by Renee Roszel
He raised a sarcastic brow. “That is your story, Mrs. Pollard. But the fact remains that you are here. That, alone, will prove your guilt.”
Breaking eye contact, he allowed his gaze to wander over her body as he continued, “What could appear more innocent. An attractive young woman, who by profession must be a physicist, a woman whose father is the foremost authority on fusion—and finally, a woman traveling under false papers. And you would have me believe, Mrs. Pollard, that this whole thing was not carefully planned?”
She blurted, “But you’re twisting everything—”
He held up a halting hand. “But I believe you now see how easily your guilt could be proved.”
The answer to that was too obvious to ignore. She turned her eyes from his, hypnotic, iridescent—like a wild animal’s at night—and gazed into the comparative peace of the fire instead. She had little faith that she would regain her freedom now. But desperation urged her to speak. “I—I really know nothing of importance. My job is only to do the final drafting of scientific papers to be published.” Her voice was low and without hope. “I never see anything really secret.”
Rolf shrugged indifferently mirroring her fears with his words. “It really doesn’t matter whether you, personally, have classified knowledge or not. It is your relationship to Dr. McKenna that is important.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “With you as a hostage, Dr. McKenna could, perhaps, be persuaded to give us information in exchange for the safe return of his daughter.” He paused, giving Drew a moment to absorb his words. “Do you not see the benefit to us, Mrs. Pollard, of keeping you as a hostage?”
Drew inhaled sharply at the mental image of her father, torn between national loyalty and concern for his child’s life. She turned her eyes back to his, her heart pounding savagely in her breast.
Unable to restrain her horror and frustration she shot back, “I’m no fool, Dr. Erhardt! I know all the benefits to your government for holding me as a political pawn.”
She pulled her hand through brandy-wine curls in a nervous gesture.
“But what I can’t understand is why you feel you must torment me with vivid pictures of it. . .unless you get some sort of sadistic pleasure out of watching people quail before you in fear.”
He viewed her narrowly from beneath half-closed lids. “Believe me, Mrs. Pollard, my motives are much more important than a perverted effort to seek pleasure.”
He crossed to the chair that sat at an angle to the couch and lowered himself into it. “No, you have been brought here for another reason. . .another reason entirely.”
Drew felt a wariness prick at her mind. “Then why? What other reason?” Her words were high-pitched and thready. She inhaled slowly, dreading what worse fate this man might have in mind for Dr. Drew McKenna’s daughter.
Dr. Erhardt took his time to answer. He seemed to be casually evaluating the woman before him.
Drew felt his gold-flecked eyes penetrating deep into her gray ones, grasping hold of her whole consciousness so that her senses were forced to remain centered on this powerful, silent man.
His words, when they came, broke the quiet between them like a sledgehammer smashing the glasslike tenseness of her brain: “I brought you here, Mrs. Pollard, to discuss our marriage.”
Chapter Two
The statement was so matter-of-fact that it took a moment before the meaning penetrated.
Drew’s mouth dropped open. She sat stunned, unable to believe this offhand statement.
“Marriage. . .” came the weak response. “You can’t be serious.”
He sat slightly forward, watching her closely.
“Dead serious, Mrs. Pollard.”
Drew’s eyes grew round and she pushed herself up from the couch, feeling the need to put distance between them. She crossed to the hearth and paced back and forth across the helpless sheepskin, her thoughts in turmoil.
Marriage. . . No! Once was enough. The first time was a bad experience. . . one she did not want to repeat.
Jim Pollard had proved to be a womanizer, always on the lookout for a new conquest. Yet if another man so much as smiled at Drew, Jim became violently jealous. This, coupled with his drinking, was a dangerous combination, destined to spark disaster.
And one night, it nearly did. Jim came home filled with rage, believing that Drew had had a clandestine lunch with another man, when what he had actually seen was his wife in conference with a graduate student who had asked Drew to help him by proofreading and making suggestions on improving his master’s thesis in physics.
