Red Midnight (37 page)

Or was it maybe that still, to this day, he felt that he had to prove his own loyalty to the country he had chosen over and over again? No. Hell, he was never going to be president. Look how long it had taken to get a Catholic into the White House. A divorced man had strikes against him; a Russian would never, never be acceptable to the American public. But he loved his land. He had served in any capacity possible and then he had been chosen by the U.N.

He had been determined to prove himself—not to others, but to himself. Well, he had certainly accomplished that.

But had he done so with Erin? Why the hell didn’t he go home?

I am afraid to go home. I am afraid that I will discover that she has already started divorce proceedings, that she has rid herself of the child, that she will not be pleased to see me, he thought grimly. And she will be on U.S. soil. I will have no way to hold her. No fierce enigmas to deceive her into believing she needs me.

When, exactly, he wondered, had he fallen in love with her? He had been so determined not to love again.

It was the first night he had held her, the night he had learned what she had faced before, the night she put her trust in him to guide her away from the past and the fears that haunted her.

He had fought the love—loving again had seemed disloyal to Cara. Wanting a child again had seemed disloyal to Cara.

How wrong I was, my sweet, Jarod thought. If I were to really honor the love between us, I would not betray it by closing my heart. I do love Erin. I need her, I want her, I love her and I’m scared to death to try and tell her….

He struck a harsh chord on the balalaika and grinned coldly to himself. “What a coward you are, Steele,” he said aloud.

“I’ll second that.”

Startled, Jarod glanced up. He must be drunk, he told himself. Sergei stood in the doorway to the music room, and Jarod hadn’t even heard him enter.

He grinned and lifted his glass to the intruder. “Hello, cousin. Have a drink with me.”

“You’re drunk, cousin,” Sergei replied dryly.

“No, not yet. But I’m trying.”

Sergei entered the room, staring harshly at Jarod, his hands planted on his hips. “You are a fool, cousin,” he said softly.

Jarod nodded again. “Yep.”

“You have a wife who carries your child and who loves you awaiting you, but you sit here like a child sulking in the dark.”

Jarod shrugged. “I have a wife, Sergei, but she doesn’t love me.” He hesitated a moment. “And I don’t know about the child,” he said softly. “I said things that were harsh … that were cruel. I—” He began playing strident chords on the balalaika in self-interruption, which he just as abruptly ceased. “Never mind, cousin. This isn’t your affair.”

“Straighten up, Jarod!” Sergei hissed scornfully. “You are my blood, so I will help you—because you dishonor our family with such foolish thoughts. Your wife will forgive you—because she loves you. And she knows about Cara and the baby.”

“She knows?” Jarod thundered furiously, casting the balalaika aside to stand and face his cousin. “Why you interfering commie! How dare you involve yourself in my affairs?”

Sergei sighed. “It seems, cousin,” he said dryly, “that someone has to. You’re a good man, cousin—one of the best I know, capitalist or communist. But you are also an idiot.”

“I ought to break your face, cousin.”

Sergei started laughing at the threat. Jarod was lithe and agile and powerful—in a fight his younger cousin could tear him to pieces. But he also doubted that Jarod could aim a blow at the minute. “Threaten me at another time if you wish to see me alarmed. Face it, cousin: if you lifted a fist sideways at the moment, you would follow it to the ground and break your own face.”

He watched his cousin’s face. The pain. The fear that was such a terribly difficult thing to swallow and accept for a man who feared nothing. Jarod was capable of hiding any emotion—Sergei seldom knew what he was thinking. But at the moment his cousin’s eyes were naked to him; they might have been children, meeting warily again for the first time while their mothers hugged and sobbed in greeting after the years lost between them.

Jarod had wanted to beat him up the first time they had met too, Sergei thought with a sad smile. They had tangled as children, and he had been shocked at the strength of the young stripling. At that point they had learned they could not best one another. They had known they would take paths that clashed; they had acknowledged a wary respect for one another.

But at Cara’s death, Sergei had wept with Jarod—or for Jarod. Jarod hadn’t wept. He had bottled the pain. It crippled him still.

