Catherine’s whirring motors went still.
Jarod sat very still, sighed, then began typing again.
ALL RIGHT, CATHERINE, MISS MCCABE IS BLESSED WITH ONE OF THE NICEST ARRANGEMENTS OF SKIN AND BONES I HAVE YET TO COME ACROSS. SHE IS AN EXCEPTIONALLY ALLURING WOMAN, AND YES, I FIND HER UNDENIABLY SEDUCTIVE—YOU’RE THE COMPUTER HERE, NOT ME. I DIDN’T SWEAR OFF ALL PHYSICAL RESPONSES WHEN I TOOK THE JOB, AND I MUST STICK WITH MCCABE. EVERY POSITION CARRIES CERTAIN BENEFITS!
Catherine’s lights blinked and she whirred, filling the screen with an innocent question.
DID I SAY ANYTHING, JAROD STEELE?
“Oh, Christ!” Jarod muttered aloud in disgust. “I’m explaining myself to a computer!”
He punched the keys.
WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT UNSOLICITED OPINIONS? LET’S GET BACK TO FACTS AND BASICS.
Jarod proceeded to fill in information about Erin, focusing upon the strange panic he so oftened sensed from her when she was touched, on the look he had seen in her eyes when he had lifted her into the train. He mentioned the ever-present bracelets again, ended input, and typed out:
LAWS OF PROBABILITY: WHY?
Catherine barely whirred; her lights blinked but once.
COME, COME, JAROD STEELE. THIS DOES NOT TAKE A DEGREE IN PSYCHOLOGY OF THE HUMAN MIND OR EVEN BASIC BEHAVIOR 101. SUBJECT HAS BEEN HURT SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE. BRACELETS? PERHAPS THEY HAVE SENTIMENTAL VALUE. MOST LOGICAL EXPLANATION.
Jarod assimilated the information on the screen with arched brows, then tapped keys without even thinking.
CAN’T I EVER GET A SIMPLE, STRAIGHT ANSWER FROM YOU?
IT IS NOT LIKELY. I AM PROGRAMMED TO RESPOND ON A THINK LEVEL.
“Great,” Jarod muttered. “When all else goes like hell, you can count on a wise-cracking pile of nuts and bolts and screws.” He typed out:
SIGNING OUT, CATHERINE II.
Catherine whirred a moment, then taunted:
HAVE A NICE NIGHT, JAROD STEELE. A NICE, NICE NIGHT.
He stood and watched as the computer went still, then turned to walk down the long white hall. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he muttered bitterly, “if I do have a nice night, I’m going to be damned sure it doesn’t appear on anyone’s files!”
V
JAROD RETURNED BEFORE ERIN had completed dressing. She was wandering around in her stockings when the knock sounded on the door, and she threw her teal blue velvet dress over her head, barely zipped it, and ran to answer the summons.
“Just a moment,” she murmured as he entered, “I need my shoes.”
“Take your time, darling,” he replied in a husky drawl. “You look absolutely stunning.”
Erin lowered her lashes and pursed her lips as she turned to leave him in the salon. She knew damned well the man didn’t think her stunning. Anything pleasant he said was for the benefit of others.
She didn’t want him hovering in her room long; his presence and the clean manly scent of him was a reminder of the afternoon—a period of time she had tried long and hard to forget while soaking in the tub until her skin pruned. She was no longer thrilled to know that a man could have an effect upon her—not when the man was Jarod Steele. She had never, never in her life experienced the unpleasantness of feeling so used.
“I’m ready,” she said distinctly in the entryway, sliding by him even as he reached for her shoulder. She opened the door herself and exited hurriedly out into the hall.
He joined her, brows raised sardonically as he locked her door. Despite her efforts to elude him once more, he slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, leaning slightly to whisper in her ear.
“You’re being watched as well as recorded,” he whispered, adding as if he spoke to a child, “Hidden cameras as well as mikes.”
She felt herself go white, but she was so stunned that she didn’t reply until they had left the sumptuous lobby of the Rossia behind and she had been courteously seated in the passenger side of a small Mazda.
Then the explosion of her words was a shriek. “I’m being watched?”
She was answered with a hard sardonic glance from her companion before he returned his eyes to the road. “Yes, watched, as in Candid Camera.”
