Oh. And her honesty simply reached in and grabbed him, wrapped fingers around his heart. Tugged.
No. It was one thing to kiss her, to let her nourish a strange need inside him. Completely another to like her.
He could not give in to the nudge to let himself care. “Next time I tell you to run, please run.”
She nodded, looked away, but brought her hand up to her cheek.
He quashed the urge to catch it, move it away, brush his thumb over the wetness. From there, it wasn’t hard to see her turning to face him, to see himself cupping her face, drawing it to his.
Wasn’t hard to imagine kissing her again, tasting her lips on his, finding himself right back to the place he’d been only two nights ago, hungry, yet letting go of the dark knots inside.
For the first time in years, he wanted to start over. Maybe even go home.
He gritted his teeth and picked up his coffee.
Yes, it would be a very long seven days.
Moscow.
Ford stood at the window, watching the train pull into the station, his heart a fist in his chest, pounding. Moscow.
Now they just had to make it to the consulate, find Ham’s contact, track down the safe house, and…
Okay, get out of Russia safely. But apparently, Ham was right.
God was on their side. So maybe Ford should just loosen up a little and let go of the reins of this operation.
God had saved them.
Even though Ford didn’t deserve it.
Okay, he might be overreacting, although in his mind, as he’d deepened his kiss with Scarlett, he’d taken a flying leap off the edge of self-control and landed right into the dark abyss of desire.
Note to self, don’t spend the night in a private compartment with a woman you want to make love to. Thankfully, the bunks weren’t made for two, although without much effort he could have ignored that problem.
He’d managed to put a little distance between them by taking them through a crash course on Russian. He’d had language training in the Navy, learning Farsi and Arabic. But Russian was created out of an entirely different alphabet.
They’d spent the night learning phrases, repeating words, and once Scarlett had acted out her version of a KGB interrogator.
He’d wanted to pull her down into his arms and do his own interrogating. Instead, he’d kept ordering coffee, trying desperately not to think about the way Scarlett had responded when he’d kissed her.
That’s when it started to get dangerous. Because she wasn’t just eager, wasn’t just onboard—hoo-yah—with his kiss, but his heart had stepped into play.
He liked her way too much. Liked her grit—although it scared him too—and liked her so very much for her loyalty. For dropping her life and following him across the Atlantic just because he’d asked. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have pulled her into his panic, but they were a team, and he trusted her.
And when he kissed her, it all simply sparked to life. You are wanted, Scarlett.
His kiss was about trying to tell her that—or maybe show her—but it had quickly careened out of control, with him poised to crash through all the promises he’d made himself and—
Yes, God had saved him.
Them.
Twice in one fell swoop when the train lurched. Scarlett had spilled the coffee and Ford had found his boundaries in time to wake up.
He wanted her—yes. Not only in his arms, but in his life. Wanted her to be the one he came home to. Fine—he wanted her to be the one who went with him.
However, it was one thing to kiss her—or more—on a train in Russia. Entirely another to assume she wanted him in her life.
The last time she’d kissed him, back in Montana, she’d drawn a line in the sand. Just this. I want just this.
He got it—she’d never seen a relationship that worked out long-term. Had watched her mother go from boyfriend to boyfriend, one lousy life to the next. But he wasn’t a right now, just this kind of guy.
Regardless of the argument his body was waging with his brain.
So, yes, thank You, God, for helping him be the man he promised God he’d be.
Stay on mission.
That mission included getting Scarlett home safely. And maybe showing up on her doorstep after all this was over and asking if she’d consider more than right now.
Behind him, Scarlett was packing her toiletries—the ones she’d purchased on his credit card—into his backpack. She had no change of clothes, so he’d given her one of his T-shirts. But she still wore a pair of faded jeans, running shoes, and a jacket. She’d scrubbed her face free of makeup—not that she wore much anyway—and still looked breathtaking, those dark brown eyes finding his.
She smiled, and he felt it all the way to his bones, a heat that he hadn’t a hope of shutting down. “We made it.”
“Just about,” he said. The train had stopped, and he picked up his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. He reached out his hand. “All we have to do is find Ham’s contact.”
She took his hand.
They headed down the hallway to the door. The train had pulled up to a domed station, a cobblestone platform separating the lines. He climbed down the stairs, trying to sound out the Cyrillic.
Scarlett came down behind him. “There. Vhod. Exit.”
Yeah, he wasn’t going anywhere without her.
They headed toward the exit, merging into the crowd, just a couple tourists. Around them, other travelers with suitcases and rolling bags headed toward the exit, through wooden doors, and into the main area. The ancient building, with an arched ceiling, soaring windows, and mounted chandeliers, had been updated with advanced screening at the doors and electronic ticketing machines.
“According to the online metro map, we need to go to Krasnaya Presnya station on the Taganskaya line.” She pointed to a sign that said Suburban Trains in English. “I think that must be the metro.”
“You’re better at logistics than Trini,” he said.
They were heading out of the station into a corridor that fed into the metro when he heard a shout behind him. “Stop!”
Next to him, Scarlett stiffened. She looked at him.
