To Love A Hero (International Romance Series)

by Risk, Mona

  Sergei handed her a cup of steaming coffee. He deposited two plates each containing a piece of chocolate cake on the table and a little packet wrapped in blue paper.

  “What’s that?” she asked while fingering the package.

  “Don’t open it now. These are two tapes with Russian songs to remind you of happy time in Minsk.”

  “Oh Sergei, that’s so nice of you. Thank you.” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He kept her against him devouring her mouth, then brusquely unhooked her hands and pushed her toward a chair.

  “I’m sorry to rush you, Cecile,” Sergei said, recovering his usual authoritarian tone. Nicouvitch will pick us up at six sharp at the exact place where he dropped you yesterday. You will go ahead and climb up in the backseat. I’ll join you two minutes later.”

  Cecile sipped her coffee and ate her cake silently, then stole a glance at him. “Will you come to the Hall of Officers?”

  His lips twisted in a grimace. “As a Major General, I will head the Summary Meeting and I will struggle to maintain a blank expression and an official façade. Too many people would be eager to pinpoint the slightest out of context smile.”

  She nodded. “I understand. And I’ll do the same.”

  “Roussov, my former father-in-law, is waiting for a chance to destroy me. I can’t repeat it enough. Stay away from him, Cecilya. He would be delighted to shred your reputation to pieces.”

  Cecilya had restored peace to his heart. He pulled her out of her chair and into his arms. “Thank you, my darling, for staying last night.” He kissed her and then glanced at his watch.

  They removed the cups and dishes. She insisted on washing them while he tidied the bedroom. He came back and helped her into her coat. “Nicolai will drop me first at his flat where I will recover my uniform. Then he’ll drive you to your hotel. We’ll meet at ten sharp at the Hall. The meeting will be short. Nicolai will accompany your delegation to the airport and see you off.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You won’t come to the airport, right?”

  He touched his lips to her forehead. “No, my darling, the Major General of Belarus has no business being at the airport. Forgive me if I do my best to ignore you at the Hall of Officers.”

  He shoved the chapka on her head and tilted it to the side. He cupped her cheeks between his palms and smiled, then crushed her mouth with his own for one last breath-stealing kiss. Releasing her, he opened the door and checked the hallway for neighbors then punched the button of the elevator. “You can go now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  How would she survive without her dear Sergei? She’d just discovered the meaning of happiness—she couldn’t even think the word love—and it was already snatched away from her.

  Not only would they be separated but also there was no way to talk to him, to hear his voice, to even send him a message or receive news from him. The Major General lived in government buildings and probably never answered the phone himself.

  She realized with despair that for the next few weeks, all communication with Sergei would be cut. His secretary—or maybe even the damned Bureau of National Security—would intercept any international call or letter before it even reached him. And e-mailing seemed an impossible utopia since neither Sergei Fedorin nor his officers owned a computer.

  Cecile dropped her head in her hands dejectedly.

  Fool, she had been a presumptuous fool. She thought herself strong, rational, wise and collected, but she collapsed and whined like a teenager, a few minutes after leaving him. Had the cold sensible brain of Dr. Lornier already deserted her?

  She solved everyone’s problems but she couldn’t do a damned thing for herself.

  * * * * *

  The Red Hall swarmed with uniforms. Cecile mused that every Belarusian officer must have turned up at the Hall of Officers to get a glimpse of the American delegation.

  Cecile noticed the fringe of gray hair crowning a balding head. The older officer spun around and she recognized Roussov.

  He headed straight toward her and grabbed her hand. “Dr. Lornier, the news of your enthusiastic handling of Belchem Lab has spread all over Minsk. On behalf of the Minister of Defense and the President of Belarus, whom I personally know,” he specified pompously with an important smile, “I want to express our gratitude for your effort. When you come back I hope I will be able to invite you out.”

  “Thank you, Colonel Roussov. We’ll do our best to fulfill the requirements of our contract and help your country,” she said, ignoring the personal invitation.

