The Gift-Wrapped Groom Page 3
Too bad. He had a feeling he would be presenting her with a few at the conclusion of this “question” period.
He wasn’t concerned about what she would ask. After all, this was merely a contract between them—a contract that was benefiting her as it was him. Emotion had no part in it.
That was one of the reasons he had agreed. He had no heart to give. That had died four years ago in his beloved Russia. He would not pretend to feel what he could not, or be what he could not.
Her tone had become businesslike—crisp and clear. She was looking at his face, but avoiding his eyes. “I take it you speak, read and write English fluently, Dr. Baranov?”
“Yes.”
“Are you an honorable man? That is to say, if you give your word, will you keep it?”
“Yes.”
She picked up and twirled a ballpoint pen between her fingers as though needing to give them something to do. She slid a piece of loose notebook paper around the top of the desk until it lay in front of her. Casually, she began to scribble on it.
“What is your doctorate in?”
Her real attention did not seem to be on this question. Nicholas doubted very much whether she was interested in his answer. So why did she bother to ask? What was going on in the mind of this woman?
“Physics,” he answered.
“What does a Russian citizen do with a doctorate in physics?”
“This Russian citizen became a nuclear physicist.”
The scribbling paused. Her head came up. “You’ve been involved in making atomic weapons?”
His answer to this question clearly interested her. Were he to answer yes, Nicholas had a feeling this interview would be over. So, now he knew she was for peace—at least between countries. Between man and woman, well, that appeared to be another matter altogether.
“My area of expertise was and is concerned with the cleanup of nuclear waste, Miss Winsome.”
“Are you a communist?”
“A socialist.”
“What about the unrest within the government among socialism, communism and capitalism?”
He shrugged. “It is struggle. Always struggle.”
Her eyes dipped again, the momentary interest gone. The scribbling resumed.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
“You’ve never been married?”
“No.”
“Had children?”
“No.”
“Have you ever raised your hand in anger against another human being?”
“Yes.”
Her head came up again. This time not only interest but alarm swam in those silver-green eyes. “Who?”
“A petty official.”
“What did you do to him?”
“I broke his hand.”
“Why?”
“He had used it to push an old woman who was in his way.”
Curiosity replaced alarm. For the first time since she had walked into the room, her eyes met his directly. The heat increased in Nicholas’s hands.
“Did you know this woman?”
“No.”
“The petty official?”
“No.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“If you have to ask why, then I can give you no answer you would understand.”
A flash of irritation swept through her eyes at his mild rebuke. He could see her wrestling with wanting to quickly change the subject and wanting to get further details. Her curiosity for the details won out. So, he’d learned another thing about this Noel Winsome.
“What happened after you broke his hand?”
“I ran.”
“Why?”
“In Soviet Russia, running was the only safe thing to do when one was ten.”
“Ten? How could you break a man’s hand when you were only ten?”
“I was a big ten.”
Her look measured his shoulders, almost unconsciously, seeming to test the truth of this statement. He felt the muscles tense and warm along his collarbone, his upper arms—everywhere those cool eyes touched.
Then, for the space of a heartbeat, something not nearly so cool flickered in the depths of her eyes. Nicholas felt that heat in his hands again. That very curious heat.
Her gaze returned to his face, once again avoiding his eyes.
“What happened after you ran?”
“I was visiting distant relatives in Kazakhstan. They sent me back home for protection.”
“What happened to the woman and the petty official?”
“I do not know.”
This answer clearly disappointed her. She had wanted a more satisfactory ending to the story. Probably a Hollywood one, he suspected, where everyone would shoot everyone else, leaving rivers of red running in the white snow.
“Have you ever struck anyone else?”
“No.”
She studied his face dispassionately a moment more before returning her attention to the sheet of paper in front of her. He could see she was keeping peripheral tabs on her grandfather, who was pacing a few feet away. Her pen once again moved nonchalantly over the paper. Nicholas wondered if this was a nervous thing she did—this scribbling. She did not look nervous.
“You understand, Dr. Baranov, that according to my grandfather’s stipulations, we are to be married within twenty-four hours of being introduced?”
“Yes.”
“And we are to live together as husband and wife in my Midwater home?”
“Yes.”
“But you will not have community property rights to either my home or business. You will be required to sign a prenuptial agreement. If our marriage ends in divorce, I keep my home and business. Is that understood?”
Nicholas had thought he would not mind any questions she might ask. However, he was finding he did mind the implication in these questions very much.
“Your grandfather has explained this, Miss Winsome. Fully. I do not wish to take your home or business from you.”
She looked up, seemed to read in his eyes what had not come through in his voice, and repositioned herself as though suddenly uncomfortable in her chair. Then she quickly looked down again and resumed her scribbling. Once again, the tone of her voice told him his answers to the next questions did not really interest her.
“Western Montana can have very harsh winters, Dr. Baranov.”
“I have spent winters in Siberia.”
