In Sheep's Clothing (21 page)

Gracie cast a look back and broke into a jog. “Alfred,” she growled, anger fueling her steps. Just when she thought she was safe, Alfred the Wonder Dog had to alert the world to her presence. She peeped behind her and her heart fell. The fool animal was following her and barking!

“Alfred!”

She heard Vicktor’s voice a second before she saw him, running with his coat open, his expression furious looking, hollering at his disobedient mutt.

If only he know how obedient his police dog truly was. Gracie gritted her teeth, whirled and attempted an escape. Hobbling ungracefully, she fought the urge to rip off Larissa’s blasted sandals and run full out, barefoot.

Alfred bounded in front of her, barking as if he were herding sheep.

“Shoo!”

Alfred wagged his tail. Gracie glared at him.

“Alfred!” Vicktor yelled, then let loose a string of Russian words.

Gracie ducked her head, praying her disguise worked.

Vicktor’s dark form whipped past her as he lunged for the dog. Alfred dodged him, but Vicktor had practiced aim. He snaked a hand under Alfred’s collar. Gracie scooted past him, not daring to look.

“Izveneetyeh!”
Vicktor called, asking her pardon in Russian. She held up a hand, waving her acceptance, and kept her eyes forward, praying she wouldn’t turn her ankle in Larissa’s stilettos.

Alfred lunged for the woman, ripping out of Vicktor’s grip. He nearly knocked the lady off her heels. She turned to push him away.

Vicktor’s heart turned inside out with relief. “Gracie!”

She shot him a look, one he’d seen before, outside her apartment. It hit him squarely in the gut.
I. Don’t. Trust. You.

Not that he expected better, but still, the fact he’d failed her so abysmally only turned like a knife in his heart.

“Are you okay?”

Her green eyes were steel hard. “Yes.” She turned and stalked away.

“Wait!” He raced after her and grabbed her elbow.

She cried out in pain and doubled over.

“You’re hurt!” Vicktor knelt beside her, sick. Her beautiful face twisted in agony. “Gracie, what happened?”

She looked away.

He blew out a frustrated breath. “I want to help you.”

“You want to kill me.”

He recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “What?”

Her voice was low and sharp. “Someone tried to kill me.” She fixed him with a gaze that arrowed clear through him. “I don’t know who to trust.”

“I understand you’re afraid, but you can trust me.”

“Can I?” She pulled her wrist close to her body. “How do I know you’re not living up to your reputation?”

“Reputation?”

“KGB? You don’t exactly have a pristine history.”

It would have hurt less if she had kicked him in the teeth. Vicktor fixed his eyes on the bread kiosk as he scrambled for an answer. “That’s not fair. I’m trying to keep you alive.” His tone was irritated. “Besides, I’m not the only one with secrets.”

Gracie scowled at him.

“Your Dr. Young discovered a cure for cancer, didn’t he.”

Either she was a consummate actress or she had no clue about her coworker’s activities. The look of suspicion dissolved from her expression and left only shock. “What are you talking about?”

Vicktor considered her, watching the wind play with her hair, the rebellious gleam in her green eyes. Her body language screamed defiance; he felt way too sure she would stride right out of his life without glancing back.

“Your doctor friend discovered a cure for cancer, and he used it to heal Leonid Krasnov.”

Gracie frowned at him. “No. No way. How could he?”

Vicktor shook his head. “I don’t know. But we found his personal notes, and they chronicled Leonid’s cure.”

Gracie again shook her head. “I don’t believe it. A cure for cancer would be worth…Well, is it even possible?”

“Someone thinks it’s worth killing over.”

“Maybe the KGB thinks it’s worth killing over.”

He flinched. “Gracie, I promise, my only agenda is protecting you.” Well, sorta. Because if he read the churning feelings in his chest correctly, she’d gotten under his skin, and just maybe he wondered what it might be like to take her in his arms, to kiss…

“I don’t know who to trust.” Her admission came out quietly, yet had the power to make him moan.

“Trust me, Gracie. Please.”

She looked at him. The beautiful green eyes, staring right through to his heart. His soul.
Trust me.
He tried to let his eyes speak the truth.

Gracie sighed and allowed the smallest smile. “I’d like to get out of Russia in one piece, okay?”

Oy.
When she said it like that, all her hopes and fears in her voice, laying her life at his feet, it was all he could do to breathe, let alone answer.

He nodded, and knew he was definitely in over his head when he ran his thumb along her chin, near an ugly scratch. “I’m sorry you fell.”

As she leaned into his hand, he noticed her leopard-skin outfit. “Where did you get that getup?”

