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“Are you trying to get her killed?” Vicktor demanded in Russian. No one but him had to know he’d gone cold when Andrei kidnapped Gracie. And that, as the suspicion sifted in that Andrei might be her stalker, he’d imagined her blood-splattered body on the pavement.
Seeing the chauffeur’s face, however, Vicktor realized that Andrei wasn’t a killer. At least, not Gracie’s. He might, however, be happy to take out Vicktor.
Because the chauffeur was so obviously jealous.
Every nerve in Vicktor’s body knotted, wanting to uncoil in fury at this reckless driver who had no thought in his head but his own broken heart. Only a touch of empathy kept Vicktor from burying his fist in Andrei’s snarl. That, and the fact that if Vicktor hoped to get Gracie inside his flat, even with chaperones, he’d have to be on his best behavior.
Andrei didn’t answer. Instead he pinned him with a look of hatred. Ouch. Vicktor had seen that look too many times.
Vicktor stared back. “Don’t do that again,” he threatened in Russian.
Andrei blinked at him, obviously expecting something more. Appearing weary and rumpled in his scarred leather coat, his eyes went to Gracie, then back to Vicktor. Then his shoulders slumped. His fists loosened and he turned away, staring out into the river.
Dirty foam lined the shore, broken only by tidbits of trash washed ashore during the thaw—wood, old tires, wire, and metal scraps. The crisp wind hissing off the river reeked of rotting fish. Vicktor peeked at Gracie. She was shivering, her face slightly chapped. He fought the urge to wrap his arm around her. Probably not a great idea, especially in front of Andrei.
But oy, did she feel good in his arms.
“Just don’t get her killed.” Andrei’s voice was nearly a mumble, stretched taut by surrender, but Vicktor caught it.
This, they could agree on.
“Of course not.”
Andrei followed him back into town at a reasonable distance, never straying from Vicktor’s rearview mirror. Gracie sat beside Vicktor, worrying her lower lip. She’d stopped shivering but hugged her waist in a death grip, staring out her window at the greening countryside. They passed a field of red and blue painted dachas. Shoots of tiny green potatoes formed long rows in the rich black earth.
“Are you okay?” Vicktor asked.
Gracie rubbed her hands on her upper arms. Vicktor drummed two fingers on the steering wheel.
“You’re really scared, aren’t you?”
The question hit him hard. He hazarded a glance in her direction and saw her eyes on him. He nodded.
She reached over and kneaded her fingers into his coat. “Then you’d better take good care of me, huh?”
His pulse notched up at her words. He covered her hand with his and forced speech through his dry mouth. “It would help if you would cooperate.”
They rode that way until he pulled up in front of his flat, his heart still hammering.
He nearly cheered when he saw Roman and Yanna standing by his apartment building holding bags of food. Although, hearing their raucous sniggering as he climbed out of the car, he suddenly wondered if Andrei would make better company than this pair of mischievous matchmakers.
“So this is your missionary!”
Gracie took Vicktor’s hand as she climbed out of the car and searched for the feminine voice. Vicktor turned to a sleek brunette with hair that cascaded over her shoulders and shimmered like mink in the sun.
Gracie felt instantly dowdy, despite her tailored black dress. She’d give nearly everything she owned—and that was quite possibly not enough—for a hot shower and a pair of warm sweatpants, fuzzy slippers, and a good book. What she got was a hug from Vicktor’s dazzling friend.
“This is Yanna, one of my coworkers,” Vicktor said in explanation.
Gracie smiled meekly.
“And I’m Roman,” came a tenor voice in English.
Gracie peered way up into the twinkling hazel-green eyes of a wide-shouldered cop. Seeing his short tawny brown hair, square chin, reddish five-o’clock shadow, and a smile big enough to hide inside, she found herself instantly warming to Vicktor’s friend as she met his grip.
“Our ‘chaperones’?” she asked Vicktor. He shrugged, but with a smile.
Roman clasped Vicktor’s shoulders, leading him toward the building, the two of them huddled in conversation. Gracie strained to hear their words. Not that it would do any good—they spoke Russian.
Yanna curled her arm around Gracie’s waist. “How was your day?” she whispered in English.
