Red Heat

by Nina Bruhns

  “Really? That old ploy?” he retorted and moved to leave.

  “Perhaps this will convince you,” Cherenkov said, handing him an envelope.

  He halted and, with a tersely jetted breath, he opened the envelope. In it were orders signed by the navy diviziya commander, giving Cherenkov authority over Nikolai and Ostrov in all matters of national security. Talk about shades of the past.

  Nikolai’s hands were effectively tied. He had no choice but to obey.

  Сволочь. Bastard!

  “I see,” Nikolai ground out, swallowing down his burning frustration. Cherenkov could have just given him the damn orders to begin with, instead of attempting to humiliate him first. Of course, that wouldn’t have been nearly as fun. “What do you expect me to do?” he growled.

  “Watch every move she makes,” Cherenkov said, handing him a photo of a mid-thirtyish redheaded woman who might have been pretty except for her tight and unflattering hairstyle. “Her name is Julie Elizabeth Severin. She flew in on the morning Bering Air charter from Alaska, posing as a reporter. I want to know exactly what she’s up to. What she’s looking for. Who she’s trying to contact, or recruit.” The older man’s eyes narrowed. “It could even be you she’s after, Kirillych.”

  “Me?” Nikolai asked incredulously. “What would the Americans possibly want with me?” A man so out of favor with his government that his own petty official father hadn’t spoken to him since the unfortunate incident for fear of his stench rubbing off. Besides, the Americans had had ample opportunity to recruit him during the year he’d spent there as an exchange student. They hadn’t even tried.

  Cherenkov’s eyes revealed nothing. “Whatever it is they want, I trust you will not give it to them.”

  Nikolai straightened like a shot. “I love my country, Comrade Cherenkov, even if my country doesn’t seem to return the sentiment. If you have so little faith in me, assign someone else to deal with her. Or send the woman packing as I requested.”

  Cherenkov ignored him. “Find out why she’s here. And Kirillych, you are to use any means necessary.” His lips thinned. “Understood?”

  Nikolai was so appalled he couldn’t even answer. Seriously? They expected him to pimp himself out to the bitch?

  “She’s in the hotel bar,” Cherenkov said. “I’ll expect daily reports.”

  With that final order, the FSB apparatchik strode away, blending into the crowd like the slimy weasel he was.

  Чёрт возьми! Devil take it!

  Nikolai couldn’t believe he’d been roped back into the shady world of espionage. That was bad enough . . . but that he was also being forced to play demeaning undercover games, that was even more infuriating.

  Damn, he hated the lies, the deception, the subterfuge. The compromises of his personal integrity. All he wanted was to live a normal, peaceful life in a place with people who gave a damn about him, and to do the job he loved above all else. But did he have an option here?

  Nyet.

  Not if he wanted to salvage the crash dive that had become his career ever since the disastrous collision that had landed him in his present state of disgrace.

  But Nikolai had learned through long and bitter experience that moaning and groaning about things wouldn’t help. He had a submarine to command, an expedition to protect, and a shpion to catch. The sooner that last thing was accomplished, the sooner he could get back to salvaging his career, and hopefully rebuilding the life he wanted.

  Resolved, Nikolai headed straight for the hotel bar. In this whole mess, at least he’d had one small piece of luck, even if he didn’t like it. The American spy was a woman.

  Women he could do.

  Entering the dim, smoky room, he stepped sideways and stood against the wall to orient himself. The bone-jarring blare of music and din of voices shouting over it was earsplitting. But the interior of the generous lounge was briskly cool and the pungent haze of cigarette smoke smelled relatively pleasant compared to the pervasive furnacelike heat and acrid petrol-fume stink of the diesel-fueled Ostrov.

  With a practiced eye used to making the three hundred sixty degrees of a periscope circle scan, Nikolai took in the space before him. The Hotel Kursk lounge was large, starkly utilitarian, and packed with people sitting at a litter of stained linoleum bar tables. Mostly the occupants were men wearing various permutations of the distinctive black or blue and gold uniform of the Russian navy. There were a few small tables of men with their wives having a last night out together before leaving on patrol. And several tables occupied by groups of men seated with lone females wearing far too much makeup. But one table—two tables pushed together, actually—was surrounded by a half dozen foreigners.