  Coming straight toward them, Nicolai blessedly interfered. “Colonel Roussov, Dr. Lornier, please take your places. The Major Generalle has just arrived. The meeting is about to start.”

  Roussov bowed and released her hand. She nodded and scooted to her seat. In spite of Sergei’s warning to stay away from Roussov, she could hardly avoid meeting him.

  Colonel Nicouvitch was already announcing, “Sergei Fedorin, Major Generalle of Belarus.”

  They all rose and the officers saluted. Sergei headed to his seat, paused and returned the salute before sitting down. He consulted with Nicolai who reached again for his microphone and addressed her in Russian through the interpreter. “Dr. Lornier, if you would be kind enough to give us a summary of your accomplishments and an aperçu of your plans for the next two months.”

  Threading her fingers around the microphone, she glanced at her notes, then scanned the assembly and presented her report. She concluded by saying that samples from around Minsk had already been collected and would be leaving in her luggage. The Boston EAL lab could report the analytical results within three weeks. The general sent her a grateful glance.

  It was time to go. One by one, the Belarusians came to shake hands with her and John. Sergei solemnly bowed over her hand as he often did in previous days. “Spacibo bolshoye, Dr. Robota. Dasvidania, goodbye.”

  She felt his kiss, hot and moist. Her heart squeezed with pain. “Goodbye, General Fedorin,” she said, trying to control her quavering voice.

  Except for Colonel Nicouvitch, the military departed from the Red Hall. Suddenly, Cecile felt very cold and very lonely. A French poem that her grandma taught her years ago haunted her mind. You miss one person and the world seems empty. Sergei had left the Red Hall and she wanted to run away to a private place to cry without restraint.

  She spun around. Her gaze encompassed the huge room and rested for a minute on the official table and the seat he’d just vacated. She stared sadly, recalling the strong and proud Major General of Belarus, the virile man who’d held her with so much tenderness a few hours ago.

  She sighed, raised her chin and without uttering a word walked out of the Red Hall.

  * * * * *

  At the airport, Cecile followed Nicolai like a robot. He carried her luggage and filed a Russian exit form for her and John. The colonel presented his military pass and crossed the security line with both of them.

  They strolled through a long dark corridor, mounted the stairs and ended up in a small room furnished with rows of plastic chairs—the departure gate of Minsk Airport. At the extreme right of the room, a door opened. A flood of passengers poured in, moving straight to the escalator hidden by a railing.

  Cecile shrieked. “Oh, this is my famous escalator.”

  John burst out laughing. “The notorious escalator that sent you flying right into the Major General.”

  She moved toward the railing and stared with rapture down the escalator. “It’s still broken,” she mused with a shivering voice as if she was admiring a beautiful sculpture.

  John slapped his leg and boomed, “My goodness, Cecile, you should see your face. You’re rhapsodizing about a broken escalator.” He mimicked her voice and rasped idiotically, “Do you want me to take a picture and frame it for you?”

  Exasperated by his teasing, Cecile returned to her place. “Maybe if you’d almost broken your back on this malfunctioning piece of junk you would understand.�
�

  Nicouvitch nodded seriously. “Dr. Lornier, my Generalle has sent a written petition to the Ministry of Transportation requesting the escalator’s repair. It will be taken care of as soon as the government gets some money.”

  Cecile smiled with emotion. Sergei too hadn’t forgotten the incident that propelled her into his arms.

  The loudspeaker alerted the passengers to Munich to line up at the gate. Cecile hugged Nicolai. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Dasvidania, Cecile, John.”

  Carrying their hand luggage, Cecile and John walked down the ramp and stepped into the plane. Cecile slid into the window seat. John, who couldn’t reserve a business class seat on the overbooked flight, settled next to her.

  Her nose glued to the window, she watched the airport and the forest of thin trees disappear. The plane rose into the clear blue sky sparsely spotted with clouds. Cecile leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes. She remembered her disappointment upon landing just a week ago. Everything had seemed gray and cold. Now, Minsk was the golden city holding her prince charming within its gate, the pivotal place where she couldn’t wait to return.

