Silver Fox and Red Hot Dove

by Deborah Smith

  "Make jokes, Mr. Audubon, but I will get her back. For her own good. She cannot roam the world unsupervised. She's not suited for it. In fact, it might destroy her."

  "Now that's intriguing. Tell me more."

  "You'll see, if you haven't already."

  Audubon set his teacup down and sighed grandly. "I'm innocent, Doctor."

  Kriloff spat out Russian words, then rose and walked out of the study, head up and dignity intact. He was not a harmless enemy, Audubon admitted distractedly, while still mentally playing back some of the things the doctor had said. He discounted the obvious lies and honed in on the hints of truth.

  She'd had dozens of lovers? No. But from what she'd said there was no doubt that she'd been pressured to have relationships as part of the doctor's comprehensive study of paranormals. It had not been her own choice, or pleasure, and he suspected that it had been much worse than she'd led him to believe. Whether that made her feelings for him a vulnerable mixture of newfound freedom, gratitude, and emotional naivete, he didn't know yet. He only knew he cherished her affection and passion.

  She can't roam the world unsupervised. It might destroy her. That comment stayed in his mind, too, putting an ominous chill on his skin. He had to draw back from her, maintain his distance, and understand the secrets she guarded as closely as he guarded his own.

  And hope they didn't destroy each other.

  His office was sumptuous and neat--there were no papers on the massive desk to reveal anything about his work, and few personal objects to intrigue her. Except the photos. She was so worried about what might be happening upstairs that she leapt at any distraction.

  The photographs were at least twenty-five years old. Clarice pulled them from behind a row of encyclopedias on the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. She didn't explain the lack of more recent photos or their strange location, and by now Elena knew better than to expect anyone but Audubon to discuss his family in detail, so she didn't ask.

  But she didn't need to ask to know the power of .the people in the photographs. The family's wealth leapt out at her from their elegant clothes and proud faces against a fabulous white mansion with tall columns across the front, from a sailing yacht bathed in ocean and sky, from sleek thoroughbreds outfitted for the hunt. Only Audubon's sister, just a child, had looked at the camera with a hint of a smile.

  "What's going on here? Photo day in the bunker?"

  Audubon, in the flesh, didn't smile at all. A family tradition had caught up with him. She rushed to him, relieved that no one had taken him away. He answered her frantic questions with maddeningly vague answers. Of course they were still looking for her. Of course they suspected him. No, they had no proof.

  "What did Kriloff say?"

  "That you're just a secretary. He wants you back because he feels responsible for you. He raised you." A tiny gleam of humor lightened Audubon's somber expression. "That you're one hot mama, when it comes to men. He warned me not to be caught in your sultry spell, because you're fickle and fast."

  Clarice tactfully left the office. Elena gaped at him. It was so outrageous, she had to swallow a yelp of fury. "I never wanted to be a hot mother! I did what I was told!"

  "Calm down. I don't doubt you."

  "But I'm not sure if what you understand is accurate. What do you think? Do you believe I was some kind of--"

  "Elena, forget that. He's bluffing, and it's not important. He said something else that is important, though. He said you can't survive in the outside world. I think he was hinting about your gift. What could he have meant?"

  She said a little too quickly, "What nonsense. He's fluffing again, of course."

  "Bluffing. Elena?" He looked at her with one dark brow arched, and the lock of silver hair that had fallen across the lined, weathered skin of his forehead seemed to her like a badge of wisdom, won in shrewd battles with far more skilled opponents than she. He stared at her grimly, waiting.

  "Audubon, I am obviously surviving in the outside world. You can see."

  "I'm asking you to tell me the truth. Do you have a problem I need to know about?"

  She shook her head. She would learn to deal with it. He didn't need to know. "No problem."

  "Elena," he said with warning.

  "I said, There's no problem."

  Taking her by the shoulders, he studied her face with unrelenting intensity. She held firm, but her stomach knotted. With a slow hiss of dismay he reached his verdict. "You're hiding something damned important to you. This is one time you and I aren't going to play games. Tell me--right now!--what Kriloff meant."

