she would be. Her mouth tasted like ripe fruit. Kissing her was like dining on paradise.
Wanting more, he ran his hands down her body, stroking her smooth curves and taut muscles with a smooth, practiced touch that quickened her breath and drew low murmurs from between her succulent lips that in turn set off a series of fiery eruptions deep inside Mitch. He slid his knee between her thighs and dragged his mouth down her throat to her breast.
Caught up in the wonder and heat of her own erotic dream, Sasha combed her hands through Mitch’s hair and murmured her pleasure in her native Russian.
The unfamiliar words had the effect of a bucket of icy water. Mitch froze, then slowly, gingerly, opened his eyes.
The bedroom was draped in deep purple shadows. But it was not so dark that Mitch couldn’t see the awareness slowly flooding into Sasha’s sleepy eyes.
“Aw, hell.” He withdrew his hand from beneath her white cotton nightgown. “I can’t believe ... I never. . .”
With a muffled sound that was part moan and part curse, he rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with his forearm. “I didn’t know,” he said, his husky voice strained. “Why the hell didn’t you stop me?”
“You were not the only one who was sleeping.”
He took his arm away, his expression anything but encouraging. “You weren’t awake?”
She gnawed a bit on her lower lip, trying to decide how much to tell him. It was true that she’d been asleep when she’d first felt his lips brush her temple. But by the time his wicked, wonderful hands had begun moving over her body, seeking out pleasure points she’d never even known she possessed, Sasha had been fully, blissfully awake.
In the end, she opted for a half-truth. “I was dreaming.”
She looked so lovely, with the rosy hue of passion still blooming in her cheeks. Her eyes held a lingering vestige of desire and passion that he found almost impossible to resist. If she were any other woman, Mitch knew, now that they were both awake, they wouldn’t be wasting time talking.
“That must have been some dream.”
“It was quite pleasant.” She tugged the rumpled sheet up nearly to her chin. “As yours must have been, as well.”
Mitch felt a twinge of disappointment when she covered up those wondrous breasts that were enticingly visible beneath the thin white cotton, but reluctantly decided it was the prudent thing to do.
“I haven’t woken up so horny since I was seventeen.”
The word was unfamiliar. But Sasha did not need a Russian /English dictionary to understand its meaning. “I have never before woken up feeling like that,” she admitted.
He’d suspected as much. “I should have sacked out on the couch. But by the time I crawled home, I’d forgotten you’d be here.”
Although she knew he hadn’t meant the words as an insult, they stung nonetheless. “I should not have taken your bed.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re a guest. You get the bed.”
“But—”
“I said, you get the damn bed.” Frustration sharpened his tone. “Don’t argue with me on this one, Sasha. Not while a sadistic maniac is pounding away inside my head with a jackhammer.”
She knew the feeling. Intimately. “You have a hangover?”
“Not a hangover,” he corrected, groaning as he sat up. “The grandpappy of all hangovers.” He blinked his eyes and wondered if someone had glued sandpaper to the insides of his lids after he’d passed out. It was just the kind of sick practical joke Jake would have enjoyed.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t pour those tequila chasers down my throat.”
“No. But if you hadn’t been trying to stay away from me, you would have come home earlier.”
He opened his mouth to lie and knew he wouldn’t be able to pull it off. What she’d said was the truth. And they both knew it.
“I’d better brush my teeth.” He pushed aside the sheet on his side of the double bed. “I think a badger must’ve died in my mouth while I was sleeping.”
She watched him walk into the bathroom with the casual air of a man comfortable with nudity. Which, she considered, made sense. What man wouldn’t enjoy showing off such a perfect body?
She heard the sound of water running, and the flush of the toilet. And then she heard him turn on the shower. When her unruly mind pictured Mitch standing beneath the stream of hot water, she closed her eyes, tight, trying to block the provocative image. But it didn’t work.
It was still with her, lingering in her mind as she dressed for their meeting with Mr. Donald O. Potter.
Sasha had never seen Mitch in a suit. As she entered the kitchen after her own shower, she thought he looked even more handsome than he did in his usual polo shirt and jeans. And the blue tie exactly matched his eyes.
She stifled a sigh, wishing he really was her husband.
“You look very nice,” she murmured as she took out a carton of orange juice out of the fridge.
“I feel like a man on the verge of death.” He took the carton from her and poured the juice. The way her hands were shaking, he was afraid she’d pour it all over the counter, herself and the tile floor his mother and sister had gleaming with a mirrorlike sheen.
He took a look at her unadorned white blouse, navy skirt and flats. Although the plain-Jane clothes weren’t any more appealing than the suit she’d worn for their wedding, he decided that Sasha was a woman who would probably look gorgeous in a gunny sack.
“You look pretty.” It was the truth. “But a little pale.” That, too, was the truth. His eyes narrowed as they moved over her face. “Wait here.”
He left the room and returned with a tube of cream blush. He unscrewed the cap, squeezed a dot onto the end of his finger, then smoothed the soft rose cream along the slanted line of first one cheekbone, then the other. His fingers careated an enervating warmth that nearly made her knees buckle.
