Red Midnight (17 page)

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 really 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.

“But …” They both knew all the buts. The main one being that the marriage was a fraud, a fraud Erin sensed that he resented. He was in love with the wife he had lost. Yet even that full knowledge did little for her now. She could feel the span of his hand, warm and firm over the towel against the small of her back, the light touch of his finger upon her cheek. “Your suit,” Erin murmured stupidly, bringing her hands between them.

“I’ve ceased worrying about my suits around you,” he returned softly. The soft caress of his fingers left her cheeks, threaded into her hair, where he dislodged the pins, sending the cascade of shimmering damp gold around her shoulders.

Damn, was she beautiful. A silver-eyed mystery. Slender but so enticingly curved, so warm and alive. He allowed his hand to wind into the sleek softness of her hair, tilting her head back. And he kept staring into her silver eyes. Sun and moonlight, silk and satin, tanned and rose cream, igniting to a furnace beneath his touch.

He pressed her closer, pulling her to his hips, letting her feel just what she did to him. And as he spurred his own desires into spiraling heights with the intimate pressure of her, he dropped the towel, availing his hands of the sleek line that was her back, the trim contour that was her waist.

She quivered without protesting; the silver that clashed with blue fire misted until just the lure of her eyes was irresistibly sensual. And then he touched his lips to hers. They were wet and full and parted, waiting, knowing. Her tongue readily met his. He slipped his hands low to her buttocks, fluttering lightly over them, moving around to course smoothly over her lower abdomen, pause, relishing the deep curves of her hips, rising high to cup and caress the full, swelling mounds of her breasts.

His own fevered need kept him momentarily from realizing that she had gone dead still. The warm darting tongue that had so eagerly, so beguilingly, intoxicatingly responded to the seeking quest of his had suddenly retreated; the sweet pressure of her golden creamy body attempted a retreat.

“Jarod, no!” she shrieked, and the sound of her voice and the pressure of her hands took him off guard. It was with shock that he stared at her at first; shock because it had all been there. A need and desire to soar fully to match his own.

“Erin,” he began in soft confusion, his touch going very gentle. Her silver eyes were wild; they were a storm of tempest he couldn’t discern. “Erin—” he began to repeat.