  She had dreaded traveling to a faraway country to perform a difficult task and ended up with the extraordinary bonus of a perfect lover and a wondrous night.

  “Cecile? Cecile?” John’s words punctured through the foggy layer where her depressive thoughts twirled and collided.

  She tipped her head toward him. “Yes?” she croaked. Faint and hoarse, her own voice surprised her.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were asleep.”

  “I’m not asleep, just daydreaming. What is it?”

  John stared at her with a frown of concern, “Are you sick?”

  “No but extremely tired.”

  “I understand. I’m tired too. I miss my kids and I’m eager to arrive in Washington.”

  She sighed. She missed her general and would rather head back to Minsk.

  * * * * *

  “Hello Cecile, welcome back.” Paul Miller’s booming voice reverberated from the laboratory hallway. He strolled into her office his arms wide-opened and she circled around the desk to hug him.

  The logistics manager was a big man, ten years her senior. Cecile considered him a friend rather than an employee. She had regularly been invited to spend Christmas at the Millers’. Paul, his wife, son and two daughters offered the perfect family atmosphere she craved on major holidays.

  Gifted with tremendous aplomb and the knack to laugh at almost everything in life, Paul amused her. With sound advice or outrageous jokes, he often lightened up the heavy burden of her responsibilities.

  “Dobroye outroh, Dr. Robota,” Paul said, with a big grin.

  She lifted questioning eyebrows. “Holy moly, how do you know about that name?”

  “News travels fast. Actually, John Gordon called early this morning and told me about your trip. Apparently the country is famous for its vodka and its pretty women.” Paul’s eyes twinkled with mischief behind his gold-rimmed glasses.

  Cecile didn’t feel like smiling. No one had greeted her the previous night at Logan Airport. She still wondered how she’d gathered enough energy to go through the customs arrival procedures, collect her car from the long-term parking lot and drive for an hour through the forever-jammed Callahan Tunnel and the busy streets of downtown Boston.

  But she was safely home and back into her lab. A familiar faint smell wafted into the corridor. She recognized the acrid odor of nitric acid and the sweet alcohol-like smell of methylene chloride, the bread and butter of her analytical laboratory. The technicians used gallons of these chemicals on a daily basis for their sample preparation.

  “We accomplished a lot in a short time.” And not only in the laboratory. “I hope we can go back soon to complete our mission.”

  “There’s no rush.” Paul patted her shoulder. “Cecile, you know my philosophy, enjoy life whenever you can and as much as you can. Unfortunately, my dear, you are wasting yourself day and night in the lab. I thought the trip and contact with a different culture would alter your misplaced dedication to work. But according to John, it only worsened over there.” He gave an exaggerated sigh.

  Cecile averted his gaze. There was no need to let him guess his concerned wishes had been fulfilled. She walked to her office. “Paul, we’ll have a staff meeting at ten. Be there please, even if you’ve already got your personal report.”

  “Yes, Dr. Robota, will do.”

  With a lopsided smile, he left her office. Cecile suppressed a relieved sigh. Let them think what they wanted. At least, their incorrect opinion guaranteed her privacy. She could only imagine Rob’s reaction if he heard that his serious ex-fiancée had thrown her cool reserve to the Belarusian winds and fallen head over heels for a faraway general.

  Talk about the devil. Cecile grimaced as Rob strutted into her office. “Welcome back, Dr. Lornier,” he said, with the smirk she remembered all too well.

  “Good morning, Rob.” She kept her voice pleasant and plastered a smile on her face.

  “I heard the news. Not bad at all for your first time, my dear. You can unload the burden on me anytime, if it becomes too hard,” he said.

  “Bug off, Rob. Things are going well.” She’d be damned if she ever asked for his help. To think she’d been engaged to him and came close to marrying the creep. There was no way on earth, she’d tell him to come and help with the environmental cleanup in Belarus.

