HER RUSSIAN SURRENDER Read online

  He peeked up at her, “Think I should?”

  Sam had to fight hard to control her laughter. Yes, she thought. This made a certain kind of sense. Marco, so loyal to his hood he insisted on staying on his beat after Nikolai had tried to get him kicked off of it. And Nyla, who Sam had complete trust would run the shelter well while she was away on maternity leave.

  Suddenly Nyla’s generous offers to deal with Marco’s daily visits so Sam wouldn’t have to didn’t seem quite as altruistic as they had before.

  “Actually, I think you should,” she said to Marco, happy to give the new couple her blessing. “But Nyla’s not here. She’s studying. Her last final is tomorrow, then she’s babysitting for me on Friday.”

  Marco grimaced. “Oh…”

  It was easy to tell in that moment that Marco had spent some time working up the courage to come over here and ask Nyla out.

  “I guess I’ll try again on Monday,” he said.

  “Yeah, Monday.”

  In the distance, Nikolai’s Escalade pulled up and Sam said, “I’ve gotta go.”

  Marco looked over his shoulder at the Escalade. “Yeah, I guess you do. Thanks for the talk, Sammy.”

  “No problem,” she said. She came down the steps, prepared to walk past him, but at the last minute she said, “I can’t give you Nyla’s address…”

  “I know,” he answered. “I can always look her up in the database—”

  “No, you can’t, because girls like us consider guys showing up unannounced stressful and creepy,” she said. “I should have told you that before.”

  And Marco looked down again. “Yeah. I guess that could come off kind of wrong.”

  “But I can text you her number,” Sam told him. “And maybe you can text her, offer to bring her by something to eat. I remember being where she is right now, and getting food was a total hassle.”

  Marco smiled. “That’s a great idea.”

  “If she takes you up on your invitation, then you’ve got a green light to ask her out. If not, you should probably back down. So, do you still want her number?”

  Marco looked from side to side like he was trying to decide between the blue and the red pill. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, I do.”

  So that was how Sam ended up keeping her fake husband waiting while she sent her ex-almost boyfriend her soon-to-be assistant director’s number. Then of course she had to wait to see how it turned out.

  Marco sent the text and less than a minute later, he grinned as he read out loud. “’Dude, you’re saving my life. How soon can you get over here with a burger?’”

  Sam clapped her hands, truly happy for him and for Nyla.

  Marco shook his head. “I’m just happy she asked for a burger. I was worried she’d be one of those vegetarians, and I’m already going to have a hard time explaining all the face jewelry to my mom if we start dating.”

  Marco escorted Sam to the Escalade where Nikolai still sat, waiting.

  “Hey, Mount Nik,” he said, acknowledging Nikolai with a small wave before continuing on down the street towards his own car.

  Nikolai didn’t return the greeting and Sam noticed that his hands were gripped so tight around the Escalade’s wheel, his knuckles were white. But he hadn’t gotten out of the car, hadn’t yanked her out of the conversation with Marco. And Nikolai didn’t make any attempt to follow Marco as he climbed into his vintage Mustang.

  Progress, Sam thought to herself as she climbed into the passenger seat, which she supposed was why she decided to tell him...

  “You’ll never believe this... I was helping Marco set up a date with Nyla! How wild is that?” Then she rushed on with, “I hope I didn’t make us late for the flight.”

  The only indication he’d registered what she’d said about Marco and Nyla was that his hands visibly loosened on the wheel.

  “No,” Nikolai answered, his voice completely casual. “Plane will wait.”

  THE PLANE turned out to be not a commercial airliner, but a private jet with RUSTANOV ENTERPRISES painted across the side in large black letters.

  “A late wedding gift from my cousin,” Nikolai explained while she gaped at the jet awaiting them in a hangar behind Indianapolis International Airport.

  “Is that where we’re going?” she asked, as they walked up the air stairs to the plane’s main entry door. “To Texas? To an event for your cousin?”

