Читать книгу: «The Baby Gift»

“Briana, what’s wrong? Is it Nealie?”

“Oh, Josh, she’s sick. She might be—so sick.”

He had the sensation of falling toward a devouring darkness. “How sick? Is she in the hospital?”

“I don’t know how sick. It’s in the early stages. She doesn’t know yet. Nobody knows.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Damn, his hands were shaking. His hands never shook.

“It’s a—an anemia,” she stammered. “It’s very rare. And—and serious.”

“What can I do?” He sat on the edge of the bathtub, his head down. He felt as if he was going to pass out.

She seemed to pull herself together, but she still sounded shattered. “Can you come home? I mean come here?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll get on the first flight out. But what can we do for her?”

“Oh, Josh,” she said, despair naked in her voice, “I’ve thought and thought. I think there’s only one thing. One thing in the world.”

“What? I’ll do anything. You know that."

She was silent a long moment. He knew she was having trouble speaking. At last she whispered, “To save her, I think we have to have another baby.”

Dear Reader,

“Individuals in every generation must decide what they will preserve for those who follow.”

Those are the opening words of a fine book, The Heirloom Gardener by Carolyn Jabs. I bought two copies of this book, one for me and one for my dad.

My father taught me that to see a seed sprout, grow and change was a miracle. The Baby Gift is a story about miracles and how, in our time, miracles can get mixed up with science.

About the science, I tried to be accurate, but I have probably made errors, and for this I apologize. As for the art of growing things, I turned to the wonderful organization called Seed Savers. What I got right is due to them and the delightful Lyn Jabs. What I got wrong, I got wrong on my own, drat it.

Growing heirloom vegetables is a lovely and rewarding (and, okay, delicious) pastime. Anyone who would like more information about heirloom gardening can contact The Seed Savers Exchange, 3076 North Winn Road, Decorah, Iowa 52101. On the Internet, you can find information at www.seedsavers.org

Best wishes,

Bethany Campbell

The Baby Gift
Bethany Campbell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Howard Martinson Bostwick, with love and gratitude.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE LITTLE GIRL dreamed of her daddy.

He was the handsomest daddy in the world and the funniest and the smartest—he knew things that nobody else’s daddy knew.

He knew, for instance, how to escape from a giant octopus.

The little girl lived hundreds of miles from any ocean, she had never seen the ocean or an octopus, but still, she wondered about situations like this.

“The thing to do is not to panic,” her daddy said. “If an octopus grabs you and wants to eat you, just stay calm.”

“Calm?” she said dubiously.

“Between his eyes the octopus has a bump like a wart. Surprise him—bite his wart!”

“Yuck!” said the little girl.

“No,” her father said, tapping her temple. “It’s using your smarts. All the octopus’s nerves are centered in that bump. When it hurts, he drops you and swims off fast as he can. He’ll never want to see you again.”

“Well,” she said with a thoughtful frown, “what if a giant clam grabs my foot and won’t let go?”

“Ah,” said Daddy, “that’s why you always carry a knife when you dive. If a giant clam snaps shut on you, cut his hinge. Snip-snip, you’re free. And he’s learned his lesson.”

“Will it kill him?” she asked. She wanted only to escape the clam, not murder it.

Her father shook his head. “No. He’ll have to lie low and grow his hinge back. Of course, some sand may drift in his shell, so maybe he’ll make a giant pearl while he’s waiting.”

“Hmm,” said the little girl. “Well, what about crocodiles?”

“Easiest of all,” said her daddy. “The crocodile has all sorts of muscles to snap his mouth shut. But he’s got very weak muscles to open it up. Grab him by the snoot when his mouth is closed. Then he can’t open it.”

“Then what?”

“Then move him someplace where he won’t bite people and where the hunters won’t get him.”

“Why would hunters want him?”

“To make wallets and suitcases and watch straps out of him. It’s a sad fate, becoming a watch strap.”

“Mm,” said the little girl. Then, as dreams do, hers drifted off. She was on an imaginary seashore, warm with caressing breezes. There, she and her faithful partner, Zorro the cat, stalked crocodiles. She was not afraid, because her daddy had taught her how to escape all dangers.

She strode across the sand, as fearless and strong as her father was. The sky was blue, the sun shone down with tropic brightness, and she moved, safe and invincible, through a world of eternal summer.

WHILE THE CHILD SLEPT, snow fell. It had fallen all morning.

