And she still couldn’t believe all that had happened; everything was so much worse than she had ever believed could be possible. The enigma had deepened, only now the enigma had a name, Project Midnight. Somehow she had become a player in a high-stakes game, and she hadn’t even known she had ever rolled the dice.
She had twisted furiously at her bracelets subconsciously, then realized she was also twisting at the mysterious diamond and the gold band that encircled her finger above it. I’m married to him, she thought incredulously. But the fact had no substance; it simply wasn’t credible. She couldn’t be Mrs. Jarod Steele; Jarod Steele was a hard man she would never understand.
“I’m surprised he left me alone in his apartment,” she murmured bitterly. “There mustn’t be any family jewels around; surely I would steal them!”
Two months! The thought hit her with a walloping panic. Tears filled her eyes; she had a decent life back in New York; good work, good friends. But here she was, stuck in the home of a man who seemed to despise her the majority of the time. She couldn’t possibly stay here with him.
But she would have to. She was supposed to be his wife—was his wife. He would never let her go. Her feelings meant nothing next to Project Midnight. She had heard of marriage for money, but never for a cipher!
I can’t stay here, I really can’t. I don’t believe this, any of this, it can’t be real…. But it was real. She could see the warm earth tones of the living room, feel the leather of the couch, hear the crackle of the fire….
Lost and overwhelmed, Erin finally began pacing the apartment.
The music room drew her, and she idly ran her fingers over the keys of the grand piano. The chords sounded ominous and she left off. In the far corner of the room was an instrument that somewhat resembled a guitar. It was large and deeply bowled. She plucked out a chord, and the sound was sweet. A balalaika, she thought, frowning as she strained to remember the display at one of the Kremlin museums. It was an old Russian instrument.
She jumped half a mile when she heard the ringing of a phone. It was several seconds before she realized she should answer it. Then it occurred to her that she had no idea where the phone was.
She forced herself into action and raced for the living room. No phone. Of course, idiot, I’ve been sitting in there for hours—I would have seen the phone.
The kitchen. It was, she was sure, sitting on the overpass counter.
She was right, but by the time she reached the receiver, the ringing had been going on for quite some time and she was panting and breathless.
“Hello?”
“Erin?” It was Jarod’s voice; it was sharp. “Are you all right?”
She took a deep breath—he had almost sounded concerned. “Yes, I’m fine. I—uh—couldn’t find the phone.”
“Oh.” He fell silent for so long that she began to believe they had been cut off.
“Jarod? Are you there?”
“Yes. I called to apologize for … our argument.”
She wondered from his use of words if she were supposed to be careful of what she said on the phone. “It’s all right,” she said softly.
“Things will work out,” he told her. “I left you rather abruptly. I’m going to take off early and we’ll go out to dinner.” He hesitated a moment again. “Feel at home in the apartment.”
Did that mean she shouldn’t fear cameras or mikes? Probably; he had that special immunity, and she sincerely doubted he would allow such an intrusion into his life no matter where he was.
“I—I will.”
“Be ready about five. We have a lot to discuss.”
“Yes,” Erin murmured.
He hung up without a good-bye. Erin very slowly returned the receiver to its cradle.
The apology from him had been startling at the very least. It hinted of something human within the burning ice. Then she started to shiver again. She was better off a bitter enemy of the man. Friendship could mean catastrophe.
She was his wife now and destined to play the role.
She slowly looked up from the phone. There was a clock on the far wall; it was moving past three.
She should have been in Paris in the little pension overlooking Montmartre. Russia should have been behind her. Memories of Jarod Steele should have been fading into a strange past.
After three! If she were going out she had better get moving.
For the first time, she treaded her way up the staircase. There were only two rooms on the second level, an office and a bedroom, also in earthtones … deep chocolate drapes matching the bedspread. An array of masculine toiletries stood upon the one handsome dresser. There were no closets, only an old-fashioned wardrobe.
And I’m going to have to live here. What on earth are we going to do? We’ll constantly be at one another’s throats, she thought miserably.
Surely he would give her the bedroom and-take the couch. Don’t count on that, she told herself wryly. He wasn’t the most gallant gentleman she had ever come across. That wasn’t fair either. Whatever his motives, he had a tendency to be there, authoritative, offering certain security, when she discovered she needed him.
But was he really helping her? Or merely assisting her to jump from the frying pan to the fire? She just might have been better off in jail.
No. She was logical enough to realize that, whatever happened between her and Jarod Steele, she was better off with him. She had heard of Americans who had been imprisoned in other countries for years, and she was wise enough to realize she might have been given a long stay, in Siberia.
She thought of young Ivan. Treason. She didn’t envy him; she felt tremors of terror arcing through her again. She didn’t want to think of Ivan. And if she didn’t hurry, she wouldn’t have time for the one luxury offered her at the moment. A bath. A long hot bubble bath with the supreme luxury of knowing she wouldn’t be watched.
