Moskva (9 page)

Texas - present day

Mishka woke with the expectation that the boy might return to being unmanageable. But neither Bogdan nor Alina changed from how they had fallen asleep -- the boy finally accepting Alina as his mother and Alina slowly closing herself off from all emotion.

On the third day following Bogdan's meltdown, Alina approached Mishka after she had washed the breakfast dishes. She told him that she was moving her things to the third, and smallest, bedroom and Mishka should stop sleeping on the couch and take the room she had previously used.

He tried to argue it, said he would take the smaller bedroom and that, for the boy's sake, it was best not to make any big changes, like shuttling her off to a room barely bigger than a walk-in closet. But by noon, she had moved her few possessions into the room and hauled the suitcase Mishka had been living from into the master bedroom.

She started pushing the food around her plate at each meal, apologizing absently that it was too hot or too cold, too spicy or too bland. When he or the boy assured her it was fine, marvelous even, she said nothing more and put her fork down, motionless until she saw that they were done eating and she could begin clearing the table.

Too late, too late.

The words twisted through Mishka's chest.

A few days later, when Bogdan fell asleep earlier than usual, he carried the boy to bed then cornered Alina.

"We need to talk."

Wiping her palms against her skirt, she nodded. When Mishka stalled over where to start, she began.

"You said we're safe for now? That we don't have to stick so close to the house or worry about being seen?"

"Yes." He answered slowly, uncertain where she was headed with her questions.

"You can go back to your friends in Dallas?"

Fresh panic building in his chest, Mishka didn't answer. She wanted him to leave.

Before he could ask her if that was what she wanted, she drew a deep breath then rocked him back on his heels with what she said next.

"I don't know that I can support him. I only have a high school diploma and they never let me work. I was supposed to be someone's wife, then I couldn't even be that. It is best if you raise him."

"No," Mishka said, reaching for her.

She tried to slip past him. He wrapped his hands around her elbows and she froze, her gaze locked off to the side.

"I will make sure you have all the money you need to take care of my son and..."

He wanted to say "my woman." That's what she would always be to him, even if he could never hold her again or kiss the lips that had grown flat and thin with her grief the past few weeks.

"You won't need to earn any money," he finished. "I know he said some cruel things--"

She shook her head violently, her chest shuddering with the need to unleash the tears building in her dark gaze. "He spoke the truth."

"No." Releasing her arms, Mishka cupped her cheeks. "Where is my Alina."

A fat tear escaped each eye to run down her cheeks.

"I was never your Alina," she answered coolly. "I was just the girl you got pregnant."

His hands dropped away to clench at his sides. He wanted to smash a fist through the wall next to her. Instead he placed his palms flat against the paneling on either side of her.

"I shouldn't have sent you away like I did that night. I should have told you how much I loved you."

Every word coming out of his mouth seemed to make her shrink a little more. She was closing herself off, disappearing like some kind of magic folding box.

"We need to get out of this house," he said, pulling back. "We'll go into Dallas tomorrow morning. I have to get fitted for the wedding..."

He trailed of when she said nothing.

"Simon is supposed to be there and you can meet Riona."

"Take the boy."

She was back to her flat, robotic monotone. He wasn't even sure if she merely meant take Bogdan to Dallas for a day while leaving her behind or take him forever. His gut told him its was probably the latter -- she hadn't even said Bogdan's name.

"We'll all go tomorrow, after breakfast."

Fighting not to choke on his words, he brushed a strand of hair away from her face. She was fading in front of his eyes, but she was still the most beautiful woman he could imagine. He wanted to tell her that, but her ears were still flooded with everything the boy had said.

Stupid, fat, ugly, whore, cheese grater skin...

"Alina," he started, his throat locking up. He sucked a ragged breath in and stroked his thumb across her collarbone. "I am so sorry I pushed him...that he said--"

She brushed his hand away and turned toward her bedroom door. "If we're visiting your friends, there's ironing to do. Hang your clothes on the knob. I'll take care of them after I finish the boy's."

