The streets had been choked with people trying to return home. And the drive, graciously offered by the Russian diplomats Zivon had introduced her to, had been interrupted with enough necessary stops that she had to think it would have been faster to walk home.

They’d gotten out the first time the car stopped, when it became clear a bomb had struck the neighborhood through which they were driving. Or perhaps multiple bombs. The streets had been covered in glass from the windows, like a million crystals of snow. A terrible, heartbreaking beauty. Zivon had rushed to help a family push their way back into their battered home, but after making certain no one needed her help, Lily had drawn out her camera.

To remind herself. So she’d never forget the cost of this work she’d thought was so good. So noble. So worthwhile.

She’d gotten a few shots she couldn’t shake from her mind’s eye. One of a broken roof silhouetted against the moon. One of a passel of children, some awake enough to be playing and some succumbed to exhaustion on the pavement. One of Kira Suvorova embracing her toddler daughter upon gaining their thankfully spared home.

And one of Zivon with an expression on his face she’d never seen before. He’d looked . . . haunted as he hurried to a doorstep to check on an adolescent girl who had slumped there in fatigue. She’d been well, but Zivon had seemed shaken to the core. They’d climbed back in the car after that, and neither had suggested getting out the next time the driver was forced to halt.

They were alone in the cab now, the Suvorovs and Nabokov all safe in their respective homes. Zivon’s fingers had found hers again, and they still sat as close as they had when the diplomat’s wife was squeezed onto the seat with them.

“This is not exactly how I envisioned the night going.” His voice was little more than a breath at her ear, slipping easily into the silent car. Quieting the thoughts pelting her heart. “I had grand plans for a moonlit promenade through the garden. Hopes that perhaps I could convince you to accept a kiss.”

She levered her eyes open, though she could see nothing but his outline against the window. He’d wanted to kiss her? Had been planning it?

Her fingers were keenly aware of his. Her bare arm—she had no idea where her wrap was, though she’d likely left it in the ballroom somewhere—was warm against his jacket. Those twelve inches she’d always felt between them were nowhere to be seen.