“A friend,” she said with a smile. “I do have a few, you know.”

“Well, it looks ridiculous.”

She edged up her chin and smiled again. “Perfect.”

Oh, how he wanted to strangle her. That, or crush her to his chest. Okay, so that was probably a bad idea. He indicated her arm. “Did that happen when you jumped off the balcony?”

“I fell.” For a second, right behind her eyes, he saw the terror of falling from three stories. The image emptied him. Then her face paled. “Your father—is he—?”

“He’s fine.”

“I heard a shot.”

Vicktor nodded. “Pop has good aim.”

She closed her eyes as if letting that information take root. “He saved my life.”

Vicktor had nearly lost her. For the first time, his brain wrapped around that reality.

It shouldn’t hurt this much, should it? He’d only known her for two days.

Except, it felt like a small, wonderful lifetime. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, fighting the urge to scoop her into his arms and run for the border.

“Want to see my father?” he asked, hating the ragged edge to his voice.

“Please.”

Gracie peeled back the layer of gauze protecting Nickolai’s wound. “A vase?” She glanced at Vicktor, who shrugged. “You’re not trying to hide something from me, are you?”

His wide-eyed, innocent look made her giggle, and when he smiled, she felt it clear through to her marrow.

How had she ever thought she might escape Russia without his help?

They’d passed a slow-moving ambulance on the way to Nickolai’s apartment. Vicktor had watched it with a stony expression.

Nickolai’s face filled with relief when he saw Gracie. His gaze lingered on her new attire just a moment longer than needed, and he topped off his assessment with a translatable “Wow.”

Gracie blushed.

Over a lunch of bread, Edam cheese, lemonade and boiled meat dumplings, Gracie explained her plan to Vicktor. “Larissa’s
dacha
is only an hour from here by train. I can hide there until you can get me a passport. Then I’ll race for the plane and fly home.” She tore her cheese into little bits as she talked. “The Wolf won’t have time to find me. I’ll be out of your hair and his sights.”

Vicktor twirled his spoon in his bowl, pushing around cold dumplings. “It’s a good idea,” he said, “but I’m going with you.”

“No.” Gracie saw him gathering his arguments. “You need to stay here. I can get there by myself.” She glanced at Nickolai for reinforcement. The man was hungrily downing a third bowl of dumplings. He grinned at her.

Vicktor leaned toward her. His smell, safe and strong and masculine, curled around her and his face was so close she could see the fine etch of worry lines around his eyes.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight again,” he said softly.

If she thought her heart had jump-started when he ran his hand down her wounded cheek, wincing, it was nothing compared to the way his voice, tinged with accent, rocketed her pulse. Vicktor made her feel dangerously alive in a place she had thought dead. She felt the heat of another blush and ducked her head.

“How are you going to solve the case living out in the country with me?”

“This case is not just about your friends, the Youngs. We now have a body count of five.”

“Five?”

Vicktor touched her hand. “There’s one you don’t know about. The day before the Youngs were murdered, I found a good friend of mine killed in his lab.”

“I’m sorry.” Gracie turned her hand over and held his. He had long fingers, clean, strong hands.

“Someone is after something they think you have. It’s not in your flat. It’s not in your bag, so they think it’s on you. Which, as anyone can see—” his eyes traveled over her tight uniform “—it’s not.”

Shock sent Gracie’s chin downward. Then he winked at her. Secretly delighted, she pursed her lips in a mock glare.

He sat back in his chair, but kept his hand over hers. “They’re after you, Gracie, and so far they’ve been able to find you. Someone needs to protect you. I’ll send someone to watch your flat while I watch you, at Larissa’s
dacha.
I’ll bring a cell phone along and we’ll be safe there until your flight.”

Gracie fought to hear his words. He was rubbing his thumb absently over hers, sending warmth coursing through her veins. Keep it up and she’d turn into a pile of cooked kasha. And then wouldn’t it be so very, very easy to scrape herself away from him when she left?

Back up. She
shouldn’t
be enjoying holding hands with a man who didn’t even have a relationship with God, let alone serve Him. Oh, she was courting trouble. She swallowed, disentangled her hand.

“Pop will keep in touch with my friend Arkady, who will then let me know what is happening. It’s a good idea and the only one we’ve got right now.”

Alone, at a
dacha,
with Vicktor? Gracie fought the panic rising in her chest. “I think you should be here, trying to find the murderer. Besides, I can take care of myself. No one can find Larissa’s
dacha
…it’s hidden in a forest of other tiny summer homes.”

