“Thank you.” Her understanding makes me feel even worse. Glancing at Alex, I say, “I’ll email HR and deal with the necessary paperwork.”
He nods, giving his silent agreement.
“Good luck, Kate. I hope you sort out your emergency soon. I’ll tell the girls you say hi.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Alex takes the phone and ends the call. “I’m sorry, but you can’t be on the phone for too long. This number is secure, but I’m—”
“Not taking any chances,” I say hollowly.
“Exactly. Eat something and rest. I’ll check on you again later.”
“Wait,” I say when he turns for the door. “I need to call Joanne. I agreed to meet her for lunch today.”
His tone is uncompromising. “Two calls are enough for today.”
I take a step forward. “I can’t just not show up. She’ll worry.”
He unlocks the screen and types something. A moment later, the phone pings.
“What did you do?” I ask. “What did you say to her?”
Turning the phone toward me, he shows me the screen. I read his text message and Joanne’s reply. He told her the same thing I said to my mom, that we took a spur-of-the-moment vacation and that she can reach me on his phone. He said I’m tired from the flight and sleeping, but that I’ll call her soon. She replied with several gasping emojis, telling him to have fun and to take good care of me.
“Happy?” he asks.
I can only look at him.
“I’ll see you later, Katyusha.”
When he bends down to kiss me, I turn my face to the side. My feelings are too raw to accept his advances. When he created this imbalance of power, he pushed an obstacle between us. I can’t just give in. My self-respect won’t let me.
He straightens with a tight smile. “If you need anything, let Lena know. I’ll be home tonight, my love.”
Not sparing me another glance, he walks through the door.
It takes me a good moment to come to my senses. Belatedly, I grab a decorative cushion from the loveseat and throw it at the door he closed behind him. It hits the wood with an ungratifyingly soft thump. It’s an immature and pointless display, a sadly ineffective outlet for my cooped-up, frustrated anger. When the door reopens, I’m ready to hurl another cushion at him, but it’s Lena who enters with a tray.
She walks over to the lounge area by the fireplace and leaves the tray on the coffee table. “Tima prepared French toast and a fruit salad. There’s tea and honey.” Straightening, she asks in a formal tone, “Would you like anything else?”
“No, thank you,” I say, still battling to get my temper under control.
Nodding, she briskly leaves the room.
Movement outside draws my attention to the window. Yuri walks to the car we arrived in and opens the door. Alex exits the house, followed by Leonid and Igor. The four of them get into the car. Dimitri gets into a second car with some of the men who escorted us from the airport. Three cars pull out ahead of their convoy. The five cars roll down the driveway and through the open gates.
When the entourage is gone, I seize the opportunity. I approach the door and feel the handle. The heavy door swings open without a squeak. I stick my head around the frame. The corridor is empty. Somewhere, a grandfather clock strikes four times.
Tiptoeing into the corridor, I move quietly but swiftly. The study is one floor down. Thankfully, I don’t see anyone as I climb down the stairs. My heart beats in my throat, but I make it to the study without running into the housekeeper or a guard. I close the door behind me and let out a shaky breath. My pulse jumps with relief at the sight of the landline phone on the desk.
I hurry across the floor and grab the receiver from the hook even though I have no idea whom I’m going to call. The American embassy? And say what? I don’t know, but I want to test the limits of my imprisonment. I want to know the telephone number of the embassy just in case.
My hesitation only lasts a second. My best bet is to call Joanne and ask her to look up the number for me. I’ll say I lost my bank card. The lie bothers me even before it’s left my mouth, but I don’t think about it as I punch in her number.
Before I’m done, a voice sounds in my ear, saying something unintelligible in Russian. Giving a start, I almost drop the phone.
“Hello?” I say in a hushed tone.
The man on the other end of the line switches from Russian to English. “Good evening, Miss Morrell. What can I do for you?”
Swallowing, I ask, “Who are you?”
His Russian accent is heavy. “I’m Mr. Volkov’s telephone operator. All calls from the house go through a central system.”