  “No,” Nikolai answered. And that was all he said.

  Sam opened her mouth to once again try to extract some answers other than “you will see” and “no” to her questions, but her thoughts trailed off when she saw the inside of the plane.

  The front quarter-half of the cabin was taken up by sumptuous, side-by-side leather seats like those she’d seen in the first class section of the commercial airplanes she’d flown. But instead of seats, the other side of the plane was taken up by a conference table and a thin couch. That seating area, Sam noticed, was just wide enough to sit on—but not wide enough to stretch out on without fear of rolling off in the middle of the night.

  “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Rustanov,” a cheery voice said behind them.

  They both turned to see a smiling male flight attendant holding a tray with two glasses of what looked like champagne.

  “Don’t worry, it’s sparkling cider,” the attendant said, handing the flute to her with a wink. “And congratulations, to you both!”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the glass.

  The flight attendant went on to introduce himself as Dave before asking if there was anything they needed before he went to prepare dinner, which he’d be serving at a small dining table just behind the row of seats.

  “I’m good, thanks,” Sam answered, settling herself into her seat. She jiggled the lever at the side, pushing her back against it.

  “Is everything all right, Mrs. Rustanov?” Dave asked.

  “Please, call me Sam,” she answered, ignoring Nikolai’s displeased look. “And it’s nothing. I was just hoping these seats leaned back a little further, maybe turned into a little bed.” She had heard some seats in first class converted into beds on some airlines, but apparently these didn’t.

  “No, our seats don’t convert because there’s a bedroom just on the other side of that door,” Dave explained, pointing to a closed wooden door at rear of the cabin. “So when you’re ready to go to sleep, let me know and I’ll fluff the pillows for you.” He winked again.

  Sam’s cheeks flamed as her dream of getting a semi-comfortable night’s sleep died a quick death.

  After an extremely awkward dinner, she opened the upper compartment above the seating area and found what appeared to be a plush lap blanket in a neat fold. She opened it with an angry snap, hunkered down into the back row’s window seat, and pulled the blanket over her, squeezing her eyes shut. Sam hoped this would be enough for Nikolai to take the hint and leave her alone.

  There came the sound of heavy footsteps, then Nikolai’s voice above her. “That seat looks not comfortable. You don’t want to sleep in bed, zhena?”

  “No, just like you don’t seem to want to tell me where we’re going. Or why,” she answered, keeping her eyes closed.

  “You are not same as other women. You don’t like surprises,” he said.

  This time Sam did open her eyes, if only to let him see how not amused she was by this entire situation.

  “I don’t like being confused, and I don’t see why you can’t just tell me where we’re going.”

  “Like I say, you are woman who does not like surprises. I will, how you say, make note for future.” Judging from all the twinkling going on in Nikolai’s eyes, Sam was fairly certain he was incredibly amused by the whole situation. But then again, he was the one holding all the cards, wasn’t he?

  She closed her eyes again with an annoyed huff. “Goodnight, Nikolai.”

  Silence. And then she felt the seat beside her compress underneath Nikolai’s weight. Her stomach tightened. Apparently, Nikolai was fully prepare
d to take an aisle seat if it meant getting the last word on their sleeping arrangements.

  “Good night, zhena.”

  ONE MISERABLE NIGHT of sleep, two more meals, and about eight back-to-back episodes of Veronica Mars later, they eventually made it to the tarmac of Athens airport. Athens, Greece.

  “Welcome to Greece, zhena,” Nikolai said, waving an arm toward the city’s skyline beyond the airport, as if it was his gift to her.

  Sam, who had been half-way afraid they were headed all the way to Russia, gaped in amazement.

  Greece!

  She’d never been farther than Canada in her life, and even then it had been for work—a special seminar in Calgary on how to provide counseling services to women with refugee status. Not exactly a glamorous getaway.

