Red Midnight (25 page)

Tanya laughed as they left the office. “You look as if you have just walked out of the Siberian snows!”

Erin flushed. “I always hate doctors’ appointments.”

“So do I,” Tanya admitted. “Let’s stop somewhere and have a drink and then we shall purchase something at GUM to ease that guilty conscious of yours.”

“My conscious isn’t guilty!” Erin protested.

Tanya lightly quirked her brows, saying nothing until they were seated in a pleasant lunch establishment. It wasn’t a tourist restaurant, and therefore Erin had to rely upon her guide’s translations. After they had ordered drinks and sandwiches, Erin once more found Tanya gazing at her speculatively. She grimaced and suddenly blurted out, “Erin, you do know that I am your friend.”

Erin smiled quizzically. “Thank you, Tanya. I believe that.”

Tanya took a sip of dark Russian beer. “I know that you are alone here—except for your husband, of course. But there are things a woman doesn’t always wish to discuss with a man. I feel that you are having a problem with your marriage, and I would like to help in any way that I can. I think so very much of both you and Jarod.” Tanya smiled warmly. “I have three married sisters, and I have the feeling that newlywed difficulties are very similar, be we Russians or Americans.”

Erin grimaced. “I’ll bet you’re right, Tanya.” How she hated lying to this woman, who really was her only friend in the Soviet Union. But she couldn’t tell the truth, any of it. “There really isn’t anything wrong, Tanya. We, ah, simply weren’t expecting to get married in the Soviet Union, and I don’t like to bother Jarod with anything now because he is so very busy.”

Erin sensed that Tanya didn’t believe her, but the Russian woman pressed no further. Tanya shrugged and went on to talk about her family, amusing Erin with stories about her nephews and nieces. When they finished lunch, they went on to pick up a few items at the department store and then Tanya brought Erin home, assuring her she would return for the dinner party.

Erin heard Jarod’s movements in the den as she mounted the staircase, but she would have gone on straight to the bedroom if he hadn’t called her. She paused in the doorway as he clipped out her name.

“Did you have a nice day?” he inquired, the blue of his eyes very penetrating upon her. Why did she feel as if he could see straight through flesh and dig into her soul?

“Yes,” she replied. “It was fine. We went to lunch and poked around the GUM.”

He nodded absently. “I’ve arranged your transport out. We’ll leave here on the first of June.”

Erin felt as if a cold shaft had hit her, as if she would buckle in the doorway. But she didn’t buckle, she didn’t move, she didn’t even blink. “That’s fine. Thank you.”

“I wanted to let you know in case you had agents or managers or anyone to contact.”

“Thank you.” She suddenly remembered the letter she had left on his desk to Mary before his disastrous return from Kiev. “Oh, Jarod—” she began.

“I mailed your letter the day I saw it,” he told her before she could go further.

“Thank you,” Erin murmured again.

His eyes had returned to his desk. She walked on into the bedroom, fighting the urge to burst into tears. She was glad to know her departure date. She wanted to go home, she wanted to end this torture. And she would never see him again.

It seemed as if her mind waged silent battles, then went numb as she showered and dressed for the party. She chose a navy velvet gown to wear, one with long sleeves and a Chinese collar. Elegant and conservative. Jarod, she thought, would approve.

When she emerged from the bedroom she discovered the apartment full of activity. A plump cook as wide as she was short was busy in the kitchen creating things that smelled divine, and two younger women were setting the dining room table with shimmering silver and crystal. Erin didn’t see Jarod, so she smiled tentatively at the women, poured herself a glass of wine, and slipped into the music room—out of the way. She found herself glancing at the balalaika and wondering again at the man who could play the old instrument so beautifully. Then her glance fell to the diamond she wore—the diamond given to her by both Jarod and Sergei. It seemed to mock her as it brilliantly dazzled.

Suddenly determined, Erin set her wine down and marched into the kitchen, excusing herself to the amicably grinning cook. She squeezed a portion of dish soap over her hand and began to work at the ring, which refused to slide over her knuckle. She became so engrossed that she didn’t hear Jarod come up behind her.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, startling her.

