“You forgot to tell me you were shot at?” The sarcasm in his voice was so biting, she winced.
He turned to Andrei and spoke in low, staccato Russian. “If you want to help your girlfriend stay alive, I suggest you start trusting me. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to find the killer and keep her out of trouble. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Andrei hooded his eyes. “Da, right, I’ve heard that before.”
What? Vicktor frowned, but before he could reply, Andrei grabbed Gracie’s arm and pulled her out of the booth and down the aisle, leaving Vicktor to pay the eager salesgirl.
Chapter Fourteen
The Wolf’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. His jaw muscles ached and sweat pooled in the etching around his right eye. They’d been inside for nearly an hour. He certainly hoped his little spy hadn’t conjured up any rash ideas about ditching him. The noon sun was beginning to bake the Moscovitz, the odor of dusty leather irritating his already raw nerves. Two days they’d been chasing the girl and the closest they’d gotten to her was a parking spot thirty feet from the local department store where she was shopping.
That was about to change.
The words of a man greater than he rang in his ears. “Death solves all problems. No man, no problems.” He should take Father Stalin’s advice and apply it to Sergei. The ineptitude of the man soured the Wolf’s empty stomach. He glowered at the entrance, willing her to appear.
Grace came barreling out of the double doors first, then, on her tail, her chauffeur, appearing pensive and annoyed. Relief washed over the Wolf and he felt the blood flow into his clenched fists. He fixed his attention on Gracie and felt a smile on his face. What had happened to the missionary? The woman was a looker in that sculptured black dress and ankle boots. Except, who was she trying to fool? Without a hint of makeup, she was a walking Stars and Stripes. No Russian woman under the age of fifty in her right mind would leave the house without a thick layer of makeup.
The Wolf licked his lips and his stomach growled. He watched her stop on the sidewalk and talk with her driver. She seemed angry, her face screwed up in frustration. He wished he were close enough to catch her words.
A second later, the FSB agent joined them, pouncing into their conversation like a tiger. The Wolf couldn’t help but smile. Vicktor Shubnikov still couldn’t rein in his anger. That fact had worked to the Wolf’s advantage on at least one occasion and he hoped it would make Vicktor sloppy now. He was counting on Shubnikov to deliver Grace Benson safely into his arms.
“How can you expect me to protect you if you won’t trust me?”
Vicktor’s accusation stung and Gracie flinched. He raked a gaze over her, then turned away, kneading the back of his neck. Remorse rushed through her.
Next to her, Andrei glowered at Vicktor. Leather squeaked as he folded his arms across his chest. The set of his jaw turned Gracie cold.
Andrei hated Vicktor. She placed a hand on Andrei’s arm. His eyes warmed slightly when they reached her.
“We should have told him,” she murmured.
“Why?” He leaned close. “Haven’t you learned not to trust Russian cops?”
Gracie drew a breath, unsure if she was being naive or acting in faith. “I think we can trust him, Andrei. There’s something about him…” She peeked at Vicktor, and blushed when she saw his gaze on her. What was it about Mr. FSB I’m-full-of-surprises that drew her like a campfire, flickering yet dangerous. And the look in his eyes when he’d seen her in the dress…She liked that far more than she should, probably.
She met Andrei’s glacial stare. He pursed his lips and looked away.
Vicktor’s eyes were on her. She shifted, feeling a blaze start at her toes and rush clear to her ears. “I really am sorry, Vicktor,” she said. “I didn’t mean to deceive you. It was truly an oversight. I’ll trust you from now on.”
Raw shock flickered in his eyes so briefly, it could have been a blink. Still, Gracie saw it and it rocked her. Her trust meant something to him.
Beside her, Andrei harrumphed.
Silence stretched between them. Vicktor cleared his throat. Gracie drew her coat around her. Andrei glared at traffic.
“How about some lunch?” Vicktor offered a wry smile, and she saw in it forgiveness. And the smallest beginning of friendship. Oh no, she should not, should not, unlock her heart for this man.
Even if he did make her feel beautiful, greasy hair and all.