It glistened, silver and white, on the greenhouse roofs. Like ragged lace, it covered the cold frames still empty of seedlings. It eddied around the corners of the barn, dancing with the wind as if alive and bewitched.

But the inside of the little farmhouse was warm. Briana had been up and working for almost an hour. The scents of coffee and bacon and biscuits hung in the kitchen air like country ambrosia.

It was a scene of almost perfect peace.

Then Briana smashed her finger with the hammer. A swear word flew to her mouth, but she sucked it back in pain. This almost made her swallow the spare tack she held between her teeth.

Through sheer willpower, she recovered and bit on the tack more firmly. She had a job to do, and with all her Missouri stubbornness, she meant to get it done.

She settled herself more steadily on the top rung of the ladder and gripped the hammer. She tapped the last crepe-paper streamer into place on the ceiling beam. Now kitchen, living room and dining room were festooned with spirals of red and white.

Briana cocked her head and examined the effect. It looked fine, it looked festive, it looked—happy.

Happy, she thought numbly. Good. I want things to look happy.

She climbed down the ladder and plucked the unused tack from her mouth, then thrust it into the pocket of her carpenter’s apron. She stowed her hammer in its proper drawer and hung the apron on its peg inside the pantry.

She checked the food warming in the oven, then called her daughter to breakfast. She made sure her voice was firm, steady and, above all, cheerful.

“Nealie! Up and at ’em. Breakfast time.”

From the bedroom came a groan that was impressively loud for such a small girl. “Agh!”

“No dramatics,” Briana ordered. “They scare the cat.”

With even greater drama, Nealie shouted, “I hate mornings!” This time her groan ended with a horrible gurgle. “Aargh-gack-gack.”

The black cat, Zorro, streaked out of Nealie’s room, down the stairs and to his sanctuary behind the washing machine. Zorro was of a nervous disposition.

Briana looked at all that remained visible of the cat, the twitching tip of his black tail. She crooked an eyebrow. “Good morning, Zorro. I’d hide, too, if I were you. Some mice were around earlier asking for you. Big mice. One of them had a baseball bat.”

“Mom!” Nealie stood in the doorway looking sleepy and indignant. “You know Zorro’s scared of mice.”

“And he knows I’m kidding.”

Nealie gave her mother a rueful smile. She was a small child with big glasses that made her look like an impish owl. Her new plaid bathrobe was too large, and the sleeves hung to her fingertips. From under its hem peeped large brown fuzzy slippers made to look like bear paws. The slippers were ridiculous, but Nealie loved them.

The girl dropped to her knees beside the washer. “Poor Zorro,” she cooed, pulling him from his hiding place. Pieces of lint clung to his black whiskers and fur. She began to pick them off.

“Come on, Zorro,” Nealie said comfortingly. “You can sit on my lap. I’ll pet you.”

She plunked down cross-legged on the floor and laid the cat on his back. She stroked his fat stomach, scratched his ears and babbled affectionate nonsense to him. He purred his almost noiseless Zorro purr.

Briana bit her lip and put the oatmeal into the microwave. All business, she opened a container of yogurt, then poured orange juice into a glass.

“I didn’t want to wake up.” Nealie yawned, stroking the cat. “I was wrestling a crocodile. I was winning, too.”

“Of course, you were,” Briana said loyally.

“I’m going to hunt crocodiles when I get big,” said Nealie. “To help them, not to hurt them. Zorro and I’ll build them a safe place so people can’t make them into watch straps. Won’t we, Zorro?”

Zorro’s green eyes rolled unhappily, as if the thought of crocodiles made him queasy.

Briana stood by the counter, one hand on her hip, watching the timid cat and her fearless child.

Nealie was such a little girl. She was smart and imaginative, but much too small for her age, and delicate, as well. It was as if nature had not given her a body sturdy enough to contain so much spirit.

Nealie yawned again, then looked up, noticing the red and white streamers for the first time. Behind her big glasses, her eyes squinted.

“Hey! What’s this? When’d you do all this?”

“This morning. I can’t believe you didn’t hear me,” Briana said, setting out Nealie’s vitamins.

“What’s it for?” Then the child’s face brightened like a sunrise. “Is it for Daddy? Is he coming home? Is he? Is it a surprise for him?”

Briana fought not to wince. “No. You know he won’t be back for a while.”

The sunshine in Nealie’s expression clouded over. “Oh,” she said. “Then what’s all this for?”

“Your uncle Larry’s birthday,” Briana said. “We’ll have fun. There’ll be cake and ice cream and—”

“—and Rupert and Neville and Marsh,” Nealie said in disgust. “Blech.”

