“A check from your personal account will be just fine,” he interrupted with an obvious trace of amusement.
Erin picked up her checkbook and glanced at him with a dry assessment spurred by his tone. She lifted a brow and made no attempt to disguise a certain sarcasm as she said, “My dear sir, I’m afraid I must have a name if I’m to write a check.”
“Jarod,” he said, “Steele. E at the end.”
Erin began to scribble his name. Steele, she thought bitterly. Good name for the man. He was apparently as unyielding as the metal. The only more fitting name for the man would be Brick Wall.
She hesitated over an amount, and glanced at the understated quality of his garments, her gaze not reaching to his eyes, but starting from just below and sweeping downward. He didn’t appear heavy, she thought, more tall and trim, yet she had the strange feeling that the agile body beneath the suit was supple, wiry, and tautly muscled.
From the far corner of her vision, she sensed another twinge of his detached amusement in the hiking of an arched brow. “Shall I turn around, Miss McCabe?”
“I don’t believe that will be necessary,” Erin replied without humor. She affixed an amount to the check and handed it to him, oddly stretching her arm out as far as possible rather than approach him too closely. “Will that be adequate?”
He didn’t glance at the check. His stare of fire and ice locked with hers. “Most adequate.”
Erin felt encompassed by his look, as if his eyes had a hypnotically magnetic strength all their own. Was it seconds, or did minutes pass by? She only knew that as he watched her—with interest? or a very strange disinterest?—she felt as if waves of heat assailed her in a curious backlash. Her legs felt like lava. She began to pray he would leave before her knees buckled beneath her.
And then, amidst the practical joke her composure seemed to be playing with her, she came to a very chilling realization. Jarod Steele hadn’t moved; he had remained very still against the door. But for all his apparent lassitude, he had very thoroughly scanned her couchette.
He slipped her check into his pocket and inclined his head in a courtesy that she felt was mocking rather than respectful. “Spasee ba, Miss McCabe,” he murmured, the ghost of a thin smile curling the corners of his lips. “Do sveedah nya.”
He left the couchette, quietly closing the door behind him. Erin’s knees did give; luckily she sank down to her neatly made bunk. Jarod Steele, she thought. What a strange individual. And what a strange effect he had on me. No, not just me, she amended wryly. She was sure he had this effect on everyone, male or female.
Erin glanced at her fingers: they were trembling. She stretched them before her, then clenched them into fists. This was just too much coincidence, she thought. To run into the same person twice in New York City with its throngs of humanity was absurd enough, but to run into the same person while traveling on a train from Helsinki to Moscow? And obviously he knew who she was.
And yet, why would he be following her? (She was the perpetrator of the actual collisions!) It was very apparent he did not find her particularly appealing; if anything, he seemed to dislike her, or at very least find her intolerably irritating.
Erin frowned and suddenly jumped from the bed, trying to recall the Russian words he had spoken. “Do sveeda nya?” she murmured to herself, hoping she could find the pronunciation equivalent in her tourist manual. Her fingers began an industrious thumbing through the pages until she found the translation.
“Till we meet again,” she murmured ponderously. Erin tapped a finger against her chin. “We won’t meet again, Mr. Steele,” she murmured. “Not if I can help it.”
But she would see him again, she thought wryly. They were on the same train. She could avoid him only if she spent the remainder of the trip locked in her couchette.
Erin tossed her book aside and stretched out on her bunk, slipping off her low-heeled leather boots and hugging her pillow. She was thoroughly annoyed with herself for finding Jarod Steele an incomprehensibly compelling man—especially since it had been ages since she had found the male of the species even remotely interesting. Maybe, she thought ruefully and tried to tell herself convincingly, she was merely being feminine and finding him fascinating simply because of his lack of reaction to her. She had many male friends, and all were gallant because they were friends. Nine out of every ten males she encountered socially or professionally were also gallant; their motives were highly suspect, but they were courteous nevertheless. Most had exotic sexual fantasies about the seductive Erin McCabe, and she found their innuendos both amusing and painful. Only she really knew that “Erin McCabe” was truly a myth, more fantasy than any man would ever imagine. She couldn’t go beyond a good-night kiss without feeling the chills of terror that froze her into something more glacially cold than dry ice.
