The Kremlin's Candidate: A Novel полностью

For the next hour Grace led Nate on a fascinating tour of the venerable hotel, from the gleaming stainless-steel kitchens and rooftop heliport, to the infinity pool on the eighth floor. In the hushed wood-paneled VIP lounge on the top floor, Grace opened a photographic book documenting the Peninsula’s history. They stood shoulder to shoulder as Grace flipped the pages, pointing out interesting facts. Nate stole quick glances at her, watching as her eyes flitted across the photos, her eyelashes fluttering, and her mouth pursed in concentration. She was wearing a hint of something lilac or lavender, and he could feel the heat from her arm through his jacket sleeve. She wore her hair in a bun with two black lacquered chopsticks stuck through it. She stopped turning pages and caught him looking at her hair. Nate smiled at her.

“Your hair is very pretty that way,” he said. “Not many American women wear it like that.” A compliment. Mention the United States. Here’s a man who’s observant. She fingered the chopsticks self-consciously.

“I don’t know why I wear it like this, they keep falling out,” she said. Neither of them said anything, and Nate kept quiet. How do you handle silence, what do you say?

“Would you like to see the health club and spa?” said Grace. “It’s on the seventh floor.” Smooth recovery. Isn’t easily flustered, under control.

The health club had the usual array of expensive machines arranged along floor-to-ceiling windows with a soaring view of the harbor. The spa, sauna, and massage rooms were all magnificently appointed. As they walked around, Nate ruefully complained that it never seemed that he had enough time to exercise. Time to raise yoga.

“What do you do to stay fit?” he asked.

“I practice yoga,” said Grace.

“Been doing it long?” Guiless question, on purpose, talk to me.

“Since I was a little girl,” she said, vaguely. Reluctance? She’s not convinced I’m interested, so sell it.

Nate had been reading up on yoga styles the night before. “I had a friend who did what I think she called Ashtanga yoga, is that right? And what’s that hot yoga called? Where they heat the room?” Grace looked at him through her lashes, assessing his sincerity. Ask for information, educate me.

“Yes, Ashtanga, Vinyasa, Bikram; these are modern styles, and very popular,” said Grace.

“What style do you practice?” asked Nate.

“An older style, something based on an ancient book,” she said, looking at the floor. A sticking point. Gently now.

“What’s it called?” said Nate. Grace’s eyes searched his, her China-doll face hesitant for a moment, then clearing with the decision to share.

“A book of Hindu verses called the Rigveda was written in 1500 BC. My yoga is based on that book. It is called Kundalini yoga. It is now a popular style.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” said Nate. “What does it look like, do you stand on your head?” Come on, set me straight.

“It is a very strong style,” she said, smiling thinly. “I do not want to bore you.”

Nate shook his head. “I’m not bored,” he said. “Tell me.”

“It’s the use of poses, chanting, and special breathing, all three to release the energy in our bodies,” Grace said. “When our energy is blocked, we cannot grow. When we release it through the discipline of yoga, there is health, and stability, and peace. I know this sounds very mystical and silly, but it has helped me.” Nate nodded to a wood-floored exercise area surrounded by full-length mirrors.

“Show me something I could learn without tearing my shoulder out of its socket,” said Nate. Grace looked at him skeptically. Nate slipped out of his shoes, and held out his arms, the earnest foreigner who wanted to learn about her world.

“All right. This is Adhu Mukha Svanasana, it’s relatively easy. I’ll show you, then you try it.” She shucked off her heels, walked onto the wood, planted her feet, then bent forward and put her hands on the floor, walking them ahead of her until she was in a pike position, her hips in the air, her head lowered between her shoulders. Nate saw her triceps flexing, her stomach contracted into a wasp waist and her thigh muscles rippled. A soft hissing note came from her mouth as she exhaled for what seemed like ten seconds. Her fitted dress inched up her thighs, revealing the lacy tops of her stockings and, in the mirror behind her, a glimpse of the black lace vee of her panties. Whoa. Interesting. Is she oblivious, or is she flirting? No way she’s promiscuous.