And he saw it in her eyes. Run!
Except where, exactly, were they going to go?
Still, maybe running—
“Stop! FSB!”
“Go!” Scarlett said. “I’m the one without a visa. Just—”
“Have you lost your mind?” he snapped. “I wasn’t leaving you in Kiev, and I’m certainly not going to leave you with the FSB in Moscow.”
A woman in a black suit headed his direction. She wasn’t wearing the uniform of an FSB agent, but the two men next to her certainly looked the part. Black uniform, green hats, no smiles.
Yeah, he should probably be running, but Ford had a gut feeling that they wouldn’t get far.
And unlike him, these men carried weapons.
Ho-kay.
The woman was tall, slender, maybe late thirties, and unsmiling. “Americans?”
He nodded.
One of the men relieved Ford of his backpack.
“Come with me.” She spoke good English with the hint of a British accent.
“Where?” Ford said. “You can’t detain us—”
“Shut up,” she snapped. “Before you’re in worse trouble.”
Maybe he should run. They should run because he wasn’t leaving without Scarlett. And she was fast too.
He glanced at her, and Scarlett met his eyes. Nodded.
The woman turned, walking backward now. And as if reading his mind, “If you run, my men will find you. And they will shoot you before they bring you back to me.”
Oh, honey. It was like a red flag to a bull.
But for Scarlett…
Ford followed the woman out of the building, down the steps, and discovered a black Land Rover waiting at the curb with yet another officer standing at the open passenger door.
“Get in,” the woman
said, her brown eyes hard, an edge to them.
Ford glanced at Scarlett, who’d turned white. Then he climbed in and pulled Scarlett in after him.
The woman got in front, another officer at the wheel, and Ford was all eyes and ears for a way to escape as they pulled away from the curb.
Which brought him right back to Scarlett. Because sure, he had no problem bailing out of a moving car. Or leaping into the front seat for a little one-on-two wrestling match. Or even grabbing the wheel and slamming them all into one of those cement pylons, leaving him to climb out and run.
Maybe he was kidding himself because probably none of that would work, but he’d been trained to evade and escape.
Scarlett’s hand tightened on his, and he looked down, saw her reaching for the door handle. He frowned, gave a shake of his head.
They were heading into the city, toward the old Stalin-era buildings, St. Basil’s Cathedral, and Red Square. And, to his memory, toward Lubyanka, the four-story former KGB stronghold where people went in and didn’t come out.
Oh brother, now all the old Cold War stories were rising from the cobwebs of his brain.
This was the new Russia. People didn’t just disappear.
Right?
They drove right past the Kremlin, with the tall red-bricked walls, and for a moment he lost himself inside the surrealism of being at the epicenter of so much history.
And death.
And destruction.
And his sister was caught in the middle of it.
Now, so was Scarlett.
And he’d practically dragged her here. Why didn’t he let her stay behind in Kiev?
If Ham were here, they’d already be out of the car and—
“Saint Basil’s,” Scarlett said, staring out the window at the onion-domed cathedral. “Can we stop here and get a shot?”
He frowned at her. So did the woman in the front seat as she turned around, but Scarlett just smiled.
Oh wait. This was her game. The one her mother had taught her.
Pretend everything was just fine. That her world wasn’t falling apart. That she wasn’t terrified out of her skin.
Don’t think about tomorrow, or even the next hour or minute. Just right now. Pretend not to care, and then she wouldn’t get hurt.
No wonder she didn’t want longer than the moment. Because if she looked past it, she had to cope with the uncertainty of tomorrow, and…
Pretending. Right now, it was simply easier.
Okay. He could pretend right along with her. “We’ll come back after our driver drops us off at our hotel.” Why not play the confused tourist? Who knew why the FSB wanted them?
Yeah, no. This wasn’t going to work for him.
“Why are you detaining us?”
The woman in the front seat didn’t move.
“We did nothing wrong. We’re tourists—”
“Stop. Talking.” The woman barely glanced over her shoulder this time as she said it, and something in her tone, less warning and more, well, warning.
As if she might be trying to protect them?
What—?
They pulled up to the exact building he’d seen on television. Four stories, mustard colored, the bottom floor made of stone like a medieval prison.
The woman got out and opened their door. “Follow me.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” He glanced at the building, the immensity doing something to his insides.
If they went in, they weren’t coming out.
The woman turned then and took a breath. “If you want to stay alive, you will.”
He blinked at her.
“I was sent by my husband to get you. Your friends are in big trouble, and if you show up at the embassy, you will be too. Now, c’mon.”
He didn’t move. “Who’s your husband?”
“You’re just going to have to trust me.”
“Trust the FSB?”
“No. Trust your friend Ham. I’m his contact.”
Ham? He didn’t move, but Scarlett tugged his hand.
And then he was following the women as they went through the front doors of FSB HQ.
Scarlett couldn’t believe that Ford had followed her right into FSB Headquarters. The very thought of it had probably given him a rash, the idea that he might have voluntarily handed himself—and his very valuable personhood, intelligence, and skills—over to a country that may or may not be on friendly terms with the United States.
