Page 176 of Enemy Within
The song ended, and another one came on, an older love song, a crooning ballad about love finally coming at last. Mary and Andrew rose. Mary went to Ethan, and Andrew held out his hand for Jack. “Parents’ dance.”
Jack laughed as he and his dad tried to negotiate arms and feet. Andrew let Jack lead, and he stumbled, staring at his feet as they both giggled. Ethan swept Mary around the deck, both of them laughing at Jack and Andrew. Halfway through, Mary clapped her hands and switched places with Andrew, taking Jack into her arms.
“You can lead,” Ethan said, smiling as Andrew approached him.
“I never learned the other way.” Andrew shrugged. “Guess I won’t fit in back in DC. Jack can dance with anyone. I remember the news played that clip of him and the Russian president for a week straight.”
Ethan laughed, and then followed Andrew’s lead into a spin. “He threw everyone for a loop with that one. It was Sergey’s idea, though. He loves being unpredictable.”
Andrew shook his head. “I still have a hard time believing that one of my son’s closest friends is the president of Russia.”
“He was his best man, in fact.”
Andrew spun him again as Jack dipped Mary. She smacked his shoulder and demanded to be put back while Jack giggled himself silly.
“Thank you for this.” Ethan swallowed as Andrew’s hand landed on his hip. “Thank you.”
Andrew grinned, a lopsided quirk of the lips that seemed like an echo of Jack’s easy, effortless smile. “Thankyou,” he said, “for loving him. For making him happy again. We hoped, for years, that he would find love after...” Andrew shrugged. “And, for what it’s worth… I’ve never seen him this happy, ever.”
The song ended before Ethan could respond, and they broke apart, laughing when Jack kept spinning Mary around and around, ignoring her protests.
Eventually, Ethan stole Jack back, and they danced together in the candlelight, beneath the stars and the swaying branches of the oak tree, until Mary and Andrew turned in and the music player died. And then they danced in silence, staring into each other’s eyes as time seemed to fall away, and each kiss lasted for a hundred years or more.
76
Moscow
“MR. PRESIDENT, HE HAS ARRIVED.”
Sergey’s stomach flip-flopped as the usher whispered in his ear.Sasha. He’d come. He’d actually come.
His fingers trembled, and he almost dropped the champagne flute he held. Ilya gave him a sharp look, trying to cover for Sergey’s sudden gobsmacked expression by talking loudly with the Federation Council members.
“Excuse me,” he demurred, bowing out. He caught Ilya’s stare and hoped the helpless look in his eyes conveyed enough.
Ilya gave him a small, tight smile.
He wound his way through the hotel ballroom, standing on his toes to peer over the heads of everyone, trying to catch a glimpse of Sasha. Where had he gone? He hadn’t turned around and left already, had he?
“Mr. President.”
Sergey froze. He spun, slowly.
Sasha stood behind him, both hands clasped behind his back. He wore the tux Sergey had left on his hotel bed, the tux he’d had made at the Kremlin for him, what seemed like years ago. It fit him like a dream, like carnal temptation, like every desire Sergey had ever had wrapped into one.
Hopefully Sasha had availed himself of the IV antibiotics he’d left as well.
He tried to smile as his eyes traced Sasha’s body, from his head to his toes and back. “You look perfect,” he breathed. He should be used to this ache in his chest by now, this Sasha-shaped hole in his life.
Except now Sasha was standing in front of him, close enough to touch, to hold, to pull close and beg him to not leave again. That ache in his chest could be cured.
But, no. Sasha had left. He had to remember that. Sasha had walked away. He’d chosen to leave.
And then had created a wall devoted to Sergey in his bedraggled cabin.
There were some things he would never understand, as long as he lived.
Sasha’s eyes slid away, darting over the crowd, seeming to count the people in the room, trace an escape route through the masses, catalog his exits as if he were planning a military operation.
