Free Sands of Time by Susan May Warren Page B

keys, not looking at him. “Get in.”
    He crossed around to the passenger side, his hazel eyes on her as she opened her door. She reached across and let him in, arguing with herself for keeping her unspoken word.
    They drove in clenched silence to her apartment. An early winter wind picked up litter and dirty snow and tossed it down the street. Her flat, located in a four story Khrushchev-designed brick building, had four entrances. Outside, it looked like it had been recently bombed, bricks littered the foundation, doors hung on one hinge, the garbage Dumpster overflowed with debris. Two stray dogslifted their heads from their huddle under a broken merry-go-round in the snowy yard. Sarai parked, put a steering wheel club on the car and locked the vehicle.
    The western cities of Russia had adapted quickly to European standards—remodeled flats and standards of cleanliness and repair. But in the villages, she felt lucky to find a flat with running water and electricity, let alone indoor plumbing.
    “I’m on the third floor,” she said as she pushed open her entrance door and in the darkness climbed from memory the chipped stairs. “Watch your step—the third step is out.”
    Roman followed her in silence. She reached her apartment, opened the outer steel door, then the inner one.
    “I’m glad to see you’ve taken security precautions,” Roman said quietly.
    “I’m not stupid, Roma. I told you I was safe.”
    He sighed. “That’s your opinion.”
    She closed both doors, locked them. Roman stood in the narrow hallway of her apartment. “I like it.”
    She shrugged out of her coat, hung it on a hook near the door. “Yeah, well, I don’t spend a lot of time here.” She slipped out of her boots and grabbed a pair of slippers.
    “I was serious.” He, too, slipped off his coat, then toed off his shoes. “Reminds me of my place. Only neater.”
    “Oh.” Somehow that only hurt. More evidence that he’d become the man she feared…one-dimensional. Hard. Barren.
    Then again, what did that say about her life? Homeydidn’t exactly define her life—or her flat. Not with her two hard-as-stone sofas, a tiny Formica-topped table shoved into the corner and a black-and-white television with aluminum foil wrapped around the antennas for reception. Her kitchen had enough room for a sink and a stove. She kept her refrigerator in the family room.
    “Help yourself to something to eat. You might find some bread in the fridge, or maybe some apples. Sorry. I haven’t cooked here lately.”
    She strode over to her bedroom door and closed it before he could see inside.
    Roman headed to the television. Crouching before it, he turned it on, playing with the reception. She couldn’t help but notice his wide back, the muscles in his arms that tightened the sleeves of his thermal shirt. He’d gone from a boy to a man since she’d seen him last…no, he’d gone from boy to soldier.
    She stifled a small shudder. She felt like she might be staring at a stranger. A strange man, in her apartment.
    “On second thought, I eat at a café in town. Let’s catch some breakfast.”
    He turned, and for a second, she glimpsed a tiny smile. “Perfect. Let me find the news while you change.”
    He turned back to the television, and she shut herself into her bedroom, cleaning up, then changing into a flannel shirt and clean jeans.
    On the other side of the door, she could hear the television, the chatter of fast Russian. She hardly ever watched the news…or television for that matter. It wasn’t only thatshe didn’t have time, but after a day trying to decipher the language, she couldn’t bear to have it seep into her down-time.
    The sun had risen and light now pooled on her green down comforter, a luxury from home. She sat on the bed to pull on her socks, and her gaze fell on the picture of Roman.
    “Let’s get our photo taken.”
    It had been one of their first dates—a real date, without David tagging along as chaperone. She’d