VANGUARD(88)

“What is it?” Sophie felt more dread in her stomach. “What’s wrong?”

Marlene smiled. “This is a good bomb.” She held up a bank check and a sheaf of legal paperwork. “Someone made a donation, earmarked specifically to cover ‘any and all extraordinary costs incurred by the Refugee Crisis Coalition associated with the rescue and repatriation of Dr. Michael Nariovsky-Trent.’”

“Holy shit.” Sophie reached out with trembling fingers to take the check. “Is it enough?”

“More than, although not by much,” confirmed Marlene. “The amount is close enough that it makes us think the donor had inside information.”

“Who was it?” She felt shaken to the core by this development.

“Anonymous.” Marlene pointed to the legal paperwork. “Came through a big name law firm. Cash money, not a pledge to cover these costs in the future, which all too frequently doesn’t materialize. Cash in the hand.” She looked at Michael. “You, my friend, are home free.”





-





Michael vibrated with tension all the way back to Midtown. There was no point in talking to him when he was in this state, so Sophie let him be. As they sat on the train, he reached down to take her hand. She squeezed it tight.

His mood remained dark for the remainder of the day. Michael’s parents were at a social engagement, so he and Sophie had a quiet dinner and watched a movie. She didn’t push to talk. He was too fixated about the possibility of their relationship becoming a topic of media scrutiny.

Eventually, she pulled him against her on the couch and started rubbing her fingers through his short hair. He was just starting to relax when the phone in the kitchen rang, and he jumped, his head connecting with Sophie’s jaw.

“Jesus!” She rubbed her chin until Michael pulled her hands away, searching for bleeding. “You’re so edgy tonight.” She winced as he probed her jaw line.

“I know. I am sorry, mana mila. This afternoon was…”

She took his wrists in her hands and dropped a kiss on each of them, and another on his mouth. She suddenly remembered him washing her in the shower in Kaliningrad, the tenderness with which he’d cared for her when she’d been sick. “For me, too. Come.” She switched off the television. “Let’s go upstairs. I know what you need.”

Sophie told him to get undressed and lie down. A few moments later, she climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. She squeezed some lotion onto her hands and began to massage his back. Beneath her, Michael let out a faint groan of contentment.

“Seems like the least I could do for the man who let me sleep in this morning.” She leaned forward to kiss him between his shoulder blades. “Went out early to fetch me breakfast.” Another kiss. “Made me coffee.” Another kiss. “And endured much scrutiny and ogling from my coworkers.” Another kiss.

For every word she said aloud, she said a dozen others with her actions. That she understood his moods. That she cared deeply about many of the same things he did. That she, too, felt distressed that their intensely private love affair could easily become a plaything for the media in a matter of days.

That she loved him beyond words, beyond reason.

Her strong fingers dug into his muscles. Sophie spent several long minutes soothing away the tension in his shoulders, then made her way down his back. He slowly relaxed under her until she heard his breathing drift into a soft rhythm. She slid off him, and climbed under the covers. Michael mumbled incoherently. He pulled her into his arms and went under again.

The next morning, they sat at the kitchen table over coffee, a pad of paper between them. Media training happened on Monday. The press release would go out Tuesday, and an initial interview had been scheduled with the New York Times that same day. After that, their private lives would cease to be private.

“Where do we start?” he asked.

“Let’s make a list of everyone we’ve got to talk to before this hits the media.” She picked up a pen and made a note. “I still haven’t told my parents. They know I’m home from Orlisia with an escaped American refugee. I haven’t quite gotten to the part where I’m in love with him.”

“We should speak with Carter in person. Perhaps we could drive up on the weekend,” suggested Michael.

She nodded. She wanted to see the baby anyway. “The class.”

“You do not believe they will not talk to the media, do you?”