by Renee Roszel
She turned worried eyes to meet Rolf’s clear ones. “Who do you mean?” she asked weakly, wanting to avoid the subject.
He pursed his lips, ignoring her sidestepping question. “It looks to me like he’s the one who needs protection.” The sensuous lips curved upward into a teasing smile. “Perhaps justice would be better served if I offered Mr. Pollard my services.”
Her shoulders sagged and she averted her eyes. “It’s not funny, Rolf.”
His fingers curled beneath her chin, forcing her gaze back up to meet his. “No, mein Kindchen, you’re right.” His brown eyes were soft and lazy, and looking into their fathomless depths was a dangerous undertaking.
He spoke again, this time a small gleam flickered to life in the earthy darkness, giving his eyes a golden cast. “It is no joking matter. Yet I can’t help but recall a time you left your mark on me.” A low, masculine chuckle escaped his throat. “Weaker sex, indeed.”
Her jaw dropped and a scarlet heat flamed her skin at his jolting reminder of the time in East Germany when she had hit him with the aspirin bottle, but before she could retort, Dr. Hartmut took the podium, calling for quiet.
A few moments of welcoming preliminaries preceded the introductions of those at the head table, other physicists like Drew’s father, who would be making presentations during the coming two weeks.
And when the applause had died away after introductions of the guest dignitaries, Dr. Hartmut, with a degree of enthusiasm that had not been in his voice up to now, called the body’s attention to the couple sitting at his near right.
Drew and Rolf.
Then it was happening; he was announcing to the world Rolf’s defection to the West, as well as his marriage to the daughter of Madder McKenna.
With that revelation dropping like a bomb, all hell broke loose, and chaos reigned as reporters flooded forward to get the story, now turning this conference into a much more important assignment than they or the papers and magazines they represented could ever have imagined.
Questions were fired simultaneously at both Drew and Rolf: How did they meet, marry? How did he make his escape, and what were his plans for the future?
Rolf fielded most of them himself, calmly relating the facts about the jetliner's’s forced landing, meeting Drew at the interrogation, enlisting the help of the Peabodys, but there he changed the story slightly, saying that Drew volunteered to the marriage, performed secretly at his home.
Inevitably the question Drew dreaded was asked—and by none other than Jim, himself. Shouting above the din, he demanded, “Dr. Erhardt! If it is as you say—the marriage was simply a means to an end, aiding you in your escape, you will be getting a divorce. I mean”—his sharp look was aimed pointedly at Drew—“now that Mrs. Erhardt has served her purpose?”
An expectant hush fell over the large body, and Drew’s heart pounded wildly and painfully against her ribs. Her throat, stingingly dry, closed, and she could barely get her breath. Paralyzed with foreboding, she was unable to move her gaze from Jim’s self-satisfied sneer.
Rolf’s intelligent eyes narrowed as he seemed to size up the man before responding. He nodded, “Yes, that was our plan.”
He moved, sliding a casual arm about Drew’s shoulders as he said, “Yet because she could not immediately leave, as we had at first hoped, we were forced to share rather close quarters for a time. And”—he paused, turning to look at her, a strange and tender smile curving his lips—“I grew to know her.”
Returning his attention to Jim, he answered, yet didn’t answer, the question with one of his own. “My friend, if you were fortunate enough to have such a lovely lady consent to be your wife, would you be so foolish as to let her slip through your fingers?”
Jim’s mouth sagged at the unexpected rejoinder, and before he could recover himself, the pregnant silence was filled with the clamor of new questions, questions Drew did not hear. For her mind remained behind, echoing Rolf’s soft query.
She knew her own expression could not be far different from Jim’s at that moment, and she turned her face to her husband’s strong profile, nonplussed by his uncanny ability to manipulate the English language to suit his purpose. He had not lied to Jim. Yet he had not given him any hope that she would ever be free for him to victimize again.
She felt herself smiling, and her breast filled to almost bursting with gratitude for his chivalrous handling of the entire interview.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Dr. Hartmut pounded the podium with a wooden gavel, trying to regain some semblance of order so that the remainder of the evening’s program could continue.