  They were easy to spot. Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiya was normally closed to noncitizens, due to the highly military nature of the area, and they stuck out like a sore thumb.

  The decibel level precluded hearing what language they spoke, but even from this distance it was obvious they did not belong. Their clothes, their choices of drinks, their very demeanors marked them as foreign.

  These would be the scientists. The ones Ostrov would be ferrying through the polar ice for the coming twenty-one days.

  Nikolai searched each of the women’s faces for his target, mentally measuring them against the redhead in the photo he’d tucked into his shirt pocket.

  She wasn’t sitting at the table.

  As a conscientious Western reporter, she should be down here in the bar soaking in the “exotic” atmosphere, meeting the scientists on the research team she was covering, gathering background for the articles she’d be writing about the expedition.

  But of course, Julie Severin wasn’t a real reporter.

  Where was the damned woman? Annoyed, he scanned over the lounge again. And finally spotted her. It was impossible to miss that neat auburn bun at the back of her neck. The color was nice, but the style was ugly. He slid farther from the door, blending into the shadows.

  She’d just walked into the bar. Dressed in an elegantly cut business suit, she couldn’t look more out of place if she tried.

  As he had, she’d stopped right inside the door and was looking around. He saw when she spotted the table of scientists, but she didn’t immediately head over to join them. She hesitated, watching them impassively for a full minute without moving. Then to his surprise she straightened and walked briskly in the opposite direction, to the bar.

  Interesting. Perhaps she was seeking a more intimate encounter with the Russian navy than a mere ride on a submarine. Which would make his job easier, if even less appealing.

  Unsurprisingly, the ranks of men lined up three deep at the bar parted to let her through. A young rating jumped from his stool and offered it to her. Chivalry was not quite dead in Russia, Nikolai was gratified to see. Or maybe the kid thought he had a snowball’s chance in hell with her.

  She thanked the rating politely, sat, and ordered from the attentive bartender. Men pressed in around her. She proceeded to ignore the lot of them, the scientists and the youthful rating included.

  Even more interesting, if a bit puzzling. What was she up to?

  As Nikolai watched, the short, bald bartender set a full shot glass of clear liquid in front of her with a flourish. She downed it in one gulp and ordered another.

  Nikolai almost snorted. Who was she trying to impress, anyway? No one could outdrink a Russian. Especially in a roomful of Russian sailors.

  Enough of this nonsense. Time to make a move.

  He pushed off the wall and ambled up to the bar, elbowing aside the ratings to sidle in next to her stool. He turned toward her. And got another surprise. No wonder the men were flocking around her. The photo had not done her justice. Not remotely. Even with the unflattering hairdo, up close the woman was gorgeous.

  She was much younger than he’d thought, with vibrant red-gold hair fighting to escape its tight confines. Her body appeared lithe and curvy beneath her tailored gray business suit; her legs were long and provocatively
crossed under a skirt that barely flirted with the tops of her knees. A sophisticated red high heel dangled casually from the toes of her shapely foot. Against his will, his body stirred. Хуйня. He wondered if her toenails were painted to match.

  Perhaps he’d find out.

  Okay, so this spy thing might not be so bad after all.

  He did a quick mental shift and opened his mouth to deliver one of the many pickup lines that had served him so well in the past. He didn’t get the chance to utter a syllable.

  “Fuck off, sailor,” she cut him off in almost flawless Russian and tossed back her shot. She did not even bother to glance his way.

  Shock speared through him. Still, he had to stop himself from grinning. Beautiful, sassy, and she wasn’t afraid to drink. His favorite feminine combination. Too bad she was a spy.

  He gestured to the bartender to set up two more shots and casually said to her, “American?”