He stepped back to study the results. “That’s better.”
“You have many talents,” she murmured, wondering how he’d acquired such cosmetic skills.
Mitch shrugged. “I grew up sharing a bathroom with my sister.” He saw no point in revealing that years spent watching other women playing with their pots and brushes had taught him a lot. “A guy’s bound to pick up a few things.” He glanced at his watch, then gulped down the mug of cooling coffee he’d left on the counter. “Well, I guess it’s time to face the inquisition.”
The chill started at the top of her head and worked its way downward. Watching the renewed color leave her face, Mitch felt a stir of pity. She was trembling like a willow in a hurricane. Touching her was asking for trouble, he looped his arms around her waist and pressed his lips against her hair. There was no passion in either his embrace or his light kiss, only tenderness.
“It’s going to be all right.”
She closed her eyes and allowed herself to draw from his strength. When she felt she wouldn’t humiliate herself by weeping, she tilted her head back and looked up at him.
“What if it isn’t?” she asked in a soft, fractured voice that once again pulled at something elemental inside him. “What if Mr. Donald O. Potter gets his way? And I’m deported?”
“That won’t happen.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because any immigration bureaucrat who even tries to deport you is going to have to go through me, first.”
He w
inked. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go break the happy news of your marriage to the weasel. Then we can deposit that cashier’s check from the casino in your bank account.”
Sasha reminded herself that this was America, the land of promise and limitless possibilities. As she left the apartment with her new husband, she felt almost confident.
Unfortunately, that feeling was not to last long.
Sasha was not surprised when they were kept waiting. This was, after all, standard operating procedure for her nemesis. Mitch, however, did not bother to conceal his growing impatience.
“I don’t get it,” he growled as they waited on the hard plastic chairs in the overcrowded waiting room. “Our appointment was two hours ago. We haven’t seen anyone else go in there. So what the hell is the guy doing? Pulling wings off flies?”
“He is a government employee,” Sasha explained for the umpteenth time. Having experienced a lifetime of Russian bureaucratic red tape, she was more able to take the immigration officer’s stalling tactics in stride.
“So am I,” Mitch noted pointedly as he popped two more aspirin into his mouth and swallowed them dry. “But I wonder how Potter would like it if his damn house caught fire and I showed up two hours late to put it out.”
“That is different.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
She thought about that. “I suppose you’re right. But it doesn’t change things.” All too aware of the aggravation surrounding Mitch like a red-hot aura, she said, “You won’t say anything that will make him angry?”
“Nah.” Her relief was short-lived. “I think I’ll just punch his lights out.”
“Mitch!”
The absolute terror in her wide eyes could not be feigned. Realizing how seriously she was taking this, Mitch instantly regretted his flippant tone.
“Sasha. Sweetheart. I was just joking.” He patted her hand just as the office door opened.
“Mr. Potter can see you now, Ms. Mikhailova,” the secretary, clad in a severely cut gray suit that did nothing for her scrawny figure, announced. Her expression, beneath the sixties beehive was grim.
“It’s about time. And the name is Mrs. Cudahy,” he said as they walked past the woman. “You might want to make a note of that in your records.”
It was not, Mitch discovered, going to be easy. Although he’d not doubted Glory’s statement about immigration cracking down on arranged marriages, neither had he expected to be treated like Public Enemy Number One.
From the moment he learned of their hasty marriage, Potter didn’t mince words. “If you think this is going to forestall deportation proceedings against you, Ms. Mikhailova-”
“Cudahy,” Mitch broke in.
“Excuse me?”
“Sasha’s name is Mrs. Cudahy now.”
“Yes.” He pinched his thin lips together, making them practically disappear. “The timing of the marriage is quite convenient. Considering that Ms. Mik—”
“Cudahy,” Mitch reminded him.
Potter gave him a long look, then shrugged, as if deciding he could afford to concede this point. After all, he had the power of the United States government behind him. What chance did these two have?
“It strikes me as very suspicious,” he continued stiffly, “that Mrs. Cudahy—” he glanced at Mitch, who nodded his satisfaction “—did not mention your engagement at Friday’s appointment.”
“That’s simple.” Mitch took Sasha’s cold hand in his, lacing their fingers together in an easy, familiar husbandly gesture. “She didn’t know I was going to propose.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that you coincidentally popped the question at the same time the government was preparing to deport your wife, Mr. Cudahy?”
Although Mitch had been insisting to everyone—including himself—that this was not a real marriage, the way the squinty-eyed little weasel had heaped an extra helping of scorn on the word “wife” made his temper flare.
Reminding himself that leaning over the spotless metal desk and planting his fist in the jerk’s supercilious face would not help Sasha’s cause, he reined in his anger.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” he said, deciding to go with a half-truth. “Sasha’s meeting with you did have something to do with my asking her to marry me.” When Sasha’s hand turned even icier, he squeezed it reassuringly.
