Page 88 of Ford
Scarlett could barely catch up, but Ford had his arm around her waist as he pulled her toward Yanna’s car, through the parking garage. He opened the door, and Scarlett got into the back seat.
She was still shaking.
Even when Ford slid in beside her and pulled her against himself.
“You’re okay,” he said softly, and she guessed it was as much for him as it was for her.
Yanna got in. Sat in the quiet for a moment.
“You’re married to him? An American?” Scarlett asked. “How—I mean—”
“We love each other. We make it work. I don’t betray state secrets, and neither does he. And we’re only married by the church.” She turned. “But you do what you must for love,da?”
She looked at Ford, and one side of her mouth lifted up. Then she turned back around and started the car.
8
York really was a handsome man. Dark blond hair, his long lashes whispering against his cheeks as he slept, sort of, propped up on one impressive shoulder, his arms folded. He was too tall for his bunk, of course, and drew his legs up to fit on the bench. A thatch of dark whiskers hued his face, and he wore an almost perpetual frown, as if even in sleep, his brain was working out how to keep them safe. He wore a black button-down shirt, now untucked, and slept with his hiking boots on, just in case, for example, they needed to leap from a moving train.
A real-life action hero.
Clearly RJ had been locked in this train compartment too long because York was hard-edged, crabby, sarcastic, humorless…
Sacrificial, honest, fierce, protective, and he got her stupid jokes. At least enough to crack a smile.
She could not—could not—fall for a man she’d only known a week. And would say goodbye to forever in another six days.
No, five, if her watch was correct because in an hour, they’d be passing into day three, headed toward Yekaterinburg.
She rolled over onto her back, tired of the swaying train, the endless hours of gin rummy they’d played after York had gotten off at one of the stops and scored a deck of playing cards. He’d also purchased boiled potatoes, cutlets, peroshke, and napoleon cake that had her licking the plastic wrap it came in.
Coco had filled her in on her life in Russia—and when York stepped out for the bathroom and to grab some tea from the conductor, she’d filled RJ in on Tasha.
“She was the daughter of an oligarch. One of the Russian oil billionaires. Grew up in private schools in Switzerland and got a taste of free speech. Brought it over here. Used Daddy’s money to make a platform for herself, but got in over her head.”
Over her head.
RJ wondered—and feared—that she reminded York too much of Tasha. Note to self: no more crazy stunts. She didn’t want to end up in a snowbank somewhere, bleeding to death.
Which, apparently, was how Tasha died.
York hadn’t told her much more about himself—that one reveal about his military background was about all he seemed to want to give her. But it only stirred up questions. Like, how were his parents killed? What made him leave the military? And why hadn’t he gone back to America?
From her perspective, he seemed deeply broken, scarred, but bravely soldiering on.
Oh, how well she understood.
Weirdly, around him, however, she felt less at loose ends. Less out of control, less naked and afraid. Braver. Wittier.This isn’t funny, Bristow.
She liked it when he smiled.
Okay,enough.
RJ sat up.
Coco rolled over, propped her head on her folded arms.
“I wish I had a book to read,” RJ said quietly.