But Jim had been drunk and beyond listening to explanations. He had made up his mind that she was a cheat and needed to be taught a lesson. He struck out at her, knocking her down. Drew shuddered at the memory, still fearful of what might have happened if Jim had not passed out. With his superior strength, he could have beaten her badly—or even killed her. Stunned with the reality of Jim’s dangerous, unbalanced jealous rages, Drew had stumbled to her feet, packed a bag and walked out, returning to Los Alamos to resume her work as associate editor for Scientific Monthly. There she quietly filed for divorce, refusing to answer Jim’s letters or calls.
That experience with marriage had soured her on the whole institution, and she had vowed not to become involved again. But now, this man, this Communist stranger was suggesting that she marry him! She whirled to face her captor. “No, Dr. Erhardt. You don’t know what you’re asking of me!”
Rolf rose from his chair and closed the space between them with two brisk strides, blocking her path. “I am not asking, Mrs. Pollard.”
His stonelike grip encompassed her shoulders, eyes blazing like molten ore, bore down into hers. The radiant nearness of his body competed violently with the heat of the fire, making Drew uncomfortably warm.
She pressed her hands against his wool-clad chest to ward off his gruff presence. “This is all insane. . .I won’t. . . I can’t marry you!”
“I fear you have no choice in the matter, Mrs. Pollard.”
Drew stopped her struggling and looked up incredulously into his solemn face. “No choice? What do you mean, no choice?” she managed falteringly.
He shrugged, his handsome features unperturbed by her total rejection of the proposition. “Must I remind you that you are totally without rights here”—he tightened his grip on her shoulders—“while I have total unquestioned power.”
Drew’s heart hammered deafeningly in her ears with, the truth of his words. She controlled her voice with great effort. “What is your purpose in all this, Doctor?”
He relaxed his grip measurably. “You have said that you care for your fellow passengers’ safe release, have you not?”
She nodded blankly at his pause.
“And you prefer to be returned to the security of your own country?”
Drew inhaled rapidly. “Of course, but—”
He jerked his head toward the sofa. “Then, I strongly suggest you take your seat and hear me out.”
Drew’s confidence in fair play was badly shaken. She returned wordlessly to the couch, realizing that she had no choice but to listen to what her captor had to say.
This time, Rolf took a seat beside her, placing his arm across the sofa’s padded back, allowing him a better view of the girl sitting stiff and pale in the wavering firelight.
“You see, Mrs. Pollard,” he began, “because your passport is in your married name, no significance, or note, has yet been made of your slip of tongue at your interrogation an hour ago,” he remarked dryly. “I am the only person, so far, to know that your father is Dr. Drew McKenna.”
Her heart caught in her throat with this unexpected turn. At his pause, she ventured, “But why? Why have you kept it a secret?” She searched his dark features expectantly, “And what does it have to do with marriage?”
Rolf stood and moved to a narrow table before the window. Lifting a decanter, he poured an amethyst liquid into two goblets. A heavy pelting of wind-gusted snow caught Drew’s attention
in the room’s quiet, and she became aware of a building storm beyond the cottage walls. She mused that its restless rage was no more turbulent than the emotions that were being buffeted about in her own mind.
Carrying the twin glasses back to his place on the couch, Rolf repeated her question, “What does all this have to do with our marriage?”
He handed her one of the delicate glasses.
“Everything.”
Drew accepted the glass absently as he spoke. “It is this, Mrs. Pollard.” He sat back. “Your only means of escape from the East rests with our marriage.”
His eyes were hooded by darkly lashed lids, half-closed and unreadable. Drew held her breath.
“Conversely, with one word from me, the possibility of your rejoining your father can be permanently ended.”
She ran her tongue around dry lips and took a sip of the wine to ease the dryness in her throat.
His deep voice burned her consciousness as he continued. “For a price, you may buy my silence. . .insuring your eventual freedom, as well as guaranteeing the safe return of your fellow passengers.”
