The Silver Fox and the Red-Hot Dove Read Free Page A

Kriloff?”
    “I’ll have to leave if you don’t stop asking me questions like that, Mr. Audubon.”
    “No, don’t leave. I’ll talk to you in English, even if you don’t understand. I like to talk.”
    “I noticed. Good. I like your voice,
Rhett Butler.
”
    He chuckled. Her hands warmed again. The startling temperature changes, the sway in her body, the lithe feel of it, and the feminine scent of her hairmade him giddy. He tried to remember the last time
giddy
had described anything about his emotions, and concluded that he had probably been in grammar school. “All right, English it is, then. Here goes.” He cleared his throat dramatically, and one corner of her mouth drew up in amusement. It was the only sign that she was listening, as her downcast eyes continued to explore his shirtfront.
    “You’re the most unique woman I’ve ever met, and I suspect you’re hiding a great deal about yourself.”
    Her expression was as unchanging as the Siberian tundra, but there was a tiny quiver in the upturned corner of her mouth.
    “You remind me of a pigeon that’s had its wings clipped, Elena.”
    The orchestra’s strings swelled to a throbbing, plaintive melody. She and he were barely moving, the dance a pretense for closeness. A nervous patter of Russian burst from her. “When I was a little girl, I saw a silver fox outside my bedroom window one night. You remind me of him, with your white hair. I used to make up stories about him. I
thought
I could trust him.”
    “If you’d speak English, we could discuss your fantasies about me in greater detail.”
    “I
wish
I knew what you were saying. Anyhow, silver foxes are very rare. Sometimes I wonder if I didn’t just
imagine
I saw one. He never came back after that night. Foxes may be handsome and smart, but they aren’t very reliable, are they? Even the most unusual ones.”
    “I
wish
I knew what you were saying,” he mimicked. “Something about wanting a silver fox to visit your bedroom at night?”
    “This is a very strange conversation. Anyone who was watching wouldn’t guess we’re speaking different languages. They would even think I understand what you’re saying.”
    “You do. What little I can see of your face is scarlet. And believe me, Rhett knows what scarlet means.”
    “Here are simple questions you can answer in Russian. How old are you? Are you married?”
    “Sohrak. Nyet.”
He continued casually, but in English, “Although I’m forty years old and have never been married, I’ve enjoyed the company of several wonderful women. I’m a connoisseur, you see, and connoisseurs need variety.” He chuckled at his excuses then lowered his voice to a brocaded, teasing drawl. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you, though. I think you agree, even if you
don’t
understand English, that we could improve international relations immensely if we were alone in a private room right now.”
    Her stoic facade never cracked. “How old am I? I’m twenty-nine.”
    “After we made love, we’d lay close together and talk. I’d run one hand over you very slowly while I told you about myself. Then you could return the favor.”
    Russian ice. “Here’s another question you should understand in my language. What is your first name?”
    “You’ll have to make love to me if you want to find out. I’ve never told anyone, but I’d tell you.”
    “Why don’t you answer in Russian, so I can understand you?”
    “You understand me.” He stopped moving and held her still.
    “I have to go. Good-bye.”
    He brought one hand up swiftly, hooked a forefinger under her glasses, and swept them into his hand in one neat move. Her head jerked up and she made a startled sound, then looked around quickly to see if Dr. Kriloff was watching. He was.
“Pazhahlasta!”
    He held the lenses up for scrutiny and nodded. “Fakes. This pigeon has terrible taste in glasses but excellent eyesight.”
    “Pazhahlasta,”
she begged again, her voice trembling.
    Audubon