Red Midnight

by Heather Graham

  “You really should tell me what’s going on. Who is Sergei Alexandrovich? And why did you let him believe in this farce? Just because a nasty border guard—”

  He stopped and spun before her door—so quickly that, as was becoming usual, she plowed into his broad chest. His hands caught her shoulders; his eyes became the blue icefire that she knew far better than the gentler look she had seen during the day.

  “There isn’t a damn thing ‘nasty’ about Nicolai. He was simply performing his duty. This is his country, madam, not yours, and you shouldn’t be here to begin with. I’ve warned you this is the U.S.S.R.—not the Côte d’Azur. Sergei Alexandrovich is a top party adviser. His expertise coincides with mine. He works with English-speaking tourists and handles the fiascos created by those who foolishly or purposely break Soviet laws.”

  Erin felt tears sting her eyes at his icy rough treatment. It was an especially difficult pill to swallow after his forced—but dear God, almost believable—gentle amicability of the day. Why do I care, she wondered? I know him for what he is. And she would never allow him to see that a thing he said or did daunted her.

  “Then please, Mr. Steele,” she bit out as he released her to slip her room key from her grasp and slide it into the bolt, “would you mind telling me why you are allowing this ridiculous charade to continue? I am leaving the city in one week, the country in two. Isn’t it going to be a bit embarrassing when two mature adults break off an engagement that quickly?”

  He paused for a moment, dropping the room key back into her hand. His eyes rose to meet hers, crystal blue, glacially challenging. How on earth was it possible, Erin wondered, for eyes to appear so deathly cold while also giving the impression that they burned with all the intensity of hell? “Are you suffering from this, Miss McCabe? I would think a woman who tells me she is fascinated with history and people would sincerely appreciate this opportunity to come closer to the reality of the situation.”

  Erin was determined to hold her own. “Mr. Steele,” she sighed with a great deal of patience, “I do appreciate this opportunity, and of course I’m not suffering, but—”

  “Good,” he interrupted curtly, “then let me do the rest of the worrying.”

  “But—”

  Jarod had pushed the door open and ushered her in. As soon as she had entered and spoken, she felt his hand come from behind her and clamp firmly over her mouth. Before she could protest, he had spun her around until she nestled hard against his chest, painstakingly aware of the heat that radiated like a furnace, of the vital thundering of his heart, of her own.

  Terror hit her in wave upon wave. If she had been free, if she hadn’t been frozen in panic, she would have screamed and screamed; her mind went back in a bolt of memory so strident it was crushing; it took her back.

  He must have sensed a fear deeper than the obvious. He must have known, instinctively, something about her; he was aware he should have warned her before he had so roughly subdued her.

  “Trust me, Erin.” His voice was a whisper of silk. “Go along with whatever I do. Please! Trust me, trust me….”

  Trust him. She was incapable of trust. He didn’t understand …

  Jarod had expected the microphone. It was, in fact, rather insultingly blatant. But were they also being filmed? He felt her shaking and realized it was rather understandable. She was being half attacked, but her fear of him was going beyond that, he thought with a jolt. She could really panic, she could create a hell of a mess.

  “Erin … !” He put all the assurance he could into the whisper.

  She stared at him, her lips parted to speak.

  He shook his head at her in warning, then began to ease his hold on her mouth. But he didn’t simply release her; the action became a display of tenderness so provocative it left Erin stunned and trembling within his arms. His fingers moved caressingly over her lips, shaping them, parting them, finding the moistness within and sliding over them once again with a touch tantalizingly damp.

  Erin held perfectly still, hardly able to breathe. It registered dully in her mind that his performance had been such that, had they been seen, it would have appeared that it had all been done in passion, rather than with a firm determination to shut her up.

  There was certainly a motive behind his actions, a calculated motive. What the hell was going on? she wondered desperately. Why was he doing all this, whispering so only she could hear, acting out this charade which was so devastating to her?

