“Thank you,” Erin murmured. Yes, of course, she knew she couldn’t bring fruit—or dirt, grass, trees, vegetables, etc.—into Russia. Her smile became a little sick. “She’d have to eat all three bananas within the next few hours.
“Your train!” the clerk said, pointing toward the tracks.
Resembling a large green sea monster, the train labeled Moscoba was hissing and chugging its way to a stop. A whistle shrieked, and the train went silent except for the softest whisper of air.
“Thank you,” Erin murmured again.
“It will be an interesting trip!” the friendly clerk commented. “You will probably have a couchette next to another American—or Briton. They like to keep the English-speaking peoples together. Cornered off, yes? You understand?”
Erin nodded as she turned to hurry back to the platform. She didn’t understand at all, and she wasn’t terribly sure she wanted to. For the first time, she was feeling hesitant. Had she been a little foolish to rush into the U.S.S.R. by unconventional means, all alone? No, she scoffed at herself. She wasn’t doing anything that adventuresome! College students did this type of thing all the time, and surely other Americans traveled into Moscow by train from Helsinki—otherwise the clerk wouldn’t have known that they were usually put together.
The Moscoba suddenly issued a deafening shriek. Startled, Erin shoved her three bananas into her bag and hurried for her luggage, placing a firm grip around each of her bags as she followed a small stream of people into the train. She had no difficulty boarding; a porter politely showed her to a delightful couchette—handsomely furnished with Victorian-style wood. The Russian government might be based on a concept of a classless society, Erin thought, but “class” could certainly still be purchased. Mary had rattled off something to her about deluxe first class, which she and the majority of tourists visiting the country traveled by, the “soft” class, which was the second in comfort, and the “hard” class, which translated to economy.
The train lurched, seeming to heave a deep breath as it chugged into action. Erin threw her window open wide and allowed the wind to course through her hair as she watched the Helsinki train station slowly become miniature. Curiously she looked ahead at the approaching landscape, but it was winter bleak and barren. After a while she felt her face becoming numb, and she pulled her head back in. The trip was a long one; the train would not pull into the Moscow station until morning. Erin knew she couldn’t spend all that time staring out windows, but for the moment she was willing to allow her sense of excitement to rule her actions. She opened the door to her couchette and moved across the small hallway to stare out on the other side, then laughed at herself as she saw more barren-looking snow. It might be approaching spring in New York, but here winter still held a solid grip.
Staring at the endless snow and lifeless stick trees suddenly brought the snap of unwelcome pain. It had been a winter like this when Jodie died. There had been a severe snowstorm and the ground had been so frozen that they had been forced to delay the funeral for a couple of days.
Erin moved in from the window, shaking herself as if she could dispel memory. She could remember her parents with great love but little pain; Julie and Howard McCabe had become parents very late in life, both near fifty when Erin was born. They had lived long and happily, always considering themselves double-blessed with their little daughter so late in life. Both Julie and Howard had died of natural causes, easily, in their sleep, within months of one another. Her parents had been so in love, and so proud and independent, that after the pain of loss Erin had been grateful that they had died so very gently with their dignity intact. She could never imagine her self-sufficient father forced to rely upon a machine for a life he would no longer care to live.
But Jodie … Jodie had been a shock. He had always been there for Erin, a friend for so long, gentle and patient, never pressing their relationship. Their love had been a soft one, built mutually with time and respect. They had carefully planned their marriage; Erin would continue working until Jodie acquired his degree, and then they would switch roles. Jodie never doubted Erin; his serene pride and trust were the virtues of a young man secure in himself, secure in the woman he loved.
As long as she lived, Erin would never forget the day he had been due home. Christmas vacation. Jodie had stayed in the background after her parents’ death, understanding how the loss of her parents so close together had left her in need of a special time to mourn without the complications and pressures of pushing her relationship with him. It had been Erin who had suddenly realized she had kept Jodie waiting long enough. On the day he was to arrive she had purchased the most stunning of nightgowns and a bottle of the finest champagne. She had laughed and smiled all day, imagining the night and Jodie’s pleasure when he found her fully determined to seduce him and satisfy all the longings they had held back for so long.
Jodie never came home. His roommate had brokenly tried to explain how he had been laughing in the passenger seat on their drive to Manhattan one minute, dead the next. A strong, healthy, twenty-two-year-old man who had his whole life to look forward to.
It had taken Erin a long, long time to quit hating God and herself and everyone else who lived. But with time and the tender care of good friends like Mary and Ted, Erin had learned acceptance. At first she had turned catatonically to work, rising in her field because she was not only extraordinarily photogenic but extraordinarily professional and cooperative. And she had learned to live again, to enjoy the camaraderie of new friends and old, to enjoy her life. She had finally opened to the possibility of romance again, and just when loneliness had made her prime taking for a sophisticated male, Marc Helmsly had walked into her life.
It was strange, Erin thought now as she stood in the hall, feeling a little weak. Marc, she was sure, had really cared for her. He had just misread her. He hadn’t understood that he was not only not dealing with a sophisticate—but had wound up with a pathetically inept innocent! He should have figured it out rather quickly, Erin thought bitterly. No, not Marc. He had probably thought himself the great leader, giving her a crash course in freedom and an “open” marriage.