Gracie nodded and followed him to his car, aware of the steam rising off Andrei. She hoped he followed them.
Vicktor opened her door as she climbed in, then shut it behind her. Gracie clasped her hands in her lap. He slid into the driver’s seat and tossed a bag into the back.
“What’s that?” Gracie asked.
“Your American outfit.”
“Oh,” Gracie said, realizing she’d completely forgotten to pick up her clothes when Andrei dragged her from the store. “Thanks.”
Vicktor shrugged, but she saw him smile. So, he was thoughtful, too. And taking her out for lunch.
And a KGB agent. Where was her voice of reason when she needed it?
It was behind her, closing in on their rear bumper, a look of fury on his face. Gracie turned around and waved, hoping that Andrei wouldn’t think she had ditched him. Despite her chauffeur’s caustic behavior, she was still grateful for his hovering. She wasn’t quite ready to be abandoned into the hands of a Russian cop, regardless of the fact that she felt a thousand times safer with him around.
And with her less-than-stellar history with men, how strange was that?
Gracie buckled herself in and fiddled with the shoulder strap.
“So, do you have any idea who might be following you?”
“Not the faintest.”
Vicktor picked up his cellphone and dialed. “I’m going to send someone to check on Andrei’s parents.” She heard him fire off rapid Russian, grateful he’d moved past anger to action. He closed his phone and slipped it into his pocket. “How would the Wolf know you were in the village?”
“Are you sure it’s the Wolf?”
Vicktor glared at the Moscovitz in front of him and did a quick lane change. “No, but we have some pretty strong evidence pointing to him.”
Gracie smoothed her skirt. Every nerve in her body pricked. The Wolf. What a horrible label. Please, God, don’t let this Wolf be after me.
Vicktor drove down Karl Marx Street, past hot-dog vendors and babushkas selling barely-lavender lilacs. He turned toward the wharf. “I know a great little lunch spot.”
Gracie cracked her window open and the fresh smell of the Amur River spiced the air. Her stomach growled and she pressed the palm of her hand against it.
“I don’t know how such a small person can have a growl that large.”
Gracie blushed, aware that his sweet words tugged at her defenses. He was going to make her enjoy his company despite herself.
“Let’s see if we can silence that monster.”
The street opened up into a scenic parking area. A wharf, with an ancient ferry moored at the end of a cement pier, took center stage. Thick ropes hung from post to post, ringing the parking area and protecting the boardwalk that meandered along the riverfront.
Down the beach, beyond a cluttering of fishing boats and ferries, smoke spiraled from a shish-kabob vendor’s grill. A slight wind scurried off the river and brushed the willows and evergreen standing sentry on the hills above the river port.
Vicktor pulled up to a stone wall pushing back a grassy hill at the far end of the lot. He got out and moved around the car and opened her door.
Gracie frowned, searching for a restaurant. “Where are we eating?”
“You’ll see.”
Gracie couldn’t help but warm to his smile. He stuck out an elbow.
“Protection.”
She nodded, but her pulse skipped as they walked close, her hand resting on his arm, his hand cupped over hers. Her edginess calmed under his prote
ctive stance, and, as they walked up a set of wide stone stairs, she twined her fingers in his trench coat. Oh, he smelled good. She barely felt like the same, grimy girl next to him.
Okay, that wasn’t quite true, but she did like the dress. And with her hair up, she didn’t look so pitiful. In fact, on his arm she felt nearly ethereal, and not at all like she’d been dodging bullets in a farmyard earlier that morning.
It hadn’t escaped her that maybe, just maybe, God was answering her prayers for protection in a six-foot-something, muscles-and-grins Russian cop. And wasn’t that a surprise?
They walked on a blacktop path, along a cliff high above the river. The breeze nuzzled the shoreline and the sun sifted through the forest to their right, winking from behind the trees in dazzling explosions of light. Springtime fragrances—lilac, jasmine and honeysuckle—saturated the air. As they walked in silence, Gracie felt her anxiety slough off her. She sighed, long and deep.
“Are you okay?” Vicktor asked, casting her a worried look.