She picked up the crumbs of her cheese, polished them off. “Andrei knows where I’ll be and will probably come out and check on me, so I’ll be protected.”

Andrei.

“He was supposed to meet us for lunch,” Vicktor said slowly. His expression darkened.

Gracie stared at him. Worry squeezed her voice to a whisper. “What if they found him?” Sweet, patient Andrei, shot, bleeding, or even dead? Her stomach lurched. Vicktor took her hand. So much for trying to distance herself. It didn’t help that she liked his touch oh so very much.

“Maybe he’s not here because he’s the one who sent them,” Vicktor said quietly.

What?
So much for romance. Gracie yanked her hand away. “How dare you? Without Andrei I would have drowned here. He protected me and listened to me and translated for me. He’s the truest friend I could ever have.” She narrowed her eyes and pointed at Vicktor, ignoring the way his jaw tightened and the warning that flashed in his icy blue eyes. “Back
off,
Vicktor. Andrei is my Christian brother. I can trust him with my life.”

Vicktor’s voice was harsh. “Tell me, Gracie. If Andrei is the only one besides me who knows where you are, how is it trouble always finds you?”

V
icktor braced himself as he climbed aboard the passenger train. The soupy fog of body odor, the gray-blue haze of old cigarette smoke, and the endless sets of prying eyes that followed him and Gracie as they bumped down the aisle, set his teeth on edge. He wished for his
Zhiguli
. A car would be easier, and safer. But he wasn’t sure the auto barges were running yet, and a short train ride followed by a little hike was the only way they were going to get to Larissa’s
dacha
in a hurry.

Vicktor sighed and tried to relax against the molded wooden seat. He glanced at Gracie. Stubborn to the core, she’d refused to change clothes, and had barely spoken two words to him as they hightailed it to the train station.

If only she knew how hard it was for him to focus on the blue-haired babushka in front of him. Gracie’s outfit did everything to accentuate all her formerly hidden features and he knew, by the way she tugged at the hem of her shirt, that she was all too aware of it. He knew better than to offer her his coat, however, despite the fact he’d dearly love to see her hidden in
side it. She’d probably take his head off at the mere suggestion, judging by her board-stiff posture and furrowed brow.

Vicktor rested his head against the wooden seat. Gracie sighed in frustration. She stared out into the train yard—a muddy, rutted plaid of tracks and wire—and twirled a tail of golden hair between her fingers.

Vicktor closed his eyes and thought about Andrei. Her precious Andrei, her Russian boyfriend, her closest friend…. A muscle knotted in his neck. The creep hovered between them like a bad odor, even when he was absent. Vicktor shifted in his seat and stretched out his legs, knotting his arms over his chest. The look in the chauffeur’s eyes had been downright conniving when he’d kidnapped Gracie yesterday. Vicktor didn’t doubt, had he not lit out on Andrei’s tail, that her overzealous driver would have her halfway to Moscow or hidden in the wilds of Siberia.

Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. He heard Gracie blow another thunderous sigh and he winced.

Drumming his fingers on his arms, he opened his eyes and scrutinized the wood-paneled ceiling. He had to admire her loyalty for her friend, but he couldn’t shake the feeling Andrei couldn’t be trusted. Take Andrei’s so-called communication with his mother in the village…even Vicktor knew villagers didn’t have personal telephones. How then did Andrei so easily know Gracie’s bag had been stolen?

Then again, perhaps his mother had called, or he’d called the
stansia
—the central phone station—and asked them to fetch her.

But what about the thugs who’d assaulted Nickolai? Had Andrei led them to Nickolai’s flat? Maybe they spent the night on the street, then followed them to that morning. Except, if the attackers
had
watched Vicktor’s flat in the night, why didn’t they strike sooner?

Vicktor’s head throbbed. The train coughed and lurched into gear, the wheels squealing. “How long to Larissa’s
dacha?
”

“One hour,” Gracie snapped.

He hazarded a look at her. She seemed tired, her shoulders sagging. His heart twisted in pity. “How’s your elbow?”

She ignored him.

Vicktor stared past her out the window. The train rolled past a dingy, lifeless factory. A few forgotten birch trees dared to show buds and an azure sky hinted at the countryside beauty. Anticipation swept through him. He,
not Andrei,
was here with Gracie. It was up to him to sweeten the fragrance of the day, especially after he’d so horrendously bumbled her protection that morning. He reached over and pushed the errant strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m sorry, Gracie. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Her lips parted, but no words emerged. Her eyes glistened as she ducked her head, but her body relaxed and turned slightly away from the window. He slid a hand over the back of the seat, behind her shoulders. “I just want to keep you safe.”