Her suitcase sat upon the bed. She discovered as she opened it that the lining was gone. She closed her eyes for a second, and then reopened them. She wouldn’t have time to wash her hair, so she clipped it high above her head. And then she reached for her bubble bath and robe. On second thought she raced back to the kitchen. There was wine in the refrigerator—what respectable U.N. delegate would be without it? With a long stemmed glass in her hand, she returned upstairs, ran water in the tub in the spacious bath off the bedroom, poured in a ton of bubbles, sank in the heat, and finally, finally, found that she could begin to relax….
Jarod stared at Catherine’s screen, but he wasn’t really seeing the information printed. He was chewing at his thumbnail. He stopped in self-disgust. He never chewed his nails.
Catherine couldn’t break the cipher. It was a number; the key number, and it made perfect sense that the computer couldn’t come up with it. Whoever was supposed to be on the receiving line would have the key number.
He could start trying every possible numerical combination, but numbers were infinite, possible sequences were infinite….
Why the hell had he mentioned Project Midnight to her, he suddenly wondered. They were words that almost everyone recognized, but words neither side ever spoke. They were part of the circle waltz that played on and on, ignored on purpose in the eternal quest for rational diplomacy.
Because she isn’t guilty, he answered himself, and she deserves some answers. But it would be almost impossible to explain to her the workings of that fragile waltz.
Jarod sighed and rubbed his temples. The code exchanges were taking place at midnight. He knew it; Sergei knew it. Right in Red Square, blatantly before the seat of Soviet power. But none of them knew how.
Last night he had been there. So had Sergei. Nothing tangible had come about.
But Erin couldn’t be on the giving or the receiving end. She couldn’t have heard anything or seen anything. By making a spectacle of them both, he had seen to that.
But Erin had still been used.
Why did he keep accusing her? he wondered. He knew damned well that she hadn
’t been guilty. He had been angry; an anger that almost overwhelmed him. She hadn’t trusted him; she had tried to slip away from him. She had called another man for help. She had taken him completely off guard, left him feeling like an untrained idiot.
She had forced his hand. He had married her when he had sworn he would never marry again. No one would ever know what that had cost him. He could forget, he could function, he could need; he could even be courteous and charming … but marriage was Cara. Gentle Cara with her beautiful, tender smile. The soft voice that was never raised in anger. Rippling fingers that soothed away the tensions of the day. Warm hazel eyes that offered trust and love as she listened to all he said, voiced an opinion, cared to sort the workings of his mind.
He could never call another woman wife. But now he had a wife. That she was a woman he wanted only served to make his sense of betrayal to the beauty of Cara’s memory worse.
But at the same time, he felt sorry for her. Erin was nothing like Cara. She was independent, assured, cool as crystal. Her tongue was capable of dagger sharpness; she could draw a cloak of dignity about her that was almost impregnable. She had substance; she could endure…. And she was exquisitely beautiful.
She hadn’t deserved all that had happened; he was sure of that. Almost sure. And so he had forced the apology, and so he was going to do his best to make it easy for her. It wasn’t her fault she had become his wife.
It was Project Midnight. Double-dealing was no new thing; it went on continuously. But this was a case he fully intended to end. Each piece of information imparted to either side was another flame upon the fire; as often as not, the information was exaggerated or blatantly untrue. But the balance of the world’s two greatest powers was precarious; neither side ever trusted the motives of the other. And in Project Midnight nuclear armament was involved. Already the secrets passed had created devastating insecurities between negotiators; talks had been delayed, abandoned, now picked up again.
Sergei wanted it stopped, as did he. But distrust and insecurity had already run so deep, they couldn’t even accept one another at face value; the waltz continued.
Jarod stared at the screen to see that Catherine was asking him for a command. He shook his head; he had already tried every command he knew.
He should stay and work, but he was beating his head against a brick wall.
I’M GOING HOME, CATHERINE. MAYBE I CAN SOLVE A FEW PROBLEMS THERE.
He moved to check out of the computer; Catherine displayed a huge
CONGRATULATIONS
“Funny,” Jarod muttered a bit bitterly. But he was thinking of Erin as he walked the long hallway, thinking of her the short drive home. He was sure she was a pawn, nothing more, but he was torn between resenting the infinite problems she had caused him and a sorrow that she had been dragged into the whole thing.
And then he was thinking that he still didn’t really know. Throughout history the mightiest of kings, princes, and lawmakers had fallen prey to the guiles of a beautiful, innocent face. He could be taking Mata Hari to dinner for all he knew.
He knocked at his door and then scowled at himself with irritation. It was his home. She was the intruder, unwillingly, but still the intruder. He inserted his key in the lock and entered, discovering with a quick scan that she wasn’t downstairs. Casting aside his coat he strode quietly up the staircase.
Her suitcase lay open upon the bed, and a soft trickle of water alerted him to movement within the bathroom. Without thinking he walked toward the open door and stopped within its frame.
Her head rested upon the ridge of the deep old-fashioned tub, her eyes closed. Pins held her golden hair in alluring curls above the water, only the tips of certain tendrils dampened. A mist of soft steam rose above the mountains of white bubbles that formed around her. A quarter-full wine glass rested on the rear tile of the tub; its contents had probably induced the relaxed, half smile that tinged her lips. Light tan knee caps were visible above the bubbles, and dark against the clouded mystery of white were the roseate peaks of her breasts. A long slender arm, slick and glistening with the moist heat of the bath, dangled from the side, the diamond and wedding band displayed brilliantly and beautifully against the long manicured fingers that were without doubt the most elegant he had ever seen. Even now the bracelets held her wrists.