“Don’t be taken in by my grandfather’s home and all its expensive comforts and modern devices. He’s wealthy. I’m not. Nor are my neighbors in this small rural village. You’ll find no helicopter pads, servants, faxes or microwaves at your disposal. We don’t even have a doctor. My grandfather’s part-time nurse, Jean, is one of only two paramedics in the valley. You’ll have few conveniences.”
“I am not used to many.”
“There will be wood to cut, snow to shovel. I will not wait on you. I will expect you to pitch in and do your share.”
With much difficulty, Nicholas kept the growing anger out of his voice. “I have always done my share.”
“I will be working at my store most days. How do you plan to spend your time?”
“I intend to apply for work at the Idaho National Engineering Lab. They are involved in nuclear waste disposal.”
Her scribbling paused. Her head came up again. “How do you know about the Idaho lab and the work they do?”
“American nuclear facilities are well known to Russian scientists, just as Russian nuclear facilities are well known to American scientists.”
“You assume they’re going to hire you?”
“You assume they are not?”
A small frown creased her forehead before her eyes dropped once more. The pen was coming to the end of the paper.
“Even if you get work at the facility in Idaho, it’s quite a distance from here. Maybe as much as two, even two-and-a-half hours’ travel time in bad weather.”
“That travel time would not be object
ionable.”
She stopped scribbling. She raised her head. This time, she met his eyes squarely. Nicholas felt the intensity of this look. A question swam in the Siberian seas of those icy, silver-green eyes. Why wasn’t she asking it?
As she leaned across the desk, she brought a faint, sweet scent with her. Nicholas was reminded of spring flowers, buried beneath the frost of a stubborn winter. For a moment, he did not notice that the piece of paper on which she’d been so diligently writing had been firmly but surreptitiously shoved in front of him.
“Dr. Baranov, you’re obviously educated, intelligent, healthy and not unattractive. I wonder if you have explored all opportunities to exploit these considerable assets in your homeland.”
“Are you asking me a question, Miss Winsome?”
Her index finger thumbed impatiently on the piece of paper between them. Nicholas caught on and looked down at it.
She spoke rapidly as he read. “I think perhaps your decision to come to this country and be a part of this arranged marriage may be one you are beginning to have cause to regret. Please take a moment to think about what I’m asking you. I must be absolutely certain of the sincerity of your answer. Do you want to go ahead with this marriage?”
It wasn’t the real question she was asking, of course. The real question was written on the paper she had pushed toward him, the sheet she was still trying to keep away from the prying eyes of her grandfather, pacing not five feet away.
Nicholas Baranov found it a very surprising and interesting question indeed.
Chapter Three
“What is that?” Winsome demanded, having finally spied the paper Noel had tried to slip past his searching eyes.
Noel made a snatch for the sheet before her grandfather could beat her to it, but Nicholas proved to have the fastest reflexes of the three.
He held the sheet of paper in front of him without any attempt to hide it from her now-hovering grandfather.
“Mr. Winsome, your granddaughter has asked a very personal question of me about something that concerns her.”
Noel’s heart sank. She began to choke on the breath stalled in her lungs. Neither man paid her any attention.
“What?” her grandfather asked.
“I believe your granddaughter would like my assurance that as a man of honor I shall never raise my hand against her, no matter what I might consider the provocation.”
A surprised rush of relief blew the trapped breath from Noel’s lungs. She blinked and stared at Nicholas Baranov, as though she were seeing him for the first time.
“That’s what she wrote on that paper?” Winsome asked, his own surprise showing.
Nicholas passed the sheet of paper in front of Winsome’s face. “Perhaps you wish to read it?”
Winsome squinted at the sheet and felt in his shirt pocket for his glasses. When he didn’t find them, he turned to Noel.
“You think I didn’t have Nicholas checked out on things like that? You think I would have let the man I selected for you be a potential wife beater?”
Noel paused to take a deep breath, trying very hard not to betray her surprise or overwhelming relief.
“He said he hasn’t been married before, Grandfather. How could you make certain he would not abuse a spouse?”
“Hmmph. There are other ways of finding out such things, other—” he paused and cast a quick glance at Nicholas “—indications. You should know I overlook nothing.”
Noel straightened. “Neither do I.”
Her grandfather’s eyes studied her a moment. Something that sounded like new suspicion entered his voice.
“I don’t understand why you couldn’t just ask Nicholas that out loud. What was the point of writing it down and passing it to him as though you were trying to hide it from me?”
“And if I was trying to hide it from you, Grandfather...? Is it so hard for you to understand that I might want to keep some of my life private?”
The substance of her counterattack wasn’t exactly logical, but it proved logistically sound enough, as evidenced by the flash of chagrin in her grandfather’s eyes. Noel returned her attention to the man sitting so quietly, observantly, before her. He was folding the piece of paper she had passed to him. She watched as he slipped it into his pocket.
