Red Heat
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1 - PETROPAVLOVSK-KAMCHATSKIYA PACIFIC COAST OF RUSSIA LATE JUNE
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34 - WASHINGTON, D.C. TWELVE DAYS LATER
Teaser chapter
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF NINA BRUHNS
Winner of the National Readers Choice Award and three-time overall winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense
A KISS TO KILL
“Rich with dialogue and filled with tight suspense, Bruhns’s latest holds true to the excellence readers have come to expect from this author.”
—Romantic Times
“Greg and Gina are one of the hottest couples I’ve read lately . . . There’s not one thing I didn’t like about this book. It’s fast paced. It’s got an intriguing and complex story and mystery. It’s got fascinating characters on every page. It’s sexy and sensual and then some.”
—The Good, The Bad, and The Unread
“A thrill ride of fast action and hot sex in the steamy Louisiana bayous, Nina Bruhns’s latest delivers it all!”
—CJ Lyons, bestselling author of Warning Signs
IF LOOKS COULD CHILL
“This is a fast-paced action adventure with a steamy romance . . . a keeper.”
—Night Owl Romance
“Nonstop, edge-of-your-seat action that never lets you down . . . the relationship between Marc and Yankee Tara was H-O-T . . . There was never a moment that I wanted to put it down.”
—Joyfully Reviewed
“I loved If Looks Could Chill . . . I can’t wait to read what will happen in the third book of this marvelous series!”
—Manic Readers
“Anything but chilly—the sexual action is as hot and steamy as the action in the field . . . If you like a thrill a minute, you will enjoy If Looks Could Chill. The gripping tale is well written and filled with intrigue and passion.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Suspense just got a whole lot hotter with Nina Bruhns’s dynamite romantic thriller. A hero to die for and a heroine to cheer for . . . an awesome, sexy story.”
—Allison Brennan, New York Times bestselling author
SHOOT TO THRILL
“Bruhns makes a successful move from category romance with this fast-paced thriller . . . powerful chemistry.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A wonderful, suspense-filled, nonstop action thriller. The chemistry between Kick and Rainie is explosive.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
“Sexy, suspenseful, and so gritty you’ll taste the desert sand. A thrill ride from start to finish!”
—Rebecca York, USA Today bestselling author
“A provocative, sexy thriller that will get your adrenaline pumping on all levels. A riveting breakout novel that will shoot Ms. Bruhns straight to bestsellerdom. Move over, boys, and see how it’s really done!”
—Tamar Myers, award-winning mystery author
“Intense pacing . . . powerful characters . . . searing emotions and explosive sexual tension! Once I started reading Shoot to Thrill, I couldn’t stop! This is high-action suspense at its very best!”
—Debra Webb, bestselling author
MORE PRAISE FOR NINA BRUHNS
“The stuff legends are made out of.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Shocking discoveries, revenge, humor, and passion fill the pages . . . An interesting and exciting story with twists and turns.”
—Joyfully Reviewed
“[A] delightfully whimsical tale that enchants the reader from beginning to end. Yo ho ho and a bottle of fun!”
—Deborah MacGillivray
“This is one you will definitely not want to miss!”
—In the Library Reviews
“Nina Bruhns . . . imbues complex characters with a great sense of setting in a fast-paced suspense story overladen with steamy sex.”
—The Romance Reader
“Gifted new author Nina Bruhns makes quite a splash in her debut . . . Ms. Bruhns’s keen eye for vivid, unforgettable scenes and a wonderful romantic sensibility bode well for a long and successful career.”
—Romantic Times (4 stars)
“The intricate and believable plots crafted by Nina Bruhns prove she is a master of any genre. Her talent shines from every word of her books.”
—CataRomance.com
“The kind of story that really gets your adrenaline flowing. It’s action-packed and sizzling hot, with some intensely emotional moments.”
—Romance Junkies
“Nina Bruhns writes beautifully and poetically and made me a complete believer.”
—Once Upon A Romance
“Tells a very rich tale of love . . . a book you are going to want to add to your collection.”
