Владимир Козаренко – Ocean Highway (страница 2)
I whispered the last sentence, barely managing to hold back my tears. Who was I trying to fool? Myself? Him? I didn't have a single kopeck to my name. In my purse, tossed on the front seat, lay an empty wallet and a plastic noose—a Sberbank credit card with a completely maxed-out hundred-thousand-ruble limit, which I hadn't been able to pay off for six months, scraping together rubles just for transit. Repairing the bumper of this German rocket cost as much as three of my Opels put together, plus my kidney thrown in for good measure.
The man didn't answer right away. Instead, he took two unhurried steps forward, closing the distance between us. His piercing blue eyes slowly, shamelessly, and very intently swept over my figure. And even though I was wearing a bulky winter down jacket, under that X-ray, appraising gaze of his, I suddenly felt completely naked. A good, proper figure cannot be hidden from a practiced male eye—and it seemed this predator fully appreciated both my narrow waist and my long legs. My mascara-stained, terrified, but objectively cute face clearly evoked not rage in him, but a lively, purely masculine amusement. A barely perceptible smirk played at the corner of his lips.
"The police? At this hour and in this freezing cold?" He gave his head a slight, careless shake, and a few snowflakes drifted from his perfect haircut onto the collar of his coat. "The damage is unpleasant, of course, but I simply don’t have three hours to waste on reports and officers. And besides, I can see that parting with cash would bring tears to your eyes. Why would I want a crying girl on the highway?"
He reached smoothly into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small, rectangular business card. It was crafted from thick, matte black cardstock with minimalist gold embossing. Nothing extravagant, but it literally smelled of massive wealth.
"Let’s do this differently," Mark held out the card, and I caught it with fingers trembling from the cold. "Instead of money for the repairs, I propose you have dinner with me tonight. Agree to it, Alina. It will completely absolve you of your debt to me and save your nerves."
I lost my tongue for a second, my mouth snapping shut. I looked down at the card. In elegant gold lettering, it read:
My ears began to ring. Oh wow. Look what I’d gotten myself into. This wasn't just a local rich guy or a bureaucrat—standing before me was a major international investor from the most iconic city on the American coast. A man from a completely different, unattainable reality.
"But... I don't even know, this is all so strange," I muttered, blushing deeply beneath the layer of black mascara smeared across my cheek. "We don't even know each other. And the accident... it was my fault."
"Time is short; I flew into Moscow for just a week on business and I’m leaving for the States soon," Mark pulled a massive flagship smartphone from his pocket, his blue predator eyes crinkling with amusement. "Dictate your number, Alina. Let's meet at exactly eight o'clock tonight on Tverskaya, at Grand Café Dr. Zhivago. You know the place, right? Of course, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. Dinner is entirely on me. Consider it compensation for your ruined makeup."
Obediently, as if under the influence of a powerful hypnosis, I dictated my mobile number to him. My voice shook slightly from the cold and the adrenaline.
"Perfect," Mark quickly punched the data into his contacts, read my name softly from the screen, winked at me with his incredible eyes, turned effortlessly, and climbed back into the cabin of his Porsche.
The massive SUV moved forward smoothly, without a single extra sound, neatly bypassed my stationary Opel, and vanished a second later into the thick, gray Moscow haze. And I was left standing in the middle of the slick, freezing highway, childishly pressing the expensive matte card to my chest, acutely aware that this filthy February day had just irreversibly turned my life upside down.
Chapter 3. The Digital Romance
That memorable dinner at Grand Café Dr. Zhivago flew by like an unreal, cinematic blur. Mark had reserved the prime table by the panoramic window, offering a staggering view of the illuminated red towers of the Kremlin and the snow-dusted Manezhnaya Square. He was flawless, gallant, and witty, ordering sophisticated reinterpretations of Russian cuisine and delicate desserts whose prices made my head spin in silence. Mark carried himself like a true gentleman, never offering even a hint that would make me feel guilty about his ruined bumper. At the end of the evening, he settled the astronomical bill by carelessly tossing a black card onto the table, warmly kissed my hand goodbye at the taxi door, and… flew back to the States.
And that was the catalyst for our strange, addictive, and frighteningly intense digital life. A romance forged in pixels and messaging apps.
The eight-hour time difference between Moscow and Florida completely rewired my nights, transforming them into an endless, agonizing vigil. By the time I, thoroughly exhausted by my daily routine at the design studio, collapsed into my sagging bed in a cramped, gray one-room apartment on the bleak outskirts of Moscow, the day was just beginning in Miami. And Mark possessed an amazing, almost mystical ability to ensure that his distant day crashed onto the screen of my smartphone in blinding tropical flashes.
He never wrote long, winding letters or cliché declarations of affection. He operated differently—visually, like a seasoned and calculating strategist. It felt as though he were deliberately seducing me with his picture-perfect life, teasing me, probing the boundaries of my resilience, and forcing me to loathe my surrounding reality with increasing sharpness.
But what truly unhinged me, causing my heart to stop in its tracks, were his rare personal photographs. Mark was an avid, fanatical surfer. About once a week, he would send shots captured by his friends right on the Atlantic coast: there they stood against the endless azure of the water, drenched, laughing, holding bright, wax-covered surfboards under their arms. In those moments, Mark wore nothing but loose beach shorts.
I could sit for hours in the darkness of my room, endlessly pinching the phone screen to zoom in, staring at his physique for long stretches. A perfectly natural, hot, and shameful arousal would build inside me. He possessed an ideal, athletic body. Not that artificially bloated muscle mass built in suffocating gyms that I was used to seeing on arrogant Moscow gym bros, but lean, searing, steel muscles. A physique literally sculpted by harsh ocean waves, polished by the salty wind, hardened by the southern sun and a constant battle with the elements. A true predator, the master of his domain. Against his backdrop, I felt like a pale, half-dead houseplant slowly withering away without sunlight.
What could I possibly send him in return for this luxury? Dull, depressing Moscow landscapes with filthy snow piled along the curbs and gray, concrete panel high-rises outside my window? My miserable, dented Opel with its smashed headlight, now sitting in the courtyard, eternally coated in a gray, hideous crust of salt and road chemicals? I was flat-out, tearfully ashamed of my world, my impoverished lifestyle, and my pathetic reality, compounded by that perpetual Sberbank credit card noose.
Then, late one night, as a fierce March blizzard howled outside my window in Moscow, hurling handfuls of icy sleet against the glass, a text arrived from him that made my heart turn a wild somersault:
I sat on the bed, pulling my knees tight to my chest, staring at the screen. The apartment was chilly due to the old radiators, but his words instantly made my cheeks flush a poppy-red. Shame, pride, and a wild urge to play along battled within me.