  Her realization that he had a motive did nothing to alleviate the devastating effect upon her. Instinct flared; her first panicked thought was to fight, but the force of his arms and that intangible strength in his eyes held her mesmerized even as an instinct more shattering overwhelmed that which had surfaced first. She was dimly aware that his heat was transferring, transfusing to her. The mercury aroused by his touch riddled through her in tiny laps of flame that dizzily titillated, leaving her weak, breathless, and pliant as she suddenly found herself lifted into his strong arms and carried through the suite into the bedroom.

  A tidal wave of panic resurged as her body hit the softness of the mattress. But he was stretched beside her, a powerful leg draped over hers, even as she attempted to bolt. His hand slid into her hair, soothing and caressing as his head burrowed beside hers and his whisper found her ear. “Stop it, Erin,” he murmured, so softly that it was but a breath of air searing a new jolt of tingling flame against the sensitive flesh of her throat and lobe. “I’m not going to hurt you. I simply don’t want our relationship doubted…. Nod if you understand.”

  She didn’t understand; she hadn’t understood a damned thing since she had incredibly collided with him on the train.

  But she couldn’t talk; she couldn’t move; she was still struggling just to breathe. It was as if her insides had crumbled. She had no strength, no consistency. She was terrified, she was trembling and burning, alive with anticipation, feeling the heat of him, encompassed by the scent of him, aware—oh, so terribly aware—of the power that stretched beside her, of the fingertips that threaded her hair, of the lips, breathing seduction against flesh with nerves stripped bare.

  “Erinnnn …” he whispered.

  She felt her head move in a jerky nod.

  The prize was sitting before her again and she was panicked. Something cried out to her that she had to fight. But still she stayed quiet, shaking now like the leaves blown by winter winds. She closed her eyes, she swallowed, and then she simultaneously felt several things … the agonizingly soft caress of his fingers over her cheek down the column of her throat, his mouth moving sensually from her ear to her lips, touching them, grazing them with his teeth, parting them and firing to deep and demanding passion.

  His body pressed ever closer to hers. She could feel the crush of her breasts against the rock-hard and yet giving strength below the fabric of his shirt and jacket. The clothing was there, between them, and yet it was as if the burning touch of their bodies had melted the barriers that separated them.

  His hands began to move, subtly trailing a path beneath her open coat, discovering the firm mounds of her breasts, fondling, grazing the nipples sensuously through the fabric until they hardened to his touch, seeming to stretch for more.

  A gasp caught in Erin’s throat, smothered by the increasing plunder and demand of his tongue, intimately seeking deeper and deeper, cajoling, compelling, hungrily commanding response.

  Erin still fought the panic. She trembled as if tiny earthquakes riddled her slender frame. But also still within her was that instinct which overwhelmed all others … primitive, essential. Her hands rose, her fingers dug into the fabric of his shoulders. But they didn’t ward him away. They simply gripped to help her ride out the storm and she realized dimly, very dimly, that she was reaching out to him, arching to his hands, against his hips, against the sinewed length of his thighs.

  She felt the movement of his hands again, firm, assured, but gliding with persuasion even as they sought new discoveries. They hove
red over the conclave of her hip and abdomen, trailed lower over her thigh, beneath the hem of her skirt, upward, over the ultrasensitive flesh of her upper thigh once more.

  Erin felt another gasp rising, but it wasn’t that at all. It was a moan, a whimper, a cry deep within her throat. It was fear overridden by need, the shuddering of terror compounded by the deliciousness of trailing fire that swamped her system.

  This is necessary, Steele? Jarod could hear the mocking voice screeching within him. An act was an act, but who was he kidding? Come on, Steele, ease up….

  What had happened to him? He had started to touch her and the blood had boiled in his veins; his pulse had risen to thunder. Tempest winds had begun in his head, and he had discovered himself in the grip of a maelstrom, seized by a desire as strong and potent as an incoming tide.

  Business, Steele, this is business….

  His mouth lifted slowly from hers. The torment of feeling her legs pressed against his ended as his fingers touched upon her lips once more, seemingly fascinated with the touch of dampness upon them.

  Erin opened her eyes slowly to feel a freeze steal over her body. Jarod touched her, but he didn’t glance at her. His face was still near hers—within an inch—but his eyes, always astute, always piercing with the dagger sharpness of crystal, were assessing the room.

  Oh, God, Erin thought sickly, all that. All that just for I Spy to check out the room.