Rupert and Neville and Marsh were her cousins. They were all boys, all younger than Nealie, but bigger. Their idea of fun was running, shouting, scuffling and tormenting cats and girls.

“Why can’t Aunt Glenda have the party?” Nealie asked. “Then the boys can break their own stuff.”

“She wanted to have it,” Briana said, defending her sister-in-law. “She’s not feeling so good lately. So last night I said I’d do it.”

“I know why she doesn’t feel good.” Nealie pouted. “She’s going to have another baby. I hope it’s not another boy—ugh.”

Briana knew the baby would be a boy, so she made no reply. Instead she said, “Wash your hands and come eat.”

“Zorro’s not dirty,” Nealie protested, kissing him on the nose. “He’s sterile. I heard you telling Mrs. Feeney.”

Caught by surprise, Briana laughed. “That’s a different kind of sterile. It means he can’t make kittens. But germs he can make—and does. Wash.”

“I love Zorro’s germs,” Nealie said, straightening her glasses. “They’re wonderful, beautiful germs because they’re his.”

She kissed him again, then rose and washed her hands, then plunked herself down at the table. After the first few bites, she only picked at her food.

“Try a little more,” Briana said as gently as she could.

“I’m not hungry,” Nealie said. “My stomach feels kind of funny. You know.”

A chill pierced Briana, but she allowed herself only an understanding smile, a mild nod. “Okay. Take your vitamins and go change. Your clothes are laid out on the dresser. Wear your new shoes. I’ll drive you to school today.”

“Aw, Mommy,” Nealie grumbled, “you haven’t let me ride the bus for weeks.”

Briana’s answer was ready. “All those Tandrup children have colds. Mrs. Feeney said so. They sneeze all over everybody.”

Nealie didn’t look convinced. Briana added, “Besides, I have to go to town anyway. I’ve got to mail the seed catalogs.”

Briana gestured at the stacks of catalogs on the entryway table. The covers showed jewel-colored fruits and vegetables—tomatoes red as rubies, snow peas green as jade, pears the deep golden of amber.

Hanlon’s Heritage Farm, proud letters announced. Your Source of Heirloom Seeds and Rare Fruits and Vegetables. Only the Best and Strongest. A Quarter Century of Quality.

“Why does Grandpa have to grow seeds?” Nealie asked. “Why can’t he grow jellyfish or woolly worms or something interesting?”

“Seeds are what he knows,” Briana said.

“He could learn something else,” Nealie complained. “I think I’ll tell him so tonight.”

“Not tonight,” Briana said firmly. “We’re having a celebration. Remember?”

Nealie’s eyes shot to the Heritage Farm calendar on the kitchen wall, then widened in alarm. “But Mama. It’s the first of the month. Daddy might call. What if he calls when everybody’s here? We won’t be able to talk. Rupert will hit and yell and pull the phone plug out. He’s done it before.”

“I won’t let Rupert near the phone. Besides, Daddy’s so far away he might not be able to get through tonight.”

“He will if he can,” Nealie objected. “You know he will.” She paused, her expression saddening. “How much longer has he got to be in Khanty—Khanty…”

“Khanty-Mansiysk,” Briana said. “He stays until he gets enough pictures. Then he’ll be back to see you.”

Josh Morris was in Siberia, just south of the Arctic Circle, shooting photographs for Smithsonian magazine. Before that he had been in Oaxaca, Mexico, taking pictures of Olmec ruins. Before that he’d been photographing moths in Belize and a live volcano in Java.

Briana had married Josh seven years ago, when he’d come to Missouri for a piece on farmers specializing in saving endangered fruits and vegetables. It should have been a tame assignment for him, mere routine, but when he and Briana met, routine flew away, and all tameness vanished.

Theirs was a heedless, passionate affair that swept them into a marriage barely three weeks after they’d met. Everyone who knew Briana had warned her. She’d ignored them.

Everybody who knew Josh had warned him, too, and he, too, had paid no attention. He was crazy in love, so was she, and nothing could stop them.

The marriage could not last, and everyone but them had seemed to know it. Josh was a man born with a hunger to roam. She was a woman tied strongly to one place. They stayed together only long enough to produce Nealie.

Josh had already been gone by the time Nealie was born—Albania, where he’d nearly gotten himself killed more than once. But he’d flown to Missouri as soon as he’d heard that the child was premature and fighting to survive.

