The Unwilling Bride (6 page)

As mercilessly as they teased Abby about being a clotheshorse, though, she invariably picked out stuff for her and Gwen that suited them. Doubtful Abby would be caught dead herself in a simple burgundy sweater dress that had no particular claim to an instyle or savoir faire. But it was comfortable. It fit like a worn-in old friend. It had long sleeves, turtleneck and was midcalf length. It covered everything.

Stefan had mentioned Palmer’s, and the restaurant just wasn’t a jeans place. A dress was simply more appropriate, and there wasn’t a single reason not to wear it…other than a generic panic at the implications
of going out on a date—and specifically a date with Stefan.

After fumbling for five minutes in her drawers, she finally found a slip and stockings. She pulled those on, then the dress, then chased into the bathroom before she lost her nerve. There was makeup in the bathroom. Abby had given her all those bottles and tubes, too—after lengthily ranting on about Paige being incapable of picking the right colors and makeup on her own.

She
could
have. She just hadn’t. For a few more minutes, she scrabbled around with pots and tubes and mascara wands, then checked the mirror. She still had to braid her hair—it wasn’t as if this was a finished product yet—but the reflection in the mirror still appalled her. The face paint looked great, but the damn fool woman in the mirror had helplessly, infuriatingly scared eyes. Paige wasn’t afraid of a tornado, for Pete’s sake, and she
never
ran from a problem. Never had, never would.

But damn. Wherever this disgusting coward streak was coming from, she needed some moral support from the Mounties.

As fast as she could pelt downstairs—carrying heels—she grabbed the phone and punched in her sister’s number at work. As soon as she heard Abby’s voice, she snapped, “Darn it, what am I supposed to wear for jewelry with this dress?”

Abby, thankfully, was notoriously efficient. She never had a problem picking up a conversation midstream. She answered as smoothly as if she’d been waiting for this precise question for months. “Gram’s garnets, of course. The color’s perfect. They’re right in your left top drawer in a white box. Who is he?”

“A new neighbor. And don’t ask. I’m not sure of this.”

“I won’t ask. But you either call me tomorrow or I’ll shoot you. And Paige?”

“What?”

“Don’t wear those stupid tan leather shoes. You’ve got some black ones up in the closet that’d look great. And there’s Shalimar in the bathroom. Spray a little on.”

“I was never going to wear the tan shoes.” Paige instinctively tucked her hand behind her back—the one that was holding the tan shoes. “And this isn’t a Shalimar type dinner. It’s just a plain old ordinary dinner.”

“Ah. Well, wear the Shalimar anyway. It’ll make you feel good. You’ll relax more if you feel good. And listen, you dimwit. Everything the militant feminists told us about guys is wrong. They’re not the enemy. That whole half of the human species is definitely a little weird, a little alien, but the world’d be utterly tedious and boring without them. Take it easy. Don’t get fretful. It’s just a guy. Just a dinner.”

“What is all this advice? I’ve never been
fretful
in my entire life…” She heard the sound of knuckles rapping on her front door. “Oh, God. He’s here.”

Her sister barely sneaked in a “Good luck” before Paige whisked the phone back onto the receiver and hustled to answer the door. It wasn’t seven yet. It wasn’t even a quarter till. She was still supposed to have plenty of time to do the earrings and hair and shoe stuff.

Yet she forgot all that the instant she saw him. There were reasons why she was worried about this dinner, but she forgot those, too. Stefan had trimmed his
beard, had cut his hair. The topcoat was new, and so, she suspected, was the navy sport coat and slacks. The tie was navy and had a pattern of American flags on it, and was hanging askew, tied tight enough to strangle him. His black eyes skimmed over her face and figure faster than a cat could lick cream, but before she could say anything—before he even stepped in—he cleared his throat and confessed, “Paige, I am hugely nervous.”

Her heart instinctively melted. All those schoolgirl nerves dissipated faster than smoke. She wasn’t a schoolgirl. And he was a friend who needed her. “For heaven’s sake, Stefan. You know me. No one’s going on this dinner but us. What on earth is there to be nervous about?” As soon as he stepped in, she closed the door and aimed straight for his tie. It wasn’t a matter of choosing to be physically close to him. He was going to choke on that tie if someone didn’t fix it.

He lifted his chin so she could work. “I am not doing so well with my culture gap. I seem to have formed habit of saying wrong things in public situations. I look okay?” He immediately qualified that question. “I not want to look Russian. I want to look American. Fit in with the guys.”