Placing a slightly trembling hand on Rolf’s, she whispered, “Thank you.”
The planes of his face grew solemn as he dropped his gaze to her hand, resting tentatively on his, yet not half covering it. His only response was a slow nod.
Much later, with the program concluded, the gathering milled about the room in an excitement-charged atmosphere with an international flavor.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the excitement over her sudden importance at the conference that most affected Drew. More than that, it was Jim’s scorching stare that followed her unfailingly about the room.
Several times, she realized he was making his way through the crush of well-wishers toward her. But Rolf, though not obviously watchful, would always guide her skillfully away, to yet another of the countless groups that insisted upon toasting the happy couple with champagne that flowed as freely and never ending as the Rhine.
Drew began to feel that she and Rolf had been congratulated and toasted by every one of the two hundred guests. . .and by some more than once! And she was chagrined to discover that her champagne glass had been filled and refilled countless times as the evening progressed.
And now she was less than pleased with the unbalancing effect the sparkling wine was having on her nearly empty stomach. Adding to her discomfort, Drew was distressed to note that Ilka Markus was constantly near at hand—or more correctly, near at Rolf’s hand. And now as Kristel Hartmut attempted to converse with her in halting English, Drew had to watch as Ilka sidled silkily up to Rolf, taking his arm and murmuring something near his ear, instantly drawing his interest. He smiled, nodding, speaking in low German. His positive response moved her to laugh. It was a husky, purely feminine sound of delight.
Gritting her teeth, Drew tried desperately to keep her mind on Mrs. Hartmut’s fragmented sentences, when she suddenly became aware of Ilka’s presence beside them.
Looking up, she saw that Ilka was smiling, not at all pleasantly. “Drew, may I offer you my very best wishes?” She paused, dropping her eyes from Drew’s face to her left hand, which held a full champagne glass. “I would love to see the ring. I know it is an American custom to wear the ring on the left hand. . . .” The words fell away, and she moved her slanted eyes to Drew’s right hand, also bare of jewelry. Meeting Drew’s eyes, one of Ilka’s softly sculptured brows went up in mock surprise. “What? No ring?”
Drew swallowed hard. What did she mean by this charade? What had passed between her and Rolf? Had he assured her of the truth—that the marriage was a pretense, and that her advances would be welcomed, later, in private?
Stumbling over her words, she began, “I—we—that is Rolf didn’t have time to—”
Ilka interrupted, her tone vaguely hostile, “My dear girl, do not feel you need to explain to me. It is none of my concern.” Shrugging prettily, and examining her perfectly manicured nails she went on, appearing quite indifferent, “Perhaps Rolf will remember that detail, soon. I wouldn’t worry.” Their eyes met again. Drew could see a malicious gleam in the glacial blue depths as she concluded, “He does not appear to be the sort of man to forget something important to him.”
She turned her back, obvious in her attempt to exclude Drew, as she exchanged a few polite words with Mrs. Hartmut, whose confused expression revealed that she had not understood much of their English conversation. Then, in a golden fluidity that turned more
than a few heads, Ilka walked away.
Drew put a hand to her throat, tugging nervously at the chain that held the token Rolf had given to her at their wedding as a substitute for a ring. She wanted to rush after Ilka and pull it from beneath her blouse to show her—to prove to her—but what?
Her anger faded in the face of her frustration. She dropped her hand listlessly to her side. What was the point? After all, Ilka was right. She knew the truth. The necklace she wore was not important to Rolf as a symbol of his love for her. To him, it was merely a symbol of their legal marriage. So why bother to argue the point with Ilka. It hurt, yes. But, then, sometimes the truth did.
Drew bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling, feeling totally deflated, and suddenly very woozy. She knew that she couldn’t stand much more of this, and turned toward Rolf. He was deeply engrossed in a conversation with several Asian men, and even in her cotton-headed state, she was amazed to realize that he was conversing with the men in their native Japanese. She stood for several moments, quietly waiting, listening to this strange tongue, in awe. Finally, one of the Japanese men acknowledged her presence with a polite bow and Rolf turned, a question knitting his brow. He took her hand, “What is it, Kindchen? You look tired.”
