Red Midnight (34 page)

Now she didn’t even want to speak to him. She, who had everything necessary to bear and love a child, obviously found her pregnancy nothing more than an annoyance. She had told him, but then just as smoothly informed him that it was her business, not his.

He believed she intended to abort the child, and that inflamed his heart and fury more than he had ever deemed possible. She had a life she was anxious to get back to, and that life couldn’t include a child. The careful control he had exercised and nurtured all his life seemed to be slipping away from him like the shedding skin of a snake.

Because there was something else there. He didn’t want to let her go. He had come to expect her to be a part of his home, a part of his life. He wanted her in his bed at night, he wanted to hold her, to care for her, to speak to her over coffee in the morning, to sit down to a meal she had prepared and compliment her eager efforts as a chef. He liked to watch her brush her hair, to see her eyes in lazy, shimmering half slits as she luxuriated in the aftermath of love making, to watch her stretch luxuriously in satiated drowsiness when he dressed to leave in the mornings.

The bitterness, resentment, longings, and needs suddenly exploded. He took a step toward her which was indeed a pounce, grasping her wrists and wrenching her to her feet and hard against his chest. A startled cry escaped her, but he was beyond caring. The soft, feminine feel of her body against his was channeling the storm-swept turmoil of his emotions into a savage desire that demanded release.

“So we have nothing to discuss?” he demanded darkly, crushing her against him and forcing her chin to tilt back so that her wide silver eyes met his. “Accidents do happen?”

“Jarod, please.” She began to work at the wrists he held within his grasp, pinioned behind her to the small of her spine.

“Jarod …”

“Ahh, yes, your wrists, my sweet. Funny, but I find it hard to believe that they’re bothering you.” His lips suddenly came down on hers hard, unscrupulously parting them, bruising them with the demand of the kiss. His teeth commanded a further parting, his tongue sought hers in an undeniable primitive duel.

She couldn’t fight him. She was held within the vise of his body, unable even to twist her head, unable to deny that despite his ferocity she was being swept up into it. A weakness was stealing over her, a loss of breath that robbed her strength, a trembling that left her gasping against his chest when he finally released his brutal hold on her lips.

His hands moved swiftly to her shoulders to slip beneath the fabric of her gown and robe, pulling them roughly down. Erin shuddered. This wasn’t Jarod’s touch. This was cruel in its strength.

“Jarod,” she protested again. Stupidly, she wanted him; she was accustomed to sleeping with him, joyfully exploring the range of fire and heavenly delight he had given her. She loved him, pathetically. Even if he did not return that love, she couldn’t stop loving him. But this was wrong. Jarod could be fierce, his passions could rage like a thunderstorm, but there was no cruelty in the man she had come to know. “Jarod, please.” How stupid her protests sounded when she hung weakly against him.

“The way I see it,” he murmured bitterly against her ear, “the accident has already happened. Abstinence at this point would be rather absurd, don’t you think? Consenting adults …”

She felt his anger when the gown and robe she wore were torn and drifted in pieces to her feet. Then she was in his arms, being bounced onto the mattress. He followed her down, his body pressing hard against hers. This time she managed to twist her head from his lips, and her cry of his name permeated the boiling turmoil of his mind.

Her eyes were tightly clenched when she felt him go still. She kept them closed, gasping for breath and fighting the tears that threatened to slip from beneath them.

Seconds suspended into timelessness. Then she felt his weight lift from hers. She lay still, breathing, and then the bedroom door opened—and closed in his wake.

The tears slipped from beneath her eyes. She turned and stared at the door. His name escaped her lips once more. “Jarod …” It was a plea, a sobbed out plea, and he might have understood it had he heard it. But he was already out of the house, his footsteps unconsciously guiding him toward Red Square.

E
RIN LAY STARING AT
the door in a daze for a long time. Then she pulled her body from the bed and walked into the bathroom, feeling as if she had grown very old, as if her legs had grown hard and stiff. In the mirror above the sink she surveyed her reflection. Her tears had dried against her cheeks, her eyes appeared absurdly swollen.