  She looked briefly irritated, then switched to English—probably hoping he didn’t speak it. “You have a problem with that?”

  “Not really,” he returned in near-perfect American English. “But some of the men in this room might.”

  She glanced around. “I’m terrified,” she drawled.

  The bartender placed the two brimming glasses between them. Nikolai picked up one and gave her his best winsome smile, a smile that usually had women falling all over him. “An American woman alone in a place like this . . . you really should have a protector.”

  She looked positively bored. “And that would be you, I suppose.” Her tone oozed disinterest.

  He shrugged and threw down his shot. “Sure. Why not?”

  When she finally glanced at him, her eyes were a cool gray-green. The exact color of the sea on a cold, rough morning in the icy north. The kind of morning that reminded a man he was alive. He almost shivered.

  Anticipation surged through him. Hell, she’d had him at “Fuck off.”

  “No, thanks. I can protect myself,” she stated. Her chilly gaze cut to the second shot glass, then back up to him. “And you can keep your damn drink.”

  He feigned a brief confusion, then picked up the glass. “Oh, this wasn’t for you.” He tossed it back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Me, I’m a two-shot man.” He leveled her a look. “One is just never enough. Don’t you agree?”

  She stared at him. A tinge of red flushed across the apples of her cheeks.

  He felt a coil of hunger tighten deep in his belly. Or maybe it was the vodka.

  Abruptly, she stood. Without a word, she turned on her sophisticated city-girl toe and strode like an arrow through the crowd toward the lounge exit. An invitation? He sure as hell hoped so. He slapped an appropriate ruble note onto the bar and followed her. She moved with confidence, a subtle hint of sexuality in the sway of her hips. A stray lock of her auburn hair had sprung loose and lay curled over her shoulder, looking silky and touchable. He suddenly had a vision of loosening that tight bun and letting the freed waves of red cascade over his shoulders.

  Damn, he wanted her.

  He wanted her in his bed, naked. Under him.

  Which was all the more unbelievable because that was exactly what Cherenkov had asked him to do.

  Using any means necessary.

  It hadn’t taken a genius to know what that meant. He was to sacrifice his body for the good of his country. Of course, at the time he’d had absolutely no intention of doing so. He wasn’t a damn gigolo. Besides, there were other ways of learning the secrets of a shpion.

  But a man could change his mind, couldn’t he?

  He pursued Julie Severin through the lounge and into the hotel lobby, feeling the same familiar thrum of excitement he always felt when chasing an enemy sub through the dark waters of some deep Arctic trench.

  He decided to corner her at the elevators. But she must have sensed his intent, and she bypassed the lift alcove, quickening her stride to elude him. So much for the invitation. She hurried into a dingy corridor and swung open a door marked Emergency Exit. The stairwell.

  Her red spiked heels clacked furiously as she sped up the stairs. Nice try. A woman in heels didn’t stand a chance against a naval officer in the best shape of his life.

  He caught her at the first landing.

  Bracketing his arms to either side of her body, he pushed her back against the wall and stepped in close.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.”

  She didn’t scream. Didn’t struggle against him. Much.

  Her storm green eyes met his. Wide, with a shade of fear. But more of . . . defiance. She was breathing hard, her breasts rapidly rising and falling, her pebbled nipples grazing his chest with each ragged breath. The two rapid shots hit his bloodstream, and for a second he was dizzy with desire.

  He stood there for a long moment, drinking in the excitement of her, savoring the predatory urges twisting in his groin and the blatant sexual tension arcing between them.

  Then her tongue peeked out and wetted her lower lip.

  And he lost it.

  He wrapped his fingers around her waist, pulled her to him, and leaned down to capture her mouth with his.

  He took ruthless advantage of her gasp of surprise. As he invaded the hot, wet depths of her, a soft moan worked through her throat. And turned into a moan of surrender.

  Of their own accord, his fingers sought the two long pins holding her bun in place and yanked them out. Her hair tumbled down around her face and he drilled his fingers into the soft waves.

  “Open,” he ordered.