Erin unconsciously began to play with the gold bands around her wrists. Jarod Steele was different. She wasn’t even sure he had noticed that she was female. No, she corrected herself. He did know she was female. She had the feeling he had been irritated enough to have given her a good slug if she had been a man. No, that too was unfair. She had a feeling that Mr. Steele would at all times have ultimate control over a very fierce temper. If he ever lashed out, it would be either because he had been provoked beyond human endurance, or because he allowed himself to do so after calculated thought.
Who was Jarod Steele anyway? she wondered. A New Yorker with a flair for what sounded like a perfect command of an unusual language for an American to master? He had to be some type of businessman, she decided. But what type of business did Americans carry out in Moscow? Damned if I know, she mused vaguely, caught in the midst of a yawn. Despite the flow of adrenaline set off by the unusual stranger Jarod Steele, the lulling motion of the train was having its effect on a body that had eschewed sleep for sightseeing for seven days and nights.
She must have dozed, because the next thing Erin consciously noted was that the monotonous motion of the train was beginning to slow down. She bolted from the bunk and looked eagerly out of her window, seeing nothing but blackness. Then a dim light became steadily brighter as the train approached a small station. She heard and felt the screeching tug as the Moscoba ambled to a full stop, then saw passengers hastily detraining. Curiously, she ran a hand over her tussled hair, straightened her skirt, and hopped about as she hurriedly tried to fumble back into her boots. Then she swiftly ventured into the hallway, her curiosity at a peak.
Erin was just in time to see Jarod Steele leaving his couchette—dressed now in gray tweed. He lifted a brow in cryptic acknowledgment, then proceeded down the hallway in the wake of a few others departing the train.
For the moment Erin forgot he was a self-proclaimed enemy. “Mr. Steele!” she called after him compulsively.
He paused, turning slowly back to face her, his blue icefire gaze as fathomless as ever, the wry twist of his mouth a shade cynical.
“Please,” she found herself mumbling nervously, “would you mind telling me where we are?” Erin knew he had the answer; whatever his business might be, it was evident he was no stranger to the U.S.S.R.
He stared at her for a moment, as if he were debating something behind the amused guard of his countenance. Then he sighed, like a man resigned to an unpleasant task, and brought himself back to her with a firm, long-legged stride. “We’re at the final stop in Finland before we cross the border,” he informed her. “There’s a decent restaurant here. If you want something to eat before morning, this is your last chance.”
Erin hesitated. She was starving, but suddenly fearful of leaving the relative security of the train for the unfamiliar darkness of an unknown town. And she certainly wasn’t going to attempt to inflict her company upon Jarod Steele, not when he seemed to consider her presence similar to that of a swarm of locusts.
Besides, warning bells were shrilling in her mind. One way or another, she sensed that his quiet power was very dangerous. His very control reeked of vital masculinity, the leashed force and v
ibrant heat of the sun.
While afraid of that dangerous power, Erin found herself shivering with excitement when he was near, trusting in his strength for a security that didn’t exist.
She wanted to dislike him, but he compelled her interest. She was gradually discovering that she was at a complete loss because she didn’t know how to handle him—she who had always known how to courteously handle people of either sex. And what was worse, she didn’t know how to handle herself.
There was valor in dignified retreat, she reminded herself, biting her lip with irritation as she found herself taking a step backwards. “Thank you, Mr. Steele,” she began to murmur.
His arm shot out and secured her elbow in a grip that was both light and firm, a sure hint of the steel evoked by his name. And like a clash of steel, his touch aroused her senses. Quicksilver flashes of both fire and ice trailed in feathered brushes from her nape to the small of her back, over and over again.