“Why? By whom?” Erin stuttered, shrinking within, She had known Jarod’s behavior had been for the benefit of someone other than herself, but she had been thinking only in terms of being heard. So the little interlude that had created such a devastating effect upon her body and soul had also been witnessed, as had her every movement … dressing, undressing, bathing …
“Why?” she repeated again in a furious hiss.
Jarod shrugged, apparently rather callously unaware of her discomfort. “Sometimes they work like the IRS,” he said, “singling out a percentage of tourists just so that all are aware that they could be monitored. Sometimes they watch people because they believe they are hiding something.”
“Oh, hell!” Erin muttered, covering her face with both hands and then raking her fingers through her hair. “Dammit! How dare they! What an incredible breach of privacy.”
Jarod interrupted curtly. “You’re in the wrong place for a speech on civil rights, you know.”
Erin fell silent for a second, a shiver of fury catapulting within her. “Damn you!” she hissed. “Ever since I first came across you I have had nothing but trouble. I’ve been harassed, maligned—”
“Oh, come on, Erin!” Jarod ejaculated in impatient interruption. “Nothing has happened to you that isn’t part of the game. If you can’t stand the consequences, you shouldn’t be here.”
“I simply can’t believe that these are normal consequences. You’re going to try and tell me that the ‘normal’ tourist rates an assault by you in her hotel room?”
His jaw tightened, but his eyes didn’t flicker from the road. “Assault, huh? Come on, now, Miss McCabe, you’re a big girl, and you’ve been around. Don’t insult either of us with such a description.”
“Don’t insult … ?” She repeated, a white blaze of anger creeping over her. “Don’t you insult my intelligence, Steele! You took that little scenario a hell of a lot further than you had to!”
“Come off it, Erin.” He cast her one of his dry glances, which seemed to label her as both an ineffectual child and a scarlet woman all rolled into one irritating package. “Would you like an apology? I’m terribly sorry—I must have lost my head. I mean, after all, the Erin McCabe …”
“Oh, go to hell,” Erin muttered in reply to his amused sarcasm.
She felt a freeze settle over her while inside she still felt hot as if a geyser churned in her stomach. She was sick, angry, frustrated, and confused—and determined that the motorized brick wall beside her become aware of nothing. Holding her fingers with grim determination so that they wouldn’t tremble, she reached into her small black evening bag for a cigarette and managed to light it without burning her nose. She exhaled with a slow breath that she hoped would bring her an outward calm so that she might reply to his last statement, only to find herself startled when he nonchalantly spoke himself.
“Light one of those for me, will you? They’re not menthol, are they?”
Erin shook her head and floundered for a second cigarette. She lit it and slipped it between his waiting fingers, a little unnerved by the small gesture. How many times had he done this for her? It felt so strange. They could hardly be termed friends, and they had easily shared many things which usually came only with intimate relationships. She had dined with him, slept near him, watched him dress. And that afternoon, mockery or no, she had lain in his arms, felt his strength, the very, very, intimate contours of his body. And in return, he knew her almost as well as the one man who had been her husband.
She was sinking, she thought, sinking into a quagmire. She didn’t want the frightening attraction, nor did she want the things that were coming along with it. For no decent reason she could think of, she trusted Jarod Steele. She admired him, she felt he was a man who would put his h
onor above all else; he would think, he would reason, he would act with cunning but only on principle. He was an enigma she couldn’t begin to fathom. At times so gentle; at times so hard.
Erin inhaled and exhaled once more, trying not to rest her eyes upon the long wire-strong fingers that rested upon the steering wheel. “Whatever today was,” she said coolly, “I would appreciate its not occurring again.”
She felt the shrug of his broad shoulders beside her. His icefire gaze turned briefly to her. “That’s rather up to you, Erin. If you can learn discretion—that is, if you can learn to keep your mouth shut—I don’t foresee any difficulties in the future.”
Totally aggravated, Erin pounded her palm against her forehead. “Why should I need to keep my mouth shut? I keep telling you, I’m a tourist, nothing more! I didn’t ask for this fiasco. You’re the one determined to carry out a ridiculous charade.”
“Would you please shut u—shush.” He grimaced as he suddenly twisted the wheel and brought them to a halt before a tall and imposing brick structure. “We’re here.”
