Take Me for a Ride

by Karen Kendall

  McDougal emerged from the bush, found his borrowed car once again, and drove it back to where it belonged. This time he left enough money inside to cover a tank of gas. He locked it back up again and sauntered away, whistling.

  A quick gander at the entrance to the Savoy two blocks over told him that his Russian honor guard was back, and he was thankful that he’d soon be rid of them, courtesy of Kelso.

  He dodged away and found a café, where he ordered some steaming chai and sat for a moment to think. He would give the necklace back to Nonnie, and damn the $200,000 commission. Within the next year he’d probably get an assignment or two that would be just as lucrative.

  The important thing was Natalie. He loved her. She evidently returned the sentiment. But did he have it in him to stay loyal to her?

  Across the street, a long-legged blonde moved gracefully down the sidewalk, and McDougal eyed her over the rim of his cup. Loyalty, you bastard. Do you have it in you?

  He admired the blonde’s curves, her fitted clothing, and the fall of her hair down her back. But she didn’t stir him like the sight of Natalie with wet hair and a fresh-scrubbed face and an oversize man’s sweater hanging down to her thighs did.

  The blonde wouldn’t laugh like Natalie did, or say the wry, funny things that she did.

  Wow . . . Chivalry is not dead. It’s been run over a few times; it’s diseased and dirty; it’s hooked on Boone’s Farm and meth . . . but holy cow, it’s still stumbling along in rags, raising its ugly head just when you least expect it—or want it.

  How could he not love a girl who thought, much less said, things like that?

  I know perfectly well that I’m drunk, she’d told him indignantly outside Reif’s. Do you think I’d do this sober?

  He grinned, and just like that the blonde turned her head. Thinking that he was smiling at her, she grinned back. She flicked her long hair over her shoulder in a practiced maneuver, hesitated as if she were thinking of coming over to talk to him. He averted his gaze, dismissing her, and with a little shrug she strutted away.

  He took another sip of the hot chai, and as it burned down his throat he came to a realization. Loyalty wasn’t something that was organic. It was a decision, like the resolve to be happy.

  Loyalty to a woman didn’t have to mean that he was blind. He could still appreciate female beauty. He could still wink at a gorgeous girl. But at the end of the day, loyalty meant coming home to someone who understood him, could laugh with him, and saw him as he really was, flaws and all.

  Loyalty wasn’t a leash—it wasn’t a rule. It was a commitment you made because you wanted to. He could have great sex with any number of women, but at the end of the day sex was just sex . . . with no meaning, no intimacy.

  Loyalty meant deserving someone who could forgive him. It meant trusting the woman in his life as she trusted him. It meant a commitment to not hurting her. It meant putting her needs and desires ahead of his own.

  McDougal closed his eyes and thought of all the times he’d seen his mother’s tearstained face, the hollows under her eyes and the betrayal in them.

  He saw his father’s weak, beery shame and then the anger that chased it and drove him back out of the house to repeat the cycle again.

  Both of them had made decisions about their own behavior that they’d then blamed on others. Mom had gone the miserable-martyr route, blaming everything on her husband. And Dad had embraced booze and other women because he couldn’t “make” her happy—rationalizing that therefore his cheating was her fault. She “drove” him to it.

  No. That’s all a load of crap. I don’t know why it’s taken me thirty-odd years to figure it out, but it has.

  Asking if I can stay loyal to Natalie is a cop-out. It’s like saying that I move on autopilot with my cock at the helm. If I can’t control my own cock, I am one weak, spineless son of a bitch.

  McDougal’s arm brushed against the bulge of the necklace in his jacket as he finished the cup of chai. He left a little money on the table and got up to leave.

  I may be a deceptive, ruthless, often sacrilegious jerk with a twisted sense of humor. I may not be anyone’s idea of a gentleman. But I am not weak, and I sure as hell am not spineless.

