The party was finally winding down. Thomas’ face ached from all the forced smiles, and his right hand felt raw from the endless handshakes. How long had he been awake? Forty-eight hours, give or take. Yet he kept up his easy grin, laughing at something—he hadn’t even caught the joke. Only when the biting Moscow wind hit him square in the face did he feel himself snap back to the present. The canvas draped over the Kremlin still billowed in the wind, its job to hide the landmark from any prying eyes in the skies above. Rubbing his eyes, he took in the busy scene as cars pulled up and departed, collecting their passengers.

“Shea?” He turned, hearing the click of heels on the stone steps behind him. There she was, looking as worn out as he felt. He couldn’t help but chuckle a little, feeling the sting in his cheeks as he tried to muster a smile. Last night’s hours, spent going over those visa forms, hadn’t done either of them any favors. He held out his arm, eager to steal a moment of English conversation, however brief. “Well, darling, has this grand soirée been everything you hoped for? I know you just love these little gatherings.”

He stepped in front of her, resting his hands gently on her cheeks as he took her in, eyes warm and crinkling. He could feel the eyes of the other men on them, some of whom he’d sat with over cigars after dinner. They’d known well enough who Shea was to him—he’d made it clear when he’d sighed and mentioned he was running out of ways to woo her. They’d all laughed, tossing out ideas that made him grin: buy her something nice, take her out on the town, keep her guessing a little.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips as he placed a hand on her back to guide her to one of the waiting cars. “I’ll take care of the fare.” After she was settled, he shrugged off his coat, draping it around her shoulders with a low murmur, “Can’t have you catching cold on my watch, now, can I? My ma would have my head.”