Free Red Midnight by Heather Graham Page B

thought, he isn’t casual at all. He’s as sharp as a whip. Those eyes of his burn while they freeze. They seem to see everything….
    Erin curled into the far corner of the bunk, leaning against the wooden footboard and tucking her bare feet beneath her, as if by hiding them she could regain a certain dignity.
    He smiled at her, but she had the feeling that his smile was absent, that it hid something else.
    “What?” she demanded irritably. Had she gone from the frying pan into the fire? Or straight from one fire into another fire? She was absurdly nervous; it was as if she could still feel the incredible heat of his body from the bed, as if the innocent bunk held a sensuous threat by mere alliance to the man. A man, she reminded herself, who found her no more sexual than the “skin and bones” he considered her to be.
    “Pardon?” he inquired with a frown.
    “What is that stare for now?”
    He shrugged, then apparently decided to give her an honest answer. “You’re right, Miss McCabe, I’ll be glad to see you out of the country. I would just as soon not think about you gallivanting around Soviet Asia.”
    “Oh really?” Erin inquired with a smoldering irritation. “What on earth is it to you where I go?”
    “Ignorant English-speaking parties are the basis of my concern.”
    Erin stood. “Mr. Steele, I am not ignorant. I realize that you seem to think very little of my profession, but I beg to inform you, models are not necessarily ignorant, uneducated, or stupid! I’ve studied the Soviet Union very carefully, I planned my trip with even greater care. Thank you for the help you’ve given me. Please remember it was offered, not requested—and excuse me, I’ll try not to cause you any more concern!”
    Her pride was wrapped about her like a cloak. Erin was regally straight, her chin tilted high. With distinct care she set down her barely tasted vodka and whirled for the door, her exit an almost perfect display of dignity.
    Except that the door was still bolted—from the outside.
    Erin closed her eyes and lowered her head, her fingers tense around the knob. She knew without turning that Jarod Steele was silently laughing, and if she could have viciously kicked herself, she would have done so.
    She finally turned, leaning against the door, her silver gaze one that would quell most men, her sigh aggravated and yet resigned with a very blatant effort at self-control.
    “How much longer will I be locked in here?”
    Jarod made little attempt to hide the amusement that twitched the corners of lips capable of appearing full and sensual one minute, hard and grim and white thin the next.
    “It depends,” he said.
    “On what?”
    “On how many other criminals they find trying to smuggle bananas into the country.”
    “Not amusing, Mr. Steele.”
    “But true, Miss McCabe.”
    They were at an impasse, each staring at the other. Oddly enough, it was Jarod this time who broke the silence with irritation. “Would you please light somewhere, Miss McCabe? You remind me of a damned butterfly flitting about.”
    Erin took a deep breath and lowered her eyes, then moved to regain her curled position on the bunk near the footboard. She did so simply because his tone had been much more of a demand than a request and she didn’t think she was up to a battle with this man over something so idiotic and she was very, very afraid that he might touch her again.
    “Tell me,” she demanded in return, “what did you tell the guard to get him to let me go? He even forgot about the bananas.”
    “I have diplomatic immunity, Miss McCabe. I’m allowed to bring certain things into the country which a tourist isn’t.”
    “Yes, but I had the bananas.”
    “I told him you were my fiancée.”
    Although his expression remained carefully neutral, Jarod was stunned by the reaction his statement drew. She didn’t move, she didn’t even blink, but he had never seen another human being literally turn almost paper white. For some