"Robert McCammon - The Wolfs Hour" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

She walked toward him—not too fast! she cautioned herself. “Where did you find roses in Cairo this
time of year?”
He smiled slightly, and she could see his white, strong teeth. “Your neighbor’s garden,” he answered,
and she could hear a trace of the Russian accent that mystified her so much. What was a Russian-born
gentleman doing working with the British Secret Service in North Africa? And why was his name not
Russian?
Margritta laughed as she took the roses from him. Of course he was joking; Peter Van Gynt’s garden
did indeed have an immaculate rosebed, but the wall separating their properties was six feet tall. Michael
Gallatin couldn’t possibly have gotten over it, and anyway his khaki suit was spotless. He wore a light
blue shirt and a necktie with muted gray and brown stripes, and he had a burnished desert tan. She
smelled one of the roses; they were still dewy.
“You look beautiful,” he said. “You’ve done your hair differently.”
“Yes. It’s the new style. Do you like it?”
He reached out to touch a lock of her hair. His fingers caressed it, and slowly his hand moved to her
cheek, a gentle touch grazing the flesh and goose bumps rose on Margritta’s arms. “You’re cold,” he
said. “You should stand closer to the fire.” His hand moved along the line of her chin, the fingers brushing
her lips, then pulled away. He stepped closer to her and put an arm around her waist. She didn’t back
away. Her breath caught. His face was right there in front of hers, and his green eyes caught a red glint
from the hearth as if flames had sparked within them. His mouth descended. She felt an ache throb
through her body. And then his lips stopped, less than two inches from hers, and he said, “I’m starving.”
She blinked, not knowing what to say.
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he went on. “Powdered eggs and dried beef. No wonder the Eighth
Army’s fighting so hard; they want to go home and get something edible.”
“Food,” she said. “Oh. Yes. Food. I’ve had the cook make dinner for you. Mutton. That’s your
favorite, isn’t it?”
“I’m pleased you remembered.” He kissed her lightly on the lips, and then he briefly nuzzled her neck
with a softness that made the chill bumps burst up along her spine. He released her, his nostrils flared with
the scent of Chanel and her own pungent woman-aroma.
Margritta took his hand. The palm was as rough as if he’d been laying bricks. She led him to the
door, and they were almost there when he said, “Who killed the wolf?”
She stopped. “Pardon me?”
“The wolf.” He motioned toward the gray-furred timber wolf mounted above the fireplace. “Who
killed it?”
“Oh. You’ve heard of Harry Sandler before, haven’t you?”
He shook his head.
 “Harry Sandler. The American big-game hunter. He was in all the papers two years ago, when he
shot a white leopard atop Mount Kilimanjaro.” Still there was no recognition in Michael’s eyes. “We’ve
become… good friends. He sent me the wolf from Canada. It’s a beautiful creature, isn’t it?”
Michael grunted softly. He glanced at the other mounted trophies Sandler had given Margritta—the
heads of an African water buffalo, a magnificent stag, a spotted leopard, and a black panther—but his
gaze returned to the wolf. “Canada,” he said. “Where in Canada?”
“I don’t know exactly. I think Harry said up in Saskatchewan.” She shrugged. “Well, a wolf’s a wolf,
isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer. Then he looked at her, his eyes piercing, and smiled. “I’ll have to meet Mr. Harry
Sandler someday,” he said.
“Too bad you weren’t here a week ago. Harry passed through Cairo on his way to Nairobi.” She
gave a playful tug at his arm to pull his attention off the trophy. “Come on, before your food gets cold.”
In the dining room, Michael Gallatin ate his medallions of mutton at a long table under a crystal
chandelier. Margritta picked at a hearts-of-palm salad and drank a glass of Chablis, and they made small
talk about what was happening in London—the current popular plays, the fashions, the novels and music: