But coming through the main entrance and walking around the side of the warehouse gave him the element of surprise.
He poked his head around the far side of the building, and there she was, cloaked in her mink coat and peeking through the window closest to where he stood. Her blond hair was pulled up beneath a matching fur hat, leaving only a few silky strands of hair dangling beside her neck. Her back was to him, but he didn’t need to see her face to know that she was staring longingly at the festivities.
“You’re allowed to go inside, you know.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice, then turned to face him, a gloved hand pressed to her heart. “Yuri. What are you doing out here?”
“Making sure you don’t catch your death of cold, it seems.”
She looked down at her thick coat. “I’m perfectly warm. You, on the other hand, seem to have forgotten your coat entirely.”
He’d been in too big of a rush to bother with it, worried she’d saunter off before he could catch her if he didn’t head straight outside.
But he wasn’t going to admit it aloud. “You still don’t have to stand out here.”
“I do, and we both know why.”
That was probably true. If Bryony were marrying into any other family, Rosalind would have been allowed to go to her wedding, but she wouldn’t be allowed to attend anything attached to the Amos family name, never mind that she and Bryony had been friends back in Washington, DC.
Rosalind watched him for another moment before turning to look back through the window. “Bryony looks so very happy with Mikhail.”
“She is.”
“I’m glad. She deserves to be happy.”
“So do you.”
His words caused her head to jerk in his direction. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. He never could. She had a face like her father’s—one that gave nothing away.
But he studied it anyway, searching for a flicker of emotion, some crack in her carefully composed mask. The golden glow from the window illuminated the delicate slope of her cheekbones, and the faintest breath of color dusted her skin from the cold.
“I’m going to San Francisco,” he blurted, then cringed at how bulky and awkward the statement sounded. With any other woman, his words emerged smooth as butter, but whenever he was around Rosalind, everything about him turned clumsy.
“I won’t be able to meet you in January. That’s what I was trying to say.” He tried again.
Her delicate blond eyebrows drew down. “But you have things to give me, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bring them with you now?”
“I would have, had I known you were coming.”
She exhaled, glancing toward the snow-covered street. “We should set up another time then. When do you leave?”
“Next Tuesday, unless the ship is late coming into port.”
“I’ll see if I can move my visit with Freya up to Monday afternoon.”
“The usual time and place?”
“Yes.”
He hesitated for a moment, his breath forming a mist in the cold night air. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. I’m guessing two weeks, maybe three. I’m sure Alexei will set my mail aside for me, but if something takes longer than I expect, do you want me to see if Bryony can meet you at the beginning of February?”
Her brows pinched together, creating a subtle groove just above the bridge of her nose. “No. No, I don’t think so. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”
“I thought Bryony was your friend.”