  Sam watched as the plane slowly came to a stop. What kind of work obligation could have possibly brought Nikolai to Greece? Then she remembered what her friends on social media often went abroad for.

  “So… I’m assuming we’re here for somebody’s wedding?” she asked Nikolai, as she divested herself of the winter coat she’d put back on before deplaning. No need for coats here. The air was warm and balmy—at least in the seventies.

  “No,” Nikolai answered, producing both of their passports out of nowhere. He took her by the elbow. “Come, zhena. We must go through passport control and customs before we meet car.”

  Well, that explained why Isaac has asked for and never returned her passport. But…

  “Why are we here?” she asked for what felt like the millionth time.

  “I think you will soon—how you say—figure it out,” Nikolai answered.

  But she didn’t figure it out. Not that she didn’t try. She scoured her head for possibilities and put them to Nikolai: a charity event, a movie premiere, a hockey game—even though she was fairly certain hockey wasn’t a thing in Greece. Every guess was met with a firm “no” on Nikolai’s part, as if she wasn’t even in the vicinity of the right answer. And by the time they pulled up in front of a multi-tiered, white stucco and stone hotel, she was even more frustrated than when they’d departed Indiana.

  The sun had begun its descent when they left the airport and by the time they got out of the town car, it was low on the horizon, making it so she couldn’t see much beyond the hotel’s covered car port. She had a quick thought that she should have worn sunglasses, then another bitter one about how she couldn’t be blamed for not bringing them since the only instructions Nikolai gave her was to bring whatever “woman things” she might need to survive a weekend.

  Sam searched the hotel’s quaint blue-and-white facade for any indication of why Nikolai had brought her here, hoping for some kind of clue like a small sign announcing that the reception for whatever would be in the main ballroom. But there weren’t any of those types of signs to be found—and the few signs she did see were written in Greek, which looked closer to Nikolai’s Russian Cyrillic alphabet than her own Roman one.

  She sighed, thinking as much as she admired Veronica Mars, her own detective skills were completely lacking.

  “Come, zhena,” Nikolai said again, interrupting her thoughts and beckoning her forward.

  Speaking of mysteries, she was going to have to figure out what “zhena” meant as soon as she was back in Indiana and had internet access again. Another oversight on her part. The planned trip had been so short, she’d assumed they’d be staying in the United States and she hadn’t bothered to bring her laptop since she had her smartphone. But here they were in Greece. And here she was without an international data plan, rendering her smartphone useless until she could find Wi-Fi.

  After a quick luggage exchange between their driver and a man in a starched white uniform, she and Nikolai were led past the check-in desk, up three short flights of stairs, and through a set of arched doors painted a vibrant blue.

  The scene that met her when she walked through the blue doors made her heart stop. It was a spacious and gorgeous white room with sea blue furniture that matched the blue infinity pool just beyond large balcony windows. And beyond that…

  Sam went to the windows to stare wide-eyed at the Athens peninsula spread out to the left and right of them. A lush scene, dotted with hotels and trees overlooking a sea so blue, it seemed to glow underneath the city’s lights.

  It was easily the most beautiful view she, Sam McKinley—now Sam Rustanov—had ever clapped eyes on. And suddenly, all her questions dropped away, replaced with something else she didn’t think she’d be feeling toward Nikolai Rustanov at any point over this weekend. Gratitude.

  She turned and watched her husband exchange a few short words with the uniformed man, before closing the door behind him.

  “Thank you,” she said when they were alone in the room. “Thank you so much for bringing me here.”

  He gave her a look she was beginning to recognize, the one he gave her when she’d confused him. Probably because they’d only just now arrived and she was thanking him like he’d already given her a whole weekend in paradise.

  “I’ve only ever lived in Alabama, Indiana, and Michigan,” she explained. “I’m just happy to be somewhere so beautiful.”

  He considered her statement for a moment before saying, “You’re welcome. Now we must take showers and change. Then we have dinner.”