  Oh Sergei, I miss you so much.

  * * * * *

  Three long weeks, occupied by successive meetings with Paul and the senior chemists, passed in a strange foggy blur. No news came from Minsk.

  Cecile’s head spun from the blow of a crushed hope. A depressive mood invaded her mind. These were the side effects of getting involved with a man who lived on the other side of the world, a hero dedicated to his country, a personality whose life was scrutinized by the spying Director of National Security. Why did she have to fall into Sergei’s arms?

  Shaking her head in dismay, she scoffed. She had fallen in his arms in the true sense of the word. Was she going to keep on waiting and hoping? For what exactly?

  It was time to get back on her feet and move ahead. At home, Cecile buried her face in her pillow determined to forget the extracurricular activities of the Minsk trip. She would control her head and her heart and concentrate on her work. While listing the instrument vendors she should call in the morning, Cecile fell asleep.

  In the lab, she avoided useless daydreaming. With draconian discipline, she suppressed her erratic thoughts and rigidly focused on the task at hand. Two of the vendors assured her that the equipment was on its way and the four others promised to expedite the shipping to Minsk.

  John called several times to follow up on the ordering process and peppered his conversation with fond Belarusian reminiscences that burned her heart like sulfuric acid on an open wound. “If the first shipment is expected to arrive in a couple of weeks, we should get ready for our next trip. Who are you taking with us?”

  “Paul Miller, our logistics manager and Jeffrey Burns, the lab manager, who will supervise the installation of the equipment and the training. As soon as we bring the equipment to the Belchem Lab, a team of five chemists will join us from here.”

  “Well, fax me their names, pictures and all information needed for their visas.”

  They’d be going soon to Belarus. Did Sergei still remember her? Or had he forgotten her with a local beauty?

  Just as she was switching off the lights to leave her office, the phone rang. “Dr. Lornier, please?”

  “Speaking.” The caller’s Russian accent was difficult to understand over the static on the line. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the voice.

  “Cecile, it’s Sergei.”

  “Oh my God, Sergei. Where are you calling from?”

  “I’m in Frankfurt. I’ve been in Germany for a week. When are you coming back?”

  “Soon, Serg
ei. Soon.” She smiled, trying to control her racing pulse. In a flicker, her despair evaporated and with it the self-imposed stern resolutions. No more Dr. Robota who worked, worked and worked. She wanted to live and be happy.

  “I can’t talk long. I missed you, Cecilya. Come back.”

  “Soon.” She felt like hugging the telephone.

  The next day John called to ask if she would be ready to leave in a week. “No problem at all.” She was ready to leave now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cecile’s head jerked forward as the plane landed roughly on the icy runway. Three weeks in Boston. Three weeks that felt like three years. Too restless to idly wait in her place, she leaped out of her seat and strode to the plane’s exit. The sight of two Belarusian uniforms topped with two familiar faces greeted her as soon as the door of the Boeing opened.

  Without hesitation, Cecile kissed the colonel on both cheeks, then flung her arms around the general’s neck. His chin pressed against her chapka. “Welcome back, Cecilya.” His whispered endearment melted away the fatigue of the long trip and the loneliness of the past weeks.

  As she immediately disentangled herself, her heart sang. I’m home in his arms where I belong.

  Exuberant with relief, John bear-hugged the colonel. “So good to see you. It was a long, long trip. The snowstorm delayed us in Boston. We missed our connection in Frankfurt and were rerouted via Moscow. A horrible trip.”

  The general clapped him on the back. “Welcome, my friends. So good to see you all safe and sound.”

  Cecile stepped back and waved to the two men standing behind her. “General, this mountain of a man is Paul Miller, our logistics manager. A valuable guy to keep around.”

  The general chuckled. “Such a recommendation from Dr. Lornier is an incredible reference.”

  “And the very tall guy is Jeffrey Burns, our lab manager, who will install the equipment and train the Belchem chemists.”

  “Welcome to Minsk, gentlemen.”