If I Had You

by Heather Hiestand

  The man clucked his tongue. “It’s a grand hotel. Bad things will happen.”

  “I’m sorry to be going, even so.” She bit her lip.

  “There’s nothing like the Grand.” The lift jerked and rattled as it reached the ground floor. “Here you go, miss.”

  She smiled at him and walked into the Grand Hall of the hotel, feeling like a waif with her suitcase. The elegant surroundings, all shiny finishes, bold colors, and buffed floors, dwarfed her. Around her, Londoners and travelers abounded. She saw the movie star Miss Page walking into the hair salon, followed by a maid carrying a small dog. A bellboy dashed by, holding a basket filled with flowers. The concierge nodded at her as he walked toward the lift, some important mission in mind.

  She went to the door and walked outside into the chill January day. Fog kept everything hazy, though the cold bit at her exposed skin. She decided to walk to the train station to conserve her money. If only she knew where Sadie was, she could visit her first, before she went home, but she had no idea where to find her.

  “Alecia?”

  The fog parted long enough for her to see Ivan, back in his shabby suit and shabby overcoat, standing near the taxicab line. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” she said. Her voice broke. What had she been thinking? Just to leave without seeing him? Her brain was as foggy as the landscape. Those nightmares had prevented restorative sleep.

  He coughed. “I’ve been wandering out here, waiting for you. I’ve left my sister, and Boris has taken me in.”

  “What happened?”

  “My sister. I need to tell you what is happening.”

  “You look terribly serious.”

  He nodded. “I have bad things to tell you. Can I take you to Boris’s house so we can talk privately?”

  She had a feeling that they weren’t going to be discussing their courtship. “Very well. My grandfather is not expecting me.”

  “I’ll keep you safe, I promise.” His gaze was solemn as he said it, and her heart broke for him. How proud he was, and he’d lost his position, his right to protect the hotel, because of her. She should have left as soon as Richard Marvin made his first pass at her, and now she’d ruined both of their lives.

  “I know you will,” she said. “You’re a good man, Ivan. I trust you.”

  “I’m not sure you will after this. I’ve kept a terrible secret from you.” He turned in the direction of the East End and began to walk.

  “I have taxicab money,” she said.

  “I’d rather take the bus, but let me carry your valise.” She gave it to him, thinking he might need the time spent traveling across town to gather his thoughts.

  It didn’t take quite as long as she expected, because Boris Grinberg didn’t live that close to his pawnshop, but about three miles west. Ivan escorted her into a late-Victorian block of flats, well maintained for the East End.

  “It has two bedrooms,” he said, after he’d ushered her in and shut the door. “Boris keeps the second one as a study, but there is a cot I can use for now.”

  “I’m glad you have a place to go, under the circumstances, though I don’t understand entirely what those are.”

  “I’ll make us tea,” he said. “And then we can talk.”

  She had always thought that being someone’s lover meant you’d feel comfortable in their company. But he hadn’t even touched her, and she hadn’t rushed into his arms either. Were the blows to their respective career hopes too much for either of them to handle? She wanted to take comfort in him, but all he had to offer were ominous comments, and he’d had a crease between his eyebrows during the entire bus ride here.

  She wandered around Boris’s parlor, which had furnishings that appeared to be about the same age as the flat—dark, heavy wood with deep red brocade upholstery, some Victorian matron’s castoffs. The paintings in the room were all delicate and pastoral, nothing like the bright jewel tones of the Russian art at the hotel. On the mantelpiece were a few old photographs and a curious multi-pronged brass candelabra that looked ancient.

  One framed piece of art on the wall looked different from the others. Hidden in the corner to the right of the fireplace, she saw a charcoal drawing, delicately overlaid with watercolor. The little girl had the round cheeks of youth, but her eyes were deep set and shadowed. A hopeful smile was bracketed by dimples, yet the drawing seemed so sad.