Gracie scrambled for a reply. What, exactly, was Yanna referring to? The way her life had spun out of control over the past three days, or the fact that she’d met a guy who made her feel…worth saving? To her profound relief, Andrei pulled up to the curb and honked. She disentangled herself from the brunette’s grip, hustled over to Andrei’s car, and opened the passenger door.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” Andrei said, barely meeting her eyes. “Don’t leave without me.”
Her knees nearly buckled. “You’re leaving?”
Andrei looked away, out the opposite window. “I have to check in at work. I have a job, you know.”
Guilt cascaded over her. “I’m sorry, Andrei. Of course you do.” She glanced at Yanna, who stood a meter away, a warm smile on her face. Gracie shot her a tentative grin. “I think I’ll be okay.”
Andrei met her gaze with hard eyes. “You call me if you need me.”
Her throat felt raw. “Thank you.”
He nodded. She shut the door, and he roared away. Her protector. Her last link between her old life and this new surreal existence in the company of the FSB. Gracie shook her head in disbelief as Yanna called her over.
“So,” the brunette said as they climbed Vicktor’s stairs. “You have four flights to tell me everything about your afternoon, and I’ll spend the rest of the night telling you why you should fall in love with Vicktor, hard and fast, and never let him go.”
“What?”
“Vicktor. He’s single and wonderful, and you have to admit…cute.”
Gracie’s startled expression seemed to make Yanna smile.
“Okay,” Gracie whispered, leaning close, stunned that she was even acknowledging it. “He does have the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen.”
Yanna nodded. “See, I knew you had good taste.”
Gracie’s face flamed, but it felt good. She hadn’t noticed an attractive man for years. Scars did that to a woman. Yes, Vicktor was dashing, strong, and brave. His looks turned heads, and she liked being tucked under his arm. But more than that, he made her feel safe. As if she mattered.
“Did he take you to lunch?” Yanna asked as they climbed the stairs.
Gracie nodded. “The lighthouse.”
Yanna gaped at her. “He said he’d never be caught dead in that dainty place.”
Gracie shrugged. “Showed me around like he owned the place.”
“Men.” Yanna rolled her eyes.
“I know you women would like to keep your gossiping a secret, but you’ll have to find a place other than an echoing stairwell to do it.”
Yanna and Gracie exchanged horrified looks as Roman bounded down the stairs and grabbed the bag of groceries from Yanna.
Oh, wonderful.
Roman leaned close. “Don’t worry, fair maiden, he didn’t hear a word.”
He flashed a sly look at Yanna, then back to Gracie. “You see, Miss Benson, you’re in the middle of an FSB plot.”
If the plot included a shower and dinner, she was all for it.
An hour later, Gracie stepped out of Vicktor’s shower, feeling like a new creature. Two days of sweat and grease pooled in the tub floor. Her hair squeaked as she ran a towel over it. Yanna had graciously brought her a pile of clothing in a bag, but she doubted she would fit into any of the shapely beauty’s attire.
Yanna had excellent taste in clothing. She’d left a pair of track pants and a baggy Alaska University swe
atshirt and had even remembered a pair of woolen socks. Gracie fingered them and thanked the Lord for providing for her.
She wiped a splotch of steam from the mirror and stared at her reflection, wishing for a comb. Her satchel! She’d have a comb in her bag. Pressing her forehead with her index finger, she groped through her foggy brain for its whereabouts.
The village. She’d left it at Andrei’s mother’s house. Groaning, she sank down on the edge of the tub. Her passport and visa were in the satchel. Without them she hadn’t a prayer of leaving Russia, at least not anytime soon. She winced, imagining the arctic reception Andrei’s parents would surely give her. She felt ill knowing they had been terrorized. Thankfully, Vicktor’s contact in the village had called with an update. The Tallins had been shaken up, but not hurt.
In fact, she should be praising God that none of them were hurt. At least physically.
She knelt on the tiled floor, feeling moisture pool around her bare legs. She didn’t care that she was shivering, dressed in only a towel, wet hair dripping in streaks down her back. She folded her hands. “Dear Lord, thank You. You’ve protected me and brought me to this safe place, despite my fears. I asked You this morning for safety. Though I was shot at, kidnapped by Andrei, and dropped into the lap of the FSB, You kept me safe. And soon, comfortable and warm.”