  About a block down, on the opposite side of the street, an old woman was setting up her wares at a kiosk. She had the standard Russian souvenirs: Ma tryoshka dolls, the hollow wooden figures that stacked inside each other; painted and shellacked wooden eggs with icons on them; brightly colored wooden bowls and spoons; bright woolen shawls; Soviet memorabilia; and hand-painted trays and boxes.

  He strolled down to the kiosk and looked at what the woman had to offer. The intricately painted Palekh boxes were exquisite, if expensive. One of them in particular pictured a couple, male and female, standing before a great castle in the background. Next to them was an old woman in a sort of shack—she reminded him a little of Nonnie, who had essentially brought him and Natalie together on this strange journey.

  McDougal purchased the box. It was exactly the right size to hold the St. George necklace. The old lady wrapped it in paper for him and “accidentally” gave him back the wrong change.

  Ordinarily, he would have argued with her and demanded the correct amount back. But he was in a forgiving mood, so he counted the change, made it clear that he knew exactly what she was up to, and looked directly at her. Then he winked and shook his finger, amused to see a blush climb to her cheeks.

  He walked away, leaving her puzzled and staring after him. On the way back to the Savoy, he bought another copy of the Moscow Times. Then he strolled right in the front door, giving a little wave to the man across the street who had the hotel under surveillance. The creep couldn’t touch him because of the bevy of doormen, porters, and security guards who went about their duties as a group of businessmen arrived for a breakfast.

  Funny, the asshole just talked furiously into his phone and didn’t wave back.

  Thirty-six

  Natalie rolled over sleepily as Eric came in. As quietly as possible, he removed a package from inside his jacket and slipped it into a drawer of the nightstand on his side of the bed.

  “Eric?” she mumbled.

  He straightened quickly. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

  “Morning. Mmmmph.” She dragged a hand over her face. “You’ve been out already?”

  “Yeah, just went to get an English paper.” He turned on a low lamp across the room and held the Moscow Times up for her to see, making no mention of whatever it was that he’d put in the nightstand.

  The necklace? He’d claimed not to have had it on him yesterday. Had he snuck out early this morning to retrieve it? But Natalie played oblivious, closing her eyes again as if she might drift off.

  “Listen, Natalie . . . ,” he began. He paced across the room. “There’s something I have to do today, alone. And I just want you to promise me that you’ll stay here, that you won’t do anything risky. If all goes well, then we won’t have anything to fear by tonight.”

  Queasiness slid around in her stomach like a glob of mercury. Eric might be a liar and a cheat, but he’d also been her lover, and she didn’t want him in danger. Perversely, she wanted him alive and well so that she could slap his face on her way out of his life. “What is it that you have to do?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

  She sat up in bed and pushed her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears. “Well, then, I’m not making any promises to you about staying in this room.”

  He sighed. “Natalie, please—”

  “Don’t you ‘please’ me, Eric. Come clean. I’m sick of your lies and dodges.” She turned on the bedside lamp and eyed him implacably, folding her arms under her breasts.

  “Okay,” he said. “The truth is that I’m going to meet with Pyotr Suzdal, the head of the Mafiya branch that’s out to get us.”

  “You’re what?”

  He came and sat on the bed next to her, so close that the sleeve of his leather ja
cket touched her bare leg. She inhaled the musky scent of the leather, the faint essence of sex that still clung to his skin from the night before, and a peculiar smell of . . . dirt? Greenery?

  “I have acquired some information that I can guarantee he won’t want to get out, so I’m going to track him down, have a chat with the man, and make him see that it’s in his best interests to forget about us.”

  “He’ll kill you!”

  Eric shrugged and took her hands, just as she discerned that there was mud in his hair. “He might. But quite frankly, that’s better than him killing you.”

  If she hadn’t seen the mud, if it hadn’t been for the mysterious package in the nightstand, she might have fallen for the light of concern in those Newman blue eyes, the warm pressure of his hands squeezing hers, the leap of her libido at his proximity.

  But Eric hadn’t just been out to get a morning paper. He was still hiding things, still playing her. And she was tired of being his personal violin.