“Get your coat and come along, Miss McCabe,” he said with a spurt of velvet patience. “You already look sadly undernourished. I would be shirking my duty to allow an American tourist to starve, even if we’re not quite in my realm of jurisdiction as of yet.”
Startled, Erin ignored his less than complimentary appraisal and quizzically met his amused stare. “Jurisdiction?” she murmured. “Just what are you, Mr. Steele?”
“A troubleshooter,” he said briefly, escorting her quickly to her couchette for her coat, then off the train with a proprietary expertise.
Erin frowned. She would not be answered so briefly when her confusion was so vast. “A troubleshooter? Are you with the U.S. government? With the American embassy in Moscow?”
He hesitated only slightly and shrugged. “Well, I’m an American, and I’m assigned to the United States embassy. Actually though, I work for the United Nations.”
Incongruously, Erin took one look at her escort’s steel and granite features and began to laugh.
“What’s so amusing, Miss McCabe?” he demanded sharply.
“Nothing!” she murmured, then felt a tensing of the strong fingers that held her and the relentless demand of his stare. She attempted to sober herself and stuttered an explanation. “I mean … I mean … you! United Nations! Peace and harmony and diplomacy …” Her voice trailed away. Apparently he didn’t appreciate the ironic humor of the situation. Erin cleared her throat uneasily and escaped his hold to descend the coach steps to the steam-fogged platform. The shock of the frigid night air set her shivering, and she suddenly discovered a warm arm around her shoulder, enveloping her against the heat of her accidental companion.
She was warmed, but her shivers didn’t cease. She had the strange feeling she had been offered the dangerously explosive heat of a deceptively dormant volcano.
III
IT COULDN’T HAVE BEEN more than fifteen degrees Fahrenheit on the platform, but the frigid weather didn’t seem to bother Jarod Steele as he quickly led Erin to the restaurant’s door.
The restaurant itself was cozy and warm. It was also loud and smoky, but the boisterousness was encouraging to Erin. She glanced around in fascination, glad she had chosen to enter Russia by train. The people and scenery of this Finnish border stop offered the kind of experience she would have missed on a route tour.
“Miss McCabe?”
Erin noted a resurgence of impatience in her unwilling escort’s tone. A none-too-gentle tug on the arm informed her that he was not as fascinated as she and in a hurry to secure a table. Propelled would be the only way to describe his leading her as he chose a table, curtly seated her, and sat across from her.
“What would you like?” he inquired. “I’m afraid you’ll find little to resemble alfalfa or bean sprouts.”
“What?”
He grinned. “Aren’t you continually dieting, Miss McCabe?”
Erin sighed, determined to be patient. “No, Mr. Steele, I hate to disillusion you, but I never diet. I’m afraid my appetite somewhat resembles that of a trucker.”
He hiked up a rather dubious brow, but dropped that particular vein of discussion. “What would you like?” he inquired.
He knew damned well she couldn’t read the menu. It was written in three languages, but English was not one of them. Her recognition of Russian characters was nonexistent, her Finnish was little better, and she could make out about approximately three of the words that were in French.
“What do you suggest?” she inquired lightly.
“The lamb stew is good.”
“Lamb stew sounds fine.”
Bread and butter appeared on the table quickly; a harried waitress hastily took their order. Only moments later their food arrived in deep steaming bowls along with two glasses of curiously dark liquid.
“It’s a native Finnish beer, served warm, Miss McCabe. You seemed willing to sample all that was native, so I took the liberty of ordering two.”
Erin smiled with very dry sweetness. “Thank you.”
The warm beer wasn’t bad, and the stew was delicious. She didn’t realize just how ravenous she was until she glanced up to find Jarod Steele staring at her, the amusement in his eyes warm and genuine for once rather than cynical. “You do have the appetite of a trucker—a small one at least.”
Erin flushed slightly and sipped at her beer. “I warned you,” she murmured.
“It just seems rather incredible. You’re little more than skin and bones.”
“High metabolism,” Erin shrugged.