Without another word or a glance back, she disappeared into her room.

Texas - present day

"Simon!"

Seeing the Englishman as soon as they stepped into Riona's studio, Bogdan shouted his name and launched himself at the man.

Laughing, Simon caught the boy, spun him in a circle then placed him on his feet before turning to Mishka and, beyond him, where she hung back near the door, Alina.

"Riona's just dealing with something on the manufacturing floor," he explained. "She'll be back any minute."

Mishka glanced over his shoulder at Alina then returned his gaze to Simon. His brows lifted expectantly. He had texted Simon and Riona the night before, after Alina had gone to bed. He needed the Englishman to keep Bogdan occupied and Riona to hopefully work some kind of magic with Alina.

Of course, there was always the chance his idea would blow up in his face -- again. Riona epitomized big girl glamor. With her dark hair and soft curves, she had often reminded him of Alina as she had been on that long ago night in his bed.

"Hey, champ," Simon said, taking Mishka's subtle hint. "I just installed a flight simulator on my computer, want to try it out?"

The boy started to launch himself at Simon a second time but he pulled up short, spun and looked up at Mishka. "Can I?"

Mishka answered with a blink and a lift of his chin, the simple response and Simon's offer making the boy break into a wide grin.

Alone with Alina, he gestured at the big table in the center of the studio where Riona like to lay out everything she was doing all at once.

"Come sit."

As she slowly complied, his gaze slide over the table's surface. His stomach tightened at the catalog proofs that must have been shot since he got back from Russia. Riona was expanding her fashion line into all aspects of full-size women's clothing, not just the lingerie she had started with. The sheets in front of him had models in Alina's size, everything perfectly made up, the clothes tailored to bring a man to his knees.

The sexiest thing about each model was the confident, self-assured gaze.

He wanted that for Alina, even if she turned her light on someone else once it was finally rekindled.

Reaching the table, she took a seat far away from where he stood. In front of her were fabric swatches, the rich, vibrant colors incapable of drawing her attention.

"Teddy bear!" Riona squealed as she entered at the opposite side of the room. Breezing over to him so fluidly she could have been wearing skates, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed for everything she was worth.

When she pulled back, there was a soft sheen of tears in her eyes.

"I just met your little guy, but he and Simon barely said so much as 'hello' because their noses were buried in a computer."

Laughing, she rolled her eyes and turned in Alina's direction.

"You..." Riona started and then her voice caught.

Mishka felt his balls shrivel up into his stomach, maybe even his throat because a lump had formed just as quickly. He was counting on Riona to put Alina at ease, to work her charms like she did with everyone around her, getting them to open up, and, particularly the women, appreciate themselves.

So why the hell couldn't she say anything to Alina?

"This is Alina," he said, burying the growl in his voice beneath a cough. "Bogdan's mother."

Riona nodded while Alina stared through both of them.

This was going to be a disaster.

All because he couldn't stop pushing.

"I hope I didn't just come off as rude," Riona said, navigating her way around the table to where the other woman sat. Perching on the edge of the table, she leaned down and captured Alina's hands. "But you seem so sad, it stunned me."

Alina's gaze darted to Mishka. For days she had asked him for nothing, not for herself. Now her hollowed eyes were pleading for him to intervene, to let her leave and find someplace to hide until his visit was over.

Slowly, his heart knotting around itself, he shook his head.

Releasing Alina's hands, Riona reached for one of the swatch books.

"My brothers say I'm a bit of a steamroller, and not as any kind of a compliment," she confessed, looking down at the colorful fabric. "If I see someone sad, I want to make them happy, but I don't know that many ways to fix things. Mostly, I know how to listen, how to put on makeup and do hair and how to make clothes. I'm absolute crap at giving good advice or taking it."

Alina's lips parted then bobbed for a second before her mouth snapped shut.

