Take Me for a Ride (16 page)

He flushed and looked extremely uncomfortable. “I just don’t want you to go alone, that’s all.”

“Eric, that doesn’t make sense. You’re not responsible for me or the mess I’ve gotten myself into. And don’t you have a job? How can you just take off like this, with no notice to anyone?”

“Natalie,” he said, his color rising even more. “I’m a consultant—I told you. I travel constantly. As it happens, my company owes me about five weeks of paid vacation and I was only here in New York to wrap up a long-term project. So I happen to be free.”

She stared at him warily. Suspicion fired little warning shots into every corner of her brain. He sounded a little glib. She raised the coffee cup to her lips again and drank. Then she said again, “Why?”

“Natalie, do you speak Russian? Do you know the Cyrillic alphabet to even read street signs?”

She shook her head. “You?”

“I won’t claim I’m fluent, but I took a year of Russian in college. I’ll be able to get us around.”

Nat just looked at him, long and hard, clearly extending her question.

“Look, what are you gonna do if you run into muscle men over there, Natalie?”

“So you’re coming with me to protect me?”

“Is that bad?” he countered.

“Eric, what do you care, really? I’m some random girl you picked up at a bar.”

He dropped his towel on the floor—deliberately? To distract her?—and stood there naked while she sucked in a breath and then averted her gaze. Then he stepped into a pair of boxers and pulled them up over his hips. He settled his big hands on them and squared his jaw. “I just care, okay? I like you, Natalie. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Was he saying that he had some feelings for her? Maybe their strange proximity and the violence of the last couple of days had created an unusual bond, which they’d sealed by making love. She did feel as if she’d known him much longer than she had.

He raised his reddish gold eyebrows and fixed her with that Newman blue stare, the one that blended challenge with integrity and self-awareness with compassion. It was one that said the world both amused and disgusted him, but what the hell—he’d play the game. “I’m a security consultant, remember?”

Right. She tossed back the rest of the coffee and stared at the bottom of the empty cup so that she wouldn’t fall into the potency of that gaze and get hopelessly drunk on it. What woman in her right mind would refuse a few more days with him? Not to mention nights.

“Okay. I think you’re crazy, but I won’t turn down the company. How much do I owe you for the plane ticket, though?” She swallowed and hoped she had enough money in her bank account. “I’ll write you a check.”

He waved a hand at her and stuffed his legs into a pair of well-worn khaki pants. “I have frequent-flier miles out the yin-yang, sweetheart. We’re first-class all the way.”

“Eric, I can’t let you do that . . .”

“Tell you what. Let’s argue about it in the taxi on the way to LaGuardia, ’kay? Now, get your cute little butt into the shower or we’re not going to make it.”

She followed orders and tried to put together a passable outfit from what Eric had taken from her apartment, which was a challenge. Brown tights and a black dress. A couple of bras that didn’t fit her anymore, since she’d lost weight. And underwear that was pretty, but desperately uncomfortable. The thought of traveling for, what, sixteen hours or so in a lacy nylon thong made her cringe. But she had no alternative unless she wanted to turn her current pair of panties inside out, which was equally unacceptable.

She chose one of the thongs and a cashmere sweater that had once been her brother’s, but had to ditch the bra because the padding dented in the absence of enough breast. Jeans completed the outfit, but then she was forced to put on running shoes since traveling in high-heeled boots was out of the question. The hems of the jeans puddled and dragged on the floor.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Eric cocked his head, evidently amused.

“Listen, slick, you didn’t bring me much to work with, okay? Half of what you packed doesn’t fit anymore and the other half is mismatched.”

“So the bag-lady look is my fault.”

“Pretty much.”

“Sorry. I’ll make it up to you, but right now we’ve gotta hustle.”

She shoved her wet hair behind her ears and mashed yesterday’s clothing into her bag on top of all the fabric scraps, the notebook, and other odds and ends. “Any reason that you packed bubble bath but no deodorant? And nail polish but no razor?”

He already had the door open and his duffel over his shoulder. “See, it’s like this, sweetheart. I’m a
guy
. We have no clue at all what women take on a trip.”