Josh Morris loved his daughter. Nobody, not even Briana’s disapproving brother, could deny that. Josh kept in touch with Nealie as much as possible, he sent funny cards and silly presents, he came to see her whenever he could. But he was always on the move, often far away, and his schedule was erratic.

“I wish he’d come home to stay,” Nealie said with a wistfulness she seldom showed.

Briana stroked the child’s brown hair. “He has to make a living.”

Nealie wasn’t consoled. “He could do something else.”

Briana touch softened. “No. He’s like Grandpa. This is what he does. He educates people. He helps tell important stories. A picture is worth a thousand words.

“It isn’t worth one daddy.”

For this Briana had no answer. She turned away and said, “I’m sorry.”

“I wish you’d marry him again and he’d stay here, and we’d all be together,” Nealie said in a burst of emotion. “Why won’t he stay with us? Is there something wrong with us? With me?”

Coldness gripped Briana. She wheeled to face her daughter. “Don’t talk like that. He loves you. He thinks you’re the most wonderful daughter in the world.”

“But why—” Nealie began.

“It’s time for school. Go change your clothes.”

Nealie tossed her head defiantly, but she turned and stalked to her room. Her big robe trailed behind her, and her bear paws made clumsy thumps on the floor.

Briana tried not to notice the limp in the child’s determined step. She turned and began to clear the breakfast dishes.

I won’t cry. I won’t, she told herself fiercely. Nobody’s going to know how I feel. Nobody.

But she knew this could not remain true. She could no longer keep things to herself.

The time had come. She must act.

FRANKLIN HINKS was the postmaster of Illyria, Missouri. His father had been postmaster before him, and Franklin could clearly remember Victory Mail, the three-cent letter stamp and the penny postcard.

He had vivid recollections of many things—including Briana Morris as a child, back when she’d been little Briana Hanlon. He’d seen her every day she’d gone to Illyria Elementary School, right across the street from the post office.

This morning he’d seen her stop her aging pickup truck in front of that same red brick schoolhouse. He’d seen her kiss her daughter goodbye and the child run up the snowy walk to the building.

He had watched Briana signal for a turn, then pull into his parking lot. She got out of the truck and came up the walk, her arms full of seed catalogs and her breath feathering behind her, a silver plume on the gray air.

She had been a pretty child, Briana had, and now she was a pretty woman—tall but not too tall, slim but not too slim. She had long dark hair with the hint of a wave and dark eyes that had something exotic in them.

She looked nothing at all like her father or brother, big Scottish-Irishmen with pale eyes and square faces. No, Briana looked like her mother, a quiet brunette with a slightly Mediterranean air.

Briana came in the door of the post office. She wore an old plaid jacket and a black knit hat and gloves. The wind had tossed her hair and burnished her cheeks to the color of fiery gold.

She smiled at him. She had a good smile, but lately—for the past two months or so—he’d discerned something troubled in it, deeply troubled. But he could tell she didn’t want people to know. Franklin was discreet. He pretended he noticed nothing.

“Morning, Franklin,” she said with a fine imitation of blitheness.

“Morning, Briana,” he said and nodded at her stack of catalogs. “Folks must be dreaming of spring.”

“They must be,” she said. “We got thirty-two orders by the Internet this weekend.”

Franklin made a tsking noise. “That Internet’s going to put me out of business.”

She set the catalogs on the counter. “Nope—look at all this. It’s bringing you business. And next week, I’ll start sending seeds out. I’ve got a huge pile of orders to fill.”

“Hmm,” Franklin said, stamping the catalogs. “Well, don’t send every seed away. Save me some for those tomatoes I like. What are the kinds I like?”

“Brandywine and Mortgage Lifter,” Briana said with a grin. “You’ll have ’em. I’ll even start them for you.”

He knew she’d keep her word and that she wouldn’t take any money from him, either. That was Briana.

“You’d save yourself some postage if you’d bulk mail,” Franklin advised, “Keep a mailing list and send out two hundred or more at a time.”

“Someday,” she said. “I have to talk Poppa into it. Getting the farm into the computer age was tough enough.”

Franklin nodded but said nothing. Leo Hanlon was a good man, a kindly man, but set in his ways. Didn’t he realize the greatest asset he had on his farm was his pretty, brainy daughter, a woman who wasn’t afraid of new ideas?

“Well, guess I’ll check the mail and be out of here,” Briana said. “It’s Larry’s birthday. Got lots to do to get ready.”

