suggest?” she inquired lightly.
“The lamb stew is good.”
“Lamb stew sounds fine.”
Bread and butter appeared on the table quickly; a harried waitress hastily took their order. Only moments later their food arrived in deep steaming bowls along with two glasses of curiously dark liquid.
“It’s a native Finnish beer, served warm, Miss McCabe. You seemed willing to sample all that was native, so I took the liberty of ordering two.”
Erin smiled with very dry sweetness. “Thank you.”
The warm beer wasn’t bad, and the stew was delicious. She didn’t realize just how ravenous she was until she glanced up to find Jarod Steele staring at her, the amusement in his eyes warm and genuine for once rather than cynical. “You do have the appetite of a trucker—a small one at least.”
Erin flushed slightly and sipped at her beer. “I warned you,” she murmured.
“It just seems rather incredible. You’re little more than skin and bones.”
“High metabolism,” Erin shrugged.
Jarod leaned back in his chair, pushing his plate aside as he reached into his breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Erin, which she accepted, and he politely lit them both. Then he continued with his nerve-tingling stare through the cloud of smoke.
“To what, Miss McCabe,” he finally queried, “does the U.S.S.R. owe the honor of your presence?”
Exposed nerve endings seemed to grate throughout Erin’s body. If she were ever lulled into believing he considered her human, she would be an idiot.
Erin returned his stare with no change of countenance. She inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I thought you said you were with the United Nations, Mr. Steele,” she murmured softly, arching a slender brow with innocence. “Not the KGB.”
“Clever, Miss McCabe,” he acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head, “but hardly an answer.”
“I didn’t care for the phrasing of the question.”
“Do forgive me. I’ll start over. What is one of America’s favorite faces doing wandering around eastern Europe alone? Moscow by train from Finland is not one of the leading advertisements in your general tourist office. One would have thought Erin McCabe would opt for Paris or Monte Carlo—Morocco, perhaps—but the Soviet Union? In late winter?”
Erin patiently inhaled on her cigarette once more. “I’m fascinated by history, Mr. Steele, pure and simple. Russia has always intrigued me. A friend of mine owns a tourist agency and she helped me plan this trip.”
“Oh,” was his reply, short, apparently innocent. Yet it was the most irritating use of the word Erin had ever heard. It implied a multitude of things, among them blatant cynicism. She was about to snap out her annoyance, but their waitress seemed to have timed her return trip to collect their check as if attuned to Jarod Steele’s convenience. Erin felt her annoyance with him fade as she belatedly winced with a more strident annoyance directed at herself. She had nothing with her, and she didn’t want a man tike Steele paying her way even for a phone call.
“I’m sorry,” she said crisply as the waitress disappeared with Jarod’s money. “I left my bag on the train. I’ll reimburse you as soon as we’re aboard.”
“I don’t wish to be reimbursed,” he practically snapped as he stood, moving behind her to assist her up with such smooth agility that she had no choice but to politely accept his overture. His hand was upon her elbow once more—was the touch even more proprietary now?—and once more she felt herself propelled along, stormed by command, but so dazed by the electricity that never failed to spark that she couldn’t think to protest his natural assumption of authority and assert herself.
“Russian trains leave on time,” he said curtly as her glance at the restaurant’s door must have nakedly displayed a rebellion against his rough haste. Then the door was open and they were hit with a blast of excruciating
“The lamb stew is good.”
“Lamb stew sounds fine.”
Bread and butter appeared on the table quickly; a harried waitress hastily took their order. Only moments later their food arrived in deep steaming bowls along with two glasses of curiously dark liquid.
“It’s a native Finnish beer, served warm, Miss McCabe. You seemed willing to sample all that was native, so I took the liberty of ordering two.”
Erin smiled with very dry sweetness. “Thank you.”
The warm beer wasn’t bad, and the stew was delicious. She didn’t realize just how ravenous she was until she glanced up to find Jarod Steele staring at her, the amusement in his eyes warm and genuine for once rather than cynical. “You do have the appetite of a trucker—a small one at least.”
Erin flushed slightly and sipped at her beer. “I warned you,” she murmured.
“It just seems rather incredible. You’re little more than skin and bones.”
“High metabolism,” Erin shrugged.
Jarod leaned back in his chair, pushing his plate aside as he reached into his breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Erin, which she accepted, and he politely lit them both. Then he continued with his nerve-tingling stare through the cloud of smoke.
“To what, Miss McCabe,” he finally queried, “does the U.S.S.R. owe the honor of your presence?”
Exposed nerve endings seemed to grate throughout Erin’s body. If she were ever lulled into believing he considered her human, she would be an idiot.
Erin returned his stare with no change of countenance. She inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I thought you said you were with the United Nations, Mr. Steele,” she murmured softly, arching a slender brow with innocence. “Not the KGB.”
“Clever, Miss McCabe,” he acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head, “but hardly an answer.”
“I didn’t care for the phrasing of the question.”
“Do forgive me. I’ll start over. What is one of America’s favorite faces doing wandering around eastern Europe alone? Moscow by train from Finland is not one of the leading advertisements in your general tourist office. One would have thought Erin McCabe would opt for Paris or Monte Carlo—Morocco, perhaps—but the Soviet Union? In late winter?”
Erin patiently inhaled on her cigarette once more. “I’m fascinated by history, Mr. Steele, pure and simple. Russia has always intrigued me. A friend of mine owns a tourist agency and she helped me plan this trip.”
“Oh,” was his reply, short, apparently innocent. Yet it was the most irritating use of the word Erin had ever heard. It implied a multitude of things, among them blatant cynicism. She was about to snap out her annoyance, but their waitress seemed to have timed her return trip to collect their check as if attuned to Jarod Steele’s convenience. Erin felt her annoyance with him fade as she belatedly winced with a more strident annoyance directed at herself. She had nothing with her, and she didn’t want a man tike Steele paying her way even for a phone call.
“I’m sorry,” she said crisply as the waitress disappeared with Jarod’s money. “I left my bag on the train. I’ll reimburse you as soon as we’re aboard.”
“I don’t wish to be reimbursed,” he practically snapped as he stood, moving behind her to assist her up with such smooth agility that she had no choice but to politely accept his overture. His hand was upon her elbow once more—was the touch even more proprietary now?—and once more she felt herself propelled along, stormed by command, but so dazed by the electricity that never failed to spark that she couldn’t think to protest his natural assumption of authority and assert herself.
“Russian trains leave on time,” he said curtly as her glance at the restaurant’s door must have nakedly displayed a rebellion against his rough haste. Then the door was open and they were hit with a blast of excruciating
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