“I sincerely doubt that any occasion will arise again in which I would find myself escorted by Mr. Sayer,” she said coolly.
His hold on her eased. “See that there isn’t, Erin,” he warned.
He turned sharply on his heels and left her standing in the kitchen torn between outrage and tears—and wondering what the night would bring.
Erin had become accustomed to doing the little things in the house, to preparing their meals and straightening out the apartment.
There was seldom much to straighten: Jarod was as neat in habit as he was in dress, and a middle-aged Russian woman came in twice a week to do the major cleaning.
But today she was determined not to do a thing. It was spiteful, and she knew it, but she was deeply hurt and couldn’t help feeling spiteful. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting when Jarod returned—but she supposed she had fantasized that he would have an apology and a good explanation. She had imagined that he would miss her, that he would greet her with his lips half curled in a smile, that he would have begged her pardon so that she would return to his arms; and she would run to him, of course.
Instead, he had come down upon her like lead. And it was rather difficult to forgive and rush into someone’s arms when no forgiveness was requested—no explanation at all given!—and no arms outstretched.
I keep wanting to make this more than it is, she warned herself. But despite her arguments toward mature behavior, she was hurt. And her instinct decreed that he should be hurt in return.
He had retired to his den when he left her. She fixed herself a sandwich and took her food and tea to the music room, where she stayed, nursing her wounded dignity and pride.
He didn’t make a reappearance until late. As soon as she heard his footsteps on the stairs, Erin tensed, wondering what his reaction would be to her complete withdrawal from her responsibilities. Her heart began a little thump when she knew that he sought her out, but she forced her eyes to remain on the book she had held open on the same page for most of the late afternoon and early evening.
His brows were raised in query as he glanced into the music room and saw her feet curled beneath her on the far chair.
“Were you planning dinner?” he inquired flatly with no telltale emotion as he stretched his shoulders.
Erin looked up slowly from her book, meeting his eyes with hers just as clear. “No, I wasn’t. I ate earlier.”
“You’re being a little childish, aren’t you?” he inquired, his tone irritatingly blasé.
“I’m not being anything,” Erin replied as nonchalantly as she could manage, turning a page of her book as if she looked with great interest to the next. “It just seems a little foolish for me to plan anything when I have no idea what your plans are.”
“Oh,” he replied. “Well, in the future, should I be upstairs all day, you can assume that I’ll be here all evening—unless I inform you otherwise.”
Erin continued staring at her book. He turned and left her. Moments later she heard his movements in the kitchen, and then a delectable and pleasing aroma faintly radiated through the apartment.
Tears stung the back of her eyelids, but she impatiently blinked them away. She was a fool to think that anything she did or didn’t do would have much effect upon Jarod. He was an independent man, accustomed to taking care of himself. And apparently their argument hadn’t meant a thing to him. He had behaved as if he had forgotten all about it and as if she should have done the same with nothing being solved.
She couldn’t forget the anger with which he had lashed out at her, nor could she forget the things he had said in chastisement, even if she wanted to. And maybe it was good. The ties had to be broken. All of the ties.
She sat staring sightlessly at her book for a while longer, then closed it and stood with firm resolution. She walked into the dining room, waiting for him to look up, knowing that he was aware of her presence. He continued to read the Russian paper he held in his hand as he ate.
“Jarod,” Erin said, forcefully controlling her irritation.
He looked up with polite interest.
She suddenly felt tongue-tied. She didn’t want to say what she had to say, but she knew it was best. And maybe, in a far corner of her heart, she was praying that he would protest, that he would suddenly tell her that he had fallen in love with her and needed her for the rest of his life.
“I believe we’ve taken this thing a bit too far,” she said stiffly. “I don’t care to keep this business relationship personal any longer. I realize this isn’t a tremendous apartment, and I have no wish to seriously inconvenience you, but I want to make separate sleeping arrangements. I’ll be happy to take either the couch or the den.” Erin felt enveloped in tension, as if she had set the timer of a bomb and was incapable of moving away from the sight of the coming explosion.
But there was no explosion. He set his paper and fork down and crossed his arms over his chest, one of his brows ever so slightly lifted as he smiled at her. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll be perfectly comfortable in the den.”
“Fine, thank you,” Erin said, feeling as if she were very far away.
He returned his gaze to his paper. Stupidly, Erin remained staring at him, wondering at the numbness that filled her.
He glanced back up again, blue eyes as brilliantly sharp and unfathomable as marble. “Was there something else?”
“No,” Erin murmured.
His eyes immediately returned to his paper. Tightening her jaw against the curt dismissal, Erin turned and slowly moved her way up the staircase.
It wasn’t until she was in bed, sheets tensely pulled to her chin, that she accepted how badly she had slashed at her own nose. Or had she taken the only sensible course? He wasn’t a cruel person, he simply didn’t care. He called out demands, but it was all business; he had never pretended he would really give any of himself.