  Something cataclysmic had happened to her body; something devastating to her life. And he who had been the catalyst hadn’t been truly involved; his simple mechanical expertise had seduced her into a loss of barriers that she could have sworn were impregnable.

  She thought of all she had allowed him, of her quivering, innate response. She wanted to die, or at the very least, drop through a hole in the world and reappear a hemisphere a way.

  She wanted him away from her. She wanted freedom from the deceit of the intoxicating heat and strength and security of his powerfully wired frame. Freedom from the hard thighs that touched with hypocritical demand against hers … freedom from the arms that held her, that so easily solicited trust and the most incredible, elemental, sexual need.

  Of all the men in the world, why did Jarod Steele have to be the one with such overwhelming sexuality that he could still her defenses without effort, without thought?

  She was angry, and she wanted to be angry. She wished she had the strength to push his rugged body from her and onto the floor. But she also had to admit to another of the fears that plagued her, one that went deeper than ego. Had he been disappointed? Had he already discovered that Erin McCabe was not mystery and passionate beauty but very simply a woman working with a great handicap, frightened, unsure?

  She opened her eyes to discover that this time his gaze was upon her, thoughtful, pondering, totally enigmatic, and for once, not cold at all. The fire heat was in them, they seemed almost indigo, but it was still a heat she couldn’t begin to read, an indigo that was illusive.

  The gentle touch of his fingers as he brushed stray wisps of hair from her forehead and lightly caressed her cheeks was also absent. His smile was almost a shrug; he inclined his head toward the top far corner of the room as he touched his own finger in a barely perceptible shushing action to his own lips.

  Erin twisted slightly to see the object of his silent inclination. High in the wall, with no effort at concealment, was a microphone. Erin caught and held her breath and returned her eyes to Jarod’s.

  He shook his head as if she shouldn’t worry, but his warning only stirred new fears. Everything he did was so subtle. Was there also a camera in the room? Why else the kiss … the warnings … his proximity still.

  Why didn’t he move? Please, move! she thought silently. Surely he could hear the erratic pulsing of her heart, the pants that were still her effort at breathing. He had touched her; he knew that she responded to him physically. Why didn’t he move and save her further humiliation?

  Instead, his lips moved over hers again as long strong fingers massaged the tendrils of hair at her temples, the curves of her cheekbones. His kiss was very light this time, yet it seemed to linger. When he lifted his head once more, that enigmatic, wondering indigo was still thawing the usual ice of his stare.

  But then it had always been fire. Icefire. A cold that burned with raging intensity no matter what the veneer of polish and civility.

  He spoke loudly as he slipped his body from hers and the bed with agility. “Damn, it’s hard to leave, darling. Perhaps we should make this a short engagement … very short. I can’t seem to work with you around and yet not with me…. Oh, well, let me get out of here while I can. I’ll be back at eight. Oh—dinners at Sergei’s are always very formal. Love you, darling….”

  His voice was a caress, it was husky, it was velvet. It was astoundingly believable … and she couldn’t even respond. She could only watch him with all that had been hers just moments—or had it been eons?—before hopelessly, irrevocably shattered.

  INTERLUDE

  THE HALL HERE WAS the same, long and white and sterile. And at its end the picture was also the same, floor-to-ceiling machinery, reels and disks and memories and drives.

  It might have been the same place.

  It wasn’t. It was miles and miles and miles away.

  This lady had been dubbed Catherine the Great.

  He slipped his hand into the pit, waited for the whirring and lights of the computer, and leaned back in the chair.

  GOOD EVENING, JAROD STEELE.

  GOOD EVENING, CATHERINE II.

  His mood was hardly at its best, and he hurriedly punched out keys.

  PLEASE SPARE ME A WEATHER REPORT. I AM WELL AWARE THAT IT IS FREEZING AND MISERABLE.

  Catherine II whirred a second; her drive lights blinked.

  TESTY, TESTY, JAROD STEELE.

  Jarod scowled. He needed this from a computer.

  NO UNSOLICITED DATA PLEASE.

  RUN A PROGRAM. FILE: PROJECT MIDNIGHT.