“Oh, you got mail, all right,” Franklin said. “One package too big to fit into the box. For Nealie. Maybe from the neighborhood of—oh, from the stamps, I’d say Russia.”

Briana was always careful to guard her expression, but a light came into her eyes. He thought what he’d thought so many times in the last years—she still had strong feelings for Josh Morris, more than she’d ever admit.

“I’ll get it for you,” he said. “It’s in the back.”

The glow faded from her face, and the trouble crept into her dark gaze. “I’ll check our box.”

He moved toward the back room, knowing, of course, what was in her post office box. It included a letter for Nealie, also from Russia.

Franklin had got a card from Josh in the morning’s mail. Josh knew the older man saved stamps, and he always remembered to send him colorful ones from his travels. Such a man could not be bad, Franklin thought, no matter what some people liked to say.

When he returned to the counter, Briana was there, her mail tucked under her arm. She made no comment about Nealie’s letter from Josh. She showed no emotion when Franklin set down the tattered package.

“It looks like it had a rough journey,” she said.

“It’s come a long way,” he said. “Across half the world.”

“Yes,” she said in almost a whisper. “A long way.”

She picked up the bulky package gingerly, as if it might have some magical power she didn’t want brushing off on her. Then she flashed Franklin a smile and set off, her gait sprightly.

A man less observant than Franklin might have been fooled by that sprightliness. She had a problem, and from the kind of mail she’d been getting—support groups, medical foundations—he thought he could guess what.

He prayed to heaven he was wrong.

JUST AS BRIANA was stowing Nealie’s package in her truck’s cab, a sleek Cadillac swept in and parked beside her.

Briana suppressed a groan and forced herself to smile, even though the cold hurt her face. The car’s driver, Wendell Semple, heaved himself out of the driver’s seat.

“Briana,” he said heartily. “Just the woman I want to see. Come over to the café. Have a cup of coffee with me. I need to talk to you.”

Briana’s smile felt as if it were freezing into place. “Sorry. My limit’s two cups a day, and I’ve already had it. Thanks for the offer, though.”

Wendell was vice president of the bank. He was heavy with what Briana thought of as a prosperous man’s solid weight. He had a prosperous man’s confidence, as well, the booming voice, the air that all his opinions were important and all his decisions were right.

“I said I need to talk to you, little lady.”

She didn’t like his tone and she feared what he wanted to talk about. “Sorry. I’m on a tight schedule.”

Wendell’s smile didn’t fade, but it hardened. “Briana, this is about money. Tell me. Aren’t you happy with the way I do business?”

Her heart plunged, and she felt caught out.

“I’d really like to know,” he said. “Why’d you take all your own money out of my bank? Weren’t you satisfied?”

Stay out of my affairs, she wanted to snap, but instead she made an airy gesture. “Nothing like that. It’s no big deal.”

He leaned closer. “It is to me. When I lose a customer, it’s always a big deal. Your family’s done business with my bank for what? Almost fifty years.”

She said nothing.

He went on. “We’ve not only done business together, we’ve been neighbors all this time. But now you’ve taken away your personal business. I’d like an explanation. I think I deserve one.”

“It’s simple,” she lied. “I wanted to try Internet banking—”

“But why?” he prodded. “Are you thinking of changing the farm account, too? That farm’s an important business in this county. I don’t want to lose it.”

She turned her collar up against the cold wind. “You won’t lose it. I did it as an experiment, that’s all. To streamline things. I thought I could give more time to the family business if my own’s handled automatically.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Now that sounds good. But is it the truth?”

“Of course, it is,” she said, lying with spirit. “I’ve got to run, Wendell. We’ll have coffee another time. Tell your wife hello. And that I’m starting her some begonia cuttings.”

She edged away from him, smiled again and got into her truck. Her heart banged in her chest.

Wendell stood in the snowy lot, looking like a man who didn’t intend to be thwarted. She gunned the motor and escaped.

He was prying into her money matters, but money was his business. She didn’t want him to know what she’d been doing. Not him or anyone else.

She’d changed her finances so all her bills were sent electronically to a St. Louis bank. No one in town saw them and no one in town knew what she was paying or to whom.

She had things to hide. She had fought hard to keep them hidden. But once again she had a frightening sense of urgency, that time was running out. Now, she thought. I’ve got to do something now.

HE HAD SPENT five weeks living in a flat, featureless wasteland of ice, taking pictures of nomads and reindeer and a way of life that was probably doomed.

