They were in a gorgeous two-bedroom suite, the best the Broadmoor had to offer. All rooms overlooked Broadmoor Lake and the furnishings appeared to him as grand as Peterhof Palace in Saint Petersburg.
The figure next to him stirred, and he moved over to her. Speaking French in a soft voice, he said, “Bonjour, Babette.”
She rolled over and, looking up into his soft blue eyes, replied, “Bonjour, mon amour,” and drew herself close to him. Though they had been totally exhausted the night before, they had been intimate, for the first time in a nonweightless environment.
“S’il te plait, Babette, we must speak English,” said Misha, and being aroused, he took her in his arms. As they drew closer, the mood was shattered by the loud ringing of the bedside phone.
“Quick, Babette, you must go to your room. They must not know,” Misha said as he reached for the phone. Babette leapt from the bed, picked up her jumpsuit, and raced through the door.
A voice on the phone said, “Commander Sokolov, I am sorry to disturb you, but you have had some international calls, and there are people who wish to see you. I took the liberty of sending up breakfast and will place any calls on your request. Is there anything else we can do for you?”
Meanwhile, clutching the jumpsuit in front of her, Babette raced into the sitting room between their bedrooms. She literally leapt over their bags of space equipment—suits, helmets, monitoring devices—that had been haphazardly strewn on the floor by their Air Force hosts when they checked in late the previous night. Ignoring the knock on the door and the voice calling, “Room service,” she ran into the adjoining bedroom and slammed the door, tears welling in her eyes as she thought, Will we ever be together again? Was this all a fantasy that will dissolve as we resume our lives on earth?
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