She flew around, splaying him with soap and water. And of course he was already dressed, in velvet. His eyes closed, and a long sigh of resigned control escaped him.

“I’m sorry—” Erin began.

“Just hand me a towel, please.”

Erin groped for the hand towel and passed it to him. Luckily, no real damage was done. He brushed his shirt and jacket quickly with the terry cloth and it was apparent they would dry without staining. Erin kept staring at him, annoyed that she was once more appearing like the disaster that waited to happen. “You startled me,” she accused.

“I asked you what you were doing.”

“I … uh …” Erin stumbled for only a minute, then” noticed that the hired cook was watching them uncomfortably. She stiffened. “Could we talk in the music room, please.”

He inclined his head toward her sardonically. “Certainly.”

Erin retrieved her wine glass as soon as they entered the room. She took a sip, then spun to face him. “I insist upon giving this ring back to Sergei. I’m leaving in a little over a month, and it isn’t right that I take—”

“Oh, dammit, that again!” Jarod interrupted irritably. “Will you please listen and try to understand? The ring is mine, and it means nothing. While you are here, I prefer that you wear it. When you return home, do whatever you please: keep it, dump it, sell it, or give it away. Just please don’t bring it up again!”

Erin was too startled by his vehemence to give an immediate reply, and by that time he was going on. “I’d like this party to break up at about eleven—I have to go out after. I’d appreciate it if you would help see that things go smoothly so that our guests will leave by then.”

He turned then as the doorbell rang.

Without thinking, Erin called after him. “Jarod?”

Her voice was soft; he turned back to her.

“Where—where are you going?”

He hesitated, and she felt as if he sought something from within her with his eyes. “I have business on the square,” he said quietly. “I’ll be home right after.”

He left her behind to open the door.

The dinner went very smoothly. The plump little cook had created a mouth-watering concoction of beef in pastry that was nothing short of delicious, and the talk was casual. But as they progressed to coffee and brandy, Erin noticed that Jarod seemed to be watching. Watching what, she wasn’t sure. But she had come to know him somewhat. She knew the keen alertness that was ever alive in his gaze despite his casual stance. She knew he could be engaged in one conversation while listening to another, that his solicitous, tender touches throughout the evening were all a part of his design, whatever that design was. Did he feel her? she wondered. And she felt ever so slightly ill because she could feel him so intensely, the gentle graze of his velvet against her cheek, the scent that had long ago lured her, the touch of his eyes, his hands upon her shoulders.

He was talked into playing the balalaika in accompaniment to Tanya at the piano after coffee. Erin had heard him play before, but had never seen him. She marveled at his ease with the instrument, at the lightness of his strong fingers upon the strings. He was such a contrast of qualities, but each of his contrasts further enmeshed Erin in the man.

She glanced at the clock after the musicians declined to do another number to find to her horror that it was already half past ten. Jarod had asked her to help ease their company out by eleven—and she was determined to show him that she was capable. She picked up several of the empty snifters and liqueur glasses to bring them to the kitchen, hoping someone would realize that she was cleaning up because it was late.

“Can I help you?”

Erin glanced up from the sink where she had deposited the glasses to see Gil’s eager gaze upon her. He was such an amazingly pleasant person, Erin thought. Always willing to help, always anxious to please. She smiled at him. Jarod didn’t want her out with Gil, but Jarod had asked Gil into the house. Surely he couldn’t find fault with her for being pleasant in return to a guest in her own home.

“Thanks, Gil,” she smiled.

He disappeared and returned to hand her some empty coffee cups and saucers. “You look tired,” he said compassionately. “Is that why you’re trying to chase us all out?”

“I’m not—” Erin protested, and then she laughed. “All right,” she whispered conspiratorially. “I am trying to chase you all out, but not because I’m tired. Jarod has to take care of some quick business late tonight.”

“Ohhh …” Gill whispered back. “Out on Red Square, huh?”

Gil must be working on the same stuff, Erin thought, pleased to hear his words. It meant that Jarod really was working, that he wasn’t leaving her for another woman—at least, not tonight.

Erin nodded with a half smile.

Gil winked. “I’ll help you!” he whispered.