  With a shiver, she did. Fully. He plunged his tongue deep. The kiss was bruisingly hard and ferociously intense. Her arms came around his neck and her body pressed into him, center to center. She moaned again. Or he did. Or both. He couldn’t tell.

  This was not what he’d expected.

  Suddenly a loud mechanical clank ratcheted through the stairwell. She yelped in fright and jumped back from him, hitting the wall again. He grabbed her shoulders and steadied her as the metallic clink morphed into the familiar screech of a cable pulley.

  “It’s okay,” he reassured her. “Just a noisy elevator.”

  She struggled to quell her physical reaction to her fear, looking acutely embarrassed. “Sorry. It startled me. I’m not used to . . .” She let the sentence hang.

  To what? Loud noises? Poor Russian machinery? Kissing strangers in dark stairwells . . . ?

  It was probably a good thing they’d been interrupted. The way he was feeling, without a doubt she’d have ended up plastered against the dingy wall, her skirt around her waist, with him inside her.

  But he wanted more privacy for this. And a lot more time.

  He tugged her back against his chest. “Why don’t we go to your room, where we won’t be interrupted?”

  She licked her lips, and her gaze dropped to his mouth for a brief second. She started to shake her head. “I don’t—”

  Чёрт возьми. Really?

  He grasped her jaw and kissed her again, preempting her refusal. She stiffened at first, but he kept at it, making the kiss hot and long and very persuasive, until once again she was moaning and melting into him.

  “Come,” he urged, backing her toward the stairs. “What is your room number?”

  “This is crazy,” she protested halfheartedly between the amazing kisses. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Nikolai,” he murmured. “And yours?”

  “Julie,” she said after a short hesitation.

  He smiled. “Good. Now we’ve been introduced.” He lifted her off her feet and started up the stairs, still engrossed in kissing her. Thankfully, she was as into it as he was. He could see the rapid beat of her pulse in the vein above her collarbone and felt it in the mad pounding of her heart against his chest. It matched the hammer of his own heartbeat. “Room number?”

  “Two fifty-seven. But Nikolai, this really isn’t—,” she started to object.

  “You wa
nt me. I want you,” he whispered into her mouth as he kissed her. “What else matters?”

  She let him kiss her to the door of her room on the second floor, but when he set her down and put his hand out for her key card, she took a few nervous steps backward. She looked . . . regretful.

  За ебис.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t do this.”

  The taste of her swirled on his tongue. He drew in a steadying breath. “You’re not afraid of me, are you? I’m sorry if I’ve been too rough . . .”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s not that. It’s just, you’re Russian. And . . . and I’m leaving in the morning.”

  Well . . . duh, he was Russian. That was the whole point of this. Right . . . ?

  For a split second he wondered if Cherenkov had pegged her all wrong. Maybe she really was just a reporter. A seasoned undercover agent would not be this skittish about a one-night stand with the other side. Quite the opposite.

  Or perhaps she was just very good at her job, and this was merely part of her usual blushing flower routine.

  He hiked a brow. “I’m leaving in the morning, too. And as for being Russian, the Cold War is over, milaya moya—my sweet. You won’t be sleeping with the enemy, I promise.”

  That earned him a little smile. The sight of her full, curved lips made him a little lightheaded.

  She took a few more steps backward. “I’m sorry if I led you on, Nikolai. Honestly I didn’t mean—You’re very attractive, and . . . a wonderful kisser. Believe me, if I did this sort of thing, you’d be on top of my list.”

  His body wanted to roar in protest, but he knew when he was being given the heave-ho. So he did the gentlemanly thing. For now.

  With a feigned sigh of defeat, a few words of regret, and a traditional Russian kiss on both cheeks plus one for good measure, he let her go.

  For now.

  This was frustrating, but he wasn’t too worried. Next time, they’d both be trapped in the confines of a two-thousand-square-foot submarine with nowhere to go. She wouldn’t get away from him then. He’d make damn sure of that. And she would give him everything he wanted. Everything.