Kholodov's Last Mistress. Кейт Хьюит

Her voice trailed off as she reached into her pockets, and Sergei watched the emotions flash across her face. Confusion, impatience, uncertainty, disbelief, outrage. He’d seen the progression a thousand times before, usually from afar with a half dozen twenties in his fist.

      Except, he realised as he watched her closely, she wasn’t outraged. Hurt, maybe, by the way her eyes darkened to the colour of storm clouds, but then she shook her head again in that accepting way of hers that both annoyed and affected him and shrugged. ‘You’re right. They took my cash.’

      Why was she so good-natured? ‘Why,’ Sergei asked in as reasonable a tone as he could manage, ‘did you keep cash in your pocket?’

      She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, and his narrowed gaze was drawn to that innocent action. Again he felt that flicker. Her lips were full and rosebud-pink, and something about the way she nipped at them with those straight white American teeth made his middle clench. Or maybe lower down. Irritation and interest, annoyance and attraction.

      ‘I’d just been to the bank,’ she said, her tone one of explanation rather than defence. ‘I hadn’t had time to put it away—’

      She’d been standing staring at St Basil’s with a map dangling forgotten from her hand. She’d had plenty of time. But why should he care? Sergei asked himself. Why should he bother even having this conversation? She was just another American tourist. He’d seen plenty of those over the years, from the first ones who goggled at the pathetic obscurity of an actual Russian orphan to the ones who judged with an assessing eye and brought in an army of therapists and psychologists to make sure no child was too damaged. As if they had any idea. And then of course tourists like this woman, who swarmed Red Square and gazed at the Kremlin and the GUM department store and all the rest as if everything were no more than a bizarre and rather quaint antiquity, rather than a lasting witness to his country’s heart-wrenching history. He had no time for any of them, and certainly not for her. He’d already half turned away when he heard her soft little exhalation of dismay, no more than a breath, as if she wouldn’t allow herself any more.

      Sergei turned back. ‘What?’

      ‘My passport …’

      ‘You kept your passport in your coat pocket?’

      ‘I told you, I’d just been to the bank …’

      ‘Your passport,’ Sergei repeated, because he honestly couldn’t believe someone would actually keep their cash and passport in an unzipped coat pocket while they walked across Red Square.

      She smiled ruefully now, acknowledging his incredulity, accepting it even. ‘I know, I know. But I was cashing my traveller’s cheques and they needed ID—’

      ‘Traveller’s cheques,’ Sergei repeated. This got better and better. Or worse and worse, depending how you looked at it. He’d thought with the advent of computer banking those cheques had become obsolete. ‘Why on earth were you using traveller’s cheques? Why not an ATM card?’ Much simpler. Less chance of being stolen. Unless, of course, you kept the card in your coat pocket, with the pin number kindly attached with Sellotape to the back, as this woman probably would. Just to help a thief out.

      She lifted her chin, and he saw that flare of indigo again. ‘I prefer traveller’s cheques.’

      Now he was the one to shrug. ‘Fine.’ And he would have turned away, he would have turned away so quickly and easily, if not for the way her smile faltered, her lips trembling, and he saw desolation cloud her eyes to a grey-violet, the long lashes sweeping downwards to hide the sorrow he’d already seen there. He felt a painful twist in the region of his heart, a kind of raw emotion he didn’t like feeling, hadn’t let himself feel in years. Yet somehow with one sorrowful look she hadn’t even wanted him to see, he felt it. And it made him furious.

      Hannah knew it had been rather foolish of her to carry her cash and passport in the front pocket of her coat; she got that. She would have put it away in her zipped purse except she’d become distracted by the beauty of St Basil’s, its colourful domes piercing the hard blue of the sky. And, she acknowledged, she’d been thinking about how today was her last day of travel, how tomorrow she’d be back in upstate New York, opening the shop, taking inventory, trying to make things work. And while she’d known it shouldn’t have, the thought gave her a little pang of—sorrow? Regret? Something like that. Something she pushed away, didn’t want to feel.

      And now this Russian … assassin was looking at her with daggers in his ice-blue eyes. Hannah didn’t know what he did for a living, but the man was seriously intimidating. He wore a black leather coat over black jeans, not exactly the friendliest of outfits. His hair was a relatively ordinary brown but it was cut very short and framed a face so coldly arresting that Hannah’s heart had near stopped in her chest when he’d approached her.

      And now this … the last of her money gone. Her passport gone. And her flight back to New York left in five hours.

      ‘What?’ the man asked brusquely. He’d turned back to her, impatience and irritation evident in every taut line of his well-muscled body. The man radiated lethal, barely leashed power. Yet still he’d turned back, even it seemed as if he’d done so against his will, or at least his better judgment. ‘You know you’ll need to go to your embassy, don’t you?’

      ‘Yes …’

      ‘They’ll help you,’ he explained to her, slowly, as if she had trouble understanding her own language. ‘They can issue you a new passport.’

      ‘Right.’ She swallowed. ‘How long does that usually take, do you know?’

      ‘A few hours to fill out the paperwork, I should think.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Does that inconvenience you?’

      ‘It does, actually,’ she informed him, managing a wry smile despite the panic plunging icily in her stomach. She was starting to realise how awful this really was. No passport. No money. Missing her flight. In Moscow.

      All bad.

      ‘Perhaps you should have thought of that when you wandered around Red Square,’ the man returned. ‘You might as well have hung a placard around your neck declaring you were a tourist, ripe for the taking.’

      ‘I am a tourist,’ Hannah pointed out in what she thought was quite a reasonable tone. ‘And I don’t know why it’s got you so worked up. It’s not your money, or your passport.’

      The man stared at her, his expression turning from fierce to something close to bewildered. ‘You’re right,’ he said after a moment. ‘There’s no reason for me to be worked up at all.’ Yet he didn’t turn away as she’d half expected him to, just kept staring at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

      ‘In any case,’ Hannah said, ‘I don’t mind that they took my money.’ Well, she wouldn’t have minded, except that it was the only money she’d had left. And as for the passport …

      She lifted her chin, staring the man down. Sort of. ‘They need it more than I do, and at least now they can buy food—’

      ‘You think they’re going to buy food?’

      She shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me they must be buying drugs or something awful like that. Even children who live on the street need to eat, and they couldn’t have been more than twelve—’

      ‘Twelve is plenty old on the street,’ the man informed her. ‘And food is easy enough to score, just steal from a fruit and vegetable stall or wait out in the back of a restaurant. You don’t use money to buy food. Not unless you have to.’

      Hannah stared at him, surprised by his knowing tone, discomfited by the fierce light in those ice-blue eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘And thanks for helping me out. If you hadn’t come along—well, if I hadn’t interfered, maybe I’d still have my money.’ And her passport.

      The man jerked his head in a semblance of a nod. ‘You’ll go to your embassy?’ he