Grace met his eyes and nodded.
His gaze lingered on her face, searching. He smiled. “You really do look incredible in that dress.”
She grinned, and something passed between them that made the little hairs rise on the back of her neck. No, she should not like him this much. Not when she was on the next plane out of Russia, never to return.
Maybe.
“Where are we going?” Gracie asked.
“My friend runs a little cafe overlooking the river. He’ll give us a private room for lunch.”
Gracie couldn’t ignore the lurch in her stomach when he said “private.” Obviously her demons hadn’t quite died. A chill washed through her and her smile faded. “Sounds great,” she squeaked. Peeking over her shoulder, she was horrified to see Andrei nowhere in sight.
“Where’s Andrei?” she asked, fighting the tremor in her voice.
Vicktor glanced behind him, then shrugged. “Maybe he decided to trust you to my care.”
Right, when the moon turned blue. “Maybe,” she murmured. She couldn’t help wonder, however, if FSB Agent Vicktor Shubnikov had ditched her poor chauffeur.
She loosened her hold.
They climbed a small rise and ambled toward a lighthouse. Vicktor led Gracie around the front, to a walled lookout. On the beach below, the cheers of volleyball players dressed in sweatpants and jackets drifted up and mingled with the caw of magpies and crows. Ships dotted the river, which stretched like a blue ribbon into the far horizon. On the far bank, she glimpsed tiny dachas nestled into the trees—garden homes of Khabarovsk’s city dwellers. Larissa’s dacha sat somewhere among them. Sadness thickened her throat. A nippy breeze whistled off the river and she shivered.
“Ready for lunch?” Vicktor asked.
Gracie forced a nod, wishing she didn’t have a past to haunt her, to push against the pleasure of being in this handsome man’s company.
Vicktor turned and opened a little door tucked in an alcove of the lighthouse.
“It’s in the lighthouse?” Gracie asked in surprise. Vicktor smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. She walked past him and stood inside as Vicktor met a maître d’ and shook his hand. The thin maître d’, dressed in black pants and a sailor’s jacket, led them through the cafe.
Gracie’s boots clicked on the white tile floor as she passed aquariums of neon fish and baby sharks. She identified strains of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto drifting on hidden speakers. Vicktor took her elbow and guided her down a set of spiral stairs toward a tiny room. Nestled inside, like a ship’s cabin, was a booth nudged up to a floor-to-ceiling picture window. Gracie gulped a deep breath and slid into the private alcove. All grins, Vicktor slid in opposite her. He took the menus and the maître d’ closed the door behind him.
They were alone.
Together.
Gracie folded her hands on the table, battling to still them. She swallowed her irrational fear and forced a smile.
Vicktor laid a hand over hers. “Don’t worry, Gracie. The Wolf won’t find you here. You’re safe.”
At the moment, it wasn’t the Wolf she feared.
Her hand was ice. Vicktor studied her vain attempt to conceal her fear and his heart sank. If he didn’t know better, he’d wonder if she was afraid of…him.
Oh no. He cleared his throat and withdrew his hand. Burying his attention in the menu, he scanned the choices without seeing them. A smart man would have noticed the way she tensed up after noticing Andrei’s absence.
And here he thought she actually trusted him. In fact he’d thought…no, it didn’t matter what he thought. “Do you know what you want?” Women. Every word he’d spoken to Roman suddenly seemed gut-wrenchingly true. “They have great salmon steaks here.”
Gracie’s eyes went to the window. “Sure.”
He set his jaw and thumbed the menu. Silence ripened between them. What an idiot he was to—
She sniffled.
What? He stared at her. A tear hung on her lash and another streaked down her face, despite her clenched jaw.
“Gracie. What’s the matter?” He couldn’t keep the worry from his tone at seeing her come apart. Not Gracie, the woman who had kicked him black and blue in the train car. Unable to stop himself, he reached across the table and thumbed away a tear. “What did I do? I’m…sorry.”
A smile came to her face. She met his eyes. The look in them only made his throat thick. Just when he decided she was hiding something, she had to go and be…vulnerable.
