Moscow Rules

the unexpected appearance of their father, and Ivan’s face softened momentarily in response. He said something to them in Russian that made the children both burst into laughter and caused Mikhail to smile. Ivan appeared to make a mental note of this. Then his gaze flashed over the table like a searchlight over an open field, before coming to rest on Sarah. The last time Ivan had seen her, she had been cloaked in Gabriel’s dowdy clothing. Now she wore a thin peach-colored sundress that hung from her body in a way that created the impression of veiled nudity. Ivan admired her unabashedly, as though he were contemplating adding her to his collection. Sarah extended her hand, more as a defense mechanism than a sign of friendship, but Ivan ignored it and kissed her cheek instead. His sandpaper skin smelled of coconut butter and another woman.
     
     
    “Saint-Tropez obviously agrees with you, Sarah. Is this your first time here?”
     
     
    “Actually, I’ve been coming to Saint-Tropez since I was a little girl.”
     
     
    “You have an uncle here, too?”
     
     
    “Ivan!” snapped Elena.
     
     
    “No uncles.” Sarah smiled. “Just a longtime love affair with the South of France.”
     
     
    Ivan frowned. He didn’t like to be reminded of the fact that anyone, especially a young Western woman, had ever been anywhere or done anything before him.
     
     
    “Why didn’t you mention you were coming here last month? We could have made arrangements to get together.”
     
     
    “I didn’t realize you spent time here.”
     
     
    “Really? It was in all the papers. My home used to be owned by a member of the British royal family. When I acquired it, the London papers went into something of a frenzy.”
     
     
    “I somehow missed it.”
     
     
    Once again, Sarah was struck by the flat quality of Ivan’s English. It was like being addressed by an announcer on the English-language service of Radio Moscow. He glanced at Mikhail, then looked at Sarah again.
     
     
    “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” he asked.
     
     
    Mikhail rose and held out his hand. “My name is Michael Danilov. Sarah and I work together in Washington.”
     
     
    Ivan took the proffered hand and gave it a bone-crushing squeeze. “Michael? What kind of name is that for a Russian?”
     
     
    “The kind that makes me sound less like a boy from Moscow and more like an American.”
     
     
    “To hell with the Americans,” Ivan declared.
     
     
    “I’m afraid you’re in the presence of one.”
     
     
    “Perhaps we can do something to change that. I assume your real name is Mikhail?”
     
     
    “Yes, of course.”
     
     
    “Then Mikhail you shall be, at least for the remainder of the afternoon. ” He seized the arm of a passing waiter. “More wine for the women, please. And a bottle of vodka for me and my new friend, Mikhail.”
     
     
    He enthroned himself on the luminous white banquette, with Sarah to his right and Mikhail directly opposite. With his left hand, he was pouring icy vodka into Mikhail’s glass as though it were truth serum. His right arm was flung along the back of the banquette. The fine cotton of his shirt was brushing against Sarah’s bare shoulders.
     
     
    “So you and Sarah are friends?” he asked Mikhail.
     
     
    “Yes, we are.”
     
     
    “What kind of friends?”
     
     
    Once again Elena objected to Ivan’s forwardness and once again Ivan ignored her. Mikhail stoically drained his glass of vodka and, with a sly Russian nod of the head, implied that he and Sarah were very good friends indeed.
     
     
    “You came to Saint-Tropez together?” Ivan asked, refilling the empty glass.
     
     
    “Yes.”
     
     
    “You’re staying together?”
     
     
    “We are,” Mikhail answered. Then Elena added helpfully: “At the Château de la Messardière.”
     
     
    “You like it there? The staff is looking after you?”
     
     
    “It’s lovely.”
     
     
    “You should come stay with us at Villa Soleil. We have a guesthouse. Actually, we have three guesthouses, but who’s counting?”
     
     
    You’re counting, Sarah thought, but she said politely: “That’s very kind of you to make such a generous offer, Mr. Kharkov, but we really couldn’t impose. Besides, we paid for our room in advance.”
     
     
    “It’s only money,” Ivan said with the dismissive tone of a man who has far too much of it. He tried to pour more vodka into Mikhail’s glass, but Mikhail