Her lashes, darkest honey against her cheeks, were a startling contrast to the creaminess of her complexion. Again, he knew he had never seen such skin before; it was spun silk to touch.
And it was easy, very, very easy to understand why Erin McCabe had become the epitome of elegance, beauty—and sensuality—to millions throughout the civilized world.
Watching her was arousing: the trickle of a droplet of water down the slender white column of her throat, the swell of her breasts, not large, but firm and high and full, tantalizing as her breathing slipped their level lower, higher, lower in the water, the adjustment of a leg, the bubbles sluicing down a slender thigh …
She looked like an angel, a creature of ultimate golden beauty, sent to embody all the delights of heaven. No, no woman with a body that promised such earthly delights could be classified as angel. But she was golden and beautiful and so unbelievably perfect and ethereal, surely the loveliness that was the ideal and pride of any god or gods.
He wasn’t sure of his feelings for her. They ranged between bitterness and an instinctive protective tenderness. But be she angel or devil, innocent or Mata Hari, he did know one thing. He had never wanted a woman more. And at this particular moment, this particular woman, who was making the liquids of his body rise and steam with the heat of the mist, was his wife.
As if his overwhelming need had actually reached out and touched her, making her aware of his presence, her eyes suddenly flew open wide with alarm. She blinked upon seeing him and sat up. She then realized she had deprived her breasts of the shield of the eternally popping bubbles, and sank back down, trying to appear nonchalant and undaunted while also attempting to swirl the remaining field of misted white around herself.
Despite the feelings gripping him in a surge of intense heat, despite the blood that seemed to rush and pound within his head, he had to laugh at her efforts.
Her eyes closed for a split second of annoyance and she demanded irritably, and a little breathlessly, “What are you doing here?” Her eyes, narrowed against the honey fluff of her lashes, were sheer, glittering silver.
“What am I doing here?” he queried with a brow lifted high. “I live here.”
“Yes, but you said five—”
He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the frame of the door—thoroughly enjoying her determination to wish the situation away.
“I didn’t think I needed to stick to an appointment time to enter my own apartment.”
She flushed slightly. “You don’t, of course, but I didn’t mean the apartment, I know it’s your apartment, that you come and go … I mean the room, I mean I don’t mean the room.” She finally stopped, drawing a deep breath, her anger partially directed at herself with rueful disdain for her own stuttering. “I mean, don’t you think it’s rather rude for you to stand there staring at me in the bathtub?”
“Not at all. You’re the one who left the door wide open.”
“Yes, but—oh, never mind! Would you mind closing the door for me?”
His smile warned her immediately that she had not phrased her wishes correctly at all. Dark lashes half fell to hide amused eyes as he inclined his head as if in acquiescence, and then he very amicably closed the door—with himself inside.
Erin felt a silver shivering race along her spine despite the heat of her bath. That he was amused at her expense again was evident.
But something else was also evident. He wasn’t playing games and the rippling lash of needs, fears, and confusions that washed over her in those few seconds of his appearance was engulfing. She wasn’t stunned; she was an adult. The tension had sparked between them from the very beginning. But she had never reall
y known what he would expect of their marriage until this minute, until he finally raised his eyelids fully, exposing her to the deepest blue fire she had ever seen. It had always been impossible to know what he really felt. She had always thought his passion, his tenderness, his slightest move a calculation, easily perpetrated for his own motives.
But there were no motives now. Just the two of them and a message that burned blue fire, caught and held, challenged, demanded.
He didn’t move. He had leaned against the door, arms once more crossed over his chest, his brow still slightly raised as he waited, apparently casual, apparently negligent.
If only she could fight her awareness of him. The scent that came to her now, clean, woodsy, and crisp; the sight of his fingers, long and lean, idly tapping against the rough texture of his tailored jacket; his face, lean, contoured, craggy, but like his scent, all very individual, all strong, all virile, all male were assailing her.
I can’t, she thought, the panicked warning washing over her, I can’t, I can’t….
She struggled to speak in a level voice. “That wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” she muttered dryly. “But since you wish to be inside, perhaps you would hand me a towel and I can then be outside.”
He shrugged, secured a huge terry towel from an ornate lion’s head rack, and stepped toward her. But he held the towel just out of her reach.
She knew, without a second’s thought, that there would be just one way of securing it. Gritting her teeth, Erin stood. But as she rose from the water, a new heat flared through her body. It was as moist and steaming as that which she had left behind; it caused her to quiver even as she reached out.
Instead of handing her the towel, Jarod slipped it around her shoulders and used it to pull her close against his chest. The rough feel of his jacket fabric against her bare breasts was so startling and sensual that her knees threatened to give beneath her.
“Jarod—” she gasped out.
“We are married,” he murmured, stilling her protest.
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