  "He meant to see if you're a fool who'll believe anything he says. Of course he wants you to think I belong back at the institute!"

  "I'd never believe him. I want to believe you."

  "Then believe what I say about this. Stop digging into my life. Just help me, and don't ask so many questions."

  "That's not a fair trade, Elena."

  "Oh? Are we bargaining for my future now?"

  "You may be throwing it away. If you don't cooperate."

  "Is that a threat?"

  He lifted her to her toes, not hurting her with the grip on her arms, but putting her off balance so she sank her hands into his shirtfront for support. The white towel fell from around her waist, and she felt too vulnerable, hanging there in his powerful hands, with him fully clothed and her dressed in nothing but the white swimsuit.

  Audubon looked down at her body, making the examination slow and intense. "You've offered to give yourself, and I could have taken you--just as you said when we were in the pool. Why haven't I, do you think?"

  "I really don't know."

  "Because I don't want to hurt you. So don't accuse me of making threats."

  "How would it hurt me to make love with you?"

  "When this trouble blows over, you want to be free. You deserve to be. And I don't want to complicate your life. I'm not the right man for you. I'm away most of the time on business. I'm totally involved in my work. I don't have anything to give to an important relationship."

  He let her down, let her get her feet firmly planted on the floor. In more ways than one. She looked at him with tortured acceptance. He didn't want to be bothered with her. It was stunning to think she'd misunderstood all the passion between them. Was she that inexperienced with human emotion, compared to his sophisticated self?

  Or was she just too odd and too foreign, too awkward and untrained in his country's ways? A new thought chilled her. She wasn't in his class. Audubon needed a woman at his own level: Blue-blooded, wealthy, American.

  "I'll go back to my suite now, If it's safe," she said in a hushed, angry tone.

  "You won't tell me what Kriloff meant?"

  She stared at him evenly, then bent, retrieved her towel, and wrapped it around her waist without answering. "How soon do you think I can leave here?"

  "And go where?"

  "Wherever I like." She held his gaze. "Isn't that the whole point?"

  "I'm out of answers at the moment."

  "No, you're only thinking up new tactics. You're as manipulative as Kriloff."

  The muscles in his jaw tightened, and his eyes took on the shuttered, ominous coldness she'd seen before. He went to his desk and sat down with smooth grace in a tall swivel chair. "Don't forget the party in your honor tomorrow night."

  "A party? No. A show. I'm to be on display for your coconspirators."

  "And their spouses."

  "Should I tell them why I'm important to you? I could perform party tricks, if you'd like."

  He punched a button on a phone intercom. "Clarice, show Elena back to the main floor, please." Leaning back in his chair, he steepled his fingers under his chin and watched her. In a low, hard voice he said, "You have no idea why you're important to me."

  "I intend to find out." She pivoted and left his office, barefoot, still damp from the pool, one hand pinning her impromptu skirt together at her hip. She felt her hopes were just as likely to fall as the towel.
/>   * * *

  Chapter Seven

  At two A.M. Elena roamed Audubon's house, drawn farther and farther from her suite until she reached the destination that had taunted her for hours. Barefoot, wearing only a gown and robe, she padded into the large, dark vestibule outside Audubon's private wing. Stopping there in tormented silence, she wondered if he could see her because of some hidden camera, if he might be watching her make a fool of herself. She went to the heavily carved double doors and flattened her hands on them, wishing that the wood could talk. He was just inside, but so far away.

  She was still shaken by Kriloff's visit and the anger between her and Audubon. She had always had trouble with insomnia, because she had learned so early in life to bury her fears and fantasies. So they came out at night in vivid and sometimes frightening dreams, and even when there were no dreams, her body couldn't slough off the tension. At the institute she'd grown accustomed to napping rather than sleeping, and often spent large portions of the night either reading, practicing ballet, or listening to pop music on her tinny-sounding record player.