He was all guy. One hundred percent man. Didn’t even like a hint of pillow talk, even if the message was “You’re the best I’ve ever had.”

She still wondered what he was doing with her, but she had enough mysteries to solve without trying to figure out that one.

 

Once they got to London, McDougal called ARTemis to see whether Miguel had found anything on Giselle, Luc Ricard’s fiancée.

The phone rang and rang, which was unusual. Finally Sheila answered, sounding irritated. “Ahtemis, how may I help you? Oh, McDougal, it’s you. What do you want?”

“Just to hear your voice. Miss me?”

Sheila snorted. “Try your pathetic lines on some gal who might b’lieve ’em. I’m busy.”

“Put me through to Miguel, will you?”

A long-suffering sigh blew through the phone, and then Eric heard a click. But the voice on the other end of the line was not Miguel’s.

“All right, Sid, honey, where were we?” Sheila now sounded like a Brooklyn Betty Boop, all breathless and borderline orgasmic. “I’m wearing nothing but your diamonds and the leather bustier. I’m bending over the sofa now, and I’m so hot and willing and ready for you, baby . . .”

“I’m going to hurl,” McDougal said. “What is this, 1-900-GET-SICK?”

“
Shit!
” said Sheila. “Why are you still there, McD? I transferred you!”

“Why are you giving phone sex on our business line? Who’s this Sid guy?”

“Nobody,” Sheila said hastily.

“Sid
Thresher
?”

“Of
course
not.”

Sid Thresher was an aging rock star, the former lead guitarist for the world-famous band Subversion. He’d had an unrequited crush on Gwen for more than a year and still hadn’t quite accepted that she was going to marry another man.

“I’ll be damned,” McDougal said with rising disgust. “What’s he paying you to talk dirty to him?”

“Nothing!”

“Does Marty-the-Hubby know about this?”

“No!”

“I’ll just bet he doesn’t. Maybe I should mention it to him next time I submit an expense report.” Marty was also the accountant for ARTemis.

“Listen, McDougal. If you say anything, I will personally kick your—”

“I don’t really think you’re in a position to make threats, Sheila, do you?”

Silence.

McDougal chuckled gleefully. “What’s the information worth to you?”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“Why not? You’ve tried to extort money out of all of us. Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

“Look,” she said, desperation in her voice. “How ’bout if I give you phone sex, too?”

McDougal shuddered. “That won’t be necessary. But thanks for the offer.”

“McD, what do you want? We can come to some kind of agreement, here. Just tell me.”

He took a moment to think about it. “Okay. I want you to be courteous. No, more than courteous:
sweet
. Not just to me, but to all of us.”

“Sweet.” Disbelief, even horror, permeated her voice.

“Yeah.”

“I can’t. Not in my nature. Ask for something else.”

“Sweetness,” he affirmed. “And I want you to offer us refreshments when we come into the office.”

“Refreshments!” Her voice rose. “
Refreshments!
I suppose next you’ll be asking for me to kiss your spoiled butts . . .”

McDougal grinned like a large, satisfied crocodile. Too bad she couldn’t see him. “Pucker up, Kofsky. Oh, and by the way, I need one helluva maid service to go to a Manhattan apartment and clean up. The place got trashed during a burglary.”

“
Maid service!
” she shouted.

“Yup.”

“I suppose you think I should fly up there myself, in a short, ruffly black-and-white uniform and CFM pumps, with a pink feather duster.”

He could have done without that visual. “Sure, if you’ve got the time. And make sure to do the oven and the windows . . .” He grinned as she sputtered, then gave her Natalie’s address.

“Who’s paying for this?” Sheila wanted to know.

“I am. Now, can I please speak to Miguel?”

A snarl came from Sheila’s end of the line.

“Remember, you’d better be nice!”

Silence.

With an evil chuckle, McDougal just waited her out.

He heard her swallow hard. Then she said, “Why, yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

Tatyana held tight to Colonel Ted’s arm as she drew the Moscow air deep into her old lungs. It was chilly but clean, and tinged with old memories.

