Danielle Steel - Zoya

He laughed back at her, and tucked her hand into his arm as they strolled along, and the hours seemed to fly past them like moments.

They had lunch at the Cafe de Flore, and he thought she seemed happier than she had been the previous summer. She was still in shock then, but now at least some of the pain had dimmed. It had been nine months since she'd come to Paris. It was still hard to believe that only a year before she had been in St. Petersburg and life was still normal. “Have you heard from Marie lately?”

“Yes, finally. She seems to like it in Tobolsk, but she's such a good sport, she would. She said the house she lives in is tiny, she and her sisters all share one room, and Uncle Nicky reads history to them all the time. She says that even in Siberia, they're still having lessons. They think they might be able to come out of Russia soon. Uncle Nicky says the revolutionaries won't harm them, they just want to keep them there for the time being. But it seems so cruel of them, and so stupid.” And Zoya was still furious at the English for not granting them asylum the previous March. If they had, they could all have been together by then, in London or Paris. “I'm sure Grandmama would have gone to London, if they were there.”

“Then I wouldn't have met you, would I? And that would have been terrible. Maybe it's just as well you had to come to Paris, while you wait for them to leave Russia.” He didn't want to alarm her, but he had never felt as confident as some that the Tsar and his family would ultimately be safe in Russia. But it was only a feeling he had, and he didn't want to say anything to worry her as they finished lunch and walked down the Boulevard St. Germain in the winter sunshine. Lunch at the Caf6 de Flore had been pleasant, and she felt as though she had nothing but free time on her hands, with no performances and no rehearsals.

They wandered aimlessly for a while, and eventually wound up at the rue de Varennes, as they both realized they were near the house where he was staying.

“Do you want to come to the house for a while?”

She still had happy memories of it from the night they'd met, and she nodded happily as they walked along. He told her about New York, his boyhood, and his years at Princeton. He said he lived in a house, on Fifth Avenue, and she thought it sounded very pretty.

“Why did you never have children when you were married? Didn't you want them?” She had the innocence of youth, the fearlessness about treading on delicate ground that one suppressed when one was older. It never occurred to her that perhaps he couldn't have them.

“I would have liked to have children, but my wife didn't want them. She was a very beautiful, selfish girl and she was far more interested in her horses. She has a beautiful farm in Virginia now, and she has a hunt there. Did you ride much when you were in Russia?”

“Yes,” she smiled, “in the summer at Livadia, and sometimes at Tsarskoe Selo. My brother taught me to ride when I was four. He was dreadfully mean about it, and whenever I fell off he said I was stupid.” But Clayton could tell just from the way she spoke how much she had loved him.

They had reached the Mills house by then, and Clayton used his key to let them in. There was no one else staying there at the time. All of the General's staff were in Chaumont. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked, as their footsteps echoed in the marble halls.

“I'd like that.” It was cold outside, and she had forgotten her gloves at the apartment. And suddenly, for no reason at all, she remembered the sable hat she had left in Russia. They had worn heavy shawls over their heads while they were escaping. Her grandmother had wisely thought that elaborate fur hats would catch too much attention.

She followed him into the kitchen, and a moment later the kettle was steaming. He poured out two cups of tea and they sat and talked, as the sun set quietly over the garden. She felt as though she could have sat and talked to him for hours, but suddenly their voices grew quiet, and she sensed Clayton watching her strangely.

“I should take you home. Your grandmother will be worried.” It was after four o'clock and they'd been gone all day, but Zoya had wisely warned her grandmother that she might not be home for dinner. With only four days of his leave to share, they wanted to spend every moment possible together.

“I told her we might not come back till later.” And then she had a thought. “Do you want me to make dinner here?” It seemed a cozy idea, not having to go out, they could sit and talk for several more hours as they had done all day. “Is there any food here?”

“I don't know,” he smiled. She looked so young and beautiful as she sat there. “I should take you somewhere. Maybe Maxim's. Wouldn't you like that?”

“It doesn't matter,” she said honestly. She just wanted to be with him.

“Oh, Zoya …” He came around the kitchen table to hold her close to him. He wanted to get her out of the house before something happened that she'd regret. The pull of her was so great, it was almost painful. “I don't think we should stay here,” he said quietly, far wiser than she was.

“Would the General be angry that I'm here?” Her innocence touched his heart, as he looked down at her and laughed softly.

“No, my love, the General would not be angry. But I'm not sure I can control myself for much longer. You're far too beautiful for me to be trusted with you alone. You don't know how lucky you are that I haven't just leapt across the table and grabbed you.” She laughed at the picture he painted and leaned her head happily against him.

“Is that what you've been planning to do, Captain?”

“No. But I'd like to.” They were both perfectly relaxed as he stroked her long red hair. “I'd like to do a lot of things with you … go to the south of France after the war … and Italy … have you ever been there?” She shook her head and closed her eyes. It was all so dreamlike just being with him.

“I think we should go” he repeated softly, and the room seemed very still. ‘I'll go change. I won't be a minute.” But he seemed to take forever, as she strolled quietly through the elegant rooms on the main floor, and then suddenly, feeling mischievous, she decided to wander up the marble staircase and see if she could find him.

There were several more sitting rooms on the second floor, a handsome library filled with books in both French and English, several closed doors, and then in the distance she heard him. He was singing to himself as he changed, and she smiled, unable to keep away from him, even for a few minutes.

“Hello? …” she called out, but he didn't hear her, there was water running in the bathroom, and when he went back to the bedroom she was standing there, like a fawn standing very still in the forest. He was wearing his trousers and his chest was bare. He had decided to shave again quickly before taking her out to dinner. He had a towel in his hands and his face was still damp, as he looked at her in sudden amazement.

“What are you doing up here?” He seemed almost afraid, of himself, but not of lovely Zoya.

“I was lonely downstairs without you.” She walked slowly toward him, feeling a magnetic force she had never felt before. It was as though without any will of her own, she was irreversibly pulled to him. He dropped the towel at his feet and pulled her close to him, kissing her face and her eyes and her lips, tasting the sweetness of her skin until it made him dizzy.

“Go downstairs, Zoya.” His voice was hoarse and he wanted to pull her away but he couldn't make himself do it. “Please….” She looked up at him so sadly, almost hurt, but not afraid.

“I don't want to …”

“Zoya, please …” But he only kissed her again and again, as he felt her heart next to his chest beating wildly.