  “Boris’s daughter,” Ivan said, coming up behind her. “She died when she was eight.”

  “How sad. Is he the artist?”

  “His sister, I think. She’d never been photographed, so this is all he had.”

  “How long has he been in England?”

  “About fifteen years. Much longer than me. I attempted to pawn my coat right when we came here. For some reason, he wouldn’t let me. I don’t know why, but we’ve been friendly ever since.”

  “It’s good to have a friend.”

  “Do you have any?”

  “Not in London.” She sighed. “I’m worried about my sister. Why didn’t she ever come to the Grand Russe? It’s been a week and a half since Grandfather was here.”

  He patted her arm gingerly. “I’m sure she’ll turn up. Meanwhile, I wouldn’t suggest anyone spend time at the Grand Russe.”

  “Why not?”

  He clenched his fists. “That’s what I need to tell you.”

  She seated herself next to the tea tray he’d prepared and poured for each of them. While she didn’t usually take sugar, his tone made her want to fortify herself. She added liberal amounts of cream and sugar to both cups.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the sturdy brown pottery mug from her. “I like these. They are strong and practical like Boris himself.”

  “Tell me,” she said, picking up her mug.

  He took a deep breath. “My sister, the one who died, was a revolutionary involved in an assassination plot against Lenin. She was killed by firing squad. It was a fair death in that she was truly involved in the plot. But none of the rest of my family was involved.”

  “This was Catherine, right?”

  “Yes.” He stared into his cup. “Georgy Ovolensky is a cousin of ours. A third cousin, and more closely linked to the gentry than we are. No title, but less removed from one. He was always a sneaky boy, what you call a brown-noser, I believe?”

  She nodded.

  “He would have been more at risk than my family from the Bolsheviks. He informed on my parents to protect himself. They were killed. I fled to Finland with my sister when I heard, as you know. Ovolensky’s career began.”

  Ovolensky, the diplomat staying at the hotel. “And now he’s come here.”

  “Yes, and my sister hates him. She’s been mixed up with political types along with her fiancé. They and their friends want him dead. For her, it’s personal, but for the others, it is political.”

  “Of course.”

  He drained his cup. “They have an idea to kill him in the hotel. I had no idea how far along they’d come in their conspiracy until last night when I came home and discovered they had taken concrete steps toward violence. Usually Vera’s friends are nothing more than big talkers.”

  The way he pressed his lips together told her it was bad. She leaned forward and touched his knee. “What happened?”

  “They had another man with them, a real Marxist. My sister and the others were all blathering the same rhetoric, not what I’ve usually heard from them. I thought they were pro-tsar until now. They’ve banded with this man, who claims to be a bomber.”

  Her fingers clutched his knee. “They want to bomb the Grand Russe?”

  He stared down at her hand. “At the command performance, they had planned to bring in a bomb. They wanted me to do it.”

  Shakily, she put her other hand to her forehead. “I’m so confused. Why then? Because there will be British government people in attendance? The Bolshies want England to be their playground too.”

  His fingers came down on the hand she’d placed on his knee. �
�I am as lost as you. I agree that your idea makes sense, but it never did before. I wonder if they claimed to be pro-tsar in the hopes that I would get involved, and when they gave up on me, their true colors emerged.”

  She shuddered. “My former employers will be killed. I would have been killed too.”

  “I don’t know. I saw my sister with Richard Marvin, Alecia. Near our flat.”

  She poured more tea into their cups, feeling the need for something warm, and handed his mug to him. Anything bad about Richard, she wanted to believe. “Then he might be involved in some way.”

  “I was so angry. And then I saw you being attacked by him.” He took a sip of tea and then began to cough.

  She set down her mug and pounded him on the back.

  “I don’t know what to think, what to do,” he said, when he could breathe properly again.

  “You have to stop it.”

  “I tried, at least as much as I could without involving my sister. When they sacked me, Peter Eyre was foolish enough to hire one of the conspirators to replace me.”

