Australia.
He was actually here.
It had been three years since the day he'd first met her. Three years since she'd changed his life forever.
He'd wondered if she'd met someone. She might even be married. The thought punched him in the gut harder than Bourne's fist. He wouldn't be surprised. She was an attractive, intelligent, bloody wonderful woman. She would have had no shortage of suitors.
But then again, he thought, maybe she had not.
He'd spent the first day recovering him the jet lag. Most of that time was spent in the hotel voraciously searching for snippets, anything new- on her, online. It was then he stumbled across the ad poster.
'Michelle - one of Sydney's most critically acclaimed piano soloists performs exclusively at City Recital Hall for a one night show, dedicated to her late mentor, -. Repertoire includes Beethoven, Rachmaninoff and Ravel. Bookings-'
He got a seat at the back in the large auditorium. He could not be seen from the front, but he had a perfect view. He took a seat in the semi darkness and waited.
And then she appeared.
Kirill thought his heart would stop. She looked radiant. The black ball gown she wore fit her perfectly, and her hair was swept up in an elegant mess of curls. She hadn't changed one bit. His eyes drank her in greedily, savouring the way she looked, the way she moved, the way she smiled.
The compere introduced her as she sat herself by the Steinway, giving a gracious nod towards him and a nervous smile to her audience.
The first piece was one he had heard before. It was one of the nights in the countryside. They were about to go out, and she was getting ready. It had been playing on her YouTube playlist from her laptop. He remembered. It was by Rachmaninoff, she had said, and it was one of her favourites. It was a sad song. She had told him how she had thought Rachmaninoff must have been a deeply lonely man. Constantly yearning for something.
As she played, he knew what she meant.
Deep passions under a stern exterior.
All his life he had kept his grip on his emotions. Now he knew just how much he had kept hidden, how his feelings swirled like an eddy underneath his skin. She had been the first to see through the cracks.
The realisation was like a dam breaking, surging forth.
He just stared as he watched her play, pressing the keys and moving her arms effortlessly as the music washed over him.
His soul was brimming over.
How she could be so incredible, he didn't know.
Michelle looked at the menu, and then darted her eyes across at the dark haired man wearing a plaid shirt sitting opposite her.
He looked up and quirked his lips into a gentle grin.
"Ready to order?"
She put on a smile. "Yes."
They gave their orders to the waitress. They chatted a bit, and then their food arrived. They chatted a bit more.
This isn't so bad, Michelle thought. He's okay looking. He eats decently. Nice manners. Seems to know where he's heading career wise. She kept spelling out in her mind the boxes he was ticking.
It was just too bad she felt no attraction to him at all.
Her smile started to wane.
He could probably sense her attention wondering, so he picked up the bill not long after and they headed out for the door.
"So, I'll call you?"
He sounded- hopeful. She didn't want to quash that hope.
She gave a lukewarm smile. "Sure."
"It was really nice meeting you."
"Likewise."
She headed up on George Street towards Circular Quay, and he headed the other direction, back to his office near Town Hall.
As she was walking her smile melted off her face and the corners of her lips sank right back down. Dammit, she thought. Shouldn't be giving mixed signals. Should have just been straight with him.
But he was okay, the other, more logical side of her brain argued. I mean he wasn't a creep. Not like the last one. Michelle remembered and rolled her eyes. The big, bullnecked IT guy who leered at her like she was a piece of cake and thought he was a big shot because he worked at PWC. Yeah, she conceded. Next to that, this one seemed like a dream. And who knew where that would lead? The little rational voice nudged. Friendship can always lead to something more.
She sighed. She really wasn't interested. She knew when she was. There was no zing, no heart racing…unlike when she'd met…
She had to bite her lip to stop crying.
He's not coming back.
She needed to get a grip. He could be dead. He could've been lying. He could've forgotten. Heaven forbid if he'd forgotten.
Life had gone on as per usual. The hotel had kept her things. Packed them in a smaller bag and shipped them. The fee had not been exhorbitant. They had been super-nice about the whole thing, and hadn't even charged her for not checking out when she had supposed to. She told her parents she had missed her flight due to a minor accident. It was no big drama. She flew back to Sydney. She went back to teach the next day.
One month passed, then two, then three. The anxiety had been excruciating. After six months she'd started crying her heart out every night. By a year, she'd stopped waiting.
Life had been good, if she'd done an honest assessment. She had had more opportunities to perform, and had even been able to go to the States to do a few concerts. It had been exciting. She had met people. She had some great opportunities coming up. She was doing the things she loved most in the world.
She'd dated. It wasn't that she hadn't tried. Well maybe, she hadn't tried hard enough. She'd met some really nice ones, but they just hadn't worked out.
And he was always at the back of her mind. Always.
She stepped into a green newsstand, just before the statue of the little kid who she always mistook for a real person. All that time in the café and she didn't even order water. She needed a drink.
"A bottle of water please," she said to the lady. She fished out the change in her wallet.
"The date did not go so well."
Michelle froze.
When she finally willed herself to look up, slowly, the blood rushed from her face.