—Romance at Heart
Berkley Sensation Titles by Nina Bruhns
SHOOT TO THRILL
IF LOOKS COULD CHILL
A KISS TO KILL
RED HEAT
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
RED HEAT
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / June 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Nina Bruhns.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copy
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eISBN : 978-1-101-52897-6
BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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This book is dedicated to all the men (and now women, yay!) past, present, and future who serve this country so proudly in the Silent Service.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My grateful thanks to STSCS (SS) Sid Busch, Senior Chief Sonar Technician, Submarines, proud veteran U.S. submariner, and knowledgeable source of much invaluable information on all things submarine. And thanks as well to Kapitan First Rank Vladimir Aleksandrovich Pelevin, decorated commander of the Soviet navy, for all his helpful insights into the Russian Kilo-class submarines.
1
PETROPAVLOVSK-KAMCHATSKIYA PACIFIC COAST OF RUSSIA LATE JUNE
Goddamn KGB.
Captain First Rank Nikolai Kirillovich Romanov of the Russian navy marched into the Hotel Kursk and stalked through the vestibule, cutting an irate swath through a throng of startled hotel guests.
The notorious KGB had gone the way of the dinosaur two decades ago, but its successor, the Russian Federal Security Bureau, or FSB, was still trying to yank his goddamn chain.
Well, fuck them! He was a decorated naval officer now, a goddamn submarine commander, and the FSB had no right to issue him orders anymore!
Noticing the rash of speculative looks he was receiving, Nikolai forced himself to halt in the hotel lobby. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly—very slowly—wrestling his anger into submission.
It wasn’t easy; he’d been so damn angry for the entire accursed, humiliating year. But this topped everything. The biggest mistake of his inglorious youth had decided to give him one last swift kick in the balls, and at the worst possible time in his life.
And didn’t that just goddamn figure.
He jerked on the collar of his dark blue fitted navy sweater and smoothed back his already neat hair. It felt wrong to be out of his dress uniform in such a public place. But his old FSB handler had told him to blend in with the rank and file when coming to this meeting. A captain’s uniform would attract too much attention, even in this navy town.
He didn’t dare disobey. The KGB might be officially dead and gone, but the old men who used to run the sinister, secretive intelligence service were not. They’d merely changed the acronym to FSB and gained even more power under the new “democratic” government, doing their dirty business as usual.
Unfortunately, chain of command notwithstanding, a man in Nikolai’s precarious position careerwise could not afford to piss off such powerful men.
He spotted Leonid Cherenkov crossing the lobby toward him, looking as dour as he had fifteen years ago. Comrade Cherenkov’s nondescript brown hair was now gray, his nondescript pudgy features now florid, no doubt thanks to a fifteen-year flow of strong Russian vodka across those unsmiling lips.
“Kirillych,” the man greeted him, using the familiar form of Nikolai’s middle name, which had been his FSB code name back when he was young and stupid.
“Comrade,” Nikolai returned. He didn’t extend his hand, and neither did Cherenkov.
An old-school hard-line communist, Cherenkov had never approved of Nikolai, due to his remote connection with the old czarist Romanov family. The relationship had been distant enough that his father’s grandfather had not been assassinated during the Revolution, but he had stubbornly refused to change the family name, which had been a constant source of difficulty for his descendants ever since.
“It’s been a long time, Kirillych,” Comrade Cherenkov said with false affability. “You’ve done well for yourself.” He paused for effect. “Up until recently.” The old man gave him a smug smile, one that implied he could have predicted Nikolai’s fall from grace. “Blood will always tell” had been one of the bastard’s favorite maxims, turning the original Western meaning on its head.
Nikolai didn’t have the patience to play games. “What do you want?”
Cherenkov tutted. “In case you’ve forgotten, you still work for us, Kirillych.”
“I work for the Russian navy,” Nikolai retorted tightly.
Cherenkov shrugged, apparently as unconcerned with such technicalities now as he had been in the old days. “From what I’ve heard, you may be looking for a new job soon. Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t resigned your commission. Your present command”—he spread his hands for emphasis—“well, not up to your usual elitist standards, nyet?”