Erin went rigid with both fear and anticipation as she felt the doorknob twisting. She had locked the door, and that determined decision now led him into a spat of oaths.
“Erin—open it now! I don’t mind turning my room over to you, but if it isn’t presuming too much,” he drawled sarcastically, “I’d like to have access to my own clothing.”
Erin swallowed. She jumped from the bed, opened the door without glancing his way, then crawled back beneath the sheets, turning from him and closing her eyes, feeling both miserable and ridiculous.
She heard him moving about briskly, then sensed that he stood over her. She slowly met his eyes, forcing her own to remain steady and coolly opaque.
“I take it you would just as soon I move out of my own home—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Erin interrupted, mustering a fine line of disdain in defense. “I fully realize what an absurdity that would be.”
“That’s big of you,” he returned dryly.
Erin blinked and swallowed, but didn’t allow the frost in her gaze to waver. Why did he have to challenge her so, she wondered. He seemed to tower over her as he stood there, and he had never appeared more virile, more confidently male than he did now, clad in the blue pullover, hands on hips, eyes highlighted to a deathly piercing degree by the blue in the sweater. She wanted to reach out, to apologize for being foolish and jealous and hurt, but she couldn’t. If they were to live together on the terms they had fallen into before, he owed her certain considerations he had no intention of giving.
And he had brought out a few things himself. There was only one thing Gil Sayer was after, he had said. Apparently it was the only interest he had himself. That and using her in his search for Project Midnight.
“But,” he continued, the warning ringing clearly through his soft tones, “I will remind you that this is my apartment, my home. Whatever little triumphs you take, you take because I give them to you. I don’t have the time, patience, or inclination to play games with you, Erin. Do what you like within this house—it makes no difference to me. But I meant what I said earlier—don’t push me. I don�
�t want you out of here with anyone without my knowledge, and I especially do not want you around Sayer. I don’t think you fully accept this, Erin, but you are my wife. And any reactions I might have to your actions are going to be those of a husband.”
As quietly as he had come, he turned to leave, pausing once at the door, and actually smiling as he turned back to her.
“One more thing, Erin. Don’t ever lock a door against me in my own home again. You wouldn’t appreciate seeing just how ‘Russian’ I am capable of being.”
Erin didn’t think she could bear his eyes cutting into her any longer, but she couldn’t seem to tear her own away. Still caught in his gaze, she twisted, turning her back on him so that she could finally close her eyes.
He walked out. The slam of the door behind him was shattering; she could almost hear the splintering of wood.
She lay awake shivering miserably for hours, wondering how she had made such a disaster of what had once been a decent and livable relationship. I didn’t do it, she kept telling herself, or if I did, it had to be done. If he had cared at all … but he didn’t. The fact was that she had fallen in love with him; he wasn’t in love with her, and she couldn’t make him be.
So all that had had happened was for the best. It would make her inevitable departure so much easier. It would still the dreams and the nightmares, it would make her life at home plausible.
Damn! How she wished she had never come to Russia! How had things happened so quickly? Where did I go wrong? she wondered desperately. And her continual answer was that none of it had been her fault, and that she really couldn’t have done anything differently.
None of it helped any. She tossed and turned for most of the night. She was awake when she heard Jarod slam out of the apartment; she was awake at two A.M. when he came back in, and she lay there waiting, still hoping, craving, that he would come to her, that they could both apologize. But he didn’t come back to the room, and then her tossing became worse as she wondered where he had gone and with whom.
The pain was terrible. It seemed to tear apart her insides like the twist of a knife. It burned, it tortured. She couldn’t bear the thought of him with another woman. Holding another woman. Touching … his fingers, so strong, so feather-light tender….
With a deep groan she buried her head in the pillow until it was dawn again and exhaustedly she finally went to sleep.
IX
HE GLANCED UP FROM his papers as she entered the room and eyed her warily. When she came to him like this, looking prim and proper, her manner frigidly dignified, he knew he was in for another bombshell.
He felt himself tense as she took the chair opposite his desk, her elegant fingers folded upon her lap, the shade of her nails a dark red contrast against the golden ivory of her skin.
Damn her, he thought for the zillionth time. Damn her, damn her….
He had been eager to see her, so eager, when he returned from Kiev. A group of kids trying to bring in a truckload of religious literature had held him up in Kiev. He shouldn’t have had to be involved, but he had been there, and the American consulate in Kiev had called upon him. He had been unavoidably detained, and in all that time he had grown more and more anxious to come home.
His apartment had become a home because she was there, making meals and anxiously awaiting his approval, quietly keeping things straightened in his wake, even repairing a tear in one of his favorite shirts.
They didn’t discuss much. Sometimes they were painfully polite. But when he would finish his work in the den for the day, she would be there, a fragrance of softness and wildflowers in his bed, a touch of satin, a soft breeze that could whip into a torrid tempest when he took her into his arms.