Drew’s hands began to tremble uncontrollably and she lowered her glass to the table. “And my marriage to you would assure all that?” she breathed the question. “But, why?”
Pursing his lips, Rolf gave a slight shrug. “I am a scientist, not a man of politics.” He raised one booted foot to rest against the corner of the heavy table. “You must know that a scientist requires a great deal of liberty to pursue his experiments to their fullest potential.”
He turned his face toward the dancing flames, the flicker illuminating the craggy maleness of his profile. “It is my desire to go to the United States and work with men I feel to be the most brilliant nuclear physicists in the world.” Turning back to her, he added, “In particular, your father. This is why your appearance here was too much of an opportunity for me to let slip away.”
Drew pulled her lips together in a thin line as she realized his intent. “So! You want to defect. That’s it.” She shot to her feet and faced the seated man. “Well then, why don’t you just do that. You don’t need to be married to defect, not a scientist of your caliber.”
Rolf reached for his glass and fingered it. “You are wrong, Mrs. Pollard.” He returned his eyes to her and pushed the glass away. His words were measured. “I had planned to defect in April at the Oberammergau conference. But, because of several recent top-level defections by Communist scientists, all travel permits have been restricted to Communist Bloc countries. It is now unlawful”—he paused, a humorless smile revealing strong white teeth—“for a scientist of my caliber to leave the country to make good my escape.” The words held a bitter edge.
“But,” he went on, “if I marry an American, the United States government can initiate extraordinary measures to gain my release because of my acquired American citizenship.”
Drew absorbed his daring plan for a moment before venturing, “Then, really, all you need is an American willing to marry you.” She spread her arms in a pleading gesture. “Since I don’t want to, surely there is someone else from the plane you could approach.”
Rolf lifted a brow quizzically at her desperation. “Would you have preferred that I chose the American minister’s sixteen-year-old daughter?” He eyed her evenly. “No, Mrs. Pollard, you were the only logical choice.”
Slowly he unfolded his muscular frame to face her, eyes intent, glistening. “You can see that, can’t you?”
She stared blankly. It was true. Except for Sarah Peabody, Drew was the only single American woman on the plane.
A sardonic smile parted his lips. “I owe your husband a great deal for divorcing you.” There was a trace of amusement in his voice as he continued, “We socialists have a saying”—he reached out and touched her chin with a long finger—“a cow, gone dry and barren, may be useless to the poor farmer, but highly prized by the butcher.”
Drew’s mind thundered, and her stormy eyes flashed sparks of lightning as she jerked her face away from his touch. “How—how dare you!” she choked out, wanting to inflict pain, the same kind of pain he had just inflicted on her with his cruel assumption that Jim had tossed her aside like—he had put it so crudely—a barren cow! But appropriately cutting words would not come.
Flinging out an arm blindly in her distress, she struck a rock-hard bicep with her fist and cringed at the hurt she caused herself. Tears blurred her vision and she spun sharply from him. Her only thought was to escape, to get away from this cruel tormentor who was determined to force her into the horrible trap of marriage that she couldn’t bear to face. Not again. Instinctively, she darted toward the back door. Throwing it wide, she dashed out into blowing snow. Large flakes lashed about her as she ran, stinging her face and hands. Unthinking, weaving through the dense pines, Drew stumbled on, plunging deeper and deeper into the frigid dusk-darkening wood. With each step she floundered almost knee deep in the accumulating snow. It pulled and sucked at her shoes, making progress agonizingly slow. The kid high heels that had seemed so stylish in the old-world elegance of Megan’s West Berlin townhouse were hopelessly out of place here. Useless as protection against the elements, the high heels fought her every step as she struggled to get away—away from Rolf Erhardt who, with so little effort, had reopened the tender, slow-healing wound in her pride.
“Marriage. No!” she sobbed. “I won’t be used like that ever again, no matter what the reason!”
Lungs aching with cold, Drew’s breath now came in rasping, pain-filled gasps as the subzero temperature took its toll. A protruding stone caught her heel, sending her sprawling headlong into the frigid softness. The fall left her breathless and she rolled from her face in an attempt to clear the fiery snow from her eyes and mouth, sputtering and coughing for air, further abusing her raw lungs.