She raised her eyes, tasting salt as tears dripped into her mouth. “I have trusted in You, and You have not disappointed me. You have been near to me through Vicktor and Andrei. I owe You my life. Even though I don’t deserve this.” She sighed. “I know I’ve asked You this before. But I truly want to be of some use to You, Lord.” Her throat burned. She wished, for once, she could repay God for all He had done for her.
A tap on the door brought her to her feet.
“Gracie, it’s me, Yanna. Supper is nearly ready. How are you doing?”
Gracie wrapped a towel around her head and squeezed the excess moisture from her hair. “Be out in a minute.”
She threw on the pants and sweatshirt, did her best to comb out her tangles with her fingers, hung up the towels, and padded out holding her socks.
A dog the size of a mule buffaloed her into the alcove by the door.
“Vicktor!”
Pouncing near her, the dog’s huge jowls dribbled white foam and his brown eyes perused her as if she were a piece of liver. Gracie held both hands up in surrender. “Vicktor!” The brute sniffed her legs. She resisted kneeing him. “Help!”
Vicktor appeared in the narrow hallway, a dishrag over his shoulder, dressed delightfully casual in a pair of black jeans and an untucked denim shirt. It did magic things to his blue eyes.
“Your horse likes me,” she said.
“Alfred! Back, boy!” He grabbed at the dog’s collar and wrestled him into an adjoining bedroom. “Sorry about that,” he said, closing the door against the whine of his canine roommate. “He’s friendly.”
Gracie hid a smile. “I’d say. Not much of a watchdog.”
Vicktor squatted and reached into a cupboard. “No, he’s a good watchdog. He’d take your leg off if you weren’t cute.” He handed her a pair of worn slippers.
Now, wasn’t that sweet? Sirens blared in the back of her head. She tried to ignore them as she sat in a leather armchair. It welcomed her with a creak. “Maybe it’s because I smell like Yanna?” She tugged on Yanna’s warm socks. Heat flooded to her toes.
“I doubt it. Yanna doesn’t spend too much time here.”
And hearing that felt good too. It must have shown, for he smiled, and his blue eyes sparkled. “C’mon, Roman and I made you ladies a scrumptious supper.”
Gracie took his outstretched hand. “Really? What?”
“Smoked salmon and sauerkraut.”
She made a face.
He laughed. “No, just kidding. How about fried potatoes, meat cutlets, and a carrot salad?”
“That sounds better,” she said, her stomach roaring to life at the smells drifting from the kitchen.
The galley kitchen was roughly the size of her hatchback now in storage in Duluth. Yanna sat at the tiny folded table, nursing a soda. Roman, like his pal, Vicktor, wore a dish towel over his shoulder and flipped julienne potatoes sizzling in sunflower oil.
Vicktor pulled out a chair and Gracie squeezed past Roman’s bulk. Vicktor reached around his friend, extracted a glass from the cupboard, and poured her a drink from the cola bottle sweating on the table.
“How do you get around in here?” Gracie asked, seeing Roman nearly catch his shirt on the gas blaze as Vicktor shoved past him.
“I don’t usually have guests.” Vicktor grinned, but Gracie guessed he was embarrassed by this truth.
“That’s because he doesn’t like to clean his house,” Roman jabbed.
Vicktor glared at him.
Yanna leaned close. “Don’t believe Roma. Vicktor is the most domestic guy you’ve ever seen. Irons his own shirts, bakes his own bread, even makes his own jam.”
Vicktor tried to swat her with his towel, but she ducked.
“I’ve even known him to dust!”
Gracie peered at Vicktor, catching Yanna’s infectious mirth.
“Lies,” Vicktor rebutted.
From the pristine white curtains and the way the milk glass light fixture sparkled, Gracie suspected Yanna spoke the truth. She bit back a grin.
“Give me a break, please, gang?” Vicktor turned away to wash out a glass in the sink.
Gracie watched him work, muscles rippling down his wide back, the five-o’clock shadow he’d yet to shave darkening his face. Yes, it felt good to notice a good-looking man. She tore her gaze away and focused on Yanna.