  Giving a frown of self-rebuke, she turned and, hugging herself, head down in thought, walked back toward the main hall. The doors to his suite opened with a sudden swoosh of wood brushing over soft rugs. She reeled, startled. He stood in the open Ing, one hand on each door, the light shadowing him. The man belonged in the theater. His natural sense of drama was breathtaking.

  He wore black pajama bottoms and nothing else, and there was only a small brass lamp shining in the darkened, vague area behind him, but he didn't have the disheveled look of a man who'd been in bed. "Is something wrong?" he asked brusquely.

  "No. I was just exploring. I can't sleep."

  "Guilt is a terrible bedmate."

  "So you can't sleep, either, I assume."

  He held out a hand and coaxed in a fluid, provocative voice, "Come and let me give you the after-hours tour. You said you wanted to see my private rooms."

  She knew what he wanted--information--and that he wasn't above tantalizing her to change her mood. "I'd like the tour, but I can't pay the price of admission."

  "Oh, it's free."

  "I know you too well, Audubon. You are nervous."

  "Calm me down, then. Keep me company for a few minutes. See what you think of the fox's den. Or are you the nervous one? An honest change of heart is nothing to feel anxious about. Come in and unburden yourself of secrets."

  "No anxiety. No change of heart. My tour, please." She entered his suite as he stepped aside and bowed, sweeping one arm toward the intimate shadows. Elena clasped her hands behind her back and glanced around casually, while the atmosphere seeped into her blood with disarming power and nearly made her dizzy.

  "There's something about Victorian style that appeals to the sensual side of human nature," Audubon said, shutting the doors so quickly that the well oiled snap of the heavy latch echoed in her pulse. The small room, a parlor or library, had an arched doorway on the other side--her escape route? Hardly. It led only to the rest of his private world.

  Except for the contemporary news magazines and newspapers scattered among the tapestry pillows of a curving, gilt-edged sofa, or the ebony armoire open to reveal an array of television and stereo equipment on its shelves, the room belonged in the last century, "You see," Audubon continued, strolling across richly patterned rugs that nearly hid the varnished floor, "the Victorian era was very straight-laced, even repressed." He went to a window covered in heavy, emerald drapes and lifted a braided pull rope with a tasseled end. "Velvet drapes. A satin rope. I think Victorian men and women poured all that hidden passion into provocative decorations. The textures are incredible. Come and feel them."

  She floated forward, her hands trembling behind her, her common sense telling her that she knew exactly what he was trying to do and wasn't fooled. Tempted, but not fooled.

  "Yes, very nice," she commented, scrubbing her knuckles along the curtains, then poking the thick rope with a fingernail.

  "I designed these rooms to bring out the worst in my nature."

  "Oh? Are there secret panels everywhere?" He laughed softly, the sound so plush, she could have lost herself in the sultry depth, as if it were the pillows, the rugs, the drapes. She could lose her control in his voice in this place. He took her arm and led her toward the inner door. "My hedonistic nature. Under my busy, efficient facade is the heart of a centaur. I was really meant to lounge about naked on huge pillows with a garland of flowers on my head, eating grapes from the hands of a beautiful, adoring woman. Naked also, of course."

  "Centaur. Isn't that a nasty, half-goat creature?"

  "Half horse, my dear, cruel dove, half horse." He guided her with the disarming pressure of his fingers and palm on the back of her arm, and her thin silk robe did nothing to hamper the effect. Her breath stopped in her throat as they walked silently down a cozy hall lit by prismed wall sconces. "My bedroom," he said, gesturing to a wide entrance framed in carved wood. He reached past her with one arm, curving his body around her as he flicked a light switch on the crystal lamp atop a table inside the room. His scent and warmth enveloped her; his broad, furry chest was so close, it brushed her shoulder.

  Elena's knees went weak as she studied a room even more overstuffed with texture and emotion. The bed against the center wall was enormous and black-lacquered, the headboard, footboard, and tall posts designed in a combination of straight and curving patterns. Male and female. And on the mattress was a jumble of scarlet-and-gold brocade and shimmering ivory silk sheets, with large pillows scattered among the turbulence.