She closed her eyes against her appearance and took a shower, standing beneath the spray of the water in hopes of revitalization. She wanted to sleep, but she couldn’t possibly sleep feeling so terribly tired. It didn’t make any sense.

Where had he gone, she wondered listlessly. He would come back, he had to come back, it was his apartment, she was the intruder.

Depression swamped over her. He would come back, then so what? There was nothing to say, nothing that could be done.

She wanted him to come back, she just wanted to know that he was there.

Erin turned off the water, stepped from the tub, dried herself thoroughly with a rough shaggy towel, and then wound the towel around her body. She sidestepped her torn gown as she returned to the bedroom and sat listlessly at the foot of the bed. The apartment was silent. Thankfully, Mary and Ted seemed to have slept through the slamming doors.

Tears started to sting behind her lids again and Erin stood, impatient with herself. She had to stop crying. It was stupid, it got her nowhere, and it drained her of the strength she needed.

She ripped open the closet door and stared numbly at the contents. Then she exchanged the towel for one of Jarod’s velour robes. She decided to make herself a cup of tea, and try to separate her thoughts and feelings and the facts of the situation.

As the water in the kettle heated to a boil, Erin glanced at the kitchen clock, amazed to see that it was still shy of midnight. They had gone up to bed at almost eleven thirty.

The kettle whistled. As Erin reached for it, she felt again the burning pain behind her eyelids. She wanted to go home to the busy streets of New York, to the spring beauty of the park, to the towering buildings, the people like cattle streaming through the streets. She laughed dryly despite the fear that the laugh would cause her to cry; she wanted to see the Statue of Liberty rising high on her pedestal, welcoming the weary home.

Home. Oh, God, how she wanted to go home …

She began humming “America” as she fixed her tea, a little startled to discover how patriotic she could find herself on the shores of another land.

Then her humming ceased. She wanted to go home, but she wanted to go home with Jarod. But in a way, Jarod was home. A part of him belonged to these people. He was Russian, he was American….

But none of that really mattered, because he was also anxious to no longer be her husband.

The shrill ringing of the phone startled her so badly that she sloshed her freshly poured tea all over the counter. Dabbing fruitlessly at the mess she had made while also reaching for the receiver, she simultaneously hoped that the ringing had not awakened her guests and that the caller would be Jarod. It would be so like him, she thought, shivers of prayerful anticipation making her weak. He was quick to anger, but just as quick to apologize.

“Erin?”

Her bubble of hope burst. The caller was Gil. What the hell is he doing calling at this hour, she wondered, her annoyance increased by irritation.

“Sorry to call you so late, but I have to talk to Jarod. It’s important.”

Erin frowned, her fingers tightening around the receiver. “At this hour?”

“I am sorry, Erin, but if he’s sleeping, please wake him.”

Erin bit her lip. “Gil, I’m sorry, but he isn’t here.”

She was met by a moment’s silence, in which she could almost feel the agitation of the man on the other end.

“Where is he?”

“I—I’m not sure. He just went out.”

“Damn!” Gil muttered.

“Gil, what is it?”

“Ah—nothing. I’ll find him. Good night, Erin.”

He hung up before she could say any more. For a second she stared at the receiver, her frown furrowing more deeply between her eyes. Then she slowly replaced the receiver and picked up her tea cup, only to put it back down.

“I’ll find him,” Gil had said.

A wash of cold bolted through her as if she had been subjected to an instant freeze. She closed her eyes, remembering Jarod’s anger with her the morning after he had gone to the square, how he had demanded to know who she had spoken to, how she had denied speaking to anyone, how Sergei had told her someone had been shooting at Jarod because he had come too close.

Then she remembered how it had been Gil who had made the arrangements when she had tried to leave the country and then had found herself held in her hotel room instead of Paris.

“Oh, dear God!” she gasped aloud.

Jarod was out walking the streets; Gil would be out looking for him. Her eyes moved to the clock. It was just minutes before midnight. Jarod was always looking for something on Red Square at midnight.

She knew that, and Gil knew that. But Jarod didn’t know that Gil had known where Jarod was on that particular night when the shots had been taken at him. Because she had lied.