Nikolai ground his jaw. A month ago, following a neardisaster collision between two nuclear submarines for which he’d been held responsible, Nikolai had been demoted to commanding podvodnaya lodka B-403 Ostrov, the most pathetic, broken-down submarine in the entire notoriously neglected Russian Pacific fleet—a nearly mothballed Project 636 Kilo-class diesel-electric sub. This, after commanding the newest, most advanced nuclear submarine on the planet. Yeah, the one he’d nearly sunk.
“Ostrov is doing important work,” Nikolai responded curtly, chagrined at the not-so-subtle insult. Even if it was all true.
“Playing water taxi to a multinational scientific expedition studying whales and polar bears?” Cherenkov chided.
“Not whales and polar bears. Urgent climate and environmental studies,” he corrected stiffly.
Cherenkov shrugged again. “Still. A bit of a comedown for a decorated hero of the Russian navy, once considered the golden boy of the whole Northern Fleet. Eh?”
Nikolai’d had enough. “I’m leaving now,” he clipped out and turned on a heel.
“There’s a spy on your boat,” Cherenkov said loudly enough to make Nikolai halt in his tracks.
He turned back to glare. “What did you say?”
“Shpion. A spy. One of the expedition team boarding Ostrov tomorrow is a CIA officer.”
The news hit Nikolai like a punch in the gut. A foreign agent on his submarine? It was bad enough he still had to put up with the zampolit the FSB still always planted among the crew as its own damn shpion. But a real one? An American? Hell, no. Not on his goddamn watch!
“If you know this, revoke his visa!” Nikolai said hotly. “Send him back to Langley where he belongs.”
“Not him. Her. The spy is a woman,” Cherenkov said.
Nikolai’s mind reeled. He was still getting used to the idea of women on his boat to begin with, as two of the international scientists were female. But now this? He didn’t think so.
“Woman, man, I don’t give a damn! If she’s a spy, get rid of her.”
“The thing is, I do give a damn. The FSB would very much like to know what she’s doing here.”
“Then arrest her and question her,” Nikolai exploded. “I don’t need a goddamn spy on board! I’ll have enough problems just making sure the goddamned rust bucket doesn’t spring a leak and sink in the middle of the goddamn Bering Sea!”
Cherenkov looked even more smug at this outburst.
“Which,” the intelligence officer said calmly, “is exactly why we want her there. Why, I ask you, is CIA sending someone on a routine, unclassified scientific expedition aboard a forty-year-old diesel boat that barely floats?”
Nikolai assumed it was a rhetorical question. He ground his jaw even harder.
“Nyet. There is something going on here. Right under our noses. We want to know what it is.”
“I am still Ostrov’s commander,” Nikolai argued, “and I refuse—”
“You have no choice,” Cherenkov interrupted flatly. “Unless, of course, you want certain buried information about your background to co
me to the navy’s attention . . . ?”
Nikolai barely hung on to his temper. “I’m sure the admiralty knows I’m a Romanov, comrade. Even they couldn’t have failed to notice the name stitched on my uniform.”
“I’m not talking about your father’s name,” Cherenkov said menacingly. “I mean your mother.”
Outrage swept through Nikolai. Did the man think he was a total idiot? This threat was an old one. His long-deceased mother had supposedly committed some terrible, treasonous—though conveniently undisclosed and top-secret—political offense. Bad enough to taint Nikolai’s entire future, according to Cherenkov. Nikolai had bought into the lie when he was an ambitious eighteen-year-old from a politically suspect family who’d wanted nothing more than to get into the highly competitive, restricted, and elite submarine service. Cherenkov had offered to bury the information on his mother—for a price. Thus had been born Nikolai’s intense, but thankfully brief, stint with the FSB.
He had wanted to believe that the collapse of the Soviet Union happening later that same year was somehow meaningful. A sign that his own new, independent life and future, away from his father and blessedly free of the harsh, restricting fetters of his past, would be joyfully reflected in that of his beloved country.
How wrong he had been. On both counts.