  She saw the desperation in his eyes. They had to take some kind of action. “You’ve got to get back into the hotel, Ivan. You recognize these people. No one else does. You have to be a bigger man than Mr. Eyre.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ivan squeezed her hand. “I can’t let my sister be arrested.” “You can’t let good people die either.” Alecia knelt in front of him on the rug in Boris Grinberg’s flat. “You can’t, Ivan. I know the situation is so difficult, but we have to figure out how to stop this.”

  “We were both made to walk away from the hotel,” Ivan said, his gaze intense and focused. “We’ve been silenced.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not walking away if there is any chance my sister will be working at that hotel.”

  “You don’t have any money to stay in London. You have to go back to your grandfather. I can’t take care of you and I can’t ask Boris to shelter you too. It’s not proper.”

  “I hope my grandfather knows where Sadie is,” Alecia said. “We’re lucky to have people who care for us.”

  Ivan rubbed his forehead. “We don’t seem to be very good at managing for ourselves.”

  “We did just fine until we had trouble with Richard Marvin. How dare they sack you for rescuing me?”

  “I did use unnecessary force.” He said it dully.

  She snapped back. “There is no such thing in regards to a rapist, if you ask me. If he hadn’t been drinking he might have succeeded in subduing me before you arrived.”

  Ivan curved his hand around the back of her skull and leaned forward. “It’s worth anything for you to be safe, myshka. I love you.”

  Her lips parted in surprise and his mouth was on hers before she could say anything in response. She pressed both of her hands into his thighs and kissed him back ardently, tangling her tongue with his. He pulled her between his legs and she pressed her torso against his. Now that she knew what could happen between them, she had no shyness left. She found the lapels of his coat and began to undress him.

  His top half was nude and her hands had moved to his trousers before he clasped them in his and stopped kissing her. “We shouldn’t do this here.”

  “In the flat?”

  His kiss-swollen lips curved. “In the parlor. My bed is small, but I don’t think we’ll mind.”

  He helped her to her feet and then wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her close while they walked the few feet toward the study, where his bed was. Once in the room, he turned the key in the door and toed off his shoes.

  Before she could touch her own, he knelt before her to unbuckle her shoe straps.

  “I’m dressed in such ordinary clothes,” she said.

  He ran his fingers up her calf, trussed in sturdy, handmade wool stockings. “Nudity needs no decoration. Particularly with such beauty.”

  “Ivan,” she whispered.

  “I’ve never seen a painting, a sculpture, a landscape, more lovely than you.” His fingers roamed up her leg until they found the garter holding her stocking over her knee. He pulled it down and the stocking sagged. Slowly, he removed it, then kissed the outside of her knee.

  “I wish I could dress you in silk stockings and shoes even more beautiful than your new pink ones.” He kissed the inside of her knee. “But you don’t need beautiful things to make you look good.”

  His mouth moved up her thigh while his hands were busy with her other garter and stocking. Her inner thighs were damp with desire. She wanted him to fill her, give her that perfection of friction and heat, his weight on her body, his mouth on her throat, his hands in her hair and stroking her breasts. That long weight of him rocking in and out of her core.

  He kissed up her thighs until he found the edge of her mended cotton underthings. She felt his warm breath against her womanly curls as the pants slid down her legs. He was under her skirt, and the room was so tiny that all she had to do was lean back and find the edge of the bed with her hands. He helped her sit down, her legs spread for him, then his tongue was tracing her tender, damp lips. She shuddered when his tongue found the place that made her gasp, cried out when he inserted his finger into her channel. Then she was nothing but an instrument that he played, a keyboard that had the same notes pushed over and over, faster and faster, until the tune was a crescendo of orgasmic noise.