He was around to her door before she could reply, courteously helping her from the car. “Behave tonight, okay? This isn’t the norm for American tourists. It will be one of those experiences you can tell your grandchildren about. Surely you appreciate the opportunity.”
Erin smiled sweetly. “Yes, darling. I’m here, aren’t I?”
One of his brows arched in acknowledgment. “I never doubted your mind for a moment, my dear.”
The building apparently housed a number of complexes. They were both silent as he led her to the proper door and rang the buzzer. Then he smiled at her with a slight cynical curve to his lips. “You do look stunning tonight, Miss McCabe. Absolutely stunning.”
Before Erin could wonder at the surprising compliment, the door opened and they were greeted by their courteous and cordial host himself.
Dinner did prove to be a fascinating affair. In attendance along with herself and Jarod were two members of the American legation, Joe Mahoney, an elderly gentlemen who seemed to be a distinguished career diplomat, and a younger, extraordinarily good-looking man, Gil Sayer, whom Erin ascertained to be the older gentleman’s assistant and one day possible replacement. Two female secretaries, one British, one American, and Sergei’s dark and exotically beautiful wife rounded out the party.
One would never have suspected that a terrible housing shortage existed in Moscow from an evening with Sergei Alexandrovich. His apartment covered two floors of what Erin learned was a very elite street. Although tasteful, it was almost as splendid as some of the palaces she had visited within the Kremlin walls. Drinks were served in an elegant Victorian salon, and dinner was laid out upon a massive oak table covered in finest Irish linen and decked with fine crystal and china and heavy silver tableware. A three-tiered chandelier lit a vast display of national delicacies: various caviars and salmons, borsch with cabbage and meat, chicken croquettes a la Kiev, Caucasian mutton shashlik, kefir yogurt, and many others.
Erin was eager to sample everything, and dining became extremely pleasant when she discovered herself seated between the two American diplomats, Joe Mahoney and Gil Sayer.
The older man was charming. He entertained her through the meal with anecdotes about his difficulties in his first years of foreign service after warming her with a surge of natural flattery. He had never thought an aging diplomat like himself would be enjoying a dinner next to a young and lovely model. He seemed to be surprised by but extremely pleased with her engagement to Jarod Steele.
“Steele is a good man,” Mahoney told her, and she sensed the pride in his voice. “This is a bit of a shock to us, but a very nice one. We never thought to see him really happy again, not after Cara died.”
Erin almost broke a tooth on her spoon. “His wife?” she managed to inquire with a soft tone.
“Yes, the first Mrs. Steele. She was such a lovely little thing, so very gentle and sweet and soft-spoken. Such a contrast to Jarod! He’s always been a bit of the lion, hard as his name, as rugged and relentless. But every bit as reliable and talented. They were quite a pair, a sword and a sheath. Cara had the ability to bring out all that was gentle and tender in any man. She was a great loss … a very great loss … I am sorry, my dear!” Joe suddenly interrupted himself. “I didn’t mean to go on so. It’s just that Jarod must love you very, very much to be considering marriage once more.”
How Erin didn’t choke she would never know. She managed a thank you and a smile for the kindly man with the shimmering white hair and took a long sip of burgundy, her mind racing. At least she understood why Jarod had apparently sworn off women. Well, not sworn off them. His expertise stated clearly that he still enjoyed the physical aspects of the feminine gender.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the man to her left. Gil Sayer caught her eye as she glanced up from the rim of her wine glass. His smile was almost hesitant, and again she was struck by his incredible good looks. A blue-eyed blond, he possessed the perfect aquiline nose, perfect teeth, perfect facial structure—perfect everything. He should be modeling, not I, Erin thought fleetingly. Or else starring in a beach boy movie somewhere.
“I apologize for staring,” he said, “but since I first discovered you were coming to the U.S.S.R., I started creating fantasies about meeting you. Now I’ve met you. As the fiancée of an associate, but meeting you nevertheless. And it is a fantasy.”
Erin chuckled. “Thank you. That was a very lovely speech.”
“For a very lovely lady.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Sayer,” Erin murmured. “It’s easy to place you as a diplomat!”
