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Authors: Heather Graham
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cold.
Even if he disliked her, Erin mused between the painful and almost deafening chattering of her teeth, there was something simply too basically male about Jarod Steele for him not to immediately assume the role of protector. She suddenly found herself no longer escorted but swept into a secure hold against the strength and heat of his body as he carried her the several feet to the train.
“That—that wa—wasn’t necessary,” she stuttered, still shivering in uncontrollable spasms as he brought her back into the relative warmth of the train’s hallway. He merely lifted a brow, and Erin fell silent. It hadn’t been necessary, but it had been damned convenient. He had saved them an eternity of seconds with his swift action.
“You’re easier to carry than drag along,” he replied, setting her down before the door to her couchette. Blue icefire eyes met her rather wide ones. “Good-night, Miss McCabe.”
“Good-night,” she replied, thoroughly irritated by the tremor in her voice. “Thank you for dinner,” she managed more nonchalantly.
“The pleasure was mine.”
Somehow, Erin didn’t think so. Her eyes met his with that cryptic challenge, but he merely smiled and turned, disappearing into the door of his own couchette. Erin stepped inside and closed her door, leaning against it as he had earlier. She felt breathless and weak and disoriented—and all because a man who evidently disliked her had held her in his arms.
“This is certainly a little ridiculous,” she chastised herself aloud in a soft murmur. But she couldn’t shake her strange feelings. Where his arms had touched she could still feel the heat; the alluring scent that was after-shave and all male lingered around her.
She suddenly realized she was quivering from head to toe. She felt as if there were a glittering prize sitting before her, and if she just reached out it could be hers. But she couldn’t reach out because she was scared to death.
How absurd, she thought, shaking herself. There was nothing to reach out and grab. She was going to get some sleep, and she wasn’t going to think about the strange Mr. Steele.
Carrying out her resolution didn’t prove to be at all difficult. She followed her mechanical night-time routine, brushing her teeth, washing her face, and industriously combing out her hair, then slid into a warm emerald flannel gown and hurriedly brought her cold toes beneath the crisp sheets and heavy blanket on the bunk. The feeling was wonderfully warm and cozy. She might have been thinking about Jarod Steele, but she didn’t do so for long.
Her sleep was very deep; it took some time to interrupt. Erin began to frown from the hazy depths of oblivion, to open her eyes with a start. Above her stood a man, an extremely poker-faced man, in an immaculate and tight-fitting uniform of red and gray. He was impatiently rattling off words in what she was beginning to recognize as Russian. Apparently he had been attempting to wake her for several minutes. His irritation was becoming evident.
Erin bolted to a sitting position in the bunk. The border, she thought, we’ve come to the border. He wants my papers.
Erin smiled, but the man’s face didn’t lose its severity. Her smile turning to an inward grimace, Erin slid her bare feet from the bunk, remembering ruefully that Mary had warned her that crossing the Soviet border would be a no-nonsense affair.
“Please!” she murmured, padding quickly to her purse and extracting the, papers she assumed he wanted. He accepted them, glanced over them quickly with an astute eye, and pocketed them, shaking his head as Erin reached to retrieve them, halting with surprise. The slate-eyed man motioned for her to sit, and Erin numbly did so.
She watched the man as he began to comb through her couchette. He appeared to be about thirty, in the peak of fitness and health, and his manner was a strange combination of civility and determination.
Wonderful, Erin thought. He is most
Even if he disliked her, Erin mused between the painful and almost deafening chattering of her teeth, there was something simply too basically male about Jarod Steele for him not to immediately assume the role of protector. She suddenly found herself no longer escorted but swept into a secure hold against the strength and heat of his body as he carried her the several feet to the train.
“That—that wa—wasn’t necessary,” she stuttered, still shivering in uncontrollable spasms as he brought her back into the relative warmth of the train’s hallway. He merely lifted a brow, and Erin fell silent. It hadn’t been necessary, but it had been damned convenient. He had saved them an eternity of seconds with his swift action.
“You’re easier to carry than drag along,” he replied, setting her down before the door to her couchette. Blue icefire eyes met her rather wide ones. “Good-night, Miss McCabe.”
“Good-night,” she replied, thoroughly irritated by the tremor in her voice. “Thank you for dinner,” she managed more nonchalantly.
“The pleasure was mine.”
Somehow, Erin didn’t think so. Her eyes met his with that cryptic challenge, but he merely smiled and turned, disappearing into the door of his own couchette. Erin stepped inside and closed her door, leaning against it as he had earlier. She felt breathless and weak and disoriented—and all because a man who evidently disliked her had held her in his arms.
“This is certainly a little ridiculous,” she chastised herself aloud in a soft murmur. But she couldn’t shake her strange feelings. Where his arms had touched she could still feel the heat; the alluring scent that was after-shave and all male lingered around her.
She suddenly realized she was quivering from head to toe. She felt as if there were a glittering prize sitting before her, and if she just reached out it could be hers. But she couldn’t reach out because she was scared to death.
How absurd, she thought, shaking herself. There was nothing to reach out and grab. She was going to get some sleep, and she wasn’t going to think about the strange Mr. Steele.
Carrying out her resolution didn’t prove to be at all difficult. She followed her mechanical night-time routine, brushing her teeth, washing her face, and industriously combing out her hair, then slid into a warm emerald flannel gown and hurriedly brought her cold toes beneath the crisp sheets and heavy blanket on the bunk. The feeling was wonderfully warm and cozy. She might have been thinking about Jarod Steele, but she didn’t do so for long.
Her sleep was very deep; it took some time to interrupt. Erin began to frown from the hazy depths of oblivion, to open her eyes with a start. Above her stood a man, an extremely poker-faced man, in an immaculate and tight-fitting uniform of red and gray. He was impatiently rattling off words in what she was beginning to recognize as Russian. Apparently he had been attempting to wake her for several minutes. His irritation was becoming evident.
Erin bolted to a sitting position in the bunk. The border, she thought, we’ve come to the border. He wants my papers.
Erin smiled, but the man’s face didn’t lose its severity. Her smile turning to an inward grimace, Erin slid her bare feet from the bunk, remembering ruefully that Mary had warned her that crossing the Soviet border would be a no-nonsense affair.
“Please!” she murmured, padding quickly to her purse and extracting the, papers she assumed he wanted. He accepted them, glanced over them quickly with an astute eye, and pocketed them, shaking his head as Erin reached to retrieve them, halting with surprise. The slate-eyed man motioned for her to sit, and Erin numbly did so.
She watched the man as he began to comb through her couchette. He appeared to be about thirty, in the peak of fitness and health, and his manner was a strange combination of civility and determination.
Wonderful, Erin thought. He is most
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