  “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no.” The idea of his death might just be growing on her.

  He had no way of realizing that she was talking to herself and not him. “I’m not going to let him kill me, Nat. I have too much at stake. Your grandmother’s safety, yours, and . . . the promise of a life together.”

  She stared into those blue lagoons of deceit framed by angelic golden lashes. Again, the silly side of her that believed in fairy tales mourned. Why couldn’t he be for real? What cruelty for him to taunt her this way, for him to impersonate a hero when he was the worst kind of villain. An old-fashioned word, villain, but the shoe fit.

  As little as two days ago, she would have thrown herself into his arms and let him sweep her off her feet. She would have ridden off into any sunset, anywhere in the world, with this man. Tears warred with anger inside her, but she cloaked both with deceit of her own.

  “A life together,” she whispered. “You and me?”

  He nodded, stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.

  “Yes, if you’ll give me a chance to make you happy.”

  She bowed her head over their clasped hands. Eric wasn’t going to meet with this thug today in order to blackmail him. He was almost certainly going to meet with the man to see if he could get more money out of him for the necklace than ARTemis would pay him in commission for bringing it back.

  Give him a chance to make her happy? Simple: He could make her happy by lying down on a highway in front of a semi. She pictured him with tire tracks down his back.

  He freed one hand to stroke her hair, and she shivered half in disgust and half in pleasure, since her idiotic body still hadn’t figured out that he was the devil incarnate.

  He rubbed her back, and she forced herself not to move away from him, not to spit in his too-handsome, lying face.

  “So,” he said, “will you promise me that you’ll stay here today? I won’t be able to think on my feet if I’m worried about you.”

  She raised her head and looked into his charismatic, calculating face, which had achieved an expression of sweetness that was so convincing . . . she almost bought it in spite of everything she knew about him.

  “I promise, Eric,” she said. “I promise.”

  “Thank you,” he said simply, and kissed her. Before she knew it, she was making love with the bastard again. But she insisted to herself, even stark naked and deliciously impaled by him, that it was only so that he wouldn’t become suspicious.

  Natalie waited until he’d disappeared into the bathroom and she heard the rings of the shower curtain slide along the metal rod before taking action.

  She scrambled over to the side of the bed Eric slept on and eased open the drawer of the nightstand. Inside was something wrapped in paper. She pulled it out and unwrapped a colorful hand-painted box. She shook it; something heavy and metallic rattled inside. She lifted the lid, and there, winking back at her under the lamp-light, was the St. George necklace.

  Without conscious thought, she snatched it out of the box, hopped naked out of bed, and scurried over to drop it into one of her boots. It slid down to the toe, and she stuffed a sock after it.

  But what to put in place of the necklace, so that if Eric were to pick up the box to take it with him, he wouldn’t notice immediately that it felt lighter?

  She thought quickly, then ran to her purse and pulled out a handful of coins—quarters and rubles for the most part. She went to the bag of fabric scraps next and chose a remnant of cloth that she didn’t particularly need. She spread it on the floor, put the coins in the middle, and tied the corners together diagonally. Then she did the same with the two remaining corners. The pouch wasn’t so tight that the coins didn’t chink against one another at all, but it was snug enough that the sounds were subtle, in keeping with the rattle of the necklace.

  She placed the bundle of coins into the lacquered box, wrapped it back in the paper, and carefully replaced it exactly as it had been inside the drawer. Gently she pushed it closed and then rolled back to her side of the bed—and not a moment too soon, since Eric emerged seconds later with a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “You gonna get up, lazybones?” he teased her.

  She yawned. “Why? If I’m staying in the room all day, what’s the difference?” She pulled the covers up to her chin and snuggled sideways into her pillow.

  “I guess you have a point,” Eric said. He dropped his towel on the end of the bed and stepped into a pair of boxers while she enjoyed the view of his impressive nudity for the last time. The tattooed Mona Lisa smiled smugly at her from the cheek of his ass.

