Page 21 of Ford

So he was trying to be funny? She turned around and he handed her a cup of tea.

“One of the FSB agents saw the gun and I did quick math,” she said.

“You might have been shot on the spot if the police had any real weapons on them.” He took the other chair, nodding to hers.

She didn’t know what to say to that because the shots fired at her had felt pretty real.

She sat down, watching him squeeze himself onto the tiny chair. He had scarred knuckles. Another scar that ran across his wrist. Like he knew how to get himself into—and clearly out of—scrapes.

Now might be the right time to— “Thank you.”

He glanced up at her. “It’s just cheese and bread.”

“No, I mean thank you for grabbing me, for getting me out of there.” She took a sip of her tea, and it soothed the angry hunger inside her. “I was—”

“Freaking out? Mmmhmm.” He opened the carton of butter and slathered a thick chunk onto his bread, added a piece of cheese. “I could plainly see you weren’t guilty, but you were about to be abducted and lost forever by the Russian police, so, yeah, I intercepted you. Which, by the way, was no easy feat at the pace you were going.”

His words evoked the quick and startling memory of being grabbed around the waist and shoved into an alleyway. In the darkness, he’d pulled her against himself, his hand over her mouth, his dark voice at her ears.Stick with me, do what I tell you, and you might live through this night.

Interesting words for a man who hadn’t even agreed to meet with her. But he had helped her live through the night—not only dodge the police, but brought her here, and was now feeding her.

So maybe she should step back her defenses to Defcon 3. For now.

“Where are we?”

“One of my safe houses.” He gestured to the butter and cheese. “Eat.”

One of… “Who are you?”

“I told you, York—”

“Right. Are you an assassin?”

He drew in a tight breath and set down his bread. Met her eyes.

Dark blue, the hues of midnight staring down at her, with all its mystery and danger. But she didn’t look away. Just met his gaze.

Because she wasn’t some girl lost in Moscow.

She was a CIA analyst who’d tried to save the life of someone who mattered.

Just got in a little over her head was all.

“I used to work in security for the US Embassy in Moscow.”

“And now?”

His mouth pursed. “Now I run a transportation service.” He took another bite of his makeshift sandwich. “Which includes transporting you out of Russia.”

Oh. She took another sip of tea. Did it also include transporting people from, say, life to death? But she didn’t want to ask.

He gripped his teacup with his whole hand, taking a long sip. Set it down. “We need to move you, but not until they think you’ve left the country. Or at least Moscow.”

She picked up a hunk of bread and made the same butter-cheese sandwich he had. “Is Stanislov still alive?”

“Yeah. He was hospitalized for a couple days, but he’s back at his private estate. Apparently, it was just a shot to the shoulder. But still punishable by death if you get caught.”

“Listen, Mr. Sunshine, I didn’t do it, okay?” She put down her bread and pointed the knife at him. “I was trying to stop it.”