If I Had You (9 page)

She put her free hand to her cheek. “Now you're going to make me blush.”

“You know you look your best with red cheeks,” he said, leaning closer. She could smell the coffee on his warm breath.

Mesmerized by his mouth, she forgot her coffee cup, only righting it as it was about to spill. “I need to finish this before it gets cold,” she said quickly, then lifted the cup.

He drank his as well, then offered her his arm. She took it with alacrity, never having walked any street on a man's arm before. It felt daring and freeing and young, something her sister might do, not herself. She loved it, picturing the image she made to others: a handsome man, a girl in the latest fashion, at Hyde Park Corner. Yes, she could have hugged herself, and did her best to memorize every detail. The feel of his strong arm underneath her glove, the faintest hint of beard on his cheek, the patch on the elbow of his coat. The passersby, not as fashionable as one might expect, but everyday Londoners out for a midwinter walk in the park before it grew dark. Not freezing, no rain, no fog. What else could you ask for in early January?

“Shall we go into the park?” he asked.

She hesitated, still memorizing the scene.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I was just thinking this is a perfect moment.”

His arm twitched. “How could it be?”

She didn't understand how he could think otherwise. Had London ceased to impress him after everything he'd been through to come here? “What do you mean?”

“There hasn't been a kiss. It's not romantic without a kiss.”

Her skin tingled. She focused on his mouth. “You don't think so?”

His smile was sly. “You haven't been kissed enough to learn that, I suppose.”

He was teasing her. “How many girls have you kissed?”

His gaze drifted over her head. “More than I can remember, back home. Between sixteen and eighteen I kissed as many pretty girls as I could. I thought of little else.”

“Wartime,” she commented.

“I suppose. We were all desperate for distraction as our world fell apart. I was too young for any serious thoughts, not like my father, or my oldest sister.”

“So it was your parents and two older sisters.”

“By then.”

She sensed a world of sorrow in that remark. Had he an older brother who died in the war? So many did. She thought of the Latin-cross memorial on High Street in Bagshot, and the forty-nine names listed. One family had lost three of their young men. Others had lost two. She had been lucky to only have a sister, she supposed. The deaths of her parents had come early in the war, before everyone was numb to loss and there was no point talking about grief anymore.

He put his free hand over the hand that still loosely clasped his arm. “I've lost you, Miss Loudon. Where did you go?”

Four smokestacks, always four smokestacks. Had she slept at all last night? The dream had come again. She shook the remembered nightmare away. “I wish it was colder and we could skate on the Serpentine. It does happen some years, I believe.”

“There are indoor rinks. Do you want to go to one?”

“No. Let's walk.”

He nodded. They crossed the busy street into the park and found a path through elms and chestnut trees, leading to the man-made river.

“It's a good thing hemlines are higher these days, with all of this mud,” she commented.

“It's hard to imagine snow,” he agreed. He slid her hand down his arm onto the palm of his glove and laced their fingers together.

Wind rustled through the leafless trees. Branches crackled and she shivered. “If my grandfather could see this, I would receive such a talking-to,” she told him, because she didn't think Ivan was at all serious about her.

“At least I could say, quite sincerely, that no matter how wayward my youth was, I've been an angel since.” He sounded glib, despite the Russian accent that made most of his pronouncements seem so serious.

She moved a little closer to him, feeling his heat radiating through her body. Her neck was warm because of the fur collar, but she needed more layers under the coat. “No girls in Berlin or Paris?”

“Or Helsinki. Definitely not there.”

“Nor London? No girls in eight years?”

“Girls don't like boys with heavy accents and no money. If I'd had a title, count or prince or such, I could have changed my fate.”

She liked his accent very well. Silly, prejudiced girls. “You aren't secretly Count Ivan?” she teased.

“My grandfather was a count,” he said, surprising her. “But I'm two generations a younger son, and it's all gone now, that world.”

Such sad words. They had both lost their childhood certainties completely. “Will you ever return to Russia?”

“Never.” They turned onto the path along the river. “That cousin of mine, the Russian diplomat who is coming to the Grand Russe?”

“Yes?”

“I cannot feel my sister and I would ever be safe in a place where he has power.”

She didn't understand his point. “Why do you blame him for killing your family?”

“He informed on them. My parents had done nothing wrong, but you can be sure Georgy enjoyed stealing their possessions.”

“It is unfortunate that diplomats move around.”

“Indeed they do. I hope he does not hold his post long. He's not an honest or honorable man, which makes me even more certain that the present government of my homeland is not good.”

She couldn't help but think such a topic was not a wise one for this occasion. How could she lighten up the conversation? “I came down here on Christmas morning to see the Peter Pan Cup swimming competition at the Serpentine,” Alecia said.

“I did too,” Ivan said, after a pause. “It was just after my shift ended. I was happy to be a spectator rather than a participant.”

She grinned at him. Without thinking, she squeezed his hand.

* * *

Ivan felt the pressure of Miss Loudon's small hand in his and took it as an invitation. He sought to remember his techniques for kissing girls, back in the old days. Did the actions of a callow boy have any value to a sober man of twenty-six?

He pulled his pretty blond date off the path, leading her to a large tree, skeletal in its winter nudity, but wide enough to hide them from the passersby on the path. She leaned against it without prompting, and lifted her chin.

Was she hoping to be kissed? Her soft pink lips were gently parted, but her eyes were still open. The girls he remembered always closed their eyes, a clear signal. He licked his wind-chapped lips, still tasting the coffee on them. Her gaze fixed there, then she bit her own lip.

He groaned at her unconscious sensuality, unable to help himself, and leaned in.