“Rolf?” she whispered, her lips oddly numb. “I’m—” A tiny hiccup escaped, silencing her, and she pulled her lips together in a tight embarrassed line before continuing, “Could we sit down? I feel a little. . . funny.”
Cocking his head to the side, he eyed her closely. “Would you like to leave?”
Inhaling slowly and feeling very light-headed, she nodded. “Yes, could we?” She squinted up at him. “I guess all this ess—essitement has made me tired.”
A lazy smile softened his features. “That, too, perhaps.”
She screwed up her brows in confusion at the remark and at his odd tone. He almost seemed to be fighting a battle to keep from laughing.
In a mellow fog, she realized that Rolf was making their excuses, and she was being pulled along toward the exit amid good-humored nudging and friendly, knowing glances as everyone bid the newlywed couple a hearty good-bye.
Very fuzzy now, Drew was thankful that all that was required of her was a pleasant smile and an occasional nod, and at last, they were outside and alone.
Rolf hailed a taxi. Once inside, he pulled her shivering frame close, where she stayed, enjoying his encompassing warmth.
He gave his address to the driver and turned to Drew, relaxing against her as he said, “Well, are you satisfied with the charade, so far, Kindchen?”
She hesitated, trying to recall some vague remark Ilka Markus had made. But it was too hazy and she couldn’t concentrate on it, didn’t want to. Besides, it had appeared that everyone else, including Jim, had believed them. And for that she was grateful.
Turning her face up to his, she sighed. “Yes. . .you were wonderful.”
Lifting a brow in some surprise at the unexpected warmth of her words, he shot her a crooked half-smile. “As wonderful as the champagne?”
She giggled, not exactly sure why, and snuggled more deeply into the inviting crook of his arm. “Yes, just as wonderful. . . but in a. . .different way.”
“Oh?” he queried. “How so?”
She shrugged beneath his arm. “Well. . .” She ran a curiously numb tongue over tingling lips, frowning with the effort of thought. Why were her reasoning processes so irritatingly slow tonight?
“Let’s see—You. . . Rolf Erhardt. . . Doctor. . . genius. . .You are a very clever man with words. . . . You make me feel”—she sighed, compromising her choice of words—“safe.”
They passed beneath a lamp post, and Drew’s eye was caught by the flash of embossing on a brass button on his overcoat, and she idly began to toy with it as she went on. “But, the champagne. . .” She smiled, remembering the sparkling, effervescent rich taste of it. She rarely drank and had only sipped from a glass of it at her own wedding with Jim as pictures were snapped. But being from a practically teetotaling, scientific-minded family, she had never been inclined toward drinking it again, for Jim’s habit of heavy drinking soured her on alcoholic beverages as an everyday necessity. But tonight was different, special. She concluded, “It makes me feel. . .happy.”
They sat in silence for a moment before he murmured, “A good marriage could make you happy, too.”
She thrust out her lower lip, suddenly irritated. “You should talk!” It came out in a somewhat snappish slur. “The confirmed womanizer. . . lech—” She fumbled, trying again, enunciating carefully: “Lec-tur-ing on love, no less!”
His muscles tensed about her, but by this time Drew didn’t really care if she spoke out of turn or not. After all, he had hurt her terribly today with his proposition of detached friendship and even his offer to help her hadn’t blotted out that pain.
Her champagne-charged mind shifted into high gear, and she felt herself smile, an impish, go-to-the-devil smile. She’d show him just exactly what he’d tossed aside! She was a woman, and he was, after all, only a man! It almost made her laugh out loud now to think about it. But really it was Rolf himself who had taught her just how much of a woman she could be!
Well, she’d just use a little of what she’d learned. She’d tease him just a bit on the drive home. And then, when they were inside, she’d draw coolly away, and lock herself in her room. That would serve him right!
An odd warning buzz went off somewhere in a remote, cautious corner of her brain, but she quickly smothered it. She was going to enjoy herself with a vengeance. She heard another giggle escape her throat. And why shouldn’t I! she thought. Why shouldn’t I give Rolf Erhardt a little taste of his own love-’em-and-leave-’em medicine!