Jarod leaned back in his chair, pushing his plate aside as he reached into his breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Erin, which she accepted, and he politely lit them both. Then he continued with his nerve-tingling stare through the cloud of smoke.
“To what, Miss McCabe,” he finally queried, “does the U.S.S.R. owe the honor of your presence?”
Exposed nerve endings seemed to grate throughout Erin’s body. If she were ever lulled into believing he considered her human, she would be an idiot.
Erin returned his stare with no change of countenance. She inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I thought you said you were with the United Nations, Mr. Steele,” she murmured softly, arching a slender brow with innocence. “Not the KGB.”
“Clever, Miss McCabe,” he acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head, “but hardly an answer.”
“I didn’t care for the phrasing of the question.”
“Do forgive me. I’ll start over. What is one of America’s favorite faces doing wandering around eastern Europe alone? Moscow by train from Finland is not one of the leading advertisements in your general tourist office. One would have thought Erin McCabe would opt for Paris or Monte Carlo—Morocco, perhaps—but the Soviet Union? In late winter?”
Erin patiently inhaled on her cigarette once more. “I’m fascinated by history, Mr. Steele, pure and simple. Russia has always intrigued me. A friend of mine owns a tourist agency and she helped me plan this trip.”
“Oh,” was his reply, short, apparently innocent. Yet it was the most irritating use of the word Erin had ever heard. It implied a multitude of things, among them blatant cynicism. She was about to snap out her annoyance, but their waitress seemed to have timed her return trip to collect their check as if attuned to Jarod Steele’s convenience. Erin felt her annoyance with him fade as she belatedly winced with a more strident annoyance directed at herself. She had nothing with her, and she didn’t want a man tike Steele paying her way even for a phone call.
“I’m sorry,” she said crisply as the waitress disappeared with Jarod’s money. “I left my bag on the train. I’ll reimburse you as soon as we’re aboard.”
“I don’t wish to be reimbursed,” he practically snapped as he stood, moving behind her to assist her up with such smooth agility that she had no choice but to politely accept his overture. His hand was upon her elbow once more—was the touch even more proprietary now?—and once more she felt herself propelled along, stormed by command, but so dazed by the electricity that n
ever failed to spark that she couldn’t think to protest his natural assumption of authority and assert herself.
“Russian trains leave on time,” he said curtly as her glance at the restaurant’s door must have nakedly displayed a rebellion against his rough haste. Then the door was open and they were hit with a blast of excruciating cold.
Even if he disliked her, Erin mused between the painful and almost deafening chattering of her teeth, there was something simply too basically male about Jarod Steele for him not to immediately assume the role of protector. She suddenly found herself no longer escorted but swept into a secure hold against the strength and heat of his body as he carried her the several feet to the train.
“That—that wa—wasn’t necessary,” she stuttered, still shivering in uncontrollable spasms as he brought her back into the relative warmth of the train’s hallway. He merely lifted a brow, and Erin fell silent. It hadn’t been necessary, but it had been damned convenient. He had saved them an eternity of seconds with his swift action.
“You’re easier to carry than drag along,” he replied, setting her down before the door to her couchette. Blue icefire eyes met her rather wide ones. “Good-night, Miss McCabe.”
“Good-night,” she replied, thoroughly irritated by the tremor in her voice. “Thank you for dinner,” she managed more nonchalantly.
“The pleasure was mine.”
Somehow, Erin didn’t think so. Her eyes met his with that cryptic challenge, but he merely smiled and turned, disappearing into the door of his own couchette. Erin stepped inside and closed her door, leaning against it as he had earlier. She felt breathless and weak and disoriented—and all because a man who evidently disliked her had held her in his arms.
“This is certainly a little ridiculous,” she chastised herself aloud in a soft murmur. But she couldn’t shake her strange feelings. Where his arms had touched she could still feel the heat; the alluring scent that was after-shave and all male lingered around her.
She suddenly realized she was quivering from head to toe. She felt as if there were a glittering prize sitting before her, and if she just reached out it could be hers. But she couldn’t reach out because she was scared to death.
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