Crack!
A noise over his head startled Ivan into action. He grabbed Alecia's arm and hauled her into the clearing between the trees. A heavy branch hung down on the tree she'd been leaning against. He heard a scraping sound as the many-fingered tip of the branch bounced against the tree trunk. The entire branch collapsed, plummeting to where Miss Loudon had been standing a second before.

“What?” she whispered breathlessly. Her eyes were huge on his, then she swiveled around and saw what had happened. She shrieked, putting her hand to her lips. Another gust of wind tore through the stand of trees.

“We had better go back to the bank of the river and stay on the footpath,” he said.

“You saved me,” she gasped.

To his shock, she flung her arms around his neck. His hands went up instinctively, cradling her cheek and the back of her close-fitting hat. Their lips met, and he forgot about the danger.

She had an untutored kind of passion. He knew she'd never kissed anyone but him, and the thought made him bold. He would teach her. His lips moved against hers, forgetting the dangers. He changed angles, realigned his hands, teaching her the tastes and touches of open-air necking. Breeze danced across the bare back of his neck and whipped tendrils of her hair from its bun. She showed no signs of fear. Her fingers moved up and down his arms. Growing impatient for a touch of her fingers, he released her mouth and, staring at her, pulled off one of her gloves and set her fingers against his cheek. Openmouthed, with puffy, rosy lips, she stroked his cheekbone with flattering intentness.

“I feel so warm,” she said, then dipped her index finger into the tiny indent on his chin. When she touched his lower lip, he nibbled at her finger, making her giggle.

Bolder now, he sucked her finger in. When she didn't protest, he used his tongue, swirling it around her long, slim digit, their gazes locked.

Wind buffeted them, but he scarcely noticed. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, dipped in for another kiss. This time, he offered her a more overt carnality. When her mouth opened beneath his, with all the sweetness of new beginnings, he gently explored her with his tongue.

“Oh!” She bent her head back, disengaging. “You did that with my finger.”

“Yes. Did you like it?” Lower down, his erection raged. He wanted to press against her. Her coat was as much armor as any prewar fashion from a Russian winter. She probably couldn't even tell how excited he was by her taste and touch. Did she know what it meant for a man to be fiery hot and hard?

“I-I don't know, exactly.” Her bare hand went to her lips. Then she pressed it against his. “I'm overwhelmed.”

Disappointment warred with arousal. “We should move away from these trees.”

“I could have been killed.”

He nodded.

“That would be a story for the papers. Young woman dies on her first date.” Her expression became solemn. “You'd be a bad luck man.”

“Doomed to wander London alone forever?” he asked.

She pressed stray locks of hair back under her hat. “Someday, we'd haunt the hotel. At least I would. They'd tell our legend late at night. Some other girl listening to the nightclub music would come across some other night watchman and they'd shiver together.”

“You're a funny girl. Maybe you are a storyteller.”

“I don't know what I am, really, except a girl with a little more experience of life than I had previously.”

“One near-death experience,” he prompted.

“And kisses. Real kisses.” She smiled. “I'd like you to do that with your tongue again.”

He smiled back, but then the wind gusted. The coiled hair at the back of her neck, just peeping out from her hat, lost its battle with gravity and looped over the fur collar of her coat. A pin dropped to the damp grass. The bottom of her coat waved. She had to shift to keep her balance.

“Maybe the river is the wrong place to go,” he said, picking up her pin.

“We don't want to go back to the hotel,” she protested.

“No, it's early yet.” He still had nearly all the money that Mr. Dew had given him. “How about a movie? We could have popcorn.”

“What is playing?”

“I wanted to see
The Sea Hawk
if it is still in a theater. I remember the poster because the boat looked almost Russian.” He handed her the pin and she started coiling her thick hair, trying to get it back into order.

Such old-fashioned hair. Not practical for a secretary. He'd tell her to get it cut, but he liked the look of it too much. “I read about that. They used real ships.”

Movies weren't an indulgence he usually set money aside for. But they had to get out of this wind.

“You don't have to pay for me,” she said.

He felt bad for hesitating. He wanted to show Miss Loudon a good time, but so far, she was more interested in him than politics, and he needed to find out what side she—and more importantly, her employers—were on. “I had a bonus,” he said, thinking quickly. “For finding a petty thief's cache at the hotel.”

“How nice,” she exclaimed, as another gust of wind came through. “Goodness, it's getting worse.”

He took her arm. “Let's go quickly then.”

They returned to one of the main paths and walked out of the park with rapid steps. He glanced up at the sky and saw the clouds were coming in, thick and gray. Would they bring rain or snow? They weren't expecting snow. Maybe it was just the wind.

“This reminds me of a really terrible day.”

“It does?” she asked.

“Sorry. I didn't realize I said that out loud.” He sighed.

“What happened?”

“First of all we had better decide where to go.”

“There are a lot of movie palaces, but I haven't been to any in London. Which is your favorite?”

He laughed. “There is the Rivoli. It's grandiose, enormous. I took my sister there for her birthday. They even have a café and the uniforms rival ours at the hotel.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you'd fit right in, a pretty little blonde like you. They wear blue pageboy tunics, short skirts, and patent-leather leggings, with white gauntlets on their arms and jaunty peak caps on their blond heads. All girls. They open the doors.”

“It sounds very smart.”

“Yes, it's in the East End, though. We don't have time to go there before I have to be at work.”

“Why don't we go to a café? You should eat before you have to work.”

He thought he'd like a nap in some disused corner of the hotel before he started his shift, one of the valet dens. If only he could persuade Miss Loudon to lend him her bed.

“You have a funny kind of look on your face,” she observed.

Little did the untutored girl know what he had on his mind. His first time dating an English girl and she just had to have been raised by a vicar.