It depended on the current tweets of the time, probably.
But still, Petty Officer First Class, Navy SEAL Ford walked right in through the tall double doors, following the dark-haired agent down the marble floor, all the way to the back of the first floor and into a room where the woman closed the door and said in English, “Your sister is safe.”
If Ford hadn’t been the man he was, he might have collapsed right there, but instead he closed his eyes, the tiniest tightening around his mouth betraying his worry.
“But she’s on her way to Siberia.”
That shook even Scarlett, and she tightened her hand in Ford’s.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Ford snapped, and the woman held up her hand.
“No. It’s a way to get her out of the country.”
The office she’d secured them in was large, with the white-blue-red stripes of the FSB logo on the carpet, a long black credenza behind a massive desk covered with three computer screens. A window overlooked a parking lot. And on the desk, a picture of the woman and two dark-haired children, a boy and a girl.
“I think you need to start at the beginning,” said Ford. He let go of Scarlett’s hand, flexing his own, and then folded his arms over his chest, which seemed to swell, a sort of bracing of himself, Scarlett figured. “Who are you?”
“My name is Yanna. And I can’t tell you much. It’s better to talk to the American Consulate Chief of Station. He’s waiting for you at the Hotel National.”
“Why didn’t he pick us up?” Ford asked.
“Because he shouldn’t have anything to do with either of you. Pydyom.”
The woman walked over to a side door and opened it, looked out into the hall, and motioned for them to follow.
Then Scarlett really was in a spy movie because she sneaked down the hallway and out of the back door of Lubyanka. Waited for the “Stay down” and got it when they climbed into the back seat of Yanna’s car, a black Mercedes. “Just until we get out of the parking lot.”
Ford bent over, pulling Scarlett down under him as they exited the lot. Nothing of his demeanor betrayed his pulse rate, including his softly spoken, “It’ll be okay.”
Right.
“It’s not far.” Yanna pulled into traffic. “David is waiting in the hotel bar. You can sit up now.”
Scarlett sat up, but Ford pulled her close to him.
“I’m head of our cybercrimes division.” She looked in the rearview mirror.
“I don’t understand,” Ford said. “How did you get involved?”
“David is my husband. And he needed my help.”
The hotel looked like something out of czarist Russia, rising like a castle on the corner, with columns, balconies, and gilded windows. Scarlett expected to see a czarina appear, white-gloved, gowned, and waving to the crowd that would be gathered in a park on the opposite side of the street. No, not any park—Scarlett spotted one of the corner turrets of the Kremlin. Flags fluttered above a canopied entrance of the hotel.
Yanna pulled up to a ramp next door and took it down a level, parking near the entrance. The cement ceiling hung low, the place damp and gloomy, and the difference in temperature raised gooseflesh on Scarlett’s skin.
Okay, it might not have been the temperature. Because really, Ford was buying this? Had he never seen any Russian spy movies?
They should have run when they had the chance. Or he should have run.
But he hadn’t. Whatever happens, I will show up for you, Red. Whatever happens.
His words were starti
ng to embed in her bones.
Ford took her hand again as they followed Yanna into the stairwell.
She stopped them. “You can’t be seen together. The CIA is looking for two Americans traveling together, and while you are not your sister and her companion—”
“Her companion?” Ford said, but Yanna held up her hand.
“We don’t have time to have you brought in for questioning. So you, young lady, are coming with me. And, Mr. Miller, you’ll find my husband at the end of the bar. Big blond man. Very handsome.”
“Wait.” Ford swung down his backpack from his shoulder and unzipped the front pouch. Dug out the earwigs and handed one to Scarlett. The other he put into his ear. “You call me. You listen to everything I say, and if I say—”
“I want a burger.”
His smile was slow, and he nodded.
She pulled out her phone. “No reception in here.”
They took the stairs up a flight, and Yanna opened the door into the opulence of the hotel. Full-sized marble statues of Greek gods, or perhaps just very well-muscled men, flanked a marble hallway. A long red carpet led up to registration desks at the end, bordered by tasseled crimson and gold velour draperies and carved wooden sofas covered in brocade.
“Welcome to the oldest hotel in Moscow.” Pride tinged Yanna’s voice.
Huh. Scarlett dialed her cell, and next to her, Ford picked up.
“Copy,” he said, and she hummed an affirmative.
“David will be recording the conversation, also,” Yanna said. She turned to Ford. “Wait a moment before you come in.”
Then she and Scarlett walked through the lobby toward the bar. Deep red chairs and sofas created seating areas, and as she walked into the bar, the noise of the lobby dropped away.
“This is Alexandrovsky Bar,” Yanna said and pulled out a rounded chair next to a glass-topped table. They sat under the cover of a tall palm tree that rose out of a square planter.
A few moments later Ford walked into the room, heading for the bar. Poor man, he couldn’t look like a tourist if he wanted to. Bold, wide-shouldered, the man had try me written all over him.
They were so made.
Ford didn’t even look at her, and she realized her fatal flaw—she wasn’t positioned to watch him. But she could hear him as he came up to the bar, greeting the man there.
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