by Cap Daniels
Her answer was perfect. “Not yet.”
“I think we can change that,” I told her.
I turned Aegis to port, and eased the sheets, allowing both sails to swing well out over the side, bringing us onto a broad reach with the wind blowing across the deck from left to right.
As we turned eastward, the big boat left its side, and the mast pointed straight up toward the heavens.
Anya mouthed, “Thank you,” then disappeared back into the bowels of my boat.
I hated downwind sailing. It was boring and hot, but seeing my favorite Russian happy and comfortable was worth whatever it cost. I pulled out my chart. I had a perfectly good GPS chart plotter onboard, but for some reason, I loved the look and feel of paper nautical charts. Somehow, sailing with real ones made the experience richer and more fulfilling. I plotted a course for Virgin Gorda. There was a perfect anchorage there where we could spend the night watching the shooting stars, and then sleep through the next day so we could make the seventy-five-mile sail to Anguilla the following night. Arriving in a new anchorage is always best done at daybreak. There’s almost nothing more beautiful than sailing at night. Feeling the miles drift beneath the keel with a billion stars twinkling overhead is something magical that words can’t adequately describe.
When I had reached my limit of sailing flat under the midday sun, it was time for a drink. I stepped through the companionway and started down the ladder into the galley. As my foot landed on the first step, a dishtowel exploded in my face. I didn’t expect to suffer an attack from a dishtowel, so I was a little surprised.
“Get out!” she exclaimed. “If I wanted you down here, I would call for you. Now get back up there and do boat captain things. I am busy.”
“But I want a drink,” I protested.
With hands on hips and a scowl on her determined face, she said, “I will bring you drink. Just go.”
I didn’t know much about how real life worked, but I was smart enough to know that following her instructions was the best possible decision I could make at that moment, so I obeyed and returned to the cockpit.
I had no sooner nestled into my seat under the canopy, when Anya came through the companionway with a pair of perfectly yellow drinks in her hands.
She handed me a glass. “Is lemonade, I think. I have never had lemonade, but I have heard about it, so do not complain. Just drink.”
Again, I obeyed, and again, I was rewarded. The lemonade was the best I’d ever tasted.
I stroked her hair. “I’m really glad you’re here, and I love your lemonade.”
A frown consumed her smile. “I am glad I am here, too, Chase, but I do not know how long I can stay. They are going to come for you. They are going to try and kill you.”
“Who?” I asked. “I’m not that easy to kill.”
“Chase, you are very easy to kill. I could have killed you many times. Do not get feelings hurt. I am very good at killing, but I am not best. There are many more who are better. They will come if what you say about Suslik is true. If you killed him, some very powerful people will pay large price for your head.”
Her words chiseled their way into my confidence. “If what you say is true, why haven’t you killed me yet?”
She looked at me as if she had no understanding of why I would ask such a question. “I was not sent to kill you. That is not my job, yet. I work for Dmitri Barkov for now. He is very powerful man. He is oprichnik. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, I know what oprichnina means. I’m sure that my understanding is less thorough than yours, but I seem to remember that oprichnina was an elite group of individuals commissioned by Tsar Ivan IV, Ivan the Terrible to some, to carry out his will with complete abandon. Oprichnina ultimately became the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, or KGB, four hundred years after good ol’ Ivan met his demise. Then, after things began to turn friendly over there, the KGB evolved into the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or SVR, of which you claim to be an officer.”
She almost smiled, but stopped herself. “Not bad. That is not exactly what happened but is close enough. Okay, so Dmitri Barkov is descendent of oprichnina and former KGB. He is very wealthy man and gets whatever he wants. Well, almost whatever he wants, but not always everything.” She paused long enough to take a sip of lemonade, then she looked into her glass. “Is this how it should taste?”
“It is,” I said. “In fact, I think this is the best lemonade I’ve ever had.”