“You are a kind person.”
His breath staggered. “Not usually.”
She squinted at him, taking in his words. He withdrew his hand and tucked it under the table, hiding a sudden annoying tremor. The piped-in strains of a concert violin drew out a mournful and sad note.
“Maybe you bring out the best in me,” he said, wanting it to be true.
Her eyes widened. “Oh. Wow. That’s…” She looked out the window.
“Please, Gracie, tell me what’s wrong.” And please, don’t let it be anything to do with Andrei. Like suddenly missing him.
Sadness colored her expression. “It’s nothing. Just something that happened a long time ago. Occasionally it creeps up on me.”
“I see.” His mind conjured a number of horrid scenarios that made him wince. “I’m sorry if I caused it.” Boy, was he sorry, especially when he’d wooed himself into really enjoying this unplanned lunchtime escape. He’d wanted that smile, those green eyes, maybe even her laughter all to himself.
But, honestly, he hadn’t been trying to ditch Andrei. Not once.
Gracie scanned the room. “It is a safe room, isn’t it?”
Vicktor frowned, nodding.
She laced her hands on the table, playing with her thumbs. “Do you come here a lot?”
So they really were changing the topic. Okay, he wouldn’t push. Not yet. He shook his head as he answered, wishing he could lie and ignite a spark of jealousy. The truth was, however, he’d never been here on a date…if he could call this a date, which he couldn’t. “My buddy Roman has money in this place. He helped a mutual friend fix it up after the FSB ran out the local mafia.”
She looked impressed. “It’s nice. Cozy.” She reached for the menu. “Have you been with the FSB for a long time?”
Her voice stayed light, but he wondered what his answer would mean to her. Could a missionary trust a man who had dedicated his life to an organization that sent thousands of Christians to their deaths during the Communist reign?
He cleared his throat, thankful he could answer honestly. “No.”
She interrupted her scan of the menu and caught his eye. “But you seem so…practiced.”
He couldn’t help but smile at her search for the right word. He hoped she meant capable or even…brave? “I’ve been a cop for over ten years. Before that, I was a soldier in the Russian army for a number of years. I even served in Special Forces.” He liked the interest written on her face. Usually cops scared the general Russian po
pulation into deep freeze. He appreciated a woman who didn’t bristle at the sight of militia.
“Do you enjoy it?” She folded the menu, eyes glued on his face, her concentration chipping at his walls of privacy.
“Yes.” He shrugged out of his suit coat. Honeyed light dappled the white table through lace curtains and the white rose in the center of the table perfumed the room. Maybe it was a date, after all.
Leaning forward on her bench, her body language spoke anticipation. “Yes?”
“I never thought I’d be a cop.” That felt good to finally admit. Her wide smile reeled him in and he felt himself relax. “I always enjoyed detective work, but since my pop was a cop, I didn’t want to live a cop’s life.”
Her eyebrows arched in silent question.
“Because he couldn’t shake the darkness. It rode him home every night and seeped into his moods.”
A shadow fell across her face, her eyes.
“No, he wasn’t ever abusive or anything. He’s a pretty good guy, and a great cop.” He fixed his gaze on his drumming fingers. “It’s just that he couldn’t shake the frustration of seeing lives shattered and killers escape.” He met her piercing gaze and attempted a wry smile. “I guess I inherited his indignation.”
“Or his sense of justice.” She reached across the table, cupped her hand over his.
Hers was remarkably warmer. He stopped his drumming.
A knock at the door made them both jump. Gracie yanked back her hand. Vicktor grabbed the menu. The waiter entered the room, surveying them like choice cuts of meat.
“Decided?” Vicktor asked, ashamed at his rocky voice.
Gracie peered at him, her head lowered. “Whatever you’re having.”
He noticed the tinge of pink on her cheeks.
Vicktor frowned. “Gracie, can you read the menu?”
She shrugged.
He held up a finger to the waiter. “One minute, please.”
“Gracie,” he said gently. “How is it you’ve lived in Russia for three years—”
“Two—”
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