Chapter 6 #2
He shrugs. “I was bored, and I knew that you wouldn’t have much time to get dressed. And we need to go.”
It was kind of nice of him to do that, but still. . . what did I have in those bags he saw?
“Um, thanks.” I guess if he’s my bodyguard and pretend husband, I might have to give up a little of my privacy.
But I’m mentally cringing at the memory of the plain white underwear and plain white bras that I packed.
Why would I wear anything sexy? It was just supposed to be me. I don’t even own anything sexy.
I quickly grab a clean skirt and a top. Something business casual. He’s wearing a light blue button-down dress shirt and navy pants that fit him like a glove. He looks effortlessly put together and casual.
Markov scowls. “Five minutes until we have to go. Skip the makeup.”
Okay, now he’s stepping too far.
“No. My face is all blotchy from all that travel. I at least need a little lip gloss.” I turn my back to him and grab my little bag. “And excuse me, but fake husband that you may be, you are not the boss of me.” I need to hold my own with this one.
He presses his lips together and narrows his eyes at me. “I’m your husband. You should obey your husband.”
Oh no, he doesn’t. I glare at him. I’m suddenly reminded of the way he told me to behave myself.
I open my mouth to protest in some effective, persuasive way, but instead, I turn, run to the bathroom, and slam the door behind me.
Good one, Vera. Very graceful.
I toss makeup on quickly as if my life depended on it and join him back in the room. He gives me a quick look of appraisal and turns away.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you the truth. I should have. I was pulled from another mission to be put on this one, and I made some quick decisions. It won’t happen again.”
It’s hard to hold a grudge with an apology that’s so honest and direct. I’m so relieved we can actually talk to one another that I’m quick to forgive.
“Thank you. So, do you want that American dude to know that you speak English?
“Believe me,” he says with a smile. “He’s going to know that very quickly.”
“Remember, this is my professional job here, Markov. . .”
“I’ll remember.” His eyes darken. “And so will he.”
We have no more time to chat. Why do I all of a sudden feel so shy in front of him now that we can communicate more freely? That layer of protection between us isn’t there anymore.
When he opens the door, I walk past him. He leans in and whispers in my ear, “I know what my job is, Vera. Do you know yours? That little attitude you gave me a few minutes ago? I’ll remember that.” He smiles and nods. “After you, wife.”
Oh, my God, I really need to start reading romcom instead of all that erotic romance. Seriously. Maybe thrillers.
“I studied the map while you were sleeping,” he says. “It’s this way.” He reaches for my hand.
“Markov—”
“You’re supposed to be my wife,” he says in a whisper. “You were the one that chose this, Vera.”
Shit. He’s right. I take his hand and practically have to trot to keep up with his long strides.
“We need to solidify the story,” he says in a low voice only meant for me to hear.
“What story?”
“How we met. When we got married. All of that.”
Something about just hearing him so those words… those events that I’ve longed for and mostly given up hope of ever happening… just hearing him speak them aloud makes my heart thump in my chest.
Why did I do this?
“Okay. Um. Alright, we can tell them we were high school sweethearts. We went our separate ways after graduation and reunited at a friend’s wedding.”
“High school sweethearts? That can’t work. I’m way older than you. “
I didn’t even think of that. “Are you? How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-one. You’re, what, twenty-two, twenty-three? Next idea.”
“Right. Um. . . I was on vacation, hiking in the mountains of Switzerland, and you were my tour guide?”
He shakes his head. “Do I really look like someone who could be a Swiss tour guide? And what if they ask me about it? The only thing I can tell you about Switzerland is that the chocolate’s good.”
I snort. “Okay, so, what’s your genius idea?”
He purses his lips and scowls. “Online dating service. The algorithm matched us as compatible, even though we come from two very different backgrounds. You were too busy with grad school to date, but we hit it off immediately. After only three months of dating, we eloped, much to our parents’ chagrin. That was a year ago.”
My romance lover’s heart thumps. This is a dangerous place to be, but I can already see the dining hall and Irina waiting for us. We don’t have any more time.
“Deal.”
“Vera! Markov! I hope you got some rest,” Irina says, greeting us at the door. “We’re still waiting for a few guests, but please go on in and introduce yourselves.”
Markov opens the door and rests his hand on the small of my back. He leans in and whispers in my ear, “Remember what I said about the American and about behaving yourself. I expect an obedient wife, Vera.”
I discreetly stick my tongue out at him and relish the look of challenge in his eyes. If he thinks he’s going to tell me what to do, he can think again.
If I behave myself, he might stop threatening me. But a girl needs to live a little. He can’t actually touch me, so I’ll have my fun.
Jake stands beside a tall, lithe man with short silver hair.
When I realize who it is, I forget all about Markov and tamp down the need to fangirl.
I want to pinch myself. The man beside Jake is none other than Dr. Antoly Morozov, the scholar I’ve idealized since grade school.
When he sees me, he smiles widely in greeting.
“Welcome. You must be Vera Ivanova. And this is. . .”
“My husband, Markov.” Markov and I shake hands with him.
“I’m Professor Morozov,” the professor says, extending his hand. “Allow me to introduce the rest. Liam O’Sullivan.” He points to another tall man with fiery red hair who looks friendly enough, but I notice a guardedness in his posture. Maybe he’s just a reserved Irishman.
“Sophia Lang.” A petite woman with jet-black hair and striking blue eyes. Despite her delicate appearance, she seems to carry herself with confidence. “So nice to meet you,” she says in a clipped accent.
“And Maxim Smith.”
A blond man with wire-rimmed glasses extends a hand to me.
“Hello! Are you also American?”
He shakes his head. “My mother is Russian, and my father is American, hence my name. But I’ve spent most of my life here in Moscow. “
Markov nods. “As did I. Whereabouts?”
They continue their discussion in Russian, and I’m glad Markov might have at least made an acquaintance. His presence here seems natural, which makes me want to breathe a sigh of relief.
Jake sidles up next to me while Irina pours wine and Markov is busy talking to Maxim. “I thought your husband didn’t speak English?”
“Of course he does. He’s just a man of few words.”
Still, Jake regards him warily. “I’m glad you’re not alone. It can be lonely out here without somebody’s company. Especially when we get to the fieldwork.” Markov looks over at us.
I don’t respond because I’m not exactly sure what to say to him, but apparently, Markov does. He leans over and rests an arm on the table beside me. The scent of the woods and spice somehow reassures me. “She most definitely won’t be going alone on fieldwork.”
“Is that allowed?” Jake asks, undeterred. He takes a sip of wine and keeps his face impassive.
Markov doesn’t respond, but he looks like he wants to deck him. Professor Morozov smiles and holds his glass of wine up in a toast. “Absolutely. My own wife occasionally accompanies us as well. With today’s political climate, I think we’d be wise to bring a bodyguard-type with us, don’t you?”
While everyone else laughs, I nearly choke on my wine. Markov, however, only winks at me. It appears he has a charming side he’s been hiding all along.
Can they all know who he really is?
But how much do I know?