The Silver Fox and the Red-Hot Dove by Deborah Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

like Greta Garbo playing
Ninotchka
. “I mean, I don’t suit it.”
    “Where did you live in Moscow. An apartment?”
    She looked away. “Oh, I … chose … to live at the institute. It’s a grand old place, but nothing like this. I thought I had luxury because I had my own record player.” She shook her head. “But then Icame to America and saw everyone—even children—carrying those … those
boom
things …”
    “Boom boxes? You mean the big cassette players?”
    “Yes, those. Everyone has one. Amazing.” She waved a hand at the furnishings around them, at his lifestyle. “And now this! You didn’t make your fortune in some immoral way, did you?”
    “Me, personally? No.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The Audubon family made its money the old-fashioned way—by exploiting other people. We started out in the fur trade, killing off the wildlife and cheating the Indians. Then we became planters and made a mint using slave labor. But we gave that up for the more honorable and profitable business of textile mills, employing young children.”
    “But you aren’t repeating those shameful things. You’ve redeemed yourself by becoming a manipulative kidnapper. Take heart.”
    “Hmmm, sarcasm with a Russian accent. Don’t tell me that you resent us capitalist pigs.”
    “No. I’m not political. Most Russians aren’t, I suppose. I never got to know outsiders. I mean, people outside my own circle of friends.”
    “Hmmm. Now
there’s
an interesting slip of the tongue.”
    She gave him a cool glance. “The only American I resent is you.”
    “Tomorrow I’ll have some clothes and accessories brought in for you. And someone to fix your hair.”
    She was barefoot and wearing an oversized pink house dress that belonged to Clarice, his secretary. Clarice had also given her a pink barrette with which to pull the ragamuffin blond tresses back on one side. The amazing thing about Elena Petrovic was that she didn’t seem more than mildly concerned about her parade of unflattering outfits.
    And in fact, he was glad her clothes had hidden the charms underneath. It was troublesome enough to be fascinated with her mind and spirit withoutbecoming obsessed with the rest of the package as well. But he was already losing that battle too.
    “What are you going to do?” she asked bitterly. “Dress up the ‘pigeon’ to attract the hawks?”
    “No, just make life easier on my sore eyes. Tell me—and don’t be coy about having good taste—do you pick your own clothes?”
    “No. I had no say in how I was dressed when you met me. And certainly none after I ran away.”
    He was startled.
I was a slave
, he recalled her saying. But he hadn’t taken her words seriously.
    “Good night,” she said brusquely.
    “Now, wait. You owe me an explanation for your last—”
    “I owe you nothing. Nothing at all. I don’t have to be nice to you. I don’t have to care what you think of me.”
    It was true, and suddenly he realized she was unique in that respect. Everyone else either owed him something, wanted something from him, feared him, or respected him from a polite distance. She didn’t give a damn about owing, wanting, fearing, or respecting, and so for the first time in years he could simply be himself, for better or worse. He loved it.
    She nearly growled when he bent and kissed her quickly on the mouth. “Good night, fair damsel in disgusting dress.”
    She said something in Russian, and he was relatively certain it wasn’t a thank-you. After she disappeared behind her suite doors, he stood outside in troubled thought, shocked by his rush of feelings of desire and loneliness.
    He suspected she’d try to leave tonight, if for no other reason than to test the boundaries of her situation. She was nine parts courage and one part know-how, which he admired deeply, and he didn’t want to humiliate her, so he’d let her get the adventure out of her system.
    But when she tried her wings, he’d be there to stop