If he wanted to look like other men, he was always going to fail, she mused. But that wasn’t because of his background. It was because of his incredible sexy black eyes and the devil’s smile and a towering height that was always going to be damn hard to hide in a crowd. She stepped back to look him over. The tie was better. No matter how hard he’d brushed that hair, it was already starting to look disheveled, but the trimmed beard at least made him look a bit more tamed. A bit. “You look very American,” she assured
him. “And the tie is adorable. You spiff up extremely well, Michaelovich.”

“Spiff up?”

“It means that when you dress up, you really look different—you shape up great, look really handsome.”

“Ah. Well, you also spiff up, my lambchop. In fact, you steal my heart, you are so damn beautiful.”

She certainly didn’t believe that, but for an instant she couldn’t seem to swallow. Positively the sweater dress wasn’t tight or suggestive, but it definitely draped her figure differently than the kind of pouchy, poochy pair of sweats he usually saw her in. He noticed. She’d meant to put her hair up, not leave it loose and messy. He noticed the flowing sweep of her hair, too, and clearly approved. Legs, figure, hair, even the soft shine of her lip gloss…Stefan noticed. And the look in his eyes kindled every feminine nerve in her whole body.

Her tongue eventually moved. In fact, it started rattling as she spun around and aimed for her winter coat in the hall closet. “Really, there’s nothing to be worried about. We’re just going to have an easy dinner. Nothing’s going to go wrong. I’ll help you out, if you get in trouble with the language…”

She buttoned her camel coat, swung a scarf around her neck and joined him at the door.

“You are much reassuring me,” he told her.

“Good. We’ll have a great time, and that’s that.”

“I am in full agreement.”

He might be in full agreement, but even though she’d reached his side, he seemed to have stopped dead—he made no move to open the door.

“What’s wrong? Are you nervous about something else?”

“No, not worried about anything else, toots. I was just thinking, lots of snow outside. Might be best,” he said tactfully, “if you wore shoes.”

She looked down. Stocking feet. No shoes.

The chances of her surviving this evening, she figured, were about five million to one.

“N
ow listen, Stefan, I know you use certain expressions with me, like lambchop and toots and babe. But that’s different because I know you don’t mean anything by them. You want to be careful not to use expressions like that around other women.”

“Yes, Paige.”

“And I know how much you like to try out your slang. And that’s a great idea, because I can tell if you’re using something wrong, and how else would you know unless you tested it?”

“Yes, Paige.”

“But around other people, it would be better if you forgot, um, any sexual references you ever heard. I mean, like ‘hit the sack.’ Or ‘I want to get it on with you.’ No matter what your friend taught you, that just isn’t the standard way a man talks to a woman around here.”

“Yes, Paige. Um, Paige?”

“What?”

“I must confess that I find these rules confusing. It is clear that being able to talk about sex is important here. They use these phrases on TV shows, in ads, in the newspapers and magazines. I thought this was accepted practice. I thought it was required. In fact, I spent one whole day carefully watching daytime TV and-”

“Holy kamoly! You stay completely away from those soap operas, Stefan! The
last
thing you need to do is get any ideas about American real life from them.”

“A big no-no, huh? Good thing I have you to ask these frank questions. How else could I learn?”

Well, that was just it, Paige thought glumly. He didn’t seem to have anyone else to ask these questions. Left alone, God knew what assumptions he’d come up with about American culture, and she couldn’t deny feeling increasingly protective of him.

She didn’t deny the uncomfortable, disturbing feelings Stefan aroused in her, either, which was one of the prime reasons she had agreed to this dinner. Further time with him would surely help her sort out those strange emotions. She was an adult; she’d never run away from the truth. She wanted control over her feelings again; she wanted her natural, normal perspective back. Stefan needed a friend and she was determined to be one.

She didn’t
feel
like a friend, though, when he ushered her into Palmer’s with a possessive hand at the small of her back. The restaurant was a converted house from Revolutionary War times. There were a half-dozen rooms, all intimately small, each dominated
by a stone-blackened fireplace and sooty-dark beams. No one else was seated in the room where the maitre d’ led her and Stefan. The tall skinny windows had velvet drapes swagged with tassels, the tables were covered with dark red damask, and the only source of light was the roaring fire and candlelit sconces.

A waitress in eighteenth century garb served them red wine and steaks on pewter platters. She was a darling, with peaches in her cheeks and huge, dark eyes, yet Paige noted that Stefan didn’t call her lambchop or babe. During dinner, the chef made a customary visit to make sure they were happy, and two old friends paused in the doorway to say hello. She didn’t hear a word of slang from Stefan either of those times.

She had cautioned him about his language, of course. But it still seemed amazing how quickly he dropped that tendency when he had such a hard time conquering those endearments with her. She had also never suspected that her uncivilized and unruly bear had the impeccable manners of a gentleman… except when he looked at her.

