Владимир Козаренко – Ocean Highway (страница 3)
I slowly stood up, walked over to my old sliding-door wardrobe, and pulled down a pair of short denim shorts and a simple white tank top with thin straps from the very top shelf—clothes I had worn last summer during a brief and modest vacation in Turkey. Dressing like this in the middle of a freezing Moscow winter felt like pure, unadulterated madness.
Pulling the light garments over my bare skin, I walked over to the large mirror in the hallway. My skin looked far too pale under the amber glow of the dim energy-saving bulb, but my figure… my figure was truly my only absolute source of pride. A narrow, graceful waist, high firm breasts, rounded hips, and long, slender legs. I wasn’t a model, but nature had blessed me with proportions that even a sedentary office job couldn’t ruin.
Taking a deep breath to steady the tremors in my hands, I raised the phone and snapped a few quick pictures in the mirror, trying to force a look of feigned nonchalance and boldness into my eyes. I selected the best frame. My finger practically glued itself to the screen over the "Send" button. I clearly understood: if I pressed it now, I was fully accepting his rules of the game, becoming a part of his universe, and there would be no turning back.
I squeezed my eyes shut and slammed my finger onto the glass.
Mark’s reply came incredibly fast, just three minutes later, causing me to let out a ragged breath:
Chapter 4. A One-Way Ticket
Mark had casually asked for my exact home address during one of our midnight chats, nestled between conversations about the weather and ocean tides. At the time, I attached absolutely no significance to it, assuming he was merely testing the waters, trying to appear polite, or at best, planning to send some cliché American postcard or a holiday souvenir.
But an ordinary, unremarkable, overcast March morning completely obliterated my familiar, gray Moscow reality.
The doorbell rang—sharp and insistent. Startled, I adjusted my old housecoat and padded over to answer it. On the threshold stood a young courier in the branded jacket of FedEx. In his hands, he held a massive, thick cardboard envelope sealed with bright security tape.
"Alina Voronova?" The guy offered a routine smile and extended an electronic tablet. "Sign here, please. High-value international shipment. From the USA, Miami."
My fingers turned instantly cold, and my heart skipped a beat. With a trembling hand, I scribbled on the screen with the stylus, took the package, and locked the door with every bolt. The envelope felt unusually substantial, heavy, as if something solid lay inside. The sudden wave of anxiety was so intense that my knees buckled. I sat right down on the hallway floor, without even taking off my shoes, leaned my back against the front door, and with trembling hands, tore open the thick, sealed cardboard.
Inside lay a glossy, official invitation in English that smelled of expensive printing ink, a printed electronic business-class ticket for a complex Moscow–Istanbul–Miami route, and… a heavy, matte rectangle of a black MasterCard. Right there on the front face, my name was embossed in glossy gold letters:
Pinned to the plastic was a small note. I unfolded it and recognized Mark’s sprawling, large, and frighteningly confident handwriting. He had written by hand on thick paper bearing his company's emblem:
I sat on the floor, staring blankly at this royal, staggering gift. In my mind, a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts spun around. Why on earth had Mark been so incredibly generous? Had those amateur photos of me in shorts and a tank top in the dead of winter really made such an indelible impression on him? Apparently so. The whims of truly wealthy people—more money than they know what to do with, so they set up exotic entertainment for themselves, flying in girls from snow-bound Russia. But deep in my soul, cutting through the euphoria, a cynical, logical question clawed: didn't they have beautiful girls over there in America? Is there a shortage of blondes on Miami beaches? Why did he need to bring an ordinary girl from Moscow thousands of miles, spending thousands of dollars to do it?
But the fear of the unknown quickly retreated before a wild, intoxicating anticipation of freedom. Fortunately, I had a valid passport—last summer my best friend Tanka and I had flown on a cheap package tour to Antalya. But the American visa turned out to be a much thornier issue.
When Tanka found out about my escapade, she nearly burst with venomous, undisguised envy at first. Our design studio office was buzzing; my friend retold every single detail to the other girls. But Tanka was practical, and she gave me an invaluable piece of advice just in time:
"Alina, whatever you do, don't you dare show that official invitation from a single American guy at the embassy! The officer will think you're going there illegally to get married or work. They'll give you a lifetime rejection! Hide his papers. You have money on the card now, right? Just apply as a regular, independent tourist. Say you just saved up and are flying to see Miami and the ocean."
I listened to her. But the first thing I did, even before heading to the visa center, was run to a random ATM in the shopping mall by the metro to check the balance. My heart was ready to leap out of my chest, and my hands were shaking as I slid the heavy black card into the machine's slot. I entered the temporary PIN code provided in Mark's note and froze, pressing the "Check Balance" button.
The figure that flashed on the screen a moment later forced me to frantically slap my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming in shock across the hall. Ten thousand dollars glowed in neat rows of digits. Nearly a million rubles at the current exchange rate! To Mark, this was pocket change, the price of a single lunch with partners, but to me, it was the annual budget of my modest life. Right then and there, I transferred a portion of the funds and completely paid off the cursed, suffocating Sberbank credit card, breathing freely for the first time in six months.
The next month and a half flew by like one prolonged, crazy day. Emergency visa processing through a consulate in a third country, endless, intoxicating shopping sprees, buying new light dresses, swimwear, and shorts… I took an unpaid leave of absence at work, flat-out lying to my boss that I needed to check into a hospital urgently for tests. He grumbled but let me go.
And so, forty-five days later, I stood in the middle of the vast, echoing terminal of Sheremetyevo Airport. In my hands was a single suitcase, inside of which lay my new life, purchased with Mark’s money. Ahead was a long, grueling flight over continents, and beyond it—an unexplored ocean, palm trees, and a man with piercing blue eyes who was waiting for me on the other side of the world, completely confident that he held all the strings of control in his hands.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «Литрес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на Литрес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.