True to his promise, Gil returned to the music room and yawned deeply, then apologized profusely and said he must leave. He thanked both Jarod and Erin—kissing her hand elegantly—and led the others into also voicing their thanks and following him out of the door.

Finding herself nervous and alone with Jarod, Erin once more set about cleaning up the refuse of the party, collecting glasses and cups and emptying ashtrays. The cook and serving girls had left right after the last dessert dish had been picked up, and it seemed the only logical thing to do.

His fingers slipped around her arm as she bent to collect a demitasse cup. “Don’t bother,” he said softly, whirling her around and meeting her wide surprised eyes. “Sonia will be back in the morning and she likes her job. If you leave things too clean, she won’t have anything to do.” Even he, who knew both the strengths and delicacies of her beauty, was a bit awed by his wife in the navy velvet gown. It heightened the conflict of angel and devil he had always sensed within her. It was conservative, it was concealing, but the velvet clung to her slender curves in a hugging softness of sheer sensuality.

He had been smiling; he stiffened. “Go up and get some sleep,” he ordered gruffly.

He had been too close; he could have easily read the things in her eyes, heard the pounding of her heart. She had to move, quickly, before he could sense the things she never wanted him to know.

Erin nodded wordlessly and jerked her arm from his grasp.

His call stopped her at the stairway. “Thank you for this evening. Everything went smoothly. And”—he hesitated only a second—“you were exquisitely lovely.”

He spun around before she could reply. Erin watched while he took his overcoat from the hall closet and slipped into it. He didn’t glance her way again, but opened the door and disappeared into the night.

She stood at the foot of the staircase biting her lip for a long while, despising the way she clung to his words. “You were exquisitely lovely.” Finally she turned and trudged slowly up the stairs, shedding her velvet gown and slipping into a flannel nightdress. She was tired, bone weary, but she seemed doomed to sleeplessness. So she was awake when he returned hours later.

She automatically tensed when the door to the bedroom opened, and she instinctively kept her eyes closed as he walked to the side of the bed. He made no sound, but he stood there, staring at her.

Although he always gave so little away, she was becoming attuned to his moods and emotions. She could always feel his presence, and the radiating heat she felt now was chilling. He certainly hadn’t come because he thought her lovely. He was angry. Lividly angry. She could feel it as he stood there, a hot, tangible, palpitating presence.

She tried not to move, not to curl away in instinctive and innocent fear. Jarod would not harm her, but she sensed that he wanted to. That he wanted to waken her, shake her, challenge her. Why? she wondered desperately. Why?

It seemed that he stood there for an eternity, watching her. Erin prayed that he believed she slept. She willed herself not to move, not to jerk. She felt him turn. As silently as he had come, he had gone with his uncanny quiet, and she was left to lie awake for hours more, wondering what on God’s earth she could have possibly done….

T
HE SNOW WAS ABSURDLY
deep for this time of the year. Flurries of an hour ago had become flakes, and Red Square was covered in a blanket of white.

His footsteps crunched upon the new snow as he walked, a lone, dark figure in a navy wool topcoat and typical furred hat. He paused before the square near St. Basil’s. To the right he could see Lenin’s tomb before the red brick Kremlin walls. The guards stood like statues, motionless in the snow.

Why had he come tonight? he wondered, blowing on his gloved hands as if he could add warmth beneath the leather. Instinct. Something in the air of the streets; an aura of tension that had invaded the embassy today, alerted his bloodstream. He was still sure the action took place on Red Square, beneath the noses of them all. At midnight.

In the distance, clocks began to strike the chimes of midnight. He watched as the Kremlin gates opened, as a new vanguard goose-stepped its way to the marble mausoleum.

He waited, tensed. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing he could see. Nothing he could feel. Nothing, not a damn thing he could hear.

The high-stepped, awesome, and militaristic changing of the guard was complete, and still nothing had happened. He was a fool. A lone figure standing in the snow, freezing like an ass.

The first sound came so quickly he didn’t realize what it was. A sound like the whip of the wind, or the instant
zzz
of a mosquito. Except that there weren’t any mosquitos in the frigid capital this May.