His thirst should have been slaked. But the more he drank of her, the more his need arose. He would be satisfied, filled to contentment unlike any he had ever known. But then he would burn again because she was an addiction. The silver in her eyes bewitched him, the curve of her lithe slender form beside his was fast becoming a narcotic habit he had no desire to break. Which was strange, because he had always believed the excitement would end. He had wanted women with a determined fever before, and that compulsion to possess had been there, but it had always passed. Except with Cara, and he had been lost in love at that time. With Cara he hadn’t known that driving passion; she had been so fragile, their love so tender.
With Erin the excitement didn’t end. It continued to spiral. He could leave her one minute, turn back to her, and find himself fascinated with the sheer glow of her skin, with the way her long back dipped at the waistline in a provocative curve. Then he would feel the laps of fire touching, igniting a rage of desire within him once again.
But when he had finally returned, tired and disgusted, she hadn’t been there. He had made all the calls he could think of and paced the room with fear and anxiety over her welfare until cold beads of sweat broke out all over his brow. Then she had waltzed in with Gil Sayer, and stretched to kiss his cheek with her silver eyes dazzling. He had wanted to break her neck. The rage that filled him had been explosive, barely, barely held in check.
He had never liked Sayer, never trusted him. He was overly subservient to any superior, to the Americans, to the Russians. There was just something slimy about his behavior, something that scented of a rat. And Erin had been with him, fawning over him, taken by the blond beach boy good looks, the profusion of flattery.
It had been all Jarod could do to keep himself from flattening Gil against the wall and dumping him out on the street like garbage. He, a man who deplored the use of violence in any form, an agent of the largest peace organization in the world, had wanted to take Sayer apart limb by limb.
But it was still a violent and at times a savage world he lived in. Possession had been threatened, and his responses were those of a primitive ancestor. He had wanted to stomp Sayer, and he longed to wrest Erin into his arms, shake her until that defiant light faded from the silver of her eyes, and take her right there in the kitchen until she cried out that it was only he she could desire.
Fool. He had been her experiment; a venture back into the world. And now that she had discovered that rapturous world, she was apparently eager to experiment with men she found seductive herself. Not while she was his wife. She could withdraw from him, turn her imperious little back on him, and he would tolerate it, for the time. There was no woman living he would beg or force. But he’d be damned if she’d go elsewhere. He did hold the power to subdue her.
Their relationship could no longer be considered polite. He had been back for five days, and for five days they had carefully skirted one another. They ate separately, they picked up after themselves, and Erin never stayed in the same room with him.
Jarod spent as much time away as he could. Hours in the Kremlin, hours at the embassy, hours and hours with Catherine, trying to break the code, trying to discover where the information was coming from, how it was being transmitted, and why it was so destructive.
And ever since last week he had been trying to investigate Sayer. It had been Sayer who had put Erin on the plane the day she had wound up in Sergei’s custody. And he was the man Erin would have tolerated with pleasure as a marriage partner.
He knew that he couldn’t allow his emotions to tie in with his work. He tried to think that he was controlling them, that pure logic led his investigation. It didn’t, in spite of the logical pieces of information about Sayer that pinpointed him as a possible double agent. He had access to certain installations, he could come and go freely, he had friends among the Soviets and Americans alike. And Jarod truly doubted Gil would have any compunctions about using any one….
“Jarod!”
He snapped back from the intensity of his brooding to remember that Erin had broken her silent cold war to come in and speak with him as if they had made an appointment.
“What?” he demanded curtly, hating the hostile glaze to the shimmering silver of her eyes as she met his gaze. His tone became very harsh as he rememb
ered their last conversation. “I wish the personal side of our relationship to come to an end.”
“What?” he snapped again impatiently. “I’m busy, Erin. If you have something to say, please say it.”
“Yes,” she hissed in return, her body perfectly still and her back straight as she sat. “I wanted to speak to you about my getting out of the U.S.S.R. It seems ridiculous that I must still remain here, making us both so tense and miserable. Or excuse me—you haven’t really seemed to notice, but I am tense and miserable, and I’m sure you must at least want your bedroom back. It would only take you a few hours to fly me out of the country, not that much of an inconvenience—”
Jarod tossed his pencil down on the desk so hard that it snapped and half bounced to the floor. He walked away from her, staring out to the street below from the small window. “A few hours would not inconvenience me, Mrs. Steele, but what your leaving the country at this time would do to my credibility would be very inconvenient indeed. Don’t you understand yet why you were taken off that plane? Or perhaps you don’t realize who ordered you brought back. Sergei Alexandrovich ordered you held, Erin. He can be a nice, nice man, my love, but he could also talk a nun into renouncing her vows. Do you know what I had to do to get you in my American hands that day? Or do you care? I’m afraid you’ll have to hear anyway. My neck went on the block. Sergei trusted me when I didn’t know whether the hell to trust you or not. He was a little suspicious that my loving fiancée was taking off into the wild blue yonder to begin with, and I had to swear to be responsible for you. There were a number of times after that in which I had to lie through my teeth about the marriage making sense because we were so desperately in love—”
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