Our Woman in Moscow(94)

“You must be exhausted,” Fox says at last. “You should get some sleep.”

“You, too.”

“Going to be a big day tomorrow.”

“Yes, it is.”

We stare at each other helplessly.

“Some vodka, maybe?” Fox suggests.

“God, yes.”

He finds the bottle and a pair of glasses and pours us each a shot. To my surprise, he swallows his drink as swiftly and expertly as I do, and I’m even more surprised when he refills us both and repeats the exercise. I slump back against the sofa cushion and so does he.

“Everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

Fox touches my cheek with his thumb. “Yes, darling. Everything’s going to be all right.”



At some point in the night, I wake with a jerk. From the window comes the murky greenish charcoal of a midsummer’s dusk in the far north—no such thing as true night—so it couldn’t be later than three in the morning.

“Fox,” I breathe, but he’s already awake. His tension prickles me from the other side of the bed.

He knows, as I do, that someone else shares the room with us.

We stumbled to bed just before eleven. He wore his silk pajamas and I wore my silk negligee, but it wasn’t the same as two nights ago, though I wanted him just as badly. For one thing, we were too sober—literally sober, despite two shots each of excellent Russian vodka, but also in spirit—and for another, our journey together had just rounded its final turn. We could not risk further attachment. We could not allow our magnetic poles to lock together, no matter how great the pull of attraction.

Still, it wasn’t the same as our first night in Moscow, either. I wanted him near, even if I couldn’t touch him, and I felt he wanted the same from me. He lifted the covers for me. I scooted over to give him room. He leaned in to kiss me and said clearly Good night, sweetheart, and I like to think he said it to me, and not to the microphone tucked into the frame of the landscape that hung above the headboard.

I then slipped into a profound and dreamless sleep, so that my present jarred wakefulness makes me feel as if I’ve been propelled into a new universe. At first, I’m conscious only of the faint electricity of the intruder, the way you sense the presence of a living creature even if you can’t see or hear or smell it. I called out to Fox out of instinct, just now, not because I remembered he was there.

I regret it instantly.

Now the spook knows we’re awake.

A few feet away, Fox moves his arm, inch by inch. The mattress stirs delicately. I wonder what the hell he means to do. Launch himself into the dark? I can’t see anything but shadows and the faint light of the streetlamps outside the window through the crack between the curtains.

The room is so quiet, I hear the sheets move as I breathe. Fox feels fluid next to me, sliding too smoothly for sound, muscles coiling, cat ready to pounce. Don’t do it, I think. He’ll go away in a while.

Unless he won’t.

The blood rushes in my ears. My eyes ache from not blinking. I’m afraid to blink—I’m afraid to move—to distract Fox—to attract attention—

A shadow streaks across the room. I shoot up in time to hear an oomph, a crash, a cry—the cry’s mine—I jump out of bed and grab the lamp, yank it from the socket—a horrifying crunch of flesh and bone—thump thump thump as somebody bolts into the living room, thump thump thump as somebody chases him.

I run after them and scrabble along the wall for the switch. Find it, flip it on. Bright light fills the room, illuminating the dark-haired man who throws open the door and staggers out into the hallway. Fox dives after him. I dive after Fox.

“Don’t! Stop!”

He whirls on me. His pale eyes blaze with something I can only call bloodlust—beyond fury or fight or hate—just the desire to destroy whatever it was that threatened us. I fall back a step and the flame dies in an instant. Blood trickles from a small cut on his cheekbone.

“What was that?” I gasp.

“Just a watcher, I think. Checking on us.”

I open my mouth to tell him that wasn’t what I meant, but he’s already turned away to close and lock the door—as if that will make any difference—so I walk to the bathroom instead and run a washcloth under the faucet. When I return, Fox stands with his hands braced against the door and his eyes shut tight.

“Turn around,” I say.

He turns. I wash the cut gently while he sets his hands on his hips and stares at the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Sorry for what?”

“You shouldn’t have come to Moscow. On our own like this.”

“Of course I should. I’m not a child.” I put down my hand with the washcloth and stare at his chin, which contains a tiny dimple, so small you almost don’t see it unless you’re up close. He looks down at me over the ridge of his cheekbones, wary, and comprehension comes upon me like the beam of a searchlight, smack between the eyes. “Christ Almighty,” I whisper.

He shakes his head and lays his finger over my mouth. I pluck it off and wheel around. I’m too angry to look at him. My skin scintillates with fury.

“Ruth!” he calls softly after me.

“Go to hell!”

I stride back into the bedroom and slam the door behind me. Between the curtains, a smudge of dawn colors the air. I plug the lamp back into the wall and turn it on. No point in going back to sleep. I pull my suitcase from the top of the armoire and yank my dresses from their hangers.