It didn’t really matter. It was over. And in retrospect, she could only blame her own persistence in refusing to see and accept the truth of that last night. If Marc—and his friend—had been dealing with a more sophisticated woman, things wouldn’t have come to that point.
Damn, Erin thought with irritation, what the hell was she doing? The past was the past, and she was on a personal quest, fulfilling a dream she had had since she was a child. She should be imagining herself as an old—but charming” and elegant, please!—teacher or professor, enchanting her government students with her quiet tales of her personal experiences in the Soviet Union. She was a very level-headed individual, and she took a certain amount of pride in positive willpower. She simply wasn’t going to waste time brooding.
Erin rotated on her heel to return to her couchette, then paused in midswing as she noticed the door next to her own was open. Remembering that the friendly concierge in Helsinki had advised her that her nearest traveling companions would most probably be English-speaking, Erin impulsively took a look into the couchette.
The compartment was empty, but displayed sure signs of occupancy. A dark leather briefcase sat ajar on the bed and a heavy suitcase in complementary leather was shoved beneath it. A garment bag hung in the small open closet, and an array of toiletries was neatly set above the sink, very masculine toiletries, Erin noticed quickly as she assessed the shaving cream, deodorant, and after-shave. Masculine and expensive, she thought wryly. The after-shave was one she knew; Ted loved it and she often gave it to him as his Christmas gift, since neither he nor Mary would think to endanger their household budget by such a purchase. She seemed to remember someone else wearing it too … recently …
So my next-door neighbor is a finicky male, she thought, withdrawing from the compartment with a shade of guilt as she realized she had actually been pryi
ng. Not really, not if the dummy had left his door standing wide open.
Erin moved on into her own couchette and curled comfortably onto her bunk with her book. “Zdra stvooite,” she whispered aloud, grimacing as the attempt at pronunciation twisted on her tongue. “Damn,” she muttered. All that for a simple hello.
She frowned suddenly as she heard footsteps and then conversation in the hallway. A slender brow raised in consternation. Her next-door neighbor was definitely male—no one could mistake the deep velvet tones—but he most certainly wasn’t American. The Russian language was rolling off his tongue in double time. Strange, the voice sounded vaguely familiar. She shook her head, returning her attention to her book. The voice couldn’t be familiar. She had no acquaintances well versed in the Russian language. She forgot the sound of voices, until moments later when she was startled by a knock at her door.
She began thumbing the pages of her book to find a translation for “Come in,” but unable to find anything remotely similar, she shrugged and called, “Come in.”
The porter who had shown her to her couchette opened the door with a gnomelike grin, nodding and bowing slightly. “Will you have tea?” he inquired.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” Erin murmured. He bowed again. Erin lifted her torso automatically to bow in return. They continued the friendly procedure until the man bowed himself back out of her cabin, only to reappear shortly with Russian tea served in a glass set in a silver filigree holder. Erin thanked him, discovered she was supposed to pay, discerned that he would accept Danish kroner, and once more thanked him.
It was Erin’s first taste of real Russian tea and she found it absolutely delicious. She was also relaxed and thirsty. Erin drank the glass of tea quickly, too quickly, then decided she wanted another one.
She remembered that the porter had said something and motioned toward the front of the coach when he had shown her to her couchette. Balancing herself against the jostling of the train, Erin collected a handful of her Danish money and her glass in the little silver holder that so fascinated her and made her way toward what she assumed had to be the porter’s couchette.
She was shortly congratulating herself for being correct as she found the first door open, the porter relaxing over a newspaper she couldn’t begin to read although she did recognize the characters. He glanced up immediately and smiled brilliantly at Erin. “I’d like more tea, please,” she murmured, handing him her glass.
He rose immediately. “Yes, yes,” he murmured. “Please. You go back, and I will bring.”
Erin shook her head with a little smile. “Thank you, that isn’t necessary.” She pointed toward his paper. “You relax.” The small man looked as if he were about to argue further so Erin gave him her most professional smile. “Please,” she murmured very softly. “I can take it myself perfectly well!”
Apparently, she thought wryly, the smile did the trick. The balding Russian sighed with an enchanted grimace and accepted the glass to fill from an immaculate silver samovar. Erin stuffed the kroners into his hand and decided to try out a Russian thank you.
“Spasee ba,” she murmured.
“Ah, very good!” he congratulated her with pleasure. And then once again he was bowing, and Erin was automatically bowing in return.
Afraid they were about to go through another five-minute interlude of curtsies, Erin began to back down the length of the hall as she bowed, making each bow a little shorter. She frowned as the porter suddenly began waving at her, apparently losing his command of English as he attempted to warn her of something. She raised a curious brow in question, but the answer came too late. She backed into something warm and extremely solid. The tea sloshed from her glass, barely missing her shoes. Feeling an idiotic sense of “oh, no!” she turned around slowly, her eyes ridiculously remaining downward.