“Aha!” Potter looked as if he’d just won the lottery. Once again Mitch was tempted to punch him. Once again he managed, just barely, to resist.
“It was when I realized that I could actually lose her—” he gave Sasha a fond, loving look “—that I realized I loved her. And wanted us to spend the rest of our lives together.”
“That’s a lovely story, Mr. Cudahy. Unfortunately, it’s not the least bit original.” Potter took an ominous stack of forms from the filing cabinet behind the desk. “In light of your new status, I’ll need to interview you separately.”
“What kind of interview?” Mitch asked. He’d figured that he’d put on the blue suit he’d bought to wear to his sister’s wedding, go downtown with Sasha, explain he was her husband and walk out with her new green card in hand. An interview with the weasel hadn’t been in the plan.
“For starters, we need to ensure that you’re actually living together.”
“Of course we are. We’re married.”
“Yes. So you say.” Skepticism dripped from the acid tone. “Well, your wife will have to wait in the outer office. I’ll question you first. Then it will be Mrs. Cudahy’s turn.”
Listening to the thick disbelief in the man’s voice, Mitch thought that he should have just knocked the guy through his office window while he’d had the chance.
As Sasha prepared to leave the room, her lovely face more miserable than he’d ever seen it, Mitch took her chin between his fingers. “It’s going to be okay,” he assured her quietly. Then he captured her lips in a quick kiss.
“Sorry about that,” he told a frowning Potter, “I couldn’t help myself. You know how newlyweds are.” With a rakish wink, he walked Sasha the few feet to the closed door, then gave her a proprietary, husbandly pat on the rear.
Sasha’s head was still reeling as she sank down onto one of the chairs in the waiting room. A baby being bounced on the lap of a woman next to her screamed its discontent and nearby a husband and wife squabbled loudly. But still stunned by Mitch’s hot kiss, Sasha didn’t notice them.
When it was finally her turn, Sasha tried her best to answer the questions, but there were so many, and they were so intimate! Thanks to her conversations with Jake, she managed to correctly name Mitch’s mother and sister and new baby niece. And from his dinner orders for the firehouse, she knew he preferred ribs over chicken, and steak to everything else. He didn’t like apple pie, but warm cherry pie topped with vanilla ice cream was his favorite dessert.
These things she knew. Almost everything else—including his favorite television programs and the last book he’d read—drew a blank.
“Why don’t you go on down and wait for me in the car, sweetheart?” Mitch suggested when she was finally allowed to escape the inquisition. She was as pale as a wraith. “I have something I need to do. It won’t take long.”
There was something in his tone, something unsettling. A dark and dangerous edge she’d never heard before. Quite honestly, it frightened her.
“Mitch?”
He ran his hand down her hair. “Don’t you worry that pretty little head about a thing,” he said loud enough for the avidly watching secretary to hear. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Sasha, too, was aware of the secretary’s interest. Not wanting to do anything that might get reported back to her enemy, she sighed, nodded, then left the office.
Mitch waited until he heard the ding of the elevator door opening. Then he marched back into Potter’s office.
The immigration officer was making notations in a manila file even thicker than Sasha’s. From the satisfied smirk on his face, Mitch decided the bastard mu
st be ruining someone else’s life.
He glanced up and frowned at Mitch. “I believe our interview was over, Mr. Cudahy.”
“That’s what you think.” Mitch put both hands on the black metal desk and glared down at the man, mayhem threatening in his stance and his eyes. “I want you to listen to me, Potter. And I want you to listen good.”
“What you want is none of my concern.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong.”
Potter took one look at the thundercloud on Mitch’s face and reached for the phone. “I’m going to call security.”
Mitch snatched the receiver out of the man’s hand. “If you don’t want to end up picking your teeth off the floor, I’d suggest you listen to what I have to say.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You bet your wingtips I am.” Mitch hung up the phone. “The same way you threatened my wife.”
“That Russian émigré is not your wife.”
“Now there you go,” Mitch said with an exaggerated sigh, “questioning my veracity again. I don’t really give a flying fig what you think, Potter, because I happen to have a piece of paper stating that according to the laws of Nevada—and the United States of America—Sasha is my lawfully wedded wife. My spouse. My woman. And call me oversensitive, but I don’t like autocratic little jerks who make my woman cry.” His fingers curled around the wrinkled brown tie as he pulled Potter toward him across the top of the desk. “If you ever so much as look crossways at Sasha again, you’ll have to answer to me. And believe me, it won’t be an enjoyable experience.”
Potter’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “It’s against the law to threaten a federal government official,” he said, his attempt at bluster belied by the sickly ash color of his face.
“It’ll be your word against mine,” Mitch reminded him. “And who do you think the cops will believe? A squinty-eyed little weasel with yesterday’s lunch on his tie? Or a genuine American hero?”
He released the tie and Potter fell back into his chair with a force that sent it rolling dangerously toward the window. Mitch was vaguely disappointed when it stopped a few inches away.