“I do not know. Is sweet and sour at same time. That confuses my tongue, and right now, I have only good tongue on boat.” She took another sip and continued. “So, when I became SVR officer and proved I was very good, Barkov insisted I come to work for him. I do not know why he chose me or how he knew about me. I am sirota—orphan. My mother died when I was very young, and I believe my father was war hero and died before I was born, so without parents, I was nothing. I was educated by State and trained to be what I am. Russia is my family.”
She sat stoically, showing no emotion while telling me her story. The psychology of such a childhood fascinated me, but I didn’t see her as a case study. To me, she was strong and impressive. Not only was I falling in love with her, but I was also becoming more impressed with everything about her.
“We are going to Anguilla, yes?”
“Yes, we are, but not today. Today we’re going to Virgin Gorda. There’s an anchorage where we can spend twenty-four hours without checking in with customs and immigration. Then, tomorrow night, we’ll set sail for Anguilla. It’s only about seventy miles from Virgin Gorda to Anguilla. If the wind holds, we can make that in less than ten hours. We’ll be there for the sunrise. How does that sound?”
Instead of answering, she placed two fingers on my lips and spread them apart. She looked into my mouth with obvious concern. “Is getting better. How does it feel?”
“It feels much better today. I think it’ll be back in kissing condition in another day or two.”
She smiled her devilish smile again. “Oh, I think is in fine kissing shape already, but I cannot wait to know how it feels when you are back to perfect.” She playfully kissed me on the tip of my nose before hopping up and heading back toward the galley.
“What are you doing down there?” I asked.
“I am cooking for you. Is that not what American women do for their men?”
I laughed. “I have no idea what American women do for their men. Our line of work tends to be hard on relationships.”
She tilted her head. “It does not have to be.”
We arrived in the anchorage off Virgin Gorda about an hour before sunset. When I finished anchoring in sixteen feet of water, I shut down the engine and bagged the sails. As if she had planned the timing to the minute, Anya came up with two steaming bowls of something that smelled heavenly, a loaf of French bread, and two bottled beers on a bamboo tray.
“It smells amazing. What is it?”
“It is just simple stew. You had fish and potatoes, so I cooked what you had. You have been so kind to me, except for shooting me, I thought you would like for me to cook for you.”
I had never known a woman of such extremes. She could kill a man in the blink of an eye, yet she still sought to please me by cooking for me. Had she ever been shown kindness beyond general courtesy? Had anyone ever truly loved her? I wanted to be the first man who saw past her deadly persona and found tenderness and true beauty behind her stunning exterior. I wanted to show her more than physical desire. I longed to touch her heart and taste her soul. Would she invite me inside and allow me to experience the magic she kept hidden away deep within? Perhaps it wasn’t wonder on my part—perhaps it was hope.
We ate her stew and drank our beer. My tongue had healed enough that I could taste the incredible flavors. The stew was full of pepper and bold flavors that I couldn’t identify, but I loved every bite.
When the last drop of stew disappeared from my bowl and my bottle was empty, I placed my hand on her leg. “Thank you. That was magn
ificent. Just like you.”
“You are welcome. I am happy that I pleased you.”
I placed my hand beneath her ear and held her perfect face in the palm of my hand. She closed her eyes and let me caress her neck and play with her long, flowing hair. She made soft, warm sounds that made me want to never let her go, but that was beyond all hope.
She licked her lips and drew in a long, full breath. “I will be right back.” She gathered our dishes and returned to the galley.
When she came back on deck, she was wearing the same flowing, white cotton shirt I’d seen her wearing on the beach in St. Thomas, and she had a silky, wraparound skirt bound loosely about her hips and falling lightly across her thighs.
She turned around slowly, just beyond my reach. “You like?”
“I do,” I said, reaching for her hand.
She placed her hand in mine and joined me on the cushion. We watched the sun sink into the ocean and the stars fill the night sky. She sat between my legs, reclined against my chest, and her hair danced in my face on the gentle evening breeze. I never wanted the moment to end. I silently thanked God for the angel he had placed in my arms.