  His fingers made a sucking sound when he pulled them out of her. She put her hands over her mouth, embarrassed, but he didn’t seem to notice, perhaps because, when he stood up, his erection pushed his trousers out. At the virile sight, she forgot everything and reached for his zipper. While she undressed him he fumbled for a sheath in a drawer by the bed, then she was lying back, still in her crumpled dress. He knelt between her legs and pulled her hips to meet him, then slid inside her wet core. They both gasped with pleasure before he paused to pull off her loose sack of a dress, then her camisole.

  Nothing mattered but the feel of him against her, inside her, all around her. She knew only him. The size of the space, the lumpy mattress on the sagging cot, the smell of ink and paper and books, they didn’t matter as she took this man who’d said he loved her deep into her body. Such a tiny thing, but so monumental, words of love. She craved them.

  “Tell me again,” she said against his ear. “Tell me.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me what you said.”

  “You’re lovely.” His mouth was open slightly, his exertions making him pant.

  She ran her fingers down his back, dampening with sweat, then sank her fingers into the flesh of his buttocks and pulled him tightly against her. “The other words.”

  He smiled in an unfocused way. “I love you, Alecia.”

  “That.” She put her mouth against his. “Oh, that.” She rocked her hips, losing herself in the sensations his body created.

  * * *

  Falling. Ivan woke up with a jerk, only keeping himself from rolling off the cot by catching himself with one hand on the floor. He blinked hard and tilted his head to see a naked shoulder in the center of the bed. Alecia must have rolled over, pushing him off the narrow space. He’d never slept with a woman before Alecia, and was amazed by how deep and dreamless these experiences had been. Next time, however, he’d prefer to do it in a bigger bed. Slowly, he slid off the edge, trying not to jostle her, and dressed.

  Outside, the sky looked gloomy. It had to be around three P.M. They’d slept the day away and he needed to put her on a train.

  “Alecia.” He kissed her shoulder and was rewarded by a slight movement. Caressing her arm, he said her name again. This time she opened her eyes a slit. “Time to go to the train station.”

  She sat up, looking tousled, sleepy, and delightful. He hardened and, for a moment, forgot his purpose.

  “Could you hand me my clothes?” she asked, recalling him to sense.

  “Your dress is crumpled against the wall. We might have used it as a pillow, I’m afraid.”

  She
reached above her head for her dress. One beautiful small breast popped out of the covers. He salivated. She took one look at him and hastily covered herself with her clothes.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll find the rest.” He wandered around the room gathering her stockings. By the time he handed them to her she had her dress on.

  An hour later, the sky was almost dark, but they’d made it to the train station. He waited with her on the platform at Waterloo.

  Puffs of smoke announced the train coming in. He stood silently, feeling an increasing sense of horror. Finally, just as the metal beast came alongside them, he said, “I don’t want you to go.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, feeling her fine bones under the old coat. “I want to marry you.”

  Her lips parted. “You do?”

  “But please tell me, how can I with no job? And you not working either?” The brakes screeched as the train chugged in. He felt a warm blast of air just as it passed by, slowing down. When it jerked to a stop, the doors opened and people began to pour out almost instantly.

  Alecia put her hands on his chest. “If you want to marry me, that’s good enough.”

  A man in a black bowler and fur coat pushed Ivan’s shoulder as he stepped by, too self-important to move around. Ivan was distracted for a moment, then realized what she’d said.

  “Is that a yes?”

  She grinned and nodded.

  He bent his head forward. Was he looking at the woman who would someday be his wife? His chest constricted with emotion. “You have to say it.”

  A dog barked at elbow level. A woman passed by holding the yappy pup in her arms. Ivan saw Alecia’s lips moving but couldn’t hear. “What?”

  “Yes!” She shouted, then clapped her hands over her mouth.

  “We’re engaged?” he said carefully.

  She nodded again, then threw her arms around his neck. The bulk of her, heavy with winter coat, muffler, and gloves, knocked him into a man with a gray mustache and nicotine-stained teeth.

  “Sorry,” he said with a laugh. “She just agreed to marry me!”