“Have you known each other long?”
Yanna and Roman exchanged a look. She thought she saw Roman shrug.
“Da,” Yanna confirmed. Her eyes lost their mirth. As she reached across the table, taking Gracie’s hand, the set of her mouth told Gracie the games were over.
“Want to know how we all met?”
Vicktor bathed a fried potato in ketchup and listened to Yanna as the tale unfolded. He remembered that first meeting so clearly, from Yanna’s terror-stricken pasty face to David’s overbearing indignation. He’d no idea a night of horror would usher him into friendships dearer than life.
“The symphony was beautiful tonight, wasn’t it?” Yanna’s bright smile had yet to lose the glow of wonder. A girl from a village wouldn’t have a hard time being awed by Moscow, he supposed. Vicktor turned up his coat collar, wondering if he’d have time to cram for his English exam, cursing himself for succumbing to his mother’s pleas.
“Yanna is new in town. She needs a friend. Take her to the Bolshoi.” Needed a babysitter was more like it.
Glancing at her now, Vicktor found it difficult to believe Yanna had been a mild-mannered village girl with a flimsy backbone.
The moon hung as a sliver of gold in the sky, surrounded by millions of winking stars. A greedy wind gusting off the Volga River snared his hat and sent it skittering over the shimmering red cobblestones toward Lenin’s Mausoleum. “Stay here,” Vicktor said as he shot out after it, his feet echoing across the square.
When he turned around, she had vanished.
“I don’t know what I was thinking, running away from Vicktor.” Yanna separated a long strand of hair and examined it, splitting it into smaller strands. Her breath came out in short bursts, unsteady. “All I knew, one minute he was there, the next, he’d disappeared.”
Vicktor’s appetite died, remembering Yanna, a crumpled mess, crying, terrified.
A scream rent the night air. Vicktor’s adrenaline spiked. “Yanna!” Where did that girl go?
“Yanna?” The Kremlin stretched out in shadow, like a phantom, hiding everything in darkness. Another scream. Vicktor bolted toward the old State Department Store on the opposite end. His breath burned in his chest.
“Roman and his American buddy David Curtiss were coming home from some kind of meeting—”
“A
Bible study,” Roman interjected.
“They caught the attacker mid-grope.” Yanna’s eyes darkened as she said it.
“While I was kicking my hat around the graves of Stalin and Khrushchev, David was running down one of Moscow’s most wanted.” Vicktor’s voice was low. There were just some things a person shouldn’t be forgiven for.
“Yanna?” Vicktor found her holding tightly to a man in a suede jacket, and landed two punches before another man locked his arms behind him. Yanna’s shouts registered.
“Vicktor, stop! They’re trying to help!” She grabbed the man holding Vicktor in a vice. “Please, let him go.”
A moment later, Roman turned and decked him. “Don’t you know better than to leave a woman out alone in Moscow?” Vicktor let the indictment stand. And never forgot the lesson.
Vicktor noticed Yanna was much kinder in her explanation. Vicktor shared a look with Roman as she told it.
“Roman and David just appeared out of the night, scared the guy away and took off after him. Vicktor ran up a second later.” She flipped back her hair and spread her hands on the table. “It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Gracie sat still, as if rolling the story around in her head.
Roman put an arm around Yanna. “Once we figured out what happened, David and I decided not to turn Vicktor into mashed potatoes—and became friends instead.” He cast a glance at Vicktor. “Actually, I already knew Vicktor. We’d competed against each other in club hockey.”
Gracie angled him a look of amused interest. “You play hockey?”
Vicktor liked the way the light glittered in her eyes and turned them to jewels. He nodded.
“David, my American friend, and I became friends through an off-campus English Bible Study,” Roman explained.
Vicktor laced his hands behind his head and leaned back into the chair. “David also plays hockey, but nothing like Roman, who can skate us into knots.”
Roman didn’t spare him a glance but leaned toward Gracie, working his story. “Vicktor started hanging around us.” He nodded at Vicktor as if in understanding. “Probably because we had all the girls.”
Watch Over Me Page 16