  "I don't allow my bed to be made," he purred. "It's part of my private delight in laziness."

  That bed was hardly a place to be lazy. Drained, delighted, and unable to budge from too much indulgence, perhaps, but not lazy. And if she came within caressing distance of the covers, with Audubon's taunting, confident sensuality to push her over the edge... she'd dissolve into his arms and tell him anything he wanted to know, then beg him to do with her as he pleased.

  She backed away and glanced about the hall, her head swimming from desperation. "Next?"

  She shot a quick look at him and saw that his large, thickly lashed eyes were watching her with determined patience, the challenge barely concealed. "My dressing room."

  They moved farther down the hall. Again he reached past her into a dark entrance. The scent of fine colognes and fabrics added to the basic male appeal of the scent of his skin. The soft overhead light came on.

  She looked distractedly into a wonderland of mirrors, closets, racks of clothes, racks of shoes, shelves filled with hats, open drawers spilling linen handkerchiefs and even... a black wicker clothes hamper in one corner, where a single black sock dangled, caught under the lid. "You see," he said beside her, his voice an amused rumble. "A dirty sock, just as you hoped to find. Aren't you reassured that I'm human, vulnerable?"

  Tears rose in her eyes. "I wish it was that simple. I would love to be reassured. I would love to--" Her voice broke. "But I'm only making a fool of myself. Forgive me for coming here tonight. I must be losing my mind."

  "Elena," he said hoarsely, and it was a stark change from the teasing, the seduction, the charade. The sorrow in it broke her control, and she turned blindly, intent on leaving before recklessness overtook her. He caught her arms from behind. "Elena, there are a thousand things I wish I could say and do to make you happy."

  She twisted her head to look at him, and he made her lean against his bare chest in the process. She bit back a soft moan and said, "But none of them suits your plans--whatever those are."

  "I won't hurt you. I swear I won't."

  Being cared for had never been so tormenting. He didn't want to hurt her? But he didn't want to love her, either, or share any part of his life with her. How badly he had hurt her already, without knowing it.

  "Please let go of me. Please."

  He dropped his hands but didn't move away. She was forced to make the hard step out of his re
ach, when the greedy, reckless part of her soul was demanding that she stay, if he'd have her. He didn't even want to take her to bed, for fear of hurting her, he'd said. She was some kind of emotional cripple to him.

  She walked swiftly up the hall, checking the tie of her robe, pulling the creamy lapels closer over her breasts. She felt as if he'd made love to her, and it seemed strange to be dressed. He strode after her, right on her heels, to the front room. Balanced on the balls of her feet for escape, she stopped by the double doors. "Good night." She looked up into his angry, sad, hypnotizing green eyes, and nearly sagged against him. "I know you thought I'd admit some fascinating secret. I apologize for wasting your time."

  "If you don't leave, we'll be in bed together within the next five minutes, and neither of us will care if making love is an unwise thing to do."

  Knowing what he said was true, she dragged the doors open and stumbled, in her hurry to leave. He caught her elbow to keep her from falling. "Take care, dove." He sounded miserable. She pulled away and kept going without looking back, almost running down the big, empty hall.

  She sat in front of the vanity mirror in her bathroom, trying to apply the eye makeup Mr. Rex had given her. Her hand shook, and she finally laid the mauve pencil down in defeat.

  She hadn't seen Audubon all day. In fact, she'd had to stay in her suite and play cards with Elgiva Kincaid until the florist and caterer had made their deliveries for the party. The party was in her honor. The party that was nothing more than an excuse for Audubon to present her to his curious cronies. They didn't know about her unusual abilities, so they were probably baffled over their friend's interest in hiding an average, ordinary Russian secretary. Maybe they thought he had lost a few of his expensive marbles, even.

  Cronies. Lost marbles. She was learning American slang. And learning how to dress like a wealthy American woman. She looked over at the long, white taffeta skirt and fitted black jacket that waited on quilted hangers hooked over the door. The jacket had real onyx buttons up the back, and intricate gold piping swirled up the front in abstract patterns.