She could just see Nikolai, wind-blown, tanned, and looking up at the house, just as eager to spot her at the window. He gave her a little salute, then pulled up on the gravel and jumped out, already opening her door for her.
She almost forgot to put the journal away in her bag. She quickly snatched it up and then raced down the hallway, down the stairs, and out the front door. She ran into Nikolai’s arms. He swung her around in a circle before kissing her.
“God, I missed you,” he said.
She laughed.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I absolutely did.”
“It’s only been a day!”
“I don’t care. I still missed you.”
“What are we doing, then?”
He put her in the passenger seat and went around the hood to get in on the driver’s side.
Shifting into drive, he said, “Nadia, I’m going to show you every inch of this city until you fall completely in love with it and never want to leave.”
She glanced over at him, at his handsome profile, happy and confident.
She had an idea that Nikolai meant to make her fall in love with him, not Moscow itself.
It was crazy. They hardly knew each other.
And yet...would it really be so awful?
She loved Paris. She had never planned to leave.
But looking at Nikolai’s strong jaw, his full lips, she thought that it might be possible to love a man far more than any city. And then what would it matter where you lived?
“So where are we going first?” Nadia asked.
“I’m taking you shopping,” Nikolai said.
Nadia thought he would drive her to the GUM, which was a massive shopping center full of hundreds of luxury boutiques. She remembered it from her one visit to Moscow with her mother.
She steeled herself for what might follow—she had some rather unpleasant associations with shopping trips. Maxim used to take her to the French boutiques when he’d done something shitty and wanted to lavish her with jewelry and shoes and handbags as penance. Or, when he wanted to show her off at a particularly important party, he’d take her dress shopping, and then make faces at every gown she put on until Nadia was sure it must be her, and not the beautiful dresses, that were at fault.
However, Nikolai was not headed to Red Square. Instead, drove her to Izmailovsky, Moscow’s largest flea market.
The labyrinth of shops and kiosks was bright and crowded and messy and chaotic—and utterly fascinating. Knockoff Chinese purses sat next to farmer’s market soaps and traditional Russian handicrafts. Nadia examined minute Palekh lacquer miniatures: tiny scenes from literature and fairytales painted on boxes, brooches, and spectacles cases. Nikolai showed her Kazakovo filigree metalwork, with cigarette cases and jewelry made from spider silk-thin silver-plated wire.
Nadia tried on a traditional floral shawl. Nikolai brought over an extraordinarily soft knitted one, which the merchant said was from the Orenburg region.
“These goats have wool that is four times finer than human hair,” he said. “Twice as fine as Angora. It will keep you warm as far north as Siberia.”
“Probably too warm for Paris,” Nadia said regretfully.
“Wrap it up,” Nikolai said to the shopkeeper. Turning to Nadia, he fixed her with his dark blue eyes and said, very seriously, “I told you, you’re not going back to Paris.”
She should have been annoyed with him, bossing her around like that. But instead his words gave her a thrill.
There was an edge of dominance to Nikolai that she liked. She remembered how he’d whipped her at the bathhouse, and she blushed so hard that she had to turn away from him and pretend to examine a stall full of cast iron figures.
They wandered all over the market, touching everything that caught their eye, and tasting everything that smelled delicious. Nadia ate fresh honeycomb, imported chocolate, and hand-pulled licorice caramel, wrapped in twists of wax paper.
