Free The White Russian by Tom Bradby Page B

woman of heart-stopping beauty-talented and womanly and clever-and yet the sight of him made her flush bright red. Her smile was girlish, full of unsophisticated pleasure. “Hello, Sandro,” she said, her voice soft.
    Ruzsky felt his stomach lurch.
    She wore a simple, elegant, cream and gold dress. “You’re back,” she said.
    “Yes.”
    “You’ve come home.” Her voice was warm.
    Ruzsky did not know what to reply.
    “You haven’t changed one bit,” he said.
    She gave a tiny smile. “Is that a compliment?”
    “Of course.”
    “You look older.”
    “And that isn’t.”
    “I don’t know. It suits you.” She paused, her face serious again. “It’s been so long, Sandro.”
    “A lifetime.”
    Her cheeks flushed again.
    “How was Tobolsk?” Maria asked.
    “It was cold.”
    “You missed Petersburg. City of our dreams.”
    “And yet it got along without me.”
    “That’s a matter of opinion. I was told that your wife came home.”
    Ruzsky wanted to ask by whom. “She did, yes.”
    “I’m sorry for that.”
    Ruzsky didn’t reply.
    Maria caught sight of a hole in his boot, then shook her head. “Don’t you have anyone to look after you?”
    “No,” he said with a rueful smile.
    It had been intended as a joke, but her face was instantly concerned.
    Warmth flooded through him.
    Maria took a step toward him, then leaned against the dresser upon which she stored her makeup. Her dress was tight and low cut, the swell of her breasts almost sculpted. He caught sight of a single rose in a cut-glass vase behind her, and suddenly imagined another man bending to kiss the smooth skin of her neck.
    Ruzsky fought to keep his emotions in check, but it was an unequal battle. He was forty-forty-an investigator hardened by more experience than was good for a man; married, betrayed, alone. And yet when he was with her-a girl not much more than half his age-the cares of the world fell away.
    Opposite her dresser, a photograph of the male dancer Vaslav Nijinsky as the golden slave-the role that made him famous-took pride of place alongside one of Maria and Kshesinskaya, the prima ballerina assoluta. Russia ’s two best-known ballerinas had their arms draped around each other for the camera. “How is she?” Ruzsky asked, inclining his head.
    “Much the same as before.” Maria shrugged. “Still collecting Romanovs.”
    “Perhaps not the best currency in these times.”
    “The world is at war, Sandro. How many million dead? How many yet to die? Our fantasies count for little.”
    Ruzsky felt that she was able to look right through him.
    “Was it so bad, what you did? To send you away for so long.”
    Her gaze was intense. Was it hurt that he saw there? Ruzsky sighed. “I helped cause a man’s death.”
    “But he was a terrible man.”
    Ruzsky stared at the floor.
    “And you took the blame, Sandro?”
    Ruzsky did not answer.
    “So you’re the kind of man who will not cheat on his wife, even though she betrays him openly, and who will happily go into exile in order to protect a friend.”
    “I wouldn’t say happily, exactly-”
    “An example to us all.”
    “I’m afraid my father would not agree.”
    “Is what he thinks still so important?”
    “Yes.” Ruzsky realized he had said too much. He shook his head. “No.” He forced a smile. “Are you rehearsing today?”
    There was a shout from the corridor. “Maria Andreevna!” Then another, when she did not respond.
    Maria was still looking at Ruzsky. “Something for next month. Two more nights of the Stravinsky and then I go home to Yalta.”
    “It’s a long way, at a time like this.”
    “My sister is not well. Sandro, I…” As she tried to find the words, her face was soft and more achingly beautiful than ever. This was how he had remembered her. “I would like us to be friends,” she said.
    Ruzsky did not move. His heart banged like a drum. Friends… He was not sure if she meant only friends and no more. “We are friends.”
    Now he saw