“Cousin,” Sergei said forcefully, “I will make you some coffee. You will sober up. You will arrange a flight home. You will go home because neither your Russian mother nor your American father was a coward. And you will go home because your wife loves you.”

Jarod looked up, the glaze somewhat leaving his eyes. “Cousin,” he demanded sharply, “when will you leave off interfering in my life?”

Sergei smiled, undaunted by the growl. “When you are no longer in my country for me to interfere,” he said placidly.

“Her child will be part Russian,” Jarod suddenly mumbled. “Why would she leave her fame and income for a Russian child?”

Sergei smiled. It was sheer pleasure to see his impregnable cousin in this stupor of insecurity. He had wondered himself at times if Jarod weren’t composed of pure brick—or of steel, as his name implied.

“A beautiful woman does not have to prove that she is beautiful, my friend. And you bestow upon the lady prejudices that do not exist—except in the back of your own crazy mind.”

The next morning Sergei saw Jarod to the airport. When the flight was announced the men turned to one another. They stared into one another’s eyes for a long moment. And then they embraced.

“Thank you, Sergei,” Jarod said a little stiffly as they withdrew.

Sergei shrugged. “The world has decreed us enemies, cousin, but we are blood. Not even the world can change that.”

They embraced once more. Moments later Jarod Steele was in a plane that would take him to Switzerland—and then home.

“No,” Erin said flatly as she sat in a plush beige chair in her agent’s Park Avenue high-rise office. She was staring through the plate glass window. It was no longer spring in New York, but summer. The tiny ledge garden was in full bloom; insects buzzed around the multitude of carefully cultivated flowers.

Jerry Armstrong didn’t seem to hear his favorite client’s soft spoken negative. Enthused, he walked about the airy office space, arms waving, his handsome young face alive with the plans that ticked through his mind. He had originally greeted the news of her pregnancy with a certain horror, but now he had geared himself into acceptance.

“We haven’t a problem in the world, Erin! The diaper manufacturers will go crazy for a chance to have Erin McCabe endorse their products—as an expectant mother! And then there are the maternity boutiques, and the creators of all those skin lotions—Erin, it will be fabulous! A whole new world will open to us! I’ll get on it right away.”

“Jerry,” Erin interrupted, “you’re not listening to me! I don’t want to model through my pregnancy. I don’t want to capitalize on this—and I don’t want to share it with the world. And my name is Steele, not McCabe anymore.”

“McCabe … Steele … what’s the difference! Your husband can join in, Erin, after the baby’s born! The two of you discussing the baby food you’ve chosen for your very special child.”

“Jerry—please!” Erin wailed. The thought of Jarod consenting to discuss baby food for a commercial was so ludicrous she would have laughed aloud if she weren’t so tired. She wasn’t getting anywhere with Jerry and she was too tired to laugh and too tired to sit and argue any longer. Besides, it wasn’t really funny, it was tragic. She could explain to Jerry that her husband didn’t want the child—she didn’t even know if he would be around when the child was born. But she couldn’t bring herself to say such things. A certain hope was still alive within her—even though it had been over a month since she had left Russia and in that time she hadn’t heard a word from the man who was legally her husband.

She should have filed for a divorce. That was what he wanted. But she couldn’t make herself do it. She was clinging to that picture of his eyes upon her and the fact that he had made her promise to wait.

“Jerry”—Erin folded her slender fingers staunchly together and faced him stubbornly—“I am retiring. I mean it. I have ample savings, and I want my life back. That’s it.” Apparently her tone finally permeated the fantasies in his mind. He looked at her, crushed.

Erin laughed. “Oh, Jerry—the world is full of beautiful girls—younger than I am, fresher—and not pregnant! You’ll find yourself a new star attraction! Probably this afternoon if I’m not mistaken!”

Jerry argued awhile longer and then gave up. There was no one quite so stubborn as Erin when she set her mind to something. With dire warnings that she would regret her decision, he finally let her go, hugging her fiercely before she left the room. “We’ll always be friends, though, huh?” he queried, so piteously that Erin did laugh.

“Of course, Jerry, and if I ever do decide to model again, you know I wouldn’t dream of having another agent.”

