Bombshell Max Collins (best ereader for textbooks .txt) 📖

she would take it as a compliment. And his opinion meant the world to her. “That’s very kind of you to say,” she said, almost as shyly.

Nikita grasped her hand again, giving it a firm pat. “Why don’t you come to Moscow?” he said, and he gestured to the sleeping park around them. “You could be much bigger star in Russia! You could make your own movies. Produce, direct, choose only script you approve… I see how they treat you here… It is disgrace.”

Marilyn’s smile turned wistful. “I wonder…” What would her life be like in Russia? She gazed up at the stars, musing, “Dostoevsky said Mother Russia was a freak of nature—maybe that’s why I identify with her … because that’s what people say about me.”

Nikita blustered: “Such stupid people are wrong! Why, Miss Monroe … Marilyn … you are the most beautiful, talented woman in any country!”

The compliment stunned her.

“But I,” he said, his voice nearly inaudible now, all the bravado gone, “must be ‘freak’ to one so beautiful.”

Marilyn squeezed his hand, shaking her head slowly. “You know, that’s one thing men never seem to understand about me,” she said. “What’s on the outside doesn’t attract me—it’s what’s on the inside.”

She moved closer to him and whispered in a devil-like ear. “I think I know how to make the cold war a little warmer…”

He turned his homely face to her, not sure of her meaning.

So she explained by kissing him on the lips. Softly. Sweetly.

When their lips parted, she could see, even in the pale moonlight, that his cheeks were flushed. The effect she had on men never failed to amaze her. Or amuse her.

After an awkward silence, a flustered Nikita asked with forced gruffness, “And what is so great about teacup?”

Marilyn eyed him curiously. “What do you mean?”

Nikita gestured around him dismissively, as if it hadn’t been his own childish interest that had brought them to this attraction. “What is so wonderful about sitting in teacup that would make people pay money?”

“Well, you don’t just sit … you spin.”

He frowned in confusion. “Spin?”

She twirled one finger in the air. “You know, in a circle? But the ride has to be turned on. Needs power.”

He gave her half a smile. “Power is my specialty.”

She laughed. “Maybe not this kind.”

“You mean, electricity?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But I know electricity,” he exclaimed, puffing himself up, “is like brother, like sister.”

“Really?”

“Who do you think built Moscow subway?”

Nikita scooted on the seat around the circular wheel, and stepped out of the little opening of the cup onto the wooden platform.

Tugging down her knotted shirt, Marilyn did the same.

“You’d have to get the cover off of that,” she said, standing on the edge of the platform, pointing to a metal box on a short pole next to the ride. “And it looks locked.”

“What if I have key?”

“Key?”

Nikita stepped down off the ride and again Marilyn followed. The Russian removed one of his heavy brown shoes and gave the box a tremendous whack!

And the cover fell off its hinges.

Marilyn gasped a laugh, then said, “But that’s private property!”

“I have … how is it called? Diplomatic immunity!”

Inside the box were two buttons, one red, the other green. Marilyn, at Nikita’s side, said, “In our country, red means ‘stop’ and green ‘go.’ ”

“In our country,” Nikita said, eyes twinkling like a mischievous elf, “ ‘red’ has other meaning. But, please—instruct me.”

“Okay,” she said, and pushed the green button. Behind them the ride began to creak and groan.

“Oh, it’s starting!” Marilyn said excitedly.

Nikita was frowning, though. “Do we attract attention?”

“No—we’re a million miles away from the real world. Come on … don’t be a ’fraidy cat.”

She grasped his hand, and they hopped up onto the moving platform, which was increasing in speed, and jumped into the first twirling cup that came by.

At first Nikita’s eyes were huge and he seemed terrified. But then Marilyn giggled at him and grabbed onto the steering wheel and gave it a twist, making the cup whirl.

Soon a grinning Nikita Khrushchev was gleefully crying, “Wheeeeeee!”

And the sight of the premier of Russia, behaving like a kid, made Marilyn Monroe break out in gales of uncontrollable laughter.

“This,” he yelled, “is special teacup!”

“Oh yes!” she shouted back. “But how are we going to stop it? I’m getting … getting dizzy!”

After another minute or so, sensing Marilyn was on the verge of seasickness, Nikita said in her ear, “For you I will stop this special cup!”

Struggling out of the spinning thing, Nikita made his way across the wooden platform floor, weaving like a Cossack who couldn’t hold his vodka, then hopped off the edge of the ride, and disappeared.

After a moment Marilyn felt the teacups begin to slow, finally coming to a stop.

A breathless Marilyn staggered over to join Nikita on the ground beside the now-still teacup ride.

“That was what I call fun,” she exclaimed, pushing her tousled blonde hair back in place.

“Yes, is what we call fun, also,” Nikita admitted. “What box can we break now?”

Marilyn laughed, but shook her head. “We really shouldn’t, you know…”

Nikita gave her a surprised look. “Why not? I was promised Disneyland. Is only fair.”

“Well…” She eyed him as if he were a precocious child. No one was around for miles—they were alone in the huge park … what was the harm? “All right,” she said. “But just to preserve world peace.”

“Is noble goal.” Nikita thrust a thick finger, pointing across the midway to where colorful flags flapped in the gentle breeze over a faux-brick front. “What is this ride?”

She laughed. “Mr. Toad’s Ride … his Wild Ride, to be exact.”

He seemed skeptical. “And who is this Mr. Toad?”

“Well … a toad is sort of a frog. You know what that is, don’t you?”

He made a face. “Bah—frogs and mice… Why is everything in Disney’s land small forest creatures?”

She shrugged. “Because they’re cute.”

Nikita grunted. “Frogs are to be eaten and mice killed.”

“Come along,” Marilyn said, looping her arm in his, “and I’ll tell you about Mr. Toad. It’s a good story.”

“I doubt this.