Zoya

“I know. You must have gone back on the first truck.” She nodded in answer, surprised that he had taken the trouble to find out. She hadn't thought she would see him again, but she was happy seeing him now. He was as handsome as she had thought him the night before, as tall and lean and graceful as he had seemed when they danced the waltz. “I was hoping you'd have lunch with me. But it's a little late now.”

“I have to go back to my grandmother anyway.” She smiled up at him, dallying like a schoolgirl just released from class. “She's dreadfully cross at me after last night.”

He looked puzzled by the remark. “Did you go home very late? I didn't notice the time when you left.” Then she was as young as he'd thought. She had the looks of a very young girl, the innocence … and yet, there was such wisdom in her eyes.

But Zoya laughed at the memory of sending Feodor away from the opera house. “My grandmother sent someone to chaperone me, and I sent him home. I suspect he was quite glad of it, though, and so was I.” She blushed slightly then and he laughed.

“In that case, mademoiselle, may I offer you my escort now? I could drive you home.” She hesitated, but he was so obviously a gentleman, there could be no harm in it, and who would know? She could leave him a block or two before the Palais Royal.

“Thank you very much.” He opened the door for her and she slid into the car. She told him where she lived, and he seemed perfectly at ease as he drove her home. She had him stop a block away and he looked around.

“Is this where you live?”

“Not quite.” She smiled and blushed again. “I thought I'd spare my grandmother the agony of getting angry at me again so soon after last night.”

He laughed at her, his handsome face looking very young despite the silver hair. “Aren't you a naughty child! And if I ask you to join me for dinner tonight, mademoiselle? What then?”

She knit her brows as she thought of it, and then looked at him. “I'm not sure. Grandmama knows there is no performance tonight.” It would be the first time she had ever been dishonest with her and she herself wasn't sure why she felt she had to be now. But she knew how Evgenia felt about soldiers.

“Won't she let you go out with anyone?” He seemed both amused and surprised.

“I'm not sure,” Zoya confessed. “I never have.”

“Oh, dear … am I allowed to ask how old you are in that case?” Perhaps she was even younger than he thought, but he hoped not.

“Eighteen.” She said it almost defiantly, and once again he laughed.

“Does that seem very old to you?”

“Old enough.” He didn't dare ask for what. “Not long ago, she was encouraging me toward a friend of the family.” And when she said it, she blushed. It seemed stupid to tell him about Vladimir, but he didn't seem to mind.

“And how old is he? Twenty-one?”

“Oh, no!” Zoya was laughing now. “Much, much older than that. He's at least sixty years old!” This time, Clayton Andrews looked both amused and startled.

“Is he? And what does your grandmother think of that?”

“It's too complicated to explain, besides, I don't like him anyway … he's an old man.”

He looked at her seriously for a moment as they sat in the car. “So am I. I'm forty-five years old.” He wanted to be honest with her, right from the start.

“And you're not married?” She seemed surprised, and then realized that perhaps he was.

“I'm divorced.” He had been married to one of the Vanderbilts, but it had ended ten years before. In New York, he was thought to be an enviable catch, but in the ten years since his divorce, and among the flocks of women he'd taken out, none of them had snagged his heart. “Are you shocked?”

“No.” She thought about it and then looked him in the eye, convinced more than ever that he was a decent man. “Why did you get divorced?”

“We fell out of love, I suppose … we were very different from the start. She's remarried and we're good friends, though I don't see her very often anymore. She lives in Washington now.”

“Where's that?” It all sounded far away and mysterious to her.

“It's near New York but not near enough. Rather like Paris and Bordeaux. Or Paris and London perhaps.” She nodded. That much made sense. But he glanced at his watch. He had spent hours waiting for her and now he had to get back. “What about dinner tonight?”

“I don't think I can.” She looked sadly up at him, and he smiled.

“Tomorrow then?”

“I have to dance tomorrow night”

“What about afterward?” He was persistent in any case, but having found her again, he was not going to let her slip past him.

“I'll try.”

“Good enough. I'll tomorrow night then.” He sprang from the car and helped her out. She thanked him politely for the ride, and he waved at her as he drove back toward the rue Constantine with a song in his heart as he thought of Zoya.

CHAPTER

15