The Tsarina's Legacy Read Online Free PDF Page B

them with wide eyes. “Is she Anastasia?”
    â€œNot Anastasia, but close.” Michael lowered his voice to just the right register, dipped his head, and kissed Veronica’s hand. “She is the tsarina.”
    A few people in line started to clap. Veronica pulled her hand away quickly, but her fingertips tingled. Michael leaned toward her and she took in his warm, familiar scent. For a moment, she was back in a hotel room in New York City, buried under soft sheets, stretching her body, luxuriating in the warmth of his skin against hers, stroking his hair, and nuzzling his neck with her lips. And she felt as though she flew high above the earth, immune to the dreariness of everyday life.
    Until she came crashing back down, of course.
    â€œGive them a royal wave,” he said.
    â€œWhat?” Veronica curled her fingers, palms damp.
    â€œDo you want to do this thing or not?”
    Veronica managed a quick twist of one hand.
    The ticket agent stood with her back erect. “Anything else you require, just let us know.” She hesitated. “Have you met Prince Harry of England?”
    She shook her head. The woman tore a sheet of paper from a notepad and scribbled on it. Michael leaned on the counter to take a look. “If you have a request for the tsarina, you may need to go through the Monarchist Society,” he told her. “Make it official and such.”
    â€œWhat?” Veronica eyed him warily.
    The ticket agent ignored Michael and handed the paper to Veronica. A few digits had been transcribed along with the woman’s name, Lyudmilla, in both Cyrillic and English. “If you meet prince, will you give to him? He comes to St. Petersburg, I can show him around city. He won’t regret.”
    Michael gave Lyudmilla a solemn nod. “That will be her first order of business.”
    *   *   *
    Outside, jumbo jets taxied down the runway, metal husks gleaming in the intense California sunlight. Inside the palm-tree-lined international terminal, Veronica tried to nibble on a pretzel, but it tasted like cardboard. She gave up and fished around in her purse instead. Her hand ran over the thinly embossed golden American eagle on the cover of her passport and the dark ink on her pale Russian tourist visa.
    â€œYou still have everything,” Michael said, absently turning a page of the Los Angeles Times . “You checked five minutes ago.”
    â€œIt makes me feel better to check.”
    â€œMake sure you don’t lose Lyudmilla’s number in case we run into Prince Harry.”
    â€œHa ha.” Veronica zipped her purse shut and fiddled with her phone. A last boarding call barked over the loudspeakers and she jumped in her seat.
    â€œTry to relax, Tsarina,” Michael told her.
    â€œThis whole situation is strange enough, and now you appear out of nowhere. Why? Seriously, Michael, why?”
    â€œMaybe I was in the mood. I haven’t been to Russia in a few years.”
    â€œThe actual reason.”
    He set the paper down and raised his hands in defeat. He tried to smile. “Your abuela asked me to keep an eye on you.”
    Veronica’s grandmother. She should have known. “But why didn’t you let me know you were coming? You know I wouldn’t have…” Her voice trailed off; she was unsure how to complete her thought.
    â€œIt all happened at the last minute. Your grandmother figured I could get a visa quickly since I know the ropes. She kept saying, ‘Veronica’s going all by herself. What if something happens?’”
    â€œYou still could have asked me.”
    â€œShe was afraid that if I asked, you would say no.”
    Veronica remembered Abuela’s angst when she had told her she was going to Russia, the tissue turning over in her hands. “I told her if something happened she could hire Liam Neeson to find me.”
    â€œSorry to disappoint, but she hired me instead. I was ready