She pressed her hands into my thighs until she lifted her body from the seat. With the elegance of a ballerina, she turned to face me. I opened my mouth to try to tell her what I felt when she was in my arms, but she pressed her finger to my lips and shook her head from side to side. Her skilled hands found and released each of the buttons of my shirt without ever taking her eyes off me, then we kissed, tenderly and slowly, tracing the lines of each other’s lips with the tips of our tongues. Her breath in my mouth felt like life itself, and the taste of her skin was intoxicating. I pulled her body to mine and held her against my chest, feeling her heart beat in time with my own.
As she stood, her seductive eyes invited me to watch as she unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt, revealing smooth, flawless skin, and a dozen tiny, almost invisible freckles. I replaced her hands with mine and released the remaining buttons. She let her arms fall to her sides, allowing the soft cotton shirt to slide off her shoulders and fall to the deck. I sat, admiring her body. The muscles of her arms and shoulders were firm, but the delicate curve of her waistline was as elegant as any Moran painting. Her breasts were small, but perfectly formed, and her nipples stood erect as if they anticipated the exploration my fingertips so badly longed to begin. She sat with confidence, but a hint of humility. It was obvious that she knew how men perceived her, but she wanted, or perhaps needed, to be more than just an object of lustful desire.
I let the backs of my fingers trace her jawline and glide down her neck until I found the curve of her shoulder, and finally, her waiting breasts. I followed the graceful curve of her body until my hands held her waist. She was sitting on my lap, as she had in the shallow lagoon when we first kissed, but this time, the animalistic intensity of that moment had given way to tenderness and palpable anticipation.
I gently pulled at the folds of her skirt until it fell into my hands, and eventually down her long legs, joining her shirt on the deck. She closed her eyes and breathed heavily as I pulled her waiting body to mine. Our lips met again, and we gasped with longing desire. She slid her hands down my chest until she found the button on my pants. Ignoring the button and zipper, she pressed into the firmness of my desire for her, and sighed as she felt my body react to her touch. Finally, she unbuttoned my pants and slid them from my waist, adding them to the growing collection of clothes on deck.
When she approached me again, she hovered above my body, letting her long, blonde hair fall against my skin in a seduction that left me yearning to be inside her. She motioned for me to slide downward onto the cushion until I was reclined with my knees slightly bent, and with my head rested on a coil of line. She let her leg slide over mine until she was poised just above me. Her skin was moist with anticipation and desire.
Our lips met again, and she lowered her body onto mine, taking me inside her as she gasped and quivered. We lay motionless, savoring the feeling of surrender and harmony. She felt like Heaven must feel. It seemed as if her body was made just for me.
Our bodies moved in a rhythm that felt like the rolling of the sea. The sounds that drifted from her lips were seductive and hypnotic. I held her against me and felt the waves of intimacy and release overtake our bodies until we both shook, arched our backs, and exploded together in continuous torrents of unimaginable pleasure. Breathless, she lay upon my chest with her hands in my hair and her body still wrapped gently around mine.
She kissed me below my ear. “Ya ves’ tvoya, Chasechka.”
“And I am yours, my darling Anya.”
I felt her breath grow deep and rhythmic as her body relaxed. I held her as the stars made their timeless journey across the sky, and she slept peacefully, safe in my embrace. If I never lived to see another sunset, I would die knowing that no woman could make me feel the beauty, the passion, and the submission I felt in the arms of a woman who should’ve been my enemy.
27
A Guest
When I awoke, the sun was already high in the bright blue, cloudless sky. I stretched and yawned, trying not to disturb Anya as she slept at my side. Her skin shone with breathtaking radiance as the morning sun beamed through the hatch above her head. I quietly slipped from the bed and left her to sleep.
