Free Red Midnight by Heather Graham Page A

to. Neither am I.”
    “Up to?” Erin exclaimed incredulously. “I’m not up to anything! It was my understanding that more and more Americans were visiting the U.S.S.R.”
    Jarod shrugged, his nonchalance belied by his astute and assessing stare. “Who’s to say, Miss McCabe? Fragile-looking women usually travel with tours.”
    “I’m hardly fragile,” Erin retorted.
    A dark handsome brow arched in amused mockery. “I’ll accept that, Miss McCabe. Sometimes I get the distinct impression that any fragility of yours would be comparable to that of a boa constrictor.”
    Erin felt an instant grinding of her teeth, a tensing of her fingers. It was incredible that this same man had come to her rescue, touched her with the lightest stroke of tenderness, instilling quicksilver in her veins.
    Erin directed her own most piercing silver-frost stare into his eyes. “Would you mind felling me, Mr. Steele, just why you dislike me?”
    He appeared mildly surprised; his reply held a similar note, as if he were discovering something new himself. “I don’t dislike you, Miss McCabe. I’d just as soon not be terribly near you when you drink. You’re rather hard on a wardrobe, you know. But I certainly don’t dislike you.”
    Erin turned back to the window. She hesitated a moment. “I suppose I should thank you, Mr. Steele, for saving me a great deal of unpleasantness.”
    She felt rather than saw his shrug. “I dare say that nothing too dire would have happened. They would have asked you a few questions, frisked you a bit, and allowed you to return to your cabin. That is, unless you are hiding something.”
    “Don’t be absurd!” Erin protested angrily. “How many times must I tell you? I’m simply a tourist, trying to do something a little off the beaten track, trying to really see a little of the countryside and the people!”
    Despite her anger, she was shivering again. Frisked you up a bit. Jarod Steele couldn’t possibly imagine what a nightmare that would have been for her.
    Thankfully, his astute gaze was no longer focused on her. He had moved toward the ledge above the shelf and was pouring a clear liquid from a bottle into the two glasses on the wood shelf over the ornate sink.
    “How long are you staying, Miss McCabe?” he inquired with what could have been interpreted as a normal, polite querying tone.
    “Two weeks,” she replied briefly, then added, “one in Moscow, then one in Leningrad. Then”—she couldn’t prevent a bitterness slipping in—“you’ll be pleased to hear I’ll be leaving the country.”
    He turned back to her, his expression noncommittal, his blue gaze fathomless as he handed her one of the glasses of clear liquid. Then he ruined the effect of his gallantry by carefully stepping back. “I carry only one robe, Miss McCabe, and I’d just as soon not have it drenched.”
    Erin closed her eyes for a moment of control and pursed her lips.
    Jarod lifted his glass to her. “Drink up, Miss McCabe. Welcome to the U.S.S.R.—with a taste of the country’s finest.”
    “What is it?” Erin inquired suspiciously.
    He laughed, and it was as if she could feel the sound. It was low and smooth and throaty, very male, very seductive.
    “Vodka, Miss McCabe. What else?”
    Her nerves compelled her to take a sip, and then she was gasping. The liquid burned like a brushfire.
    Jarod rescued her glass first, patted her back second. “I should have warned you, Miss McCabe. This is their equivalent of our moonshine—very powerful stuff.”
    “I won’t argue with you there,” Erin finally managed to mutter.
    He chuckled again, that warm sound that seemed to fill her senses. “You should sit down and relax—and sip slowly,” he advised. “It will still be some time before they finish checking the train.”
    Unable to think of a sensible reason to refuse, Erin attempted to sit with the comfortable nonchalance that seemed to rule her companion’s every movement. But he isn’t casual, she