His face was still a stone mask. His voice carried the deep growling timbre of a bear, but his words were scrupulously polite, their stiff correctness clearly acquired from classroom study, not the idiomatic usage that marked English as a primary tongue. He leaned back in his chair. His powerful body, his quick effortless movements, all absolute servants to the acute commands sent out by that complicated mind.
Only those diamond black eyes studying her so intently betrayed him. She’d felt the angry force of those powerful eyes more than once tonight. Noel flinched under their intense scrutiny, battling the conflicting feelings of being incredibly intimidated and intrigued by this strange, foreign man.
Why had he so adroitly misled her grandfather? What was he thinking? She reminded herself she didn’t have time to speculate about his motives or machinations. Between them lay a simple business matter to be settled. And it was time she settled it.
“Dr. Baranov, I asked you a question before we were interrupted. May I have your answer?”
He didn’t respond immediately. She would have given a lot to know what was going on behind those eyes. Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, he spoke.
“The answer to your written question is yes, Miss Winsome. You have my word as a man of honor.”
Noel exhaled a very relieved breath and rose. She leaned over the desk, extending her hand. “Thank you, Dr. Baranov. That’s all I wanted to ask. I’m satisfied.”
Nicholas did not rise. He made no attempt to take her hand. “I am not satisfied, Miss Winsome. I have a few questions.”
Noel dropped her outstretched hand in some surprise and not a small amount of annoyance.
“You have questions for me? What questions?”
Nicholas gestured toward her grandfather’s chair. “Please. Be seated.”
Noel hesitated, but to no avail. The expression in the man’s eyes gave her no option. She told herself it was not those menacing eyes but her gratitude for his surprising cooperation and tone of scrupulous politeness that convinced her to finally sit.
She rested on the edge of her grandfather’s chair and watched the stone face before hers. For a very long, uncomfortable thirty seconds, he said nothing. She clasped her hands tightly together, trying to ignore the fact that the backs of her knees and neck had become moist with nervous perspiration.
Damn the man. Why didn’t he just get on with it?
Finally, the first question came.
“Miss Winsome, when you give your word, do you keep it?”
Noel blinked. This question had a very familiar ring to it. Was this some kind of game he was playing?
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the smile lifting her grandfather’s lips. Oh, right. She got it.
Scrupulous surface politeness notwithstanding, Dr. Nicholas Baranov hadn’t liked her cross-examining him. So now he was demanding his turn. A typical macho male. Seems they were all alike, no matter in what country they were reared. Well, he’d given her what she wanted. She’d cooperate. Up to a point.
“Yes, Dr. Baranov. When I give my word, I keep it.”
“Then will you give me your word now that you will remain my wife until I have achieved citizenship?”
“That’s what our contract stipulates, Dr. Baranov.”
“That was not what I asked you.”
“Why do you want to become an American citizen?”
“I believe I now ask the questions, Miss Winsome.”
His deep bear tone was still full of formal politeness. But not those black eyes. They broadcast a stubbornness to match her own. Noel didn’t know why she was fighting against giving him a straight answer. She had to remain his wife to live up to the contract she’d signed wit
h her grandfather. But somehow, it was hard to say the words. Still, his eyes told her she clearly had no choice.
“All right, Dr. Baranov, I will remain your wife until you have achieved citizenship. You have my word on it. Anything else?”
“One or two points. What is this store that you own and will be working at?”
“It’s a Christmas store.”
“Please explain this Christmas store.”
“Christmas is our Christian celebration of—”
“I know what Christmas celebrates, Miss Winsome. It is a solemn religious event.”
“Not so solemn, Dr. Baranov. The marvelous miracle of Christmas in America is that it can bring happiness to all our hearts, no matter what our divergent beliefs.”
A gleam that looked just a bit too sarcastic for Noel lit his black eyes. “You believe in miracles?”
A typical scientist’s skepticism, of course. She’d come across men like Dr. Baranov in her college years. For them, life held no mysteries, just equations. She felt sad for such people.
“Why not? Science teaches us to keep an open mind.”
“So how does your Christmas store help with these miracles?”
“I stock and sell all the special decorations that people need to celebrate Christmas.”
“People need these decorations?”
“Well, need might be a little strong. Want, enjoy, surely. You must have seen the lights and Nativity scene and Santa Claus on the helicopter that decorate my grandfather’s home tonight. And no doubt he’s taken you on a tour of the house, and you’ve had a chance to see the enormous Christmas tree covered with tinsel, lights and ornaments in the living room. All these decorations have come from my store.”
“To serve what purpose?”
Could he really be so dense? This genius with the Ph.D. after his name? “To brighten our spirits and help us to get into the holiday mood.”
“This mood must be ‘gotten into’?”
“No, of course not. People—Americans—like to see bright lights and pretty decorations and to hear happy music at this time of year. Christmas is a joyous event. A time to give gifts—”
“A time for capitalists to sell goods. Yes, I have heard much about the role Christmas plays in stimulating your economy. So now I understand the purpose of your Christmas store.”