I stood on deck and enjoyed a cup of coffee while watching the sea birds soar overhead. Occasionally one would dive into the crystal-clear water and emerge victorious with a small fish. I laughed at how the less successful birds attacked the one with the fish. I couldn’t help comparing that phenomenon to humanity. It always seemed that those without fish were pestering the ones who had worked hard to capture a meal. Apparently, the concept of greed without willingness to sacrifice was not limited only to the human species.
When Anya arrived on deck, she was wearing a pair of my boxer shorts drawn tightly around her waist, and one of my t-shirts was falling off her tanned shoulder.
“There is more coffee, yes?” she asked in a sleepy voice.
“There is,” I replied. “It’s on the stove. I’ll be happy to get it for you if you’d like.”
“Thank you, but I am closer. I will get it. More for you?”
I looked down into my cup. “Yes, please.”
She brought the pot on deck, refilled my cup, then poured hers. We sat together on a long, blue cushion. She was drawn to the antics of the sea birds just as I had been. We sat silently drinking our coffee and watching the birds until she finally spoke.
“Last night was perfect.”
Her tone was soft and confident. I found her confidence to be alluring and sexy without being arrogant or pompous.
“Yes, it was,” I said, unable to keep from smiling.
Seductively, she said, “Perhaps we will have many nights like that, and perhaps some nights better.”
I doubted I was capable of surviving many more nights like that, but I was absolutely willing to try. The only words that would come from my mouth were, “I certainly hope so.”
I glanced out over the calm water of the anchorage and noticed a small, inflatable dinghy coming toward us with a single bearded man aboard. He stared intently at my boat and managed the outboard motor with practiced skill. The man waved and smiled broadly as he approached.
Anya noticed him as well. She couldn’t seem to look away. Her instincts were so well-honed that almost nothing happened without her noticing.
I whispered, “Do you know that guy?”
She stared at the oncoming stranger. “I do not think so, but I cannot be sure. Do you know him?”
“No,” I whispered. “I don’t, but he wants us to think he knows us.”
She leaned in close to me. “Keep him busy and do not let him come aboard.”
Not surprisingly, she’d taken control of the situation. Her skill and experience only added to her beauty. She slipped away from my side and through the companionway while the man in the dinghy contin
ued closer. The man stood in the dinghy with his knees bent in a practiced pose that would make a perfect fighting stance, but I might’ve been reading too much into the situation. The stance was also perfect for standing in a small, unstable boat. Perhaps he’d been trained to stand that way or maybe he’d learned it by falling out of a few too many dinghies.
“Mike? Is that you?” the man yelled over the rumbling sound of his outboard motor.
I stood, looking down at the man and trying to determine if he was just a fellow cruiser who wanted to say hello or someone trying to get close enough to identify and kill me.
He looked back and forth between my eyes and his outboard and chuckled before yelling, “Ah, you probably can’t hear me over the engine.” He leaned down seemingly to press the kill switch on the engine, but instead of the engine falling silent and the man standing to introduce himself, as I expected, I saw him raise a suppressed pistol from beside the engine cowling and bring it to bear on my chest.
I dived to the deck and waited to hear the whisper of the bullet as it left the suppressor. The sound I’d expected came, but it came with a sound I hadn’t expected. An instant before he pulled the trigger, the man emitted something between a grunt and a startled yell.
The small caliber bullet tore through the Bimini top of my boat, and I pieced together the scene that was unfolding in front of me. I saw Anya’s arm appear from the surface of the water behind the gunman, and grasped firmly in her hand was an aluminum boat hook. My nine-toed assassin and lover had used the boat hook to drive the gunman’s firing arm upward just as he’d pulled the trigger. She then hooked his mouth with the tool and pulled him violently into the water with her.
There was no time for hesitation. I dived into the water and found Anya with her left arm locked firmly under the gunman’s chin and her left hand tightly holding her right arm in a perfect choke hold. The man was not going to escape her grasp. If she didn’t drown him, he would soon pass out from the choke and be deadweight in her arms.
