clump of sentinel pines, where the car could not be seen from the driveway. Alexis scanned their surroundings for other vehicles, but a Sherman tank could have been hidden in that stygian darkness and she’d never know it.
She fastened her coat and flipped up her fur-lined hood, collected her briefcase, and emerged into a sharp, brittle cold that threatened to shatter her skin like glass. Her boots broke through a crust of snow, and she floundered in knee-high drifts.
Swiftly the captain strode around the car, taking her arm in his firm protective grip. Even in a casual gesture, she noted wryly, he got everything right. Captain Victor Kostenko handled her the way every woman wanted to be touched.
Together they waded through the snow to the back door. He fished out the key from the ledge above the door and let them in. Alexis ducked into the welcome warmth, then stared around the common room in astonishment.
Against the rough-planked walls, a circle of carved wooden faces stared back at her: eyes wide or narrowed, mouths grinning or stern, hooked noses, snub noses, bushy brows, curling whiskers and long-handled pipes. Beneath these examples of someone’s hobby, patches of color gleamed on the hardwood floors from faded Uzbek and Azeri carpets.
Under a delicate lace tablecloth that was probably some babushka ’s treasure, the little table groaned with traditional fare: blue-and-white china piled with homemade pickles, sprays of fresh dill and parsley, a loaf of black bread, the inevitable dish of sour cream. A bottle of local vodka saluted them.
Yet it was clear to Alexis that whoever’d prepared the table was long gone. The cluttered kitchen was empty, the darkened bedroom barely visible behind an almost-closed door. And they’d passed the tiny outhouse on their way in.
“Will your friend be returning soon?” Alexis asked casually, shrugging out of her coat.
“He’s in Novosibirsk on a business trip.” Kostenko locked the door behind them and helped with her coat. “His housekeeper opened the dacha and arranged the table at my request.”
“Nice of her.” She turned away to conceal another attack of nerves, toed off her snowy boots—a common courtesy in this climate—and slipped her feet into the felt-lined slippers every Russian kept for guests. Swiftly the captain circled the room, going from window to window, tugging the curtains closed.
“Are we, ah, expecting someone else?” She eyed him. Thinking about the locked door behind them, the car tucked away in the trees, the remote location, the way he’d driven. Maybe not ego or recklessness after all, but evasive maneuvers?
“No.” For a moment, his features were shuttered as he checked the display on his mobile phone, then powered it off. He twisted open the vodka, and glanced up at her hesitation with a glimmer of amusement in those glacial eyes. “Sorry.”
Deliberately, she chose the scratchy green armchair near the crackling fire. God knew she wasn’t going anywhere near the sofa—or the bedroom—with him in the house. Better just gather the information he’d promised, ask her questions, then get the hell out. Questionable enough to be here alone with him in the first place.
“Perhaps you’d better give me those talking points, captain, on the Ukraine crisis.” Gingerly, she accepted a brimming glass of vodka, its fumes sharp as gasoline. Just smelling the stuff made her eyes water.
“Always working, Ms. Castle,” he mocked, saluting her with his glass before he tossed back the rotgut. Like all Russian males over the age of ten, he seemed immune to its corrosive effects. “But I did promise.”
Unbuttoning his uniform jacket and claiming the couch, Kostenko proceeded to inform her, in the crisp diction of a man imparting distasteful news, how the sizable ethnic Russian minority in Ukraine had actually entreated the Russian military to ramp up its presence there. How ethnic tensions between pro-Russian and pro-Ukraine parties
She fastened her coat and flipped up her fur-lined hood, collected her briefcase, and emerged into a sharp, brittle cold that threatened to shatter her skin like glass. Her boots broke through a crust of snow, and she floundered in knee-high drifts.
Swiftly the captain strode around the car, taking her arm in his firm protective grip. Even in a casual gesture, she noted wryly, he got everything right. Captain Victor Kostenko handled her the way every woman wanted to be touched.
Together they waded through the snow to the back door. He fished out the key from the ledge above the door and let them in. Alexis ducked into the welcome warmth, then stared around the common room in astonishment.
Against the rough-planked walls, a circle of carved wooden faces stared back at her: eyes wide or narrowed, mouths grinning or stern, hooked noses, snub noses, bushy brows, curling whiskers and long-handled pipes. Beneath these examples of someone’s hobby, patches of color gleamed on the hardwood floors from faded Uzbek and Azeri carpets.
Under a delicate lace tablecloth that was probably some babushka ’s treasure, the little table groaned with traditional fare: blue-and-white china piled with homemade pickles, sprays of fresh dill and parsley, a loaf of black bread, the inevitable dish of sour cream. A bottle of local vodka saluted them.
Yet it was clear to Alexis that whoever’d prepared the table was long gone. The cluttered kitchen was empty, the darkened bedroom barely visible behind an almost-closed door. And they’d passed the tiny outhouse on their way in.
“Will your friend be returning soon?” Alexis asked casually, shrugging out of her coat.
“He’s in Novosibirsk on a business trip.” Kostenko locked the door behind them and helped with her coat. “His housekeeper opened the dacha and arranged the table at my request.”
“Nice of her.” She turned away to conceal another attack of nerves, toed off her snowy boots—a common courtesy in this climate—and slipped her feet into the felt-lined slippers every Russian kept for guests. Swiftly the captain circled the room, going from window to window, tugging the curtains closed.
“Are we, ah, expecting someone else?” She eyed him. Thinking about the locked door behind them, the car tucked away in the trees, the remote location, the way he’d driven. Maybe not ego or recklessness after all, but evasive maneuvers?
“No.” For a moment, his features were shuttered as he checked the display on his mobile phone, then powered it off. He twisted open the vodka, and glanced up at her hesitation with a glimmer of amusement in those glacial eyes. “Sorry.”
Deliberately, she chose the scratchy green armchair near the crackling fire. God knew she wasn’t going anywhere near the sofa—or the bedroom—with him in the house. Better just gather the information he’d promised, ask her questions, then get the hell out. Questionable enough to be here alone with him in the first place.
“Perhaps you’d better give me those talking points, captain, on the Ukraine crisis.” Gingerly, she accepted a brimming glass of vodka, its fumes sharp as gasoline. Just smelling the stuff made her eyes water.
“Always working, Ms. Castle,” he mocked, saluting her with his glass before he tossed back the rotgut. Like all Russian males over the age of ten, he seemed immune to its corrosive effects. “But I did promise.”
Unbuttoning his uniform jacket and claiming the couch, Kostenko proceeded to inform her, in the crisp diction of a man imparting distasteful news, how the sizable ethnic Russian minority in Ukraine had actually entreated the Russian military to ramp up its presence there. How ethnic tensions between pro-Russian and pro-Ukraine parties
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