For some reason he paid no attention to the waitress—who was adorable. And he barely glanced at an old school friend, Mary Wilkins, when she stopped to chat—even though Mary was striking enough to turn any man’s head. Stefan was only looking at her…as if the rest of the people in the world were a nuisance. As if he’d rather have had her for dinner instead of the T-bone. As if her face by candlelight was damn near mesmerizing.

Since that was poppycock, Paige decided the dim lighting was responsible for tricking her imagination. Either that, or the wine. By the time they’d finished
dinner and the plates were cleared away, Stefan had refilled her glass twice now.

“You sure you don’t want dessert, lambchop?”

There. She
knew
a lambchop would slip out sooner or later—but her mind was on another subject entirely by then. She was determined to get to know him better, determined that these incessant, unsettling sexual vibrations around Stefan would disappear if she just understood him better. And he was making that job so easy. They’d been talking as naturally as old friends. “No, honestly, I’m too full to try dessert. Tell me more about your growing up years. You were really taken away from your parents?”

“Not ‘taken away’ in a cruel sense. It was how education was done. Six days a week—and the school day so long that a child would have had to commute very late at night. It just made more sense to board at the school. And this was not automatic for everyone. I tested high in mathematics when I was very young, so I was put in an educational program suited especially for that.”

“Well, that part sounds great. But I’d have died growing up without my mom and dad, without my sisters. My family was everything to me. Who patched your scratched knees? Taught you to ride a bike? Dosed you with medicine when you were sick?”

“There were all kinds of caretakers. They just weren’t family.”

“It sounds like a very lonely way to grow up,” she said quietly.

“Da, that it was.”

“Your mom and dad—they’re still in Russia?”

“My mother caught pneumonia when I was twelve. The virus went out of control and we lost her. My dad,
though, is still there.” Stefan wrapped his palm around the wineglass. “I can’t say that we are close. Many harsh words between us. He’s…an emotional man. We are peas in the same pod. He cannot compromise what he believes. Nor can I. I recognize that we are the same, where he can only see where we are different.”

Although the subject of his dad was obviously painful, Stefan had willingly brought it up. Paige groped, unsure how far he wanted to pursue it. “Was your dad…angry with you for coming here?”

“More than angry. I am not sure forgiveness from him will happen,” he admitted shortly. “I am his only son. He sees me as a traitor.”

“Oh, Stefan. No wonder you’ve had such an unlivable conflict of loyalties. You didn’t even have support from the home front, did you?”

“I never expected support, but I’m sorry for both of us that he could not understand. I’ve written him. And will keep writing him. Some say that enough time can erode the hardest stone. Best I can do.”

“You have plans? For what you want to do here?”

“Oh, yes.” His shaggy eyebrows arched in surprise at the question. “I had definite plans long before I left Russia. Coming here was not difficult like before the Berlin Wall went down. Anyone can travel. But it is still no piece of cake to permanently leave. My American cousins gave me contacts, and the American Embassy went to bat for me. I would have had difficulty with visas, travel arrangements, all the legalities without help. There were Americans who helped me with this from the start. I want to teach.”

Paige dropped her napkin. “A teacher? You want to be a
teacher?”

Her startled expression produced an immediate response. “Paige, trust me, I am qualified. I have beyond Ph.D. education in mathematics and physics. And before I stepped foot on American soil, I had offers from three of your universities to—”

“Stefan, I wasn’t doubting your qualifications. It’s just going to take me a minute to, um, think of you as a teacher.”

“This blow your mind in someway,
lyubeesh?”

“No, no. I just…” She swallowed hard. Her mind wasn’t blown, but it was definitely humorously spinning. For years, she’d envisioned a teacher-type as the only kind of man who would ever work for her—a nice, quiet academic type, someone who was driven by work, someone comfortably absentminded and not really emotional. Like her. And it wasn’t that she thought all teachers fit that stereotype, but Stefan was boisterous and impulsive and sexy and as physical as a caveman. Sure, he could teach. But it was sort of like starting a dream with a nice, safe monk turn into a leather-jacketed motorcyclist. A definite mental adjustment. “Tell me more about your plans,” she said swiftly.

“Well. Working for government, working on areas like weapons and security, is automatic consideration for someone with my educational background. I was steered relentlessly in this direction in Russia. For me, this is no good. It is against my heart. I will not. So even when help was first offered to me, I made clear—I am honest—that I will not work on weapons. I want to work with young people. I love kids.” He paused. “You like kids?”

“Sure. How can anyone not be crazy about kids?”

