Lebdev. Moscow. No. No, no, no.
I can’t breathe. Can’t hear the man’s question. My fingers find their way to the gray pearl hanging from a long strand of silver at my ear. If I thought my legs would hold me, I’d run. He knows who I am. Dimitri’s sending me a message, and oh, God.
Griff. Please. Help me.
A flash of movement to my right, and then his warm hand cups the back of my neck as he leans close to the microphone and addresses the man. “Ms. Sanders’ travel schedule for next year hasn’t been determined yet. Rest assured, as soon as it is, our agency will release further details. If you’ll excuse us, we have another event to attend shortly.” A flurry of shutter clicks follow, but he slides his hand down to my elbow and squeezes gently. “Sloane? Sweetheart? We should go or we’ll be late.”
I can only nod as I let him help me to my feet, and take his hand. The latex covering his prosthetic feels so real, so warm and natural, it helps steady me, and we escape out a back door into what appears to be a service corridor.
“Sloane? Look at me.” Griff strokes my cheek, but I’m still numb. Still too shocked to speak. “Sloane!” It’s not until his lips press to mine that I can move, but instead of enjoying what I’m sure would be another spectacular kiss if I gave in, I pull back. “That man…he knows. Whoever he was. He knows who I am. It was a message. A warning. From Dimitri.”
Griff wraps his left arm around me, the hard metal oddly reassuring, so he can pull his phone from his right pocket. A few taps, and the nameWrenscrolls across the screen.
A woman answers, her voice tired and a little raspy, and the speech recognition software fills the screen. “It’s early, Griff. What do you need?”
“Facial recognition for one of the reporters in the press room. Last row, fourth seat from the left. Black hair, black beard, brown eyes. Six-two, maybe two-eighty. He claimed to be from a Russian newspaper. The glasses butchered the name.”
“Argumenty i Fakty,”I say. “They’re one of the biggest newspapers in Moscow.”
“He said his name was—”
“That is not his name. I’m sure of it. Griff, please.” If Wren searches for the name Nikolai Lebdev, she’ll find a dead man—my father—and it won’t take her long to connect Nikolai to me.
Griff could easily tell her the man’s name, but instead, he gives me a terse nod. “Get us hisrealname, Wren. And let me know if he’s still anywhere on the hotel grounds. We’re going back up to the room.”
“Will do,” she says and hangs up.
Anger and frustration stiffen his shoulders, but Griff keeps his arm around me all the way to the service elevator and back to my—our—room. But once we’re back inside with the door locked, he loses his patience.
“This only works if you’re honest with me, Sloane. I need you to tell me right fucking now. Who is Nikolai Lebdev and why are you terrified of him?”
Sniffling, I dig in my clutch for Griff’s handkerchief. I feel better with the soft cloth in my hand. “I have never been terrified of Nikolai Lebdev. He was my father, and I loved him.” Taking a risk, I lock eyes with my protector. “My name…I wasn’t born Sloane Sanders.”
If Griff is surprised, he doesn’t show it. Or perhaps he’s too angry to display any other emotion. I wish he’d say something.Anything.But after another few seconds, I know he won’t. Not until I tell him everything.
“I was born in a small town in Russia. Penza. When I came to this country, I was eighteen. A naive child who thought she would find a better life here. Maybe even a way to help her starving family. Instead, I found only pain.” The barest hint of an accent tinges my tone, but I’m the only one who notices. “My given name is Sophiana Lebdev, and that is how Dimitri knows me.”
Chapter Nineteen
Griff
The name—Sloane’sreal name—fades away from my lenses, and I can’t decide if I’m angry with her, with the asshole who used the name of her dead father, or with all the people who failed her in her life.
“Sophiana?” I ask.
“Yes.”Tears brim in her eyes, and she won’t look directly at me. “I came to the United States sixteen years ago, and for a year and a half, Dimitri owned me. He took my passport at the airport, and I never saw it again. Not even after he went to jail.”
“Sit. Please?” I can’t stand to see her trembling, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. The sweater leaves little to the imagination, and while sex should be thelastthing on my mind, I’m still a guy. Still alive. She needs me present. Not distracted by so much perfect, creamy skin or the way her breasts heave as she tries not to cry. “Sloane? Or…do you want me to call you Sophiana when we’re alone?”
“I can never be Sophiana again.”
Not being able to hear a person’s voice? Most of the time, it doesn’t make much of a difference. I read lips well enough, can understand ASL if the person signs slowly, and with the glasses, texting, email? The only problems I have communicating are when my coworkers want to be assholes or when I’m in a crowd or a dimly lit room. But right now, I’m desperate to hear this woman in front of me. If for no other reason than she needs to know she isn’t alone.
We’re close enough, I can reach out and snag her cashmere-covered wrist, holding on until she huffs and drops her arms. “You’re shaking. Sit down. I can put on a fresh pot of coffee. Or tea.”
“Nothing will fix this.”
“I’m not trying to fix anything. Not right this minute. I’m trying to take care of you.” Tea seems like a better choice than coffee, so I fill the electric kettle with hot water and drop a bag of chamomile into one of the delicate china cups.