"So..." Riona hugged the heavy book to her overflowing breasts then lifted her delicately arched eyebrows. "How about you let me do my thing? Make-up, hair, clothes--"

The youngest Kehoe was making a little headway until she mentioned clothing. That's when Alina cut her off with a sharp shake of her head.

"I need to stay in these clothes."

The scars. He had warned Riona that any outfit would have to be carefully selected and that Alina was not likely to change with anyone present.

Riona softly pushed back at Alina's rejection. "There's still make-up and hair."

Before she could object again, Mishka interrupted. "You need something to do while I get fitted and Bogdan visits with Simon. Go and make your host happy."

It was a low blow, making her feel like a bad guest. He had already done so many things to make her feel bad or to cause others to make her feel that way. But she needed the time with Riona, needed to be reminded of how beautiful she was, not just on the outside but even more so in her heart.

Politely waving Riona away, he wrapped his hands around Alina's shoulders and leaned down. "We all need you to try, my Alina. If you want to go home in these clothes, with your hair in a bun and your face scrubbed clean, that's fine. But try."

Her lips mashed together in quiet refusal. His grip on her shoulders tightened.

"It feels like just yesterday I watched you walk into the bakery in Kapotnya and I couldn't breathe because of the smile on your face. Today, I can't breathe because I don't know if I'll ever see you smile like that again."

Several feet away and eavesdropping like crazy, Riona sniffled.

Alina brushed angrily at his hands, her own eyes dry but clouded over with quiet suffering. "Go and get your tuxedo for your friends' wedding."

When he didn't move, she nodded in Riona's direction. "We will keep ourselves -- occupied."

Sensing he could push her no further, he bowed and left.

Texas - present day

"It wouldn't hurt to take a peek at the clothes in my Fall collection," Riona Kehoe coaxed as they left the woman's studio and passed through a wardrobe area for the modeling sessions done onsite. "The business stuff is as proper or scandalous as the wearer wants them to be."

Stopping at a rack filled with long sleeve blouses arranged by color, she pulled out a dark emerald top. Disappearing into the next row, she re-emerged with a flouncy black skirt long enough to brush at Alina's ankles.

Seeing the expression on her guest's face, she offered a coquettish smile. "We'll just carry them with us for inspiration."

Alina's fingers danced against the plain black purse she had brought with her. Her new identity was inside, along with the smartphone Mishka had secured for her. She didn't want to call him, just check the time and see how long this peculiar kind of torture had lasted so far.

Nearing the end of the wardrobe room, Riona stopped and placed a hand against a man's shoulder, whispering in his ear. Glancing back, he looked at Alina's feet and nodded.

Alina stalled. She couldn't do it, couldn't follow after this glamorous, successful woman who wanted to dress her up for a day. Maybe the world worked like that when you grew up with money, when your own family hadn't scarred most of your body. But it didn't work in Alina's world. She would always know what was under the clothes.

It was time to make her apologies and go back to the studio or out to the car. Mishka and Bogdan would find her when they were done, and she could apologize all over again.

"Please!" Riona begged sweetly before Alina could open her mouth. "I don't want to overwhelm you. Let's go into makeup and sit you down where you can relax."

The Kehoe woman was little more than a girl if she thought sitting down and playing with makeup solved real problems.

Alina shook her head and started to turn, her thoughts shifting to how to get back to the studio and then out to the car. Anxiety had dogged her each step of the way into and through the building and there was an even chance she'd take a wrong turn or two in her attempt to escape.

"I wanted to talk to you about Bogdan," Riona said, expertly dangling the boy as bait in front of his mother.

"What about him?" Alina asked, turning back.

"Oh, something Simon and I were talking about." Giving no real answer, Riona turned toward the nearby door into the makeup room. "Simon's usually so insightful, but I think he missed it."

Hooked, Alina followed after Riona and let the woman place her in the seat.

