In Sheep's Clothing. Susan Warren May
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He didn’t want to scare her, but most of all he wanted to get off the train before it started rolling.
“Are you Grace Benson?”
Her eyes went wide.
Bull’s-eye. He smiled at his sleuth work. “I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes.’”
Fury filled her green eyes. She glanced past him, into the hall, as if hoping for reinforcement.
He had to make her understand. “I’ve been searching all over for you.”
Oh joy, she went white.
He turned and slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t need an audience, and he had a feeling she wasn’t going to go quietly. Sighing, he weighed his options as he ran a hand through his hair. Now what? An ugly picture of him throwing her over his shoulder, fireman style, and hauling her from the train filled his mind. No, bad idea.
Turning back, he caught the warning expression on her face a millisecond before she went berserk. She pounced on him, clawing at his face.
What was wrong with her? He grabbed her forearms. “Stop it! Please. I’m not going to hurt you, trust me.”
She ripped her arms from his grip and sat down, hard. Her breath came in gusts.
“Perestan!” he hissed, both to her and his thundering heartbeat. “My name’s Vicktor. I’m with the KGB and I’m trying to help you!”
Chapter Six
Shock turned her numb. Gracie drew her legs into a ball and stared at the officer. He blinked at her and smiled, as if suddenly he’d solved her every problem. He was a KGB officer?
“Is that supposed to inspire confidence?”
His smile dimmed.
“I mean, the KGB isn’t exactly a foreigner’s best friend. So, excuse me for my hesitation.”
His eyes darkened, and she called herself a fool for her sassiness.
“Actually, it’s the FSB now,” he said, “and you’d better start to trust me. I am trying to save your skin. You’re not leaving Khabarovsk until you answer some questions.”
“Spit it out—the train has already whistled,” she retorted with false bravado. Behind her sassy mouth lived a coward whose brain was screaming, Run!
His jaw dropped like he’d been slapped. She saw shock flicker in his blue eyes, then he stepped up to her and held out a hand. She stared as if it were a bomb.
“C’mon. We’re not having our chat here.”
“I—I’m an American citizen,” she stammered. “I want a lawyer.”
“Why? Do you need one?”
Gracie’s heart slammed into her ribs. “No,” she squeaked, swallowing hard. His hand remained outstretched.
“I could stay on the train. You can’t make me get off.”
A muscle tensed in his jaw. His presence filled the compartment—wide shoulders, thick arms that strained the material of his jacket. He was tall enough to scrub his head on the door frame, and he looked as fit as a soldier and in no mood to argue. His eyes latched on to hers and sent a streak of fear into her bones. She raised her chin, hoping to appear strong and defiant.
“I could make you get off, but I won’t.” His tone was low, calm. “If this train moves, however, I stay here, in this berth with you all night until we get to Vladivostok.” He paused. “Your choice.”
Gracie ignored his outstretched paw, stood, grabbed her bag and brushed past him just as the train lurched. She felt his presence closing behind her as they wobbled down the corridor. The train had already begun easing forward. She paused at the door, watching pavement glide by.
He touched her elbow. “Jump.”
She shot him a glare and made the easy leap to the platform. He swung down right behind her. His hand again curled around her elbow.
“Unless I am your prisoner, please unhand me,” she snapped.
He withdrew his hand, but stayed close enough to rein her in, obviously to ward off any impulses she might have to ditch him in the tunnel back to the parking lot.
Gracie seethed all the way through the station, refusing to make room for cold fear.
The KGB. She didn’t know what was worse. Being chased by a killer or interrogated by the KGB. Where was a decent hiding place when a person needed one?
They climbed into his greasy rattletrap of a car and Gracie huddled on the smooth vinyl seat, shooting a glare his direction. He ignored her. Motoring into traffic, he said nothing.
“Some interrogation,” she muttered.
He kept his eyes forward, but she noticed his whitened grip on the steering wheel.
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the scene. We need you to walk through what happened with us.”
“What? No!” She grabbed the door handle. “Let me out! I’m not going back there.” She began to shake, her composure unraveling. Tears bit her eyes. Where was Miss Sass and Courage when she needed her?
He pulled over and she braced herself, poised to fly out of the car and run until she hit the Chinese border, or beyond. Let him try to catch her. She didn’t care if they had to run her down with a tank—she wasn’t returning to the scene of her friend’s murder.
He grabbed her arm, reached across her and held her door shut.
Was she that transparent? “Get away from me.”
“Don’t be afraid, Miss Benson. I’ll be there with you.”
She stared at him, at his eyes and the way they looked so incredibly blue, surprisingly tender for the situation, and suddenly, hot tears were running down her cheeks. “I don’t even know you.” Agony stretched her voice thin. “I just want to go home.”
He continued to hold her arm, but loosened his grip on the door. “I know,” he said. His words were a salve on her raw emotions. Oh, how she wanted to unravel into a puddle of pain.
“I know you don’t know me. But I mean you no harm. All I want to do is find your friends’ killer.”
His voice had turned soft, and even with the accent, she could hear a man trying to soothe a woman’s fears. He might have tried that approach when he was breaking into her train compartment. She looked away from him.
“You must have been horrified to find them. I’m sorry you had to see it,” he said.
“Them?” she croaked, then realized he meant Dr. Willie. So…Evelyn’s kind, handsome husband had also been murdered. A moan ripped through Gracie, and she covered her face with her hands.
The cop put his hand on her shoulder. Warm, strong, a presence that she should probably shrug off. But it seemed so…kind. She just closed her eyes and let herself cry.
The sounds of her anguish filled the car. She didn’t even think to be embarrassed; she just let her grief spill out. The cop didn’t move, didn’t pull her into an awkward, polite embrace, but didn’t remove his hand, either. Somehow that balance felt comforting.
She finally pressed her fists into her eyes, trying to stem the tears. “I didn’t know Dr. Willie had been killed.”
“I’m sorry.”
His tone went straight to her battered soul.
Okay, so maybe she’d misjudged him. Or, more likely, she again was falling victim to her own abysmally bad judgment.
She glanced at him. He didn’t betray any inkling that she might look a mess, with blotchy skin and bloodshot eyes.
Raising