Her cup clattered and spilled across the counter. With her hands shaking so badly she could barely control them, Erin rummaged through the counter drawer below the phone, searching out Jarod’s phone book. She found Sergei’s number, but had to dial it twice.

She was answered by the gentle voice of his wife. Every Russian word she had learned fled her mind. “Sergei, please, I know I’ve wakened you, but please, this is Erin Mc—Steele. Erin Steele. Please, this is Jarod’s wife, I need to speak with Sergei …”

Mrs. Alexandrovich’s English was not plentiful, but her tone was soothing. Erin slowly ascertained that her call had been a waste of time—Sergei was not home either.

“You call back tomorrow, Sergei happy to talk to you then.”

The phone went dead in Erin’s hands.

Erin stared at the receiver only a brief moment before bolting into action. She had to reach him, she had to warn him that he was right, that Gil was not to be trusted, that Gil was looking for him.

She raced upstairs only long enough to pull on a sweater and jeans, then she tore out the door and into the night. The wind was cold, but she didn’t feel it. Even as she tried to reassure herself that her feeling of panic was absurd, it increased. She was desperate. If he were only with her now, she would tell him that she would be there any time he wanted her, even if she understood that he couldn’t love her.

His car was parked on the curb, but it only served to frustrate her further. The door was locked. As far as she knew, Jarod kept only one set of keys, and those keys would still be in his pocket.

She began to run. The streets were empty at that hour, her feet clattered against the sidewalk loudly, each sound seeming to pierce her heart. Her labored breathing swirled around her like the gasping wail of a dying windstorm. The thudding of her heart against her ribs was so thunderous she feared it would explode but she kept running because if anything happened to him, she didn’t think she could bear it. And it was all the more terrible because her pride had kept her from telling him that she loved him, that with or without him she wanted his child, and she wanted to cherish the child because it was his.

How far had she gone, she wondered, pain streaking through the legs she forced to keep going. A patch of snow melted to an ice slick sent her spinning to the ground, but she rose again with a small sob, dusting herself off and running again. Then, out of the moon-streaked night, she saw the globed spires of St. Basil’s rising high against the night. She was almost there … she had made it.

The memory of a long kiss on Red Square at midnight raced through her mind, the memory of lips that burned, the memory that she had known, somehow, somewhere deep inside, that his kiss had been dangerous because it had so compelled her, dangerous because she was destined to fall in love with the man who was a part of the blazing red splendor.

The square was dazzlingly lit against the darkness of night. Erin reached the gates of St. Basil’s and paused, doubling over with the effort to breathe as she strained her eyes to see across the square. At Lenin’s tomb the guards stood stolidly, and then the clock began to chime.

The guards began their awesome, terrifyingly strict goose step. Then, as Erin stared at the square, dark forms began to move across the red glow. There were three figures, three men. A shot rang out, a figure fell.

Erin’s scream tore out across the square, but it was followed by a flurry of action. The regiment of the guards halted. As chillingly choreographed as their walk, they knelt in formation, rifles ready. Whistles shrieked, more men, appearing from nowhere, raced on to the square, and without realizing it, she was racing through them—because one of the figures still standing was Jarod.

And the one lurking behind him was Gil.

And he held a gun.

She screamed Jarod’s name, screamed it over and over again until she reached him, hurtling herself into his arms, shrieking and babbling and trying to draw his attention to the man behind him. He caught her in his arms and she closed her eyes, waiting with fear rippling through her, waiting with tears in her eyes, with prayers forming unspoken on her lips. But nothing happened. He was whispering soothing things to her, setting her away from him, and it was then, only then, that she realized they were surrounded by men in uniforms, Soviet guards and police, alert and ready.

Jarod bent down next to the man on the ground. Then Erin watched stupidly as Gil Sayer strode quietly up and knelt beside her husband. “I believe I only winged him,” Gil said.

Erin stared at Gil’s face for a moment. Then to the ground. The man lying with the ashen face and closed eyes was Joe Mahoney. It didn’t make sense.