Those words lifted her gaze to his. Searching his eyes, she finally gave a small nod. “Okay. I forgive you.” Then one corner of her mouth curved in a smile, and for a second he wondered what it might be like to kiss that sweet mouth. The one that could send his pulse rate into overdrive just seeing a quirk at the corner.

He swallowed the impulse and let his hand settle on her shoulder. And when she didn’t flinch, but turned into the pocket of his embrace, he decided it was enough.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d work up to a kiss later. At the
dacha.
With the sweet breeze off the river and the moon lighting her pretty face.

Think, buddy.
She’s wasn’t just an American woman, she was a missionary. There was no way she was going back to his flat. Roman’s words thundered behind his thoughts.
The impropriety alone would send her into fits.

Except, that was yesterday. And she didn’t seem to be throwing fits, did she? Or…he scrolled back to the way she’d gone white at the table, when he’d suggested he accompany her to the
dacha,
and suddenly he felt sick.

Maybe he wouldn’t be kissing her in the moonlight.

Still, she was here, with him, without her chauffeur, and Vicktor would use the time to rekindle her trust. Vicktor indulged himself in the scent of Gracie’s hair. Maybe, in fact, he’d jumped to conclusions about Andrei. Crabbiness didn’t indict a person. Somehow, over the last twenty-four hours, the killer had become a sullen Russian chauffeur who knew English.

Vicktor was losing his focus. Gracie’s easy laughter, and the magnetism of her beautiful green eyes had snarled his investigator’s sixth sense into hard knots. He spent more time ridiculing her outfits than he did devising her escape plan. That had to tell him something…what, he didn’t want to explore. But if he didn’t pull himself together, the Wolf would walk right up to them and tap him on the shoulder.

And then he’d not only scuttle his career, but he’d lose Gracie.

He wouldn’t admit to himself which was worse.

The train settled into a rhythmic harmony and Gracie’s head bobbed onto his shoulder. Perhaps a day in the country was just the escape they both needed—blooming lilac sprinkled the air and the birds sang from budding plum and mountain ash trees.

Maybe at Larissa’s
dacha
he could gather his wits and figure out a way to save Gracie’s life. Maybe even earn her trust.

And then what?

Vicktor caught sight of the conductor swaying toward them, asking for tickets. He let go of Gracie and reached inside his coat. Pulling out two passes, he leaned close to Gracie. “Don’t say anything,” he breathed. She nodded.

So she’d been listening when he’d briefed her. Without a passport, no conductor worth her salt would allow an American out of city limits. Worst-case scenario would be an ugly scene with him flashing his ID and sabotaging their disguise.

Gracie turned toward the window.

Vicktor stared ahead, face blank, eyes on the conductor. Dressed in a gray polyester dress that just barely contained her
folds and wrinkles, she looked as if she had eaten a few of the passengers for dinner—and enjoyed it. She ripped off the stubs of the couple in front of them, then approached him. Weariness draped her dark eyes. Vicktor kept his face bored and handed her the tickets. She raked a gaze over him, then glanced at Gracie. A smirk flickered on her pudgy face.

Vicktor kept his face stoic, didn’t meet her eyes.

She ripped the tickets and handed Vicktor the stubs. Vicktor reined in his sigh of relief until she was two rows past them.

He glanced at Gracie, then grimaced. Shrugging out of his jacket, he tucked it over her.

“What’s this for?” she asked.

Vicktor curled an arm around her and pulled her close. He couldn’t bear to tell her she’d just been mistaken for a prostitute.

The Wolf paced the room. The clock on the wall ticked out the minutes, seconds he had left to produce an excuse—and a good one. He rubbed a hand over his head. It came away wet.

The door opened and a large man—too large for the Wolf’s comfort level, with a shaved head and hard eyes—beckoned him in.

The Wolf entered the adjoining hotel room, feeling for the first time as if it might have been better to run when he’d had the chance.

Smoke hung in the stale air. The odor of vodka told him business had already been conducted. He hoped favorably. He sat down on a fraying armchair the color of old blood, and pinned on a face that he’d learned aeons ago. No fear. The
pero
strapped to his shin helped, but it suddenly burned, and he crossed his legs, hiding the blade.

“Minksy is waiting. He says he has a potential buyer for you.” The man in the opposite chair was ten years younger, but had the eyes of age. He rolled a Marlboro between his fingers, staring at the glowing red embers. “Don’t let him down. He’s not a man who enjoys embarrassment.”