That seemed to mollify him somewhat. But Erin was laughing again as she left his office. A young and exotically sultry brunette had been awaiting an appointment with Jerry in the reception area, and Erin saw how Jerry’s eyes lit up at the sight of her. It had always been a fickle field, Erin thought. She had known she was dispensable!

Erin decided to walk home—the distance wasn’t long, and although hot, it was a beautiful summer day. Her steps started out springy, but she hadn’t gone too far when a wave of depression engulfed her. What’s the matter with you? she demanded of herself bitterly. Bright girl—but you can’t read the writing on the wall. The man wants nothing more to do with you. He sent you home the first possible second. You haven’t had a word—not a single word, not a letter, not a note, not a call—from him. That’s rather clear, isn’t it? Salvage some pride, Erin; be ready to give him what he wants if and when he returns. Get hold of your lawyer. Plan an easy divorce.

She had already done lots of planning. She had rehearsed and rehearsed all that she would say about the child. She would be very controlled and very cool and completely logical. She would tell him she still considered it his right to know what she was doing, that she wanted the child and had fully considered all the responsibilities and was still determined to raise it herself. She knew how he felt, expected nothing from him, but should he ever be interested, now or in the future, she would, of course, grant him visitation rights.

Oh, Erin! she mocked herself. How logical, how giving, how mature. If I have everything down so pat, why don’t I just write him? It would be so much easier for the both of us. He won’t even have to return to the States. I can do everything from here and he’ll have his freedom.

Tears started welling in her eyes, but she brushed them impatiently away and bit down hard into her lip. Maybe she had been a fool to stop working. Now she would have hours and hours to brood. And if she were falling apart already, how would she manage as time wore on?

I have to manage, she told herself blandly. But as she approached her apartment house, she was wincing, praying that Casey would be out. Erin hadn’t found it in herself to explain the truth of her marriage to anyone, and Casey drove her crazy about Jarod. Good old Casey—going nuts because she couldn’t get any “juicy intimate details” out of Erin.

She stiffened mentally and physically as she approached her building and smiled out a greeting to the dignified doorman. She kept her smile plastered to her face as she rode the elevator up; in fact, she kept smiling until she almost reached her door. Then her smile crumbled.

She became convinced that she had finally broken, that lunacy had set in, because she could have sworn she was hearing the softly played chords of a balalaika….

The music stopped. She shook herself; she had imagined it. She brought her knuckles to her mouth and bit down hard on them, and then fumbled in her purse for her key. But she didn’t need her key—the door was unlocked.

Fear touched upon her for a moment, but as she began to open the door she heard the drone of Casey’s voice from the living room, going on and on in her nonstop fashion. Curiously Erin pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped into the apartment.

She saw him immediately. He was standing, staring out her floor-to-ceiling window. His back was to her; she could see the rear of his ebony head with the silver threads, the square set of his broad shoulders. His hands were idly clasped behind his back and she thought as she had a hundred times before how well he wore his tailored suits, how they complemented the masculine breadth of shoulders and trim waist and hips.

She wanted to say something but she couldn’t. Her heart had begun a pounding within her breast that was deafening. She wasn’t sure if she were actually breathing or not, and her mouth suddenly felt parched, top and bottom and tongue all glued together.

The balalaika, she noticed absently, was situated in the corner of the room. She might be paralyzed, but at least she wasn’t crazy: She had been hearing the soft tune; evidently he had played for Casey, probably to shut her up.

“Erin!” Casey exclaimed. She was seated on the sofa, chatting endlessly. “You’re home! Look who made it! I let him in, of course, and fixed him some coffee. Want a cup? It’s still on. Or I can make you some tea.”

Jarod had turned at Casey’s exclamation. Erin met his eyes, not hearing another word that Casey babbled. They stared at one another for countless seconds, an electric current seeming to charge the space between them. Erin blinked, wondering at the deep cobalt color of his eyes. There was no frost to them, she realized slowly. They were guarded, they were wary, but there was also something else to them, a pensive question, a look she didn’t really understand.

It was Jarod who turned to Casey. He gave her a charming, disarming smile as he interrupted her.