  Less than an hour later, Sam found herself in the gorgeous dress Isaac had bought for her, at the best Greek restaurant in the entire world. Granted, the only Greek food she’d ever eaten was at the Mr. Gyro in Lafayette Square, but shoving bite after bite of the delicious lamb dish in her mouth, she couldn’t believe there were any Greek restaurants better than this one on the face of the earth.

  “Oh my God, why does anyone ever move from here?” she asked. “If I was Mr. Gyro, I never would have left!”

  She glanced up to see if Nikolai was enjoying the meal as much as she was. She thought her golden dress was a showstopper, but Nikolai was equally holding his own in an elegant black suit paired with a crisp white shirt. He cut a striking figure seated across from her. However, he didn’t seem to be enjoying the meal as much as she was. He was just sitting there, his chin resting on his fist, eyes bemused as he watched her eat.

  “Why aren’t you enjoying this?” she demanded, nodding toward the family-style meal. “Everything’s delicious!”

  “I’m sure it is,” he answered with a nod. Then he leaned forward to say in a husky voice, “But I prefer watching you eat, zhena. This sight pleases me very much.”

  A shiver went down her spine at the thought of him being pleased by the sight of her eating. But she wondered aloud, “I-is that a cultural thing? Um, liking to watch people eat? M-maybe it’s something they do in Russia?”

  She was stuttering again, she noted with an inner wince. Like the rom com character Nikolai had accused her of being.

  He frowned at her, as if he were trying to figure out if she was joking.

  But Sam continued. “Like your mom—was she a good cook? Did she like to watch you and your brother eat?”

  Sam cringed as soon as the question left her mouth. Yes Sam, good job, she thought to herself. Don’t just shut down his game, rain it out by asking him questions about his childhood. The same kind of questions he always refuses to answer.

  She braced herself for the cold shutdown and waited for the heated look to leave his eyes.

  It did. Immediately. And he leaned back, as if suddenly wanting to put more distance between them.

  But then he said, “My mother was very good cook. She loved cooking. She loved watching Fedya and I eat. Da, maybe I have little of her in me.”

  She nearly dropped her fork, she was so shocked by his answer. That he actually had answered!

  He looked away, his jaw clenching. “I do not talk about her,” he said, as if reading her stunned thoughts. “But my mother is same as your mother, zhena. Dead.”

  She lowered her fork and confessed, “I know. I Googled you.” No surprise, there hadn’t been any mention of
his possible mafia ties, but… “A few articles mentioned your mother died when you were young.”

  He shifted in his seat. “Seventeen. Not as young as Pavel.”

  “No, but that’s young enough,” she said, thinking of her own mother’s death. “Was it hard when you lost your father, too? The internet said he died a few years ago.”

  Nikolai looked further into the distance, like this whole conversation was leaving a bad taste in his mouth. A taste even all the delicious food sitting on the table between them wouldn’t be able to take away. But nonetheless, he once again answered, “No. World is better off without my father.”

  Harsh, but it wasn’t a sentiment she could hold against him. The world was better off without her father as well. Her stepfather, too. She guessed they had more in common than she ever could have imagined.

  His unexpected answer made her feel bad for purposefully introducing a dark subject just to get around his mild flirtation. There was a dark cloud hanging over the table now, and she attempted to clear it away by segueing into a less painful topic, one that seemed to have brought him quite a bit of amusement over the last twenty-four hours.

  “So here we are, two orphans in Greece, living it up before your big event, which is…” she teased, waiting for him to shut her inquiry down again.

  But when his eyes met hers they were quizzical, not amused. Like Sam asking the same question she’d been asking him over the last twenty-four hours had somehow confused him greatly.

  “What?” she asked, using a hand to check for food on her face. She’d gone hard on a flaky pastry dish filled with meat. Maybe her mouth was covered with it now. But no, no food, which prompted her to ask, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Zhena… you still have not figured it out?” he asked.

  She stared at him, perplexed.