Life-sustaining body heat was swept away by the howling wind as it pushed through the soggy wetness of the cashmere sweater and slacks. Drew tightly clamped her teeth to stop a violent bout of chattering as the dampness seeped deeper. She shuddered spasmodically, her fingers burned as she burrowed in the snow for solid support, trying to prop herself up. Another shiver convulsed her slender frame, and she hugged herself in a weak attempt to ward off the encompassing glacial storm. The windstrewn snow stung her eyes and she blinked repeatedly to clear her vision, rubbing stiffened fingers over closed lids to ease the nettling pain. Another tremor shook her body violently. She tried to push herself to her feet, but her cold-weakened limbs would not respond.
“God! Is it all to end here? Am I to freeze to death in an East German blizzard?”
She rubbed her numbed hands along her legs, trying to restore circulation as hot tears burned down her cheeks.
The world turned red as something large and warm enveloped her like an answered prayer. She found herself being lifted effortlessly from the paralyzing cold, within the circle of a revitalizing heat. She could feel the slow thud of a heart beating near her shoulder and pulled the scratchy fabric away from her face to stare into the grim countenance of Dr. Erhardt. His voice held a flintlike edge as he shouted over the gale-force winds. “Mrs. Pollard, it is a child’s ploy to run away rather than face a problem. I did not expect this of you.”
His jaw twitched in his anger as he silently trudged back toward the cottage with his trembling burden.
Drew noticed that he had removed his coat to help protect her from the elements, leaving him with only the limited covering of a beige turtleneck shirt.
Yet he seemed not to feel the knife-sharp wind that whipped the snow about them in random, frenzied gusts.
Kicking the door wide, he strode back into the cottage’s tranquil interior. An instant later, after he pushed the door closed at his back, Drew found herself deposited on the couch. A curt order brought her large gray eyes to his resolute face; snow sparkled in his tousled hair and across his expansive shoulders.
“You’d better remove those wet clothes or be prepared to suffer pneumonia tomo
rrow.” Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the den, leaving Drew in a confused, huddled lump before the fire.
After a moment, he returned with a white bath sheet. “Here.” He tossed it to her. “After you remove those clothes, wrap up in this.”
Drew shrank back against the confines of the couch. “You don’t mean that I am to strip down and be left with nothing but this puny towel!” She lifted one corner of the terry fabric tentatively, her fingers tense and cold. “Don’t you have a—a robe, or something more substantial that I could borrow?”
“No.” His voice was flat. “Perhaps you should have asked that question before you decided to run out into a blizzard.”
Sarcasm laced his words as he continued, “Be grateful I chose to loan you the. . .puny towel, Mrs. Pollard.”
He moved toward the hall, calling back over his shoulder, “We need to talk. Be quick about changing.”
Drew sat stunned for a moment after Rolf left her alone in the den. She looked around, unsure of her next move. A new convulsive shiver shook her to the core and set her teeth to chattering.
Clamping her jaws tight, she realized that he was right, at least, in the fact that she would have to get out of her soaked clothes. . . and soon.
Pushing his jacket away, she kicked off the ruined shoes. Crouching in the limited shelter of the sofa, she tugged the clinging sweater over her head and wriggled out of her soaking slacks. Reluctantly, she had to admit that just getting out of the cold damp wool was an improvement, for she could now feel the fire’s radiant warmth caressing her chilled skin.
Drew took a deep breath, knowing that she would be warmer still without the damp bra and panties that clung transparently to her skin. Quickly removing them, she stood, wrapped herself sarong-style in the towel, tucking the loose end between her breasts.
She looked critically down at herself and shook a dejected head of damp reddish hair. The towel, though large and thick, hung just to her mid-thigh, leaving much of her long slim legs exposed. She shrugged and heaved a heavy sigh as she bent to retrieve the discarded clothes.