She saw her mother and father, decked out for a holiday party. Papa wore his dress uniform and all his medals, while the St. George necklace nestled against her mother’s white bosom, framed to perfection by her low-cut green velvet evening gown.

As girls residing in the Arbatskaya district, Tatyana and her sister, Svetlana, had pressed their noses against the glass of their bedroom window until the taillights of the chauffeured Daimler were out of sight and their governess shooed them off to bed.

Tatyana recalled the two of them huddled in the warm, cavernous kitchen drinking chai, or black tea, made with water from the samovar. They’d sipped it slowly as they observed the family cook making borsht, rye bread, blinis, and fish stew.

Tatyana smiled up at the sky and wiped a tear away with the finger of her glove. “What do you see, Ted? Be my eyes and show me the modern Red Square, mmm?”

He cleared his throat. “All right. There’s a light sprinkling of snow on the dark brick courtyard. It’s not as large an area as I expected, but the buildings are fantastic, like something out of a fairy tale. The historical museum looks like a twin-spired gingerbread castle, made in perfect symmetry by a painstaking pastry chef. It glows reddish brown in the weak sunlight, but all of its towers and cupolas seem dusted with confectioner’s sugar.”

She was enchanted with the vision he conjured, as well as his gorgeous baritone. “Go on. St. Basil’s? Is it the same?”

“St. Basil’s Cathedral was created by an entirely different, and probably mad, pastry chef. Instead of gingerbread, it looks as if it were sculpted out of very fine white cake, with swirls of brightly painted candy atop the five towers.”

“The onion domes,” she murmured. “It’s the same . . .”

“They don’t look like onions. More like upside-down hot-air balloons, slightly squished. Or dollops of meringue, painted like Easter eggs.”

She laughed and clapped her hands. “Lovely description, Ted. What else?”

“The Kremlin Wall runs forever, and inside is a whole complex of buildings—the Kremlin palaces, the state armory, various cathedrals with more onion domes—but gold ones this time. In front of the wall, there’s Len in’s mausoleum with the poor man inside, embalmed for viewing. It’s a rather plain, modern structure with evergreens standing like sentries around it. There’s the monolithic GUM department store, with its great glass roof . . .”

Tatyana listened as he re-created the iconic sights for her, his voice adding a rich poetry to the visual feast. At last his voice tapered off, and they simply stood together, arm in arm. She could feel the tentative sunshine of spring bathing her face, and her hair lifting in the gentle breeze. She sensed that Ted was looking at her and not at the architecture.

“What is it? Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” She carefully applied a soft shade each morning with her finger and a magnifying mirror. Natalie had chosen the color for her.

“No. You look . . . radiant,” he said. “Happy.” After a moment he added, “Beautiful.”

Her breath caught. No one had called her beautiful in decades. “Ted—”

His hand tightened on her arm. “Tatyana, did you mention our trip here to anyone?”

“No. Not even to Natalie, who’s probably worried sick. Why?”

“Because we’re being watched.”

“Watched?” she repeated. “How do you know?”

“My uniform may be dusty after years of retirement, but basic surveillance techniques don’t change—even if they’ve got fancier equipment these days. There are three different men, and they’ve been on us since we left the hotel. One’s in an old Volvo. Two are on foot.”

Just like that, Tatyana’s pleasure at being back in Moscow dissipated. “Ted, what do we do?”

He covered her hand with his. “Well, for starters, we lose them. Then we change hotels.”

Natalie and Eric checked into the Savoy upon arrival in Moscow. He definitely traveled first-class.

“Do you mind if we share a room?” he asked her.

Natalie looked around the lobby, focusing on the luxe seating, the gorgeous chandeliers, the fresh flower arrangements. She gulped, not even wanting to know what it cost to stay a night here.

He raised his eyebrows and gave her a quizzical look. Belatedly she realized that he was still awaiting an answer from her.

“Of—of course not,” she stammered. “But Eric, I can’t af—”

“I can get you your own room if you’d like,” he said. “I just thought we could have more . . . fun . . . if we stayed together.”

He winked at her, and heat bloomed in her cheeks, spread down her neck and then lower.

“Yes,” she managed. “I’d like to stay together.”