  She’d miss the eye candy. She’d miss the way he made love, always seeing to her pleasure before his own—or making sure she was right there along for the ride. She’d miss her brief glimpse of the high life, staying in hotels like this that easily, in Moscow, cost $1,200 a night—probably more.

  But she would not miss the fear, the violence, or the lies.

  Eric put on a gray cashmere turtleneck and dark trousers. He sat on the bed to pull on dark socks and slip his big feet into black leather lace-up shoes that looked wickedly expensive. She’d never seen him in clothing like this.

  “Getting dressed up for Mr. Thug?”

  He cast a quick glance at her. “This is serious business, negotiating for our lives. Jeans or khakis don’t feel right, under the circumstances.”

  “Ah. Of course it’s important to be well-groomed for a prospective executioner. I should have thought of that.”

  He poked his tongue into his cheek, got up, and stood looking down at her, his hands fisted on his hips.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I guess fear makes me flip.”

  He shook his head, ran a hand through his hair, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Nat,” he said quietly. “Look, if anything goes wrong . . . if anything happens to me . . . contact Avy Hunt. She’ll have information that you need. And don’t check out of the hotel until you’ve talked to her, okay?”

  Under the covers, her body began to tremble. Unbelievable schmuck that Eric McDougal was, she couldn’t think of him truly hurt or dead, despite her brief highway fantasy. “You can’t let anything happen to you, Eric.” God, her voice was shaking.

  “Yeah, I won’t. But just in case . . . Natalie, I love you.”

  She threw off the covers and ran to him, pressing her naked body against his, the cashmere of his sweater soft against her breasts. She wrapped her arms around him—this was good-bye. Good-bye, fantasy man. End of story. Finito, you idiot. Kick his ass on his way straight to hell.

  She lifted her face for a last kiss, which was gentle and masterful and achingly erotic.

  God help me. Why can’t I control my own emotions? Why?

  “I love you, too, Eric,” she whispered. Once again, she wasn’t lying.

  But Natalie dove for the phone as soon as the door closed behind Eric. She dialed the number of her grandmother’s hotel and asked for Mrs. Ciccoli’s room.

  “Nonnie? It’s me. I have
St. George . . .”

  They all made an effort to disguise themselves this time, just as a precaution. Nonnie wrapped herself to the eyebrows in a cobalt blue scarf with a red floral design on it. Natalie jammed her hair up underneath a stretchy wool cap of Eric’s, also swiping a pair of his sunglasses and a jacket. Without too close an inspection, she could pass for a teenage boy wearing his older brother’s clothes.

  While she guided Nonnie, the colonel stayed out of sight on his own, alert for any sign of trouble.

  They arrived at the Cathedral of the Assumption without any trouble, and Natalie located a priest in the sacristy. Nonnie spoke quietly to him in Russian while he pursed his lips and stroked his beard. At first he shook his head.

  Nonnie spoke further to him, her tone earnest and insistent. His expression went from negative to skeptical.

  Finally, Nonnie gestured to Natalie and told her to show him the St. George necklace. Natalie had brought it wrapped in her sock, and she pulled it from her pocket. She upended the sock, and the piece slid out and into her hand.

  The priest stared at it, his eyes wide. He nodded, raised a hand as if to ask them to wait, and hurried off. He disappeared into a hallway and they waited, Nonnie taking a seat in the pews.

  Natalie wandered, gazing at the scenes from the life of Metropolitan Peter on the south wall, taking in the white stone Patriarch’s Seat and the gilded czarina’s throne adorned with its double-headed eagle. The cathedral was a historical, religious, and architectural marvel and had been the most important in Moscow from the early fourteenth century.

  She could imagine Catherine the Great in this place, sweeping through in her grand brocade coronation gown and her crown with its five thousand gems, wielding the magnificent Orlov Diamond at the top of her scepter.

  Slow, deliberate footsteps claimed her attention from the image. Natalie turned to find an archbishop with a long gray beard in full vestments approaching. She quickly went to Nonnie and helped her to her feet, guiding her out of the pew.