"What insight?" she asked after Riona did a light cleansing of her face without saying anything substantive.

"I heard that, on the trip back, Bogdan didn't want anything to do with anyone but Simon."

Alina nodded. The boy had spent a few seconds clinging to her when they were reunited, but when he realized she was working with the men who killed his "papa," he had instantly turned on her.

"Simon's mother wasn't like you," Riona continued as she laid down foundation on Alina's pale skin.

Alina fought the urge to roll her eyes. From what she now knew of Simon St. Simon, he was rich and didn't earn his money on the back of drugs, illegal gambling or being a sex slaver. So, yeah, his mother wasn't like her.

"Can I tell you something in confidence?" Riona asked, her voice and gaze dropping.

"Yes," Alina answered flatly.

Whom did Riona think she would tell anyway? Not Mishka nor the boy, both of whom were as far out of her reach as they had ever been. Not the FBI, which only wanted to hear about the Rodchenko family. Certainly not anyone back east -- she'd never made real friends with Dima always spying on her and controlling her every move. And she wasn't supposed to contact anyone from her old life.

All secrets were safe with a woman to whom no one cared to listen.

Riona exhaled a shaky breath, her hand pausing from applying brow powder. "Simon's mother shot him when he was a child, almost killed him."

Alina gasped at the idea.

"Please tell me she was insane."

"Very much so," Riona agreed. "She killed his father with the same gun."

Alina's gaze went wide. Even if only in her thoughts, she had wronged the Englishman.

"I am so sorry," she said, her hand landing briefly on Riona's arm.

The beautiful designer's eyes glossed with the threat of tears. "Simon said you were willing to die to keep Bogdan safe, or to get one last day with your son. He has the utmost respect for you because of that and knows you'll be a great mom for Bogdan."

Alina drew back in the chair, the conversation turning in a particularly uncomfortable direction. She was glad the boy was with Mishka, not Dima. In the end it would work out between them. But there was no place in their lives for her. This beautiful woman on the verge of tears standing in front of her was just one example why.

She had seen the way Bogdan and Mishka looked at Riona. She was whole. Alina was not.

"No, please," Riona said, her fingers lightly pressing against Alina's shoulders as the woman sought to get out of the chair. "I'll shut up."

She gestured at the mirror for more support. "I don't know any woman who wants to go out partly done."

No, Alina thought, her determination to leave crumbling as she caught her reflection. Half done was worse than never begun when it came to makeup. She had entered the room with dark shadows under her eyes and flaking, sallow skin from all the stress. If she left incomplete or without washing it off, she would look like a powdered corpse.

Another dozen or so minutes passed before Riona pulled back, a closed tube of mascara in one hand.

"I'm guessing false eyelashes are a big no."

"Correct," Alina answered, her voice creaky from the silence they had fallen into.

"Okay, just this last bit then. Waterproof okay?"

Alina shrugged. She would prefer something she could wash off immediately if necessary, but her nerves were beyond frayed and the tears she had been holding back daily since the boy's last meltdown might come at any moment.

Leaning over Alina once more, Riona used a lash curler, added a thin coat of mascara, used the lash curler again on the same eye and then laid down a thicker coat with a final curl before repeating the process on the other eye.

Finished, she rotated the chair so that Alina could look in the mirror.

Gaze unfocused, Alina slowly allowed the image of her reflection to sharpen and come together as Riona brushed at her hair.

Alina looked from the expertly made up face down to the frumpy second-hand blouse she wore. She had allowed Mishka to get the boy the kind of clothes to which he was accustomed, but she had insisted on going to the re-sell shops for her own clothing. Part of it was necessity. Finding long sleeves in late summer was hard. Even in fall it would be difficult in Texas.

The other part, the bigger part, was not unlike what had driven the boy to rub shoe polish in his hair. She only wore what Dima allowed -- what he paid for. That meant drab cast-offs, although, for a while, he had insisted on sleeveless blouses exposing her scars except for when she visited the boy.

