His voice behind me sounded confused. “What? Oh, you Americans and your delicate sensibilities. I apologize.” He pointed at the door. “You can wait out there, if you like.”
Where the big ol’ guys with the dead eyes were hanging out in the bedroom.
The hotel room bedroom.
Where they’d just caught us, together, and Nicolai was unclothed.
Shame caught me in a firestorm and burned my face as I stood with my back to him, staring at the slightly grayed paint on the wall behind the toilet of the cheapest room in this hotel. “They know that we were alone together in a hotel roomall night.They must think wedid it.”
“We’re married. It’s not immoral.”
It still felt immoral.
Very immoral.
They thought we smashed.
“Are you sure you don’t want to leave while I dress?” Nico asked.
So my choices were staying in here while Nicolai got naked and changed clothes or waiting out there with the judgy security guys.
Who would stand there and judge me more and more while I wilted into a shame puddle.
Nope, I would just avert my gaze. “I’ll stay.”
And I did avert. I totally averted my gaze as much as I could avert, shielding my eyes so that I could only see downward and staring at the flat slabs of black tile cold under my bare feet.
At least I’d had a good mani-pedi before I’d almost married Jimmy. My pink-tipped toes looked nice.
Plastic crackled like Nico was wrestling a giant wad of cling wrap.
“It’s not that you’re naked.” It was totally that. Indeed, peeking at his sculpted, tatted-up torso was becoming more and more of a temptation. I pressed my palms and fingers tightly over my face. “I’m just not—comfortable—or something?—”
“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s rather cute.”
“Oh,fantastic.I’m asweetprude,” I grumbled. Embarrassment roiled through me. “I was in the theatre, back in high school and as a kid. Dressing rooms are free-for-alls. I shouldn’t be weird about it.”
“Nudity isn’t unnatural. We’re all quite naked under our clothes. Besides, I’m Scandinavian. Clothing-optional beaches, saunas, and so forth. Scandinavians are a naked people, especially the Danes.”
I didn’t take my hands away from my face, but where the light leaked between my fingers, I could see a silver slash of mirror. “Scandinavian? I thought you were Russian because of the whole ‘tsar’ thing. And you speak Russian, like to the priest last night.”
“I can’t believe I spokeRussianto thepriest.”The grumble in his voice sounded like anger. “And on a damn video, nevertheless.”
“Yeah. That’s how you convinced him to marry us right away, plus the baptizing and stuff. Why shouldn’t you be able to speak Russian?”
“Icanspeak Russian. I justdon’t.”
“Oh. Well, he seemed to understand you fine.”
He shook his head. “I’d thought my conversational Russian is adequate at best.”
“Didn’t sound like it last night. Sounded fluent.”
“Maybe the alcohol stirred it up, or at least made me believe I was more fluent than I am.”
“So, you aren’t Russian.”
“Not particularly. Swedish, as I mentioned. Thus, the driver’s license, being born in Stockholm, and such.”
