In Sheep's Clothing (13 page)

So maybe she’d been just a little hard on him.

Vicktor squinted into the rearview mirror. Time to lose the chauffeur. The guy was like a bulldog. He not only bristled at the suggestion that Vicktor take Grace shopping, but now he drove so close, he’d ram right up their tailpipe if Vicktor touched the brakes. Vicktor bit back his irritation and answered Grace’s question.

“I learned my English at Moscow University.”

“You’re very good. Barely an accent. I can hardly tell you’re Russian.”

“Is that so bad?”

“No, I didn’t mean that at all.” She cringed, and he felt like a heel.

But still, it was telling. Maybe it wasn’t a strike against him to be Russian.

By her blush, he knew she was sorry. “No problem.”

She twisted her hands in her lap. “No, really, I like Russia, and Russians. I couldn’t be here if I didn’t. I have a lot of Russian friends, I like Russian food…”

He suppressed a grin, and without thinking, reached over and touched her hand, silencing her explanation. “It’s okay, Miss Benson. I’m not offended.”

She sighed, and he was achingly aware of the softness of her skin. He yanked back his hand, feeling it tingle. The rumble
of street traffic and the tick of his ancient engine invaded the sudden silence.

“Please, call me Gracie,” she whispered.

Gracie.
Yeah, he liked that. “And we can dispense with the Captain Shubnikov.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while they sat at a red light. “My name’s Vicktor.”

“I remember,” she said, staring out the window.

He wondered if she also remembered his arms around her, protecting her in the doorway of her apartment. He surely did. That and her smell, and the way she let her emotions unravel in the car…

So maybe a chaperone or two this evening
was
a good idea.

He parked in front of
Dom Adezhda
—the House of Clothing. In what had once been the state department store, a hundred budding capitalists hawked their recent clothing finds, from Italian leather to Chinese polyester, in aisle after aisle of crammed kiosks.

Gracie jumped out of the car and Vicktor opened the front door for her. He gritted his teeth as Andrei scooted in behind her. On their heels, Vicktor felt like a tagalong.

The latest in European fashions stretched across modern silver mannequins, and ebony boots, in softened leather, lined glass showcases at the end of each long row of kiosks. Thankfully, the store was still empty, but Vicktor soon realized their liability. Vendors trailed them like hungry puppies, barking out sales pitches, prices and fresh deals as they wandered up and down the aisles.

Gracie seemed to be in no hurry, stopping now and again to examine skirts. Andrei strolled beside her, translating quietly into her ear, hands shoved into his coat pockets. Vicktor pursed his lips, annoyance building with each step.

Gracie halted, staring at a wall of long, straight black skirts. She pointed to one, and the clerk took it down, then pulled it open to reveal an attractive side split. Gracie wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

Vicktor sighed. The skirts were either too short, or too long, or too tight. He would have liked to see any of them on her.

He sidled up to her and grabbed her elbow. She stiffened.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay,” Gracie said, but fear had leaped into her eyes.

He softened his voice and leaned close, noticing the whisper of floral scent skimming her skin. “Anything would look good on you. Please, hurry.”

She suppressed a smile. He was pleased to see her blush, but hoped his words hit home. The longer she clomped through the store in those painfully ugly hiking boots, the more dangerous her world became.

She continued to meander down the aisle. Vicktor buried his hands in his trench-coat pockets and followed her with as much patience as he could muster.

Two fruitless stops later, worry pushed him to his limit. Ignoring Andrei’s stinging glare, he placed a hand on the small of her back and maneuvered Gracie toward an unmanned kiosk.

“Pick something out, please.”

The expression on his face must have startled her, for her eyes widened.

“I don’t wear these kinds of clothes, Vicktor. I don’t know what to get.”

He liked the sound of his name on her lips. “I’ll help you.” Scanning the aisle he made eye contact with a clerk. She hustled up to the booth.

“We’ll take that,” he said, pointing to a short black dress with a flared skirt.

She handed it to Gracie and motioned her toward a dressing room. Gracie screwed up her pretty face, unsure.

“Just try it on.”

She disappeared into the booth, looking doubtful.

Five minutes later she was grinning at herself in a long mirror.

Vicktor barely disguised his delight. Oh yeah, hidden under all that denim was a woman that just might kick up his heart rate if he wasn’t careful.

Who was he kidding? He could already feel the pulse in his ears.

The black dress skimmed her curves, flaring out just above the knees, conservatively longer than the latest thigh-high fashion but short enough to reveal some seriously shaped legs. Gracie wrapped her arms around her body. Vicktor stepped up behind her and pulled them down, revealing her figure. He could admit he wore his heart in the gesture, but he couldn’t help himself. She needed this dress.

“I’m getting this for you.” He pulled out his wallet and fingered two hundred-ruble notes.

“No, Vicktor, I can pay—”

“Now, boots and some stockings,” he said, and pointed to a pair of slender ankle boots under the glass countertop. The salesgirl handed them, and a pair of packaged black hosiery, to Gracie.

Gracie took them, but said, “I don’t know, Vicktor. They aren’t me. They’re too…Russian.”

Vicktor met her eyes. “That’s the point. Trust me, I won’t let it go to my head, even though it’ll be difficult.”
Liar, liar.

Gracie blushed and fled into the dressing room, followed by the salesgirl.

Vicktor ignored Andrei’s glower.

Giggles, then Gracie emerged.

How he loved it when he was right. His breath caught in his chest. She’d swept up her hair, the color of creamy butter against the overhead lights, into a loose inverted bun, fastened with a gold clip provided by the inventive clerk. Her eyes sparkled and she wore a delicious expression of delight. Vicktor could barely swallow past the lump in his throat. He moved forward, intending to indulge her with a well-deserved compliment, but Andrei beat him to it.

“Wow.”

Vicktor couldn’t tell if Andrei was impressed, or disturbed by his new Russianized girlfriend, but Gracie smiled, pleased by his comment.

Vicktor dredged up his voice and suggested lunch at a local cafe.

“I thought we were to stay undercover,” Andrei said.

“We are.” Vicktor gestured toward Gracie. “Who is going to recognize her? A little red lipstick and she’d pass for my cousin from Moscow.”

“No red lipstick, please,” Gracie said, laughing.

Andrei frowned. “I don’t think that is a good idea. You never know who could be watching. Maybe they followed us into the store.”

“Who followed you?”

Gracie glanced at Andrei. Guilt darkened their faces and Vicktor felt as if he’d been punched in the chest.

“We were shot at this morning in the village,” Andrei admitted in a low tone.

“Excuse me?” Vicktor clenched his fists to keep from turning this idiotic chauffeur inside out. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” He glowered first at Andrei, then at Gracie. She shrank before him. So much for the trust.

Gracie’s face conveyed her feelings of regret. “I’m sorry. When you told me about Leonid, well, I was so upset, I just forgot.”

“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.

T
he 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 protective 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?”