“Da. I was sure you would feel that way.” His dark eyes suddenly glowed on her face with the power of moonbeams, and was backed up with a huge smile. “In long run, there is more work than teaching that I need to pursue. For certain projects, I need connection with other physicists. For this, I need computer and modem, the ability to travel from time to time. This work is important to me, too, but children are the world’s future, yes? So I see teaching as first priority.”

“A teacher,” she echoed again. Surely this was going to strike her as funny by tomorrow. The curious thing was that she really
could
see him as a teacher, easily imagine him controlling a class but also winning over urchins of any age with his big, boisterous affectionate ways and humor. Kids sensed when they could trust an adult. Tarnation, so did Paige, but somehow she still couldn’t imagine feeling safe herself. Not with him. Not near him.

“You don’t consider a teacher low-down, do you?”

“Low-down? Good grief, no.”

“Maybe teachers are turkeys in your eyes?”

Obviously something in her expression must have given him a totally wrong impression. “I couldn’t possibly think more of teachers, Stefan. They’re up there near saint status with me…partly because a zillion years ago, I gave so many of them trouble that I’m embarrassed to remember. I was an awful teenager, rebellious and stubborn, real arrogantly sure of myself and blind to other people’s feelings—” She shook her head. “Never mind. Just believe me, I couldn’t possibly have more respect for teachers.”

Stefan leaned back. “You were a rebel? I cannot imagine you ever causing trouble, lambchop.”

“Thankfully, it’s history. I’m as straight as an arrow now.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “It is clear to me that being straight like an arrow is important to you. You work at this hard, I think. Did something happen a long time ago?”

Paige wasn’t sure how the conversation had so swiftly changed and focused on her. Vaguely she heard his question. More specifically she felt his gaze lasered on her face, studying her as intensely as if he could see shadows in her eyes, see memories.

She could have told him what happened a long time ago. It wasn’t as if it were a deep, dark secret. But she was ashamed of it, ashamed of the girl she’d been then, and that wasn’t so easy to confess. Not with him.

Candle flames flickered between the two of them. No one else had wandered into the small anteroom in some time. A log fell in the stone hearth, shooting sparks up the chimney. His profile made a clear shadow on the whitewashed walls, a cameo, she thought, of a man as basic as time. A fierce, bearded warrior with hooded brows and brawny shoulders. A man who was dangerous to his enemies, but who would protect his woman and his hearth from all danger.

She mentally shook off the fanciful image, unsure where those silly thoughts were even coming from. The room was just so warm. And in spite of the huge and wonderful dinner, she’d definitely had enough wine. “Are you ready for a little walk in the fresh air?” she asked him.

He had to notice that she’d ignored his question, but he just smiled—and agreed. It took a few minutes to
pay the check, and another minute for them to bundle back up in winter coats and scarves.

Outside, it was snowing white teardrops, slow, thick, fat flakes that lingered on the cheeks and stung. They meandered down Main Street, window-shopping at the bakery and Carlson’s Book Store and The Emporium. The sidewalks were shoveled clean, so wearing shoes instead of boots was no problem. Even after her toes started to feel numb and her face burn-cold, Paige didn’t want to stop walking. The night air was sharp, fresh and invigorating, and the whole walk felt like a time-out with Stefan.

Seeing her town through his eyes was a whole different experience. So typical of him, he inhaled every thing he saw as if he were a thirsty sieve. Walnut Woods was a pretty ordinary Vermont town, with a white-spired church on the hilltop, the green commons in front of the courthouse, homes with yellow lights in the windows. Every morning there was a heated political argument at Simpson’s bakery—no one in Vermont was short of independent opinions. But if there was sickness in a family, it was still a neighborhood where friends showed up with a pie or a tuna fish casserole.

Everything was new to Stefan, all the hundred things she took for granted about her town, her life and life-style. Freedom had a different taste when she was with him. He claimed she was opening his world, but Paige thought he was the one opening hers. Certain truths had always been there. She’d just never looked at them. The conflict of loyalties that had so dominated his life had never even touched hers. Choices she took for granted, Stefan had never had.

Eventually they both admitted to being freezing and raced back to the car. Stefan’s rental car had a blasting, noisy heater that toasted her toes in no time, and they were still making comfortable, easy conversation the whole drive home. There seemed nothing he wasn’t curious about; he asked about neighbors’ names, what they did, seemed to take in every story she shared about them. When he pulled into her driveway, she couldn’t believe they were already home.

Her house was dark. She’d forgotten to leave on lights. And when she bent her head to fumble in her purse for a house key, she couldn’t seem to find that, either.

“Um, lambchop? I would guess that you do not need to worry about the key. I would strongly suspect that your remembering to lock the house, on a scale of one to ten, is about a negative fifty.”