“Gil, please. I’d like to be on a first-name basis with Erin McCabe.”
“Gil,” Erin acknowledged with a soft smile. She sipped her wine, watching the young man. “You knew I was coming to the U.S.S.R.? Since when?”
“Oh, we always know whose coming and going,” Gil replied with a handsome grin. “Visa applications, you see. We receive all the listings.”
“Oh,” Erin murmured. For some reason, that seemed important. Why, she wasn’t sure.
It wasn’t until they adjourned to the salon for coffee that Erin once more found herself near Jarod. She was seated in a wingback chair near the pleasantly burning fire; he stood by the mantel to her left. Pity, she thought briefly, that Gil Sayer hadn’t been the American she had had her continual run-ins with. He was carefully solicitous.
Yet even as she covertly watched the two men, she had to admit Jarod the more attractive, despite Gil’s superb looks. Gil lacked something that Jarod had in abundance. What it was Erin couldn’t discern. Jarod moved with complete self-confidence, lithe and smooth like a tiger. His face was not near so perfect, but its character was indelibly stamped. And of course no one, no one, possessed the compelling strength of Jarod’s icefire eyes.
Gil was younger, by several years, Erin decided. Perhaps in time he would have the same firmness of jaw, aura of raw assurance. No, age would never make a Jarod Steele of the man. But it was still a pity her mock engagement wasn’t with the handsome blond. He was constant flattery instead of continual mockery, and at the moment her ego could stand the flattery. And she wouldn’t feel as if her senses had erupted in a tempest of ice and blue fire.
“So, Miss McCabe”—Erin started as Sergei addressed her—“what do you think of our capital?”
Erin watched her host cautiously from the shade of slightly lowered lashes. Was the question as innocent as it sounded? Or was she constantly enduring some sort of test? Sergei appeared to be the perfect congenial friend. He sat with one leg casually crossed over the other, an arm dangling easily over the arm of his chair, the other stretched casually before him as he idly swirled the amber liquid in his liqueur glass. Erin realized suddenly that although comparisons would never be made between Gil and Jarod, they would certainly be made between Jarod and Sergei. The men shared a common thread. They were toned, rugged physical specimens, and there was a clearly denoted aura
of cunning danger beneath their thin veneers of gallantry. Or at least, Jarod was capable of Sergei’s gallantry.
Yet with both men she also felt as if their civility was worn as a cloak, easily shunted when necessary. But even with all facades cast aside, both men, despite their cultural differences, would act by conscience, a strange combination of ruthlessness ruled by honor and justice. Oh, brother, am I getting carried away, she thought.
“Erin?”
Joe Mahoney’s quiet prompting reminded her that she was supposed to be answering the question. She cast a quick glance toward Jarod, only to find him watching her with his customary raised brow and anticipatory, mocking half smile.
I am being tested. Everyone in the room seems tense, as if my simple answer were really going to mean something.
“I have been very impressed by Moscow,” Erin said honestly. “It’s beautiful, artistic, historic, and—modern. The people have been charming.”
“Eloquent,” Sergei chuckled, glancing at Jarod. The look exchanged between the two seemed strange. “Miss McCabe, you will make a wonderful wife for a man in Jarod’s position. Let’s push you a bit further. How does our capital compare with yours?”
“First of all, Mr. Alexandrovich,” Erin said wryly, “I will remind you that I’m a New Yorker—and nothing compares with New York! As to capitals … Washington in the springtime is an incredible place … the flowers blossoming, the cherry trees blooming … it’s very, very lovely. But we haven’t your ancient history. Again, I don’t think one could actually compare the two. They are different, both outstanding.”
“Ahh, what a diplomat,” Sergei murmured. “Sincere and honest—and you haven’t said a word.” His eyes suddenly turned to Jarod. “You’ve neglected this gem of yours, comrade. Where is her customary engagement ring?”
Erin was startled by the sudden question. Involuntarily her fingers curled into a ball.
Jarod, however, took the question in stride. She felt his presence as he moved against the rear of her chair, reaching to set one hand upon her throat and shoulder, the other upon her left hand, lifting it, idly running his fingers over hers. “You’re right, Sergei,” he drawled nonchalantly. “I’m afraid I have neglected Erin. But we really haven’t had time yet to select rings.”
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