She whispered almost soundlessly, yet in her most seductive voice, “Well. . .we’re married.” She paused, moving her lips up to brush against his ear. “Make me happy.”
The hand on the brass button, warmed from contact with her skin, moved up his chest, slipping quickly beneath the heavenly softness of his cashmere overcoat. Finding the black tie, she tugged, loosening it, and bubbled over with laughter at her success.
“Drew?”His whisper was questioning.
“Shhh,” she admonished thickly. “’M’busy!”
She then slipped the button beneath the tie out of its opening and slid her hand eagerly down to the second button, unfastening it, boldly pushing her hand into the curling spring of dark hair that covered his broad chest.
He inhaled sharply, shuddering with her touch. . . or did he? It was all rather mixed up now and she couldn’t quite be sure of anything.
Frowning, she cocked her head. Had the cab come to a stop?
“We’re home.” It seemed like an oddly hoarse whisper.
Shaking her head dejectedly, she moaned, “Nooo. . . I don’t want to go in. . . .” Winding her arms about his neck in an effort not to be separated from his warmth, she blurted, “Let’s just sit here for a while. It’s. . .so. . . cozy. . . .”
His voice was very, very low. She knew he must be near, but he sounded so far away. “Too cozy, Kindchen. We have an audience.”
She screwed up her face in a confused grimace. “Hmm?” She couldn’t see his features now, but she knew he was still very near. Her arms remained wrapped possessively about his neck, and his sultry breath tickled her cheek. She couldn’t quite remember what he had said. But it didn’t really matter.
She snuggled up against the cashmere, murmuring a contented sigh.
It was so hazy now, and dark, and in a slow realization, she became aware that her arms were empty—she was alone! How had this happened? Flinging out a searching hand, she felt nothing but the coolness of clean linen sheets. She was in her bed. Though she couldn’t remember getting there. Of one thing she was sure. Rolf had gone!
A low moan escaped her throat, coming out in a whimper as she turned on her side. Gone. . . always gone!
Well, what could she expect? He was just doing her a favor. He’d said himself t
hat he was doing it because he felt he owed it to her. After all, she reasoned groggily, to put it bluntly, he’d had her once. . . and once had obviously been enough!
She moved with some effort to her stomach, fuzzily conscious but terribly heavy-lidded. A tear dampened the sheet at her face. She had wanted him to at least try something. . . to be interested, so that she could put him in his place by soundly rejecting him. But, it hadn’t happened the way she’d planned. Once again, he’d rejected her, even after she’d made such a fool of herself in the cab! She closed her eyes. If only she could go back to sleep. At least there would be peace in sleep. . . .
Soft fingers of fire slid along her back and down over her hip. Stretching languidly beneath the phantom touch, Drew sighed and moved with it, turning on her side. The softness of the touch stayed with her and slid up from the feminine curve of her hip, along the valley of her waist and forward to the waiting ripeness of one round breast, cupping it with gentle warmth.
She covered the larger hand with hers as she molded herself to the warm, male contours at her back.
He was here. His velvety breath feathering the hair along her temple, his lips nipping at the naked lobe of her ear, sending chills of delight rippling along her spine.
He was loving her again, the way she longed for, the way she so foolishly yearned for him to, and she vowed, this time, she would not spoil it. . . by waking up.
In the past month she had begun this same tangible dream of Rolf returning to her bed and making intense, vigorous love to her. But she had always awakened prematurely—fearful of her unconscious wanderings—in a cold, trembling sweat, to find herself in the forbidding emptiness of her lonely bed.
And she always followed these heated dreams with hours of wakefulness, feeling desolate, frustrated and incomplete, unable to comprehend her emotions—until today when she so suddenly discovered her love for Rolf.
She had fought the dream then. But not this time! This time it was reality she would fight! Tonight she would dream this dream through to its completion. She would will herself not to awaken this whole cherished night. And just this once, she would allow herself a respite from reality, of remembering Rolf’s disinterest! Yes. This night would be one of letting go to her flight of fantasy with Rolf, and she would fill the hours with her own passionate, desperate dreaming. . .and leave tomorrow’s light for facing the truth.
