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“We’re the good guys, Princess,” Matt says, smiling widely.
“Oh, yeah, you wanna tell me why the good guy gets captured and held in a basement where the mafia torture people?” I ask, leaning in so only he can hear me.
“You first,” Matt says, gesturing to me with his head.
“I told you already.”
He levels me with his gaze. “Try again, Princess. I don’t like lies, and that one’s going to cost you, especially since it’s been told twice. I want the truth.”
“What makes you think I lied?”
“You said you were using and you’re not. Your skin is too clear, not blotchy from toxins or decreased circulation. You’re too healthy looking. Your hair shimmers and your fingernails have a healthy pink tint to them,” Matt says.
“You caught all that while we were hanging around?” I ask, giving him my wide-eyed look.
“Not all of it, but enough. The rest I see now and just confirms it. So, you wanna tell me what you were really doing at that bar and why those mafia goons took you?” Matt asks.
“I was curious. Perhaps I was hoping to find my father in one of his joints. I heard they had a package getting moved into Chicago and I wanted to catch him in the act. Should have known the bastard wouldn’t soil his own hands anymore.”
“Who’s your father?” Matt asks.
“I think I answered your question and it’s my turn,” I say.
He smiles widely at me and then shakes his head. “Okay, that seems reasonable to me,” Matt says to me as the waitress brings us our drinks. He takes a sip and holds it up. “Na zdorov’ye!” he says.
I laugh with delight. “All you tourists think we sit around drinking vodka and toasting like that,” I say.
He shrugs good humoredly. “I know better. You sit around toasting with chocolate cappuccino,” Matt says, his eyes twinkling.
“Better! Now, how is it that you know my language but live in America?” I say.
“Easy, it’s a prerequisite of our profession. We all know at least five or six languages and often more. Anything else you want to ask me?”
“Yes, what’s your real name and your profession? I heard them call you Prez, but then your men called you Matt.”
He contemplates for a moment, assessing me with those deep steely grey eyes of his. “I answer to both, depending on the job. You can call me Matt. Matt Benagert.”
“Okay,” I say, taking a sip of my steamy drink.
“My turn,” Matt says.
“Sure,” I say, swirling my tall mug to mix the chocolate before taking another sip.
“How did you really find yourself in that basement?”
“Hmm. Wrong question. That one I can’t answer. How about if we finish our drinks and I give you a little tour of our amazing city,” I say, smiling as his grey eyes narrow at my obvious attempt to circumvent his question.
“Fair enough, Princess, but I am a persistent man,” he says, and I have no doubt that he is. He pays the waitress and he takes my hand as we step outside into the fresh air.
We spend the entire day leisurely making the tourist rounds on the cobblestone steps surrounding Red Square, taking in the architecture of St. Basil’s Cathedral, a church in the square with onion shaped domes on the top of the building, all in a variety of colors that are topped by high reaching crosses and stopping for a bite to eat and drink midday and to rest.
Matt is animated and engaged while we tour the rest of the city in the afternoon, continuing our walk to Lenin’s Mausoleum which covers an expansive area of one side of the square as we continue to walk, before we reach the Kremlin in all it’s architectural glory before dusk falls and we enter one of my favorite restaurants.
We’ve finished a dinner ofshashlyk, chunks of grilled beef marinated in pomegranate juice, and are enjoying our drinks. He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his own. Every time he’s touched me, taken my hand, put his arm around my shoulder or waist, guided me in one direction or the other with a light touch to my lower back, it has sent thrills of warmth and electricity through my body. I feel like I have been on edge all day, thrumming with this newly found current.
He’s watching me with those steely grey eyes and I can feel my face flush as he talks to me. “When you were there next to me in the basement, I could feel our energy, your desire. You feel the same thing I do, your nipples are getting hard just from the touch of my hand stroking your palm. I want to take you home and care for all your needs, Princess,” Matt says.
My father has ruined me for all men. I may let them get close enough to talk to me, try to satisfy me here and there, with a kiss or a touch, but never close enough to get my clothes off, or let my guard down. Matt has seen me at my worst. He knows the real me better than anyone else I’ve encountered. He’s seen and felt my fear, my weakness and the attraction is so palpable, so undeniable, but at my age, the fact that I am still technically a virgin is embarrassing.