He was here.
Kirill.
He was leaning nonchalantly against the curve of the stall, arms folded casually. He had on a pair of sunglasses, and his stubble had grown out again. A loose, yellow beige coloured shirt hung around his upper frame, and black pants hugged his legs. He'd lost weight.
He took off the glasses, and Michelle could feel her breath hitch at seeing those hazel eyes again. He looked tired, but well enough.
They stood in silence.
"You shouldn't be here, Kirill," she finally said.
He looked up at the buildings around Martin Place.
"It is beautiful here."
"Yes, it is."
She said this a tad impatiently.
"The air is…cleaner."
Michelle was pursing her lips now. What sort of game was he playing at?
"What happened?" she asked, her voice almost cracking. Tears formed as her hands curled themselves into little balls.
His arms were around her. She felt herself sobbing relentlessly. All she could smell was him, his aftershave, his scent, Kirill. He held her, his voice soothing, his arms stroking her back.
When they drew apart he produced a few tissues, and she blew her nose noisily. He was looking at her anxiously.
"I'm sorry," he said. "There were many things I had to take care of."
"I'll say," she said, sniffling.
"This is not the time or place for me to tell you."
"I guessed you would say that."
She dabbed the tissues at the corners of her eyes. "How long are you here?"
His eyes looked hopeful. "I'm not sure," he said slowly.
"Do you have a place to stay?"
"I'm staying at a hotel."
"Well you can't stay there forever. Come to my place."
"Are you-sure?" he said, hesitantly.
"It has three bedrooms, and I only use one," she said matter of factly. "I have a spare bed."
"Alright," he said, trying not to sound disappointed.
It didn't take him long to pack. There wasn't much he'd taken with him, the vestiges of his meagre life in Russia fitting into one neat suitcase. They took the train back to her place in Petersham.
She unlocked the door and they came inside. It was homey, with candles and comfortable rugs everywhere. Wooden furniture.
It looked like her. It looked like home.
"I'll get you some tea," she said. "The spare room is through here." She pointed into a room with a double bed set up on a simple wooden frame. A sky blue coverlet lay on the top. Books were stacked neatly on the desk, and a single lamp sat on the bed stand. Obviously she never used this room.
He dumped down his stuff while she went to the kitchen.
They sat opposite each other on the small dining table. She was watching him worriedly, waiting for him to speak.
"You don't have- someone?" he asked carefully, his eyes watching his cup and his fingers circling its circumference.
She snorted. "I would have thought that was obvious, considering the not so successful date."
He looked up. She sounded bitter, humourless. It wasn't like her.
"Tell me the truth, Kirill."
He owed her the truth.
"I joined the police force when I was eighteen," he began. "I did not stay there for long. I got involved in a Communist group. One protest got ugly. I shot a man by accident, killed him. I ran away."
He clasped his hands around the mug. "KGB approached me. I had no place else to go. They offered me immunity. If I declined the offer, I would be charged with murder. I would go to prison. I joined."
He looked straight at her. "I'm not a good person. I've killed men. I've done things- I would not be proud to mention. Especially to you."
Her face was unreadable. "What happened this time?"
"I was tasked to frame a man for the murder of two CIA agents. Then, I was to kill the man. Jason Bourne."
He paused.
"But I shot someone else."
She paused, then half laughed. "Don't you shoot people all the time?"
"I shot a woman. Killed her."
There was something about his voice. He sounded…guilty.
"His woman."
"How?"
He looked lost, rethinking the moment. "She was driving- she switched places with him. I did not know she existed."
Michelle looked at him closely. He seemed so cut up about this, about this particular kill.
"Why is this different?" she asked.
Kirill stared at her, his eyes boring into her's. "What if someone had shot you?"
"I don't know, Kirill," she said softly. "What if someone had?"
Kirill paused. He could not keep the emotion in him anymore.
"My whole life," he said, his voice shaking, "has not been worth much. Except for when I was with you. You made all the difference."
A tear crept from the corner of one eye. "Why that much, Kirill?"
"You're my reason," he said simply. "You're my something good."
He didn't see her coming. All of a sudden he found himself on his back, on the fluffy rug that stretched out across the kitchen and dining. She had her arms around him.
"Don't leave me again," she whispered.
"Not if it kills me," he whispered back.
Their lips found each other, and he fell into the kiss.
A few hours later they were on still on the rug. Michelle had pulled a blanket over them after they'd made love. They lay under it, their arms around one another, his hand touching her face.
"What are you planning to do now, officer?" she asked, her eyes alight with happiness.
He smiled, fingering her nose. "I'm not sure. I can be your bodyguard."
"Mm," she said as she kissed his chin. "That sounds agreeable. So you'll always have to stay really, really close to me."
He rolled atop of her as she squeaked. "Da," he said huskily.
"And when we're done doing that," he said, kissing her, "we could retire. I could build a house, and we could have a few children, who will grow up to be amazing concert pianists. Like their mother."
"Or amazing cooks, like their father," she murmured against his lips.
"Da," he said.
He knew everything was going to be alright now. He was home.