The Wolf rubbed his hands on his pants legs, fighting the urge to carve a line across the man’s neck. How dare he threaten him? The man had forgotten who he was.

They all had.

He
nearly had, for that matter.

Still, this was a new age, and that meant new tactics. He smiled. “I’m having some difficulty obtaining the package.”

The crackle of burning cigarette paper was all that broke the silence.

“But I’ll get it.” His heart thumped and he cursed this sudden show of cowardice. Yeltsin and Gorbachev had done this to him. He hated himself for becoming the kind of man he despised. After thirty years, he’d expected something more.

A medal, maybe.

Weakness had led him to this moment. Weakness of the people. Weakness of his leaders.

But strength would lead him to the future. “I’ll get it,” he repeated.

A deep indigo sky streaked with fading cirrus canopied them as Vicktor and Gracie strolled down the pebbled dirt road toward Larissa’s
dacha
. Gracie swung a bulging plastic bag filled with bread and canned items they had purchased in a nearby village. She breathed the scented air, letting it fill her lungs. There was peace here. She could feel it. Outside the city, spring had already revived the wild plants and kissed the trees. Pollen hung heavy in the air. A melody of twilight crickets began to sing, a welcome replacement to the symphony of honking cars, screaming children and hissing trains from the city.

Gracie exhaled, feeling fear rush out with her breath. The road behind them was empty, clear for at least a mile before it fell over the horizon.
God, please make this a safe place.
She shot a look at Vicktor.
In every way.
She’d spent the last hour tucked under the safety of his arm. And, despite the fact common sense occasionally rose up to knock her upside the head, she had loved it.

But a train loaded with onlookers was one thing—a secluded
dacha
in the country a completely different story. She licked her dry lips and set a smile on her face.

Beside her, Vicktor also carried a plastic bag, stretched thin with bottled water and a jar of mayonnaise. Gracie couldn’t help but notice his rigid jaw and pensive expression. His dark mood had surfaced right after they’d disembarked from the train and had been slowly seeping out of him as they distanced themselves from the village.

She didn’t want to guess at its meaning.

They crossed a side road and startled a pheasant. Gracie glanced down the road at the
dacha
houses lined up, one after another, a quiet audience to their journey. One-room huts, sometimes equipped with a bed, or a stove and sink, and painted sky blue, or jade green, they seemed grim and cold, waiting with dark eyes for summertime activity. Some already evidenced life, in the spaded soil and green potato shoots peeking from black earth.

“I’ve never been here in the spring,” Gracie said, hoping for conversation. She pictured the flowering lilac trees, the current and Saskatoon bushes climbing into the sky, peering over fences. “It seems dead.”

Vicktor stared straight ahead. Gracie bit her lip. The guy was in knots.

“Do you have a
dacha,
Vicktor?” It suddenly occurred to her that they could have gone to his place so he could protect her on his home turf.

“No. My pop didn’t like gardens and Ma was too busy with her job.”

“What did your mother do?” Gracie asked, thankful to see a spark of life in his stony face.

“She was a nurse. She worked for thirty years in the Khabarovsk hospital. Retired three years ago.” His tone warped with bitterness. “She died of cancer a year later.”

Gracie heart wrenched. “I’m so sorry, Vicktor.”

He shrugged.

The breeze shifted as they drew closer to the river. It lifted the hair from her neck and chilled her ears. Gracie shivered slightly, wishing for a jacket. At least she had decent shoes—she’d traded in Larissa’s horrendous sandals for her ankle boots when she left Nickolai’s.

“So, do you think there’s a heaven?”

Gracie stopped and stared at him. He dodged her gaze.

“Yes, absolutely, Vicktor.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Her heart thumped in her chest. “Because I believe the Bible. And the Bible tells me that it is so.”

He turned his incredible blue eyes on her and the intensity of his gaze speared her. “And how do you know the Bible is true?”

God picked
now
to let her witness? She dug through her memories, and prayed for the right answer. “A part of it is faith, Vicktor. Faith says there is a God and that He made us, and gave us His Word so that we can know Him. The Bible is the record of His activities with the kingdom of Israel, and of who He is, in the personage of Jesus Christ. But consider this—if the Bible isn’t true, or only parts of it are, how are we to know which parts are accurate and which aren’t? You either believe it in one gulp, or dismiss it outright. It can’t be pieced out.”

Vicktor wrapped a hand around his neck. She had the urge to massage that tense muscle for him. “So, why does it matter if the Bible is true, or not?”

Gracie felt his question more than heard it. Why did it matter? So what, there is a God. Why did it matter to anyone what God thought?