He had slept in his clothes on pine boughs, bark and reindeer skins in a tent made of felt and hides. He’d kept from freezing at night with a portable stove that burned peat and pine branches. He stank of smoke and he hadn’t bathed or shaved for over a month.

Now he was in Moscow, with what felt like a permanent chill in his bones. He stood in the lobby of one of the city’s finest hotels, looking like a cross between the abominable snowman, an escaped prisoner and a bag of rags.

Other patrons looked at him as if he exquisitely pained their senses of sight and smell. From across the lobby, the pretty desk clerk shot him furtive glances of positive alarm. Josh Morris didn’t care.

He’d picked the Hotel Kampinski because after five weeks in Siberia, he wanted every luxury in the world, and the Kampinski had them all. It lavished its guests with saunas and masseuses, a gourmet restaurant and fine rooms. It had phones and computers, fax machines and color television.

He wanted to get in his room, unlock the private bar and open a bottle of real American whiskey. Then he’d climb into the marble bathtub and stay there all night, soaking and sipping and feeling his blood start to circulate.

Tomorrow he’d put on the Turkish robe the hotel provided, send his clothes out with orders to burn them and have new ones brought from the American store on Arbat Street.

And then, as the grand finale, he would call his delightful daughter and talk to her for an hour, maybe more. To hell with the long-distance rates.

Josh wanted to phone her tonight—he hadn’t even stopped over in the village of Kazym to clean up and rest. He’d promised Nealie he’d get through tonight if it was possible, but it was ten o’clock in Missouri now—past her bedtime.

After he talked to her tomorrow, he’d go shopping and stock up on Russian souvenirs for her. The nesting Matryoshka dolls, a set of Mishka bears, a small—but real— Fabergé pendant. Nothing but the best for his kid.

Briana wouldn’t let Nealie wear the pendant yet—she’d say the girl was too young and make her put it away. But Nealie would have it and plenty else, besides.

He thought of buying Briana something—Baltic amber or Siberian cashmere—but she didn’t like him to give her gifts. Still, she would look beautiful in white cashmere with her dark, dark hair and eyes….

A pang of bitter yearning struck him. He’d lost Briana. But he still had Nealie, and Nealie he would spoil to his heart’s content.

He reached the registration desk, set down his camera bags and gave the clerk his name and affiliation. “Josh I. Morris. Smithsonian magazine, Washington, D.C., U.S.A.”

“Ooh, Mr. Morris,” said the desk clerk in her lovely accent. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

He probably wouldn’t recognize himself, he thought.

“I made reservations for two nights,” he said. He usually booked himself into the more downscale Mezhudunarodnaya, but he needed serious de-Siberiazation.

“Your magazine extend it to four nights,” she told him. “They send message that you are to stay and rest a few days.”

He shrugged. It was a bonus, like battle pay. Besides, they probably expected him to pick up some file shots of Moscow while he was here.

She frowned slightly. “You have many messages—many, many.”

He frowned. From the Smithsonian? Did they have another assignment for him already? Was that why he was getting the royal treatment? Good Lord, he thought, were they plotting to send him somewhere even worse? What was worse in winter? The South Pole?

Visions of emperor penguins danced unpleasantly in his head. He didn’t want another cold-weather assignment. He wanted to get back to the States and see Nealie.

He shoved the faxed messages unread into his camera case, took his key and headed for the bank of elevators. His room was on the fourth floor, overlooking the Raushskaya Embankment and the Moscow River. Beyond the river were the lights of the Kremlin.

He took the faxes from the case and laid them on the gilt and glass table next to the phone. The parka, his hat, gloves and boots he put into the laundry bag he found in the closet.

He stripped down to his skivvies and began running his bath. His underwear would soon join his other clothes in the trash. He unlatched the bar, opened a bottle of whiskey and filled a crystal tumbler.

Then he carried his messages and his glass into the bathroom. While he ran the bath, he yanked off his underwear and kicked it under the sink. At last he settled naked and belly deep in the hot water.

He read the first fax. It was from his agent.

“Morris, Adventure magazine says the Pitcairn Island assignment may be shaping up. Be prepared to move fast if it does. Remember you’re contractually obligated. You’ve owed them an article since hell was a pup. Best, Carson.”

Josh snorted, crumpled the fax paper and flung it into the gilt wastebasket beside the sink. Adventure had been trying to put that freakish assignment together for years. It was never going to happen. He wished he’d never signed the damned contract. Adventure’s editors were crazy, and their assignments bizarre.