Her sense of déjà vu was instant and debilitating. As she stared at a pair of trim leather boots—black boots, spotlessly polished—she felt a riddling of electricity insinuate itself hotly along her spine. She looked up slowly, over long legs, trim hips framed by an expertly tailored black jacket … over the broad, brick-wall chest clad handsomely and masculinely in crisp off-white cotton, tapered black vest and jacket. Her eyes continued up to a long, well-corded neck. She could look no further.
It simply can’t be, she told herself. Twice in New York might be coincidence, but she was halfway around the world now. That kind of coincidence was simply impossible.
Erin noticed vaguely that a pulse beat erratically within the strong tanned throat that held her eyes. Dreading the sight she was sure she was about to encounter, she had to forcefully urge her eyes to look further upward.
And as she had known, she encountered the rage of a blue firestorm.
“You!” she croaked incredulously. “I don’t believe it!”
The brow twisted sardonically, the jawline shifted. “I think that should be my line,” he said dryly, very obviously straining to hold an explosive temper in check. “Good Lord, woman, I’m beginning to believe you must be some sort of a secret weapon. The ultimate cold-war tactic. One week with you, and Moscow will be promising anything.”
“Don’t be absurd!” Erin snapped, totally unnerved by the man’s appearance. It was impossible, she wanted to shriek, she couldn’t be running—literally—into him in this many places. A bar yes, maybe even an airport in the same city—But in a train to Moscow?
“Well?” he suddenly demanded.
“Well what?” Erin muttered blankly.
“No apology this time?”
Apology, Erin wondered rebelliously. No, somehow this was all his fault.
Erin unconsciously took a step backwards. “I do believe that; this time, you barged into me.”
“Oh? I don’t recall walking backwards.”
Erin-flushed uncomfortably. He had a marvelous knack for putting her awkwardly on the defensive, something she was unaccustomed to feeling.
“Why are you following me?” she demanded curtly.
“Following you?” he inquired in sardonic disbelief. “My dear Miss McCabe, trust me. For the sake of my clothing, possessions, person, and sanity, you are the last woman in the world I would consider following.”
Erin twisted her bottom lip and bit into it with irritation. “You really must be the last of the great gallants,” she snapped back.
“So sorry, Miss McCabe,” he continued with his cutting sarcasm as he gazed down at her, “but this isn’t New York. You will not find a multitude of lovesick fans following in your footsteps, willing to give all and forgive anything! You’re entering the Soviet Union.”
Erin stiffened with automatic indignation, fighting for control over a temper seldom so aroused. “I do not expect people to fall all over me and ‘forgive anything’ here or anywhere else, Mr….” He didn’t supply a name and she continued with barely concealed hostility. “And I know very well where I am going, thank you. You wish an apology? I’m very sorry I barged into you. But think of it this way—at least I didn’t get your suit this time!”
He stared at her curiously for a moment, a fathomless light in those eyes which never failed to touch her with the heat of blue fire.
“True, Miss McCabe, it was kind of you to douse the train rug rather than my clothing. Do you take care to ruin only one suit per man?”
He is incredible! Erin thought. Rude didn’t come anywhere near an adequate description.
“I don’t make a habit of ruining anything!” she declared, her voice low and smooth but clearly heated. “Please, sir, do allow me to make amends so that you needn’t feel so persecuted! I’ll be quite happy to reimburse you for any loss I caused!”
“All right,” he said unexpectedly. “I’ll take a check.”
Outraged, and admittedly unnerved, by his reply, Erin hesitated. The stranger, who was unfortunately no longer quite so strange, bowed ever so slightly and stepped back so that she might precede him down the hallway.
Erin uneasily passed him by, tangibly awa
re that he followed her footsteps. She could feel more than the power of his incredibly searing stare as it sizzled her back; she could feel a heat emanating from the man, a force that seemed untamed … primitive … something very raw and masculine and elemental despite the civilized and sophisticated suavity of his very contemporary and apparently restrained appearance.
The alluring scent of his after-shave seemed especially seductive when combined with his own brand of potent masculinity. Yet Erin wasn’t quite so sure she was appreciating it anymore. This man was making a wreck out of her; she was righteously infuriated, while nervous as a cat. He made her feel as if blood raced in mercury streams, as if each nerve ending were raw and exposed. She realized she was tense with excitement, quaking with ridiculous, but undeniable, subliminal fear.
She wanted to touch him; she wanted to run. And she wanted to break his neck! Never had she met a man so devoid of common courtesy—with such utterly galling nerve!
This is all absurd, she assured herself. She would write him a check for his suit, he would leave, she would avoid him until the train arrived in Moscow, she would never see him again.
Erin stopped at the door to her couchette, about to ask him to please wait just a minute in the hall. She never had the chance. He glanced into her features with a fathomless expression, twisted the handle, and ushered her into the couchette ahead of him. He followed behind her, silently closing the door and leaning against it.
Erin moved on in, trying to appear nonchalant as she reached for her purse. “Who do I make this out to?” she inquired, adding too quickly with the need to keep talking, “Or else I do have a few American Express traveler’s checks. I’m afraid I have little left in any Scandinavian currency, and I’m sure you must know I haven’t any kopecks or rubles yet—my money was deposited in a Moscow bank to be retrieved upon arrival.”
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