Red Midnight by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online Page A

her with pleasure. And then once again he was bowing, and Erin was automatically bowing in return.
    Afraid they were about to go through another five-minute interlude of curtsies, Erin began to back down the length of the hall as she bowed, making each bow a little shorter. She frowned as the porter suddenly began waving at her, apparently losing his command of English as he attempted to warn her of something. She raised a curious brow in question, but the answer came too late. She backed into something warm and extremely solid. The tea sloshed from her glass, barely missing her shoes. Feeling an idiotic sense of “oh, no!” she turned around slowly, her eyes ridiculously remaining downward.
    Her sense of déjà vu was instant and debilitating. As she stared at a pair of trim leather boots—black boots, spotlessly polished—she felt a riddling of electricity insinuate itself hotly along her spine. She looked up slowly, over long legs, trim hips framed by an expertly tailored black jacket … over the broad, brick-wall chest clad handsomely and masculinely in crisp off-white cotton, tapered black vest and jacket. Her eyes continued up to a long, well-corded neck. She could look no further.
    It simply can’t be, she told herself. Twice in New York might be coincidence, but she was halfway around the world now. That kind of coincidence was simply impossible.
    Erin noticed vaguely that a pulse beat erratically within the strong tanned throat that held her eyes. Dreading the sight she was sure she was about to encounter, she had to forcefully urge her eyes to look further upward.
    And as she had known, she encountered the rage of a blue firestorm.
    “You!” she croaked incredulously. “I don’t believe it!”
    The brow twisted sardonically, the jawline shifted. “I think that should be my line,” he said dryly, very obviously straining to hold an explosive temper in check. “Good Lord, woman, I’m beginning to believe you must be some sort of a secret weapon. The ultimate cold-war tactic. One week with you, and Moscow will be promising anything.”
    “Don’t be absurd!” Erin snapped, totally unnerved by the man’s appearance. It was impossible, she wanted to shriek, she couldn’t be running—literally—into him in this many places. A bar yes, maybe even an airport in the same city—But in a train to Moscow?
    “Well?” he suddenly demanded.
    “Well what?” Erin muttered blankly.
    “No apology this time?”
    Apology, Erin wondered rebelliously. No, somehow this was all his fault.
    Erin unconsciously took a step backwards. “I do believe that; this time, you barged into me.”
    “Oh? I don’t recall walking backwards.”
    Erin-flushed uncomfortably. He had a marvelous knack for putting her awkwardly on the defensive, something she was unaccustomed to feeling.
    “Why are you following me?” she demanded curtly.
    “Following you?” he inquired in sardonic disbelief. “My dear Miss McCabe, trust me. For the sake of my clothing, possessions, person, and sanity, you are the last woman in the world I would consider following.”
    Erin twisted her bottom lip and bit into it with irritation. “You really must be the last of the great gallants,” she snapped back.
    “So sorry, Miss McCabe,” he continued with his cutting sarcasm as he gazed down at her, “but this isn’t New York. You will not find a multitude of lovesick fans following in your footsteps, willing to give all and forgive anything! You’re entering the Soviet Union.”
    Erin stiffened with automatic indignation, fighting for control over a temper seldom so aroused. “I do not expect people to fall all over me and ‘forgive anything’ here or anywhere else, Mr….” He didn’t supply a name and she continued with barely concealed hostility. “And I know very well where I am going, thank you. You wish an apology? I’m very sorry I barged into you. But think of it this way—at least I didn’t get your suit this time!”
    He stared