Chapter Six

As she slid between the smooth cotton sheets and closed her eyes for some much-needed rest, Cleo waited for the sandman. As she dreamt that night, her mind filled with dreams of a tall, powerful blond man with the most decadent chocolate brown eyes in the world. He would look at her and smile, making her shudder with longing.

When she woke, Cleo was energized. She wanted to find out some more information on the man and figured it may be time to go to a few more museums or libraries, if Serge wouldn’t mind taking her. Showering and dressing in record time, Cleo had a smile on her face as she walked out of the elevator into the lobby. A grin that grew as she saw Serge sitting on a couch, waiting for her.

“Good morning, Serge,” she said as she approached him.

He stood and said, “Dobroye utro, good morning.”

“Dobroye utro,” Cleo mimicked.

“Excellent. You will learn our language fast.” He accepted the kiss she placed on his cheek with his usual blush. “Have you eaten?”

“I had some fruit.”

“You need more than fruit. We eat breakfast then we go wherever you wish.”

“What about you, Serge? I don’t want to keep you from getting fares. I’m sure you have something more important to do than indulge the whims of an American.”

“Normally, da, I would have other things to do. But you are not a normal American. I like you,” he said with a cheeky grin.

Cleo laughed as they walked toward the door. “Okay, Serge. I won’t mention it, again.”

“Good.”

Cleo had another wonderful day. She spent some time at the library, where she looked for a bit more information on the Lion of Midnight and came up empty, but instead of being discouraged, she was more determined than ever. Then, Serge took her to the Bolshoi Theatre, the oldest theatre in Moscow, treating her to an experience she’d never forget.

Like the previous day, she was exhausted when she finally went back to her room. She’d just changed out of her clothes and into sleeping attire when her cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“You ain’t frozen yet, apparently. Got some hot Russian man to keep you warm?” Kenya’s teasing voice reached her.

Unbidden, the fuzzy image of the blond giant rose to Cleo’s mind. “Well…no, I’m not frozen, and no, I don’t have a hot Russian man to keep me warm.” She sat on the lounge by the window and gazed out at a snowy night over Moscow city. “How are you doing?”

“Wonderful, enough about me, I want to hear about you and your trip.”

“I love it here, Kenya. I should have come a long time ago. I’m sitting here in my room, staring out the window at a beautiful city as it is covered in snow.”

“And, how are the men?” Kenya questioned with humor in her voice.

Again, the blond head and dark eyes popped into Cleo’s imagination. It was as if he stood on the air above the city, in a pose similar to the tapestry, but this time, both hands were on the jagged sword and his feet were spread shoulder-width apart. There was this look on his face that seemed to be nothing but a challenge. Arrogant but definitely challenging.

“Cleo?” Kenya asked. “You still with me?”

“Sorry. Hey, quick ques for you. Do you ever remember hearing anything in class about a man called the ‘Lion of Midnight’?”

“Nope. Why?”

“Just something I’ve run into and would really like to get some more information on him.”

“Well, let me see what I can dig up on this end, and I’ll let you know. I know it’s late for you, so I’ll let you go. Keep in touch, hon. Have fun and stay safe.”

Cleo smiled. “Okay, thank you for everything, Kenya. Mostly for believing in me and my dreams. I’ll call soon. Miss you.”

“Miss you too. Bye.” Kenya hung up.

Closing her phone, Cleo sighed and rubbed her arms. “Bedtime,” she muttered to herself. One last lingering glance out over the city that resulted in no more images, and she pushed up from her seated position. After turning out the light, she slid into bed and let sleep overtake her.

The Lion of Midnight was the first thing she thought of when she woke the next morning. Cleo showered and dressed before heading down to where she knew Serge would be waiting for her.

And, he was. A grin filled his weathered face as he saw her, hat in hand. “Good morning, Miss Cleo,” he said.

Kissing him on the cheek, she responded, “Dobroye utro, Serge.”

“Perfect. I told you, speaking like a native in no time.”

“I have a wonderful teacher,” she told him.

“Thank you. Spasibo.”

Biting her lower lip, Cleo thought for a moment and, then, said, “Are you sure you can spend the day with me, Serge? I feel like I’m monopolizing all of your time.”

He took her hands in his old ones. “I can think of nothing more I’d rather be doing. Let me show you a wonderful last day in Moscow,” he offered.

Nodding, Cleo squeezed his hands. “I’d love that.”

Together, they walked out of the hotel to his waiting, already running taxi. He held the door for her then maneuvered his way to the driver’s seat and grinned at her when he shut the door on the cold winter air. Then, they were off on her last day in this wonderful city.

Cleo was tired when she walked into the hotel that night. Serge promised to be there in the morning and take her to the bus station. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was alive and whirling as it processed everything she’d seen and done during the day.

She had gone to the Tretyakov Art Gallery, which housed one of the most extensive and celebrated collections of Russian artifacts and art in the world. It was there, in her mind, she encountered the same man from the tapestry and the lone image she’d managed to find. Granted, there was no sword in his hand, but everything about his stance told her it was the same man. In addition, this time, he was painted in with the last tsar of Russia, Nicholas the Second, who looked very attractive in his white and gold attire, the uniform of His Majesty’s Hussar Life Guards’ Regiment. When she came upon the art piece, her heart leapt up into her throat.

It wasn’t the handsome tsar that took her breath away. No, it was a man standing behind him to the left. He was dressed in the same Hussar uniform as the tsar. A dress uniform, just not as adorned. White pants, and an attila jacket the same crisp color accented by gold with ribbons and more on his chest, there was no pelisse that she could see. His shoulders were just as wide as the previous two times she’d seen him. She could see the hilt of his saber by his left side. The brown of his eyes was intense as he stared at something past the tsar.

Her, perhaps?

She trembled and had to force herself to move along to the next work of art. She knew Serge noticed her hesitation but, bless his heart, kept his opinion to himself. The only thing he did do was offer his arm.

After stopping by the portrait one more time on their way out, Serge next took her to the Izmailovsky Souvenir Market, which was open since it was the weekend. They had a wonderful time, haggling with the stall holders, taking in all the amazing memorabilia. When she got tired, they took a seat and had some cognac to get warmed up then did some more perusing through the offered wares. The excitement coming from the vendors made her smile constantly.

When the cold began to sink into her bones, Serge escorted her along a ten-minute walk to the Izmailovo Royal Estate. She took in the imposing triple-arched Ceremonial Gate and the Cathedral of the Intercession, which was a five-domed building. They dated back as early as the seventeenth century, and she was equally impressed by them both. After they had explored that, they went back to the market and grabbed some food. Then, he took her to the Novodevichy Convent and Cemetery.

“I could spend a lifetime here and not see everything,” she told him as they made their way back to his taxi.