  Jarod read the program, scanning the file for any little thing he might have missed. The information hadn’t changed any; he hadn’t really expected it to.

  Somewhere along the line, Samuel Hughes had panicked. Perhaps he had known he had played his cards too far, or perhaps he had been so supremely confident that he had taken a perverse pleasure in filing information right beneath the noses of the U.N., the U.S.A., and Great Britain. And most likely he had somehow fed equivalent information to a Soviet counterpart.

  A newcomer was involved, but whether the newcomer was actually in on the espionage, or merely a patsy to be used, Jarod didn’t know.

  Code name Mc.

  The Mc didn’t necessarily have to belong to a name, but none of the computer or cipher experts had been able to come up with anything else.

  Mc.

  McCabe.

  And Sergei was also showing a tremendous interest in Erin.

  We should be working on this together, Jarod thought. For once we are both determined to put an end to this dangerous double-dealing.

  Perhaps they were working together, but they were also encircling one another warily.

  FILE PLEASE: ERIN MCCABE

  Jarod found himself scanning the words very carefully, propelled now by a driven curiosity that he had not had when he had first read the data from Catherine I. The file contained little on her personal life; no reason for the dissolution of her short-lived marriage. No mention of the bracelets.

  Jarod began to fill in all that had happened since the train, finding that his observations could hardly be called objective. Annoyed with his own wordage, he added:

  SUBJECT A BIT OF A KLUTZ, BUT SURPRISINGLY AWARE OF MUCH; DRESSES WELL FOR CLIMATE, SEEMS UP ON HISTORY AND CONTEMPORARY AFFAIRS. GRACIOUS PERSON; OFTEN RESERVED, IS ABLE TO HIDE EMOTIONS. ATTRACTIVE, BUT OVERLY SLENDER. SKIN AND BONES.

  Jarod was startled as Catherine II whirred her motors after the last—giving him a double-check query on information filed.

  SKIN AND BO
NES?

  Jarod typed irritably:

  YES I SAID SKIN AND BONES. WHY THE DOUBLE CHECK?

  PROBABILITY LAW: A MAN WHO BECOMES SO INTENSELY INVOLVED IN A HOTEL ROOM DOES NOT CONSIDER THE OBJECT OF HIS INVOLVEMENT “SKIN AND BONES.”

  Stunned, Jarod stared at the screen with his jaw somewhat slack. He snapped back quickly.

  WHERE WAS THAT INFORMATION ACQUIRED?

  FILTERED FROM KATERINA AT JUSTICE BUILDING IN KREMLIN.

  “Damn!” Jarod murmured aloud. His suspicions had been well founded. Erin’s movements were being taped as well as recorded. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. The Soviet government monitored tourists frequently, doing random checks, something like the IRS. But if Catherine was managing to hone in on Katerina, was Katerina also tuning in to Catherine?

  HAS KATERINA ACCESS TO OUR FILES?

  NO. CODE HAS NOT YET BEEN BROKEN.

  Jarod breathed a small sigh of relief. He desperately wanted to ferret this one out himself before an incident was created.

  RETURN TO FILE. AND FOR YOUR INFORMATION, MADAME THE GREAT, HOTEL INCIDENT WAS IN THE LINE OF DUTY. SUBJECT NEEDED TO BE QUIETED.

  Catherine’s whirr sounded like soft feminine laughter.

  OH REALLY, JAROD STEELE? A SIMPLE PECK ON THE CHEEK WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.

  OH SHUT UP, CATHERINE. YOU KNOW DAMNED WELL

  His fingers went still. Yes, the Catherine systems knew all about Jarod Steele. All about Cara Steele. Knew well that his wife’s death had devastated him, lost him years of his life, then put him where he was today, married to his job, the perfect candidate for a position that demanded all from one who had ceased to care about much else.

  SCRATCH ENTRY, CATHERINE. NEW QUERY. THE SOVIETS BELIEVE THAT MISS MCCABE AND I ARE ENGAGED?

  MOST CERTAINLY, JAROD STEELE. VERY CONVINCING PERFORMANCE. VERY, VERY CONVINCING PERFORMANCE.

  THAT WILL DO!

  Jarod typed in INTERRUPTION.