She snorted, old pain mixing with new.

"Maybe just try on the clothes before I blow some curls in," Riona said as she put the brush down and plugged in a blow dryer.

Alina's skin began to itch, her fingers absently scratching at her arms.

Without any objection voiced, Riona slipped out of the room for a second and returned with a box and plastic bag. She placed them on the counter then backed toward the door.

"I asked Carlos to grab those before we came in here. No one will enter until you open the door. If you want to try it on and take it back off, that's fine -- or if you don't want to try it on at all. Just give the idea a chance first."

Alina remained frozen as Riona left again. She stayed frozen for a few more minutes, only her eyes moving. The emerald shirt and long black skirt hung on the wall behind her. The box, its lettering visible through the thin plastic bag, contained shoes. Black lace she guessed was a bra or panties was also inside the bag.

She looked at her reflection again, mildly surprised her eyes remained bone dry. All the emotion running through her, she should have been crying. But even the emotions were arid -- like she had felt them once and they were blowing back at her on a desert wind.

Sliding out of the chair on shaky legs, she locked the door and made sure there wasn't a second entrance. Returning to the makeup station, she pulled the box out first.

Ah, god, the shoe box. She had buried that memory so long ago -- or tried to. Whenever she found herself recalling how she had fed the little mementos into the fire or the terrible thing that had happened after with the rabbit or Mishka at the library, she pushed her thoughts toward the beating that had followed her father's discovery of her pregnancy.

It hurt less remembering how the electrical cord had lashed her body. That had been only flesh -- not like losing the man she loved and cruelly hurting him to make sure he left, or how they had bragged afterward about setting the building on fire while he slept and of the big Russian's body pulled out of rubble charred so thoroughly only his great size identified him.

Slowly, she peeled back the lid to find a pair of black suede shoes with a one-inch heel. Reaching into the bag a second time, she removed the black lacy material, unfolding it to reveal a bra and panties, Riona's expert eye having perfectly sized up Alina's measurements.

The undergarments were elegant, but that didn't make them acceptable to wear -- not after all those years of being called a whore by her half-brother and father. And she wasn't naive about what other kinds of clothes Riona designed.

Dima had tried to capitalize on what the Kehoes were doing with their kinky hotels and fetish wear. He had talked about copying their look in the slave houses, had even ordered some of the clothing from Riona's "Wicked Threads" line despite the luxury price tag. Beyond cost, the only difference between the Kehoe and Rodchenko clubs was soon reduced to the issue of consent between partners.

Slowly, she pulled the bottom hem of her blouse up over her head. Leaving her bra on, she shucked her shoes and pants off and stared at her scarred body in the mirror. The bra she wore wasn't from the re-sell shop, but it was a cheap eighteen-hour type in plain white cotton -- a war horse to the kind of show ponies Riona designed. The same was true of the white cotton panties.

Turning, she fingered the emerald green shirt. Smooth, lightweight and flowing like water, she wasn't certain what kind of fabric it was. She searched for a tag and discovered it was silk. Lifting a brow, she calculated that the shirt alone was more expensive than the entire wardrobe that she had rebuilt second hand, as small as it might be.

Silk shirts and powdered women were Mishka's world -- and Dima's.

Going back to the counter, she opened her plain black purse and pulled out the phone. Turning it on, she saw that an hour had passed. Mishka was probably long past fitted for his tuxedo. She shoved the phone back in the purse.

For some silly reason, he thought he had a swan who was convinced she was a duck.

Reaching behind her, she unhooked her bra, her gaze avoiding the mirror as she put on the lacy undergarments and then the rest of the outfit. She would show him that if it walked like a duck, swam like a duck and quacked like a duck, it was a duck. No matter how you dressed it up.

She would bear this last humiliation of trying to be what she wasn't and then he would see it was time to let her go and raise the boy on his own.