by Nina Bruhns
Because he knew something she didn’t.
He really was the enemy.
Ostrov might be a broken-down wreck of a submarine, but she was his broken-down wreck of a submarine. He had no intention of letting a CIA operative—no matter how sweet and tantalizingly sexy—wreak havoc on or upon his boat.
Oh, yeah. He would definitely be getting up close and personal with the recalcitrant Ms. Severin, whether she liked it or not. For the next three weeks he’d be stuck to her like a barnacle on a hull. He might despise the FSB for dragging him back into their sordid world of lies and intrigue, but if they were right about this woman, he was grateful for the heads-up. Hell, she was attractive enough that he just might have tried his luck with her anyway. And fallen right into her trap.
He had to find out what she was up to and prevent whatever bit of sabotage or espionage she had been sent to carry out against his boat or his men . . . and against his country.
If that involved finishing what they’d started tonight, so much the better. He had his orders. And for once, he had no intention of rebelling against them.
Hell, there was a solid door on the captain’s stateroom, and it had a lock.
He narrowed his eyes speculatively as an idea formed in his mind. Well, what the hell. Why not? It would be against every regulation in the book . . . but seriously, what could his navy superiors do to him if they found out? Demote him? He snorted. Too late. At least this time he’d have earned it.
As he walked away, he turned one last time to look back at her on his way down the corridor. She waved uncertainly and sent him a regretful smile.
Slowly he smiled back.
A hot tangle of conflicting emotions churned through his body.
But regret? Nyet. Not one of those warring emotions was regret.
2
“Gospozhá Severin?”
Central Intelligence Agency analyst Julie Elizabeth Severin stood at the end of a very long pier jutting into Petropavlovsk Harbor, and did her best to steady her rocketing heartbeat. How the hell had this happened?
She was in Russia—Russia, of all places—at the far edge of the Pacific Ocean just a few hundred miles shy of the Arctic Circle, about to embark on the worst nightmare of her life. It was raining cats and dogs, and she was already soaked to the bone, not to mention freezing her butt off. The end of June, and it felt like freaking December.
Not that she noticed. She was too busy being terrified of other things to care about the crappy weather. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and again tried to calm her racing pulse. It was no use.
She groaned inwardly.
I need someone on this mission who is smart, her boss had said. Someone confident, who can think on her feet and outside the box. Are you that person, Miss Severin? James Thurman had peered at her with a stern frown.
At the time she’d answered yes, absolutely she was that person. But that was before she’d known what the mission was. And where.
Now, confidence was the last thing she felt.
Oh, God. What was she doing here? She was a China specialist, a freaking desk analyst, not some undercover Jason Bourne–type spy! What had Thurman been thinking?
And then there was her other little problem . . . the irrational fear of water she’d been plagued with since early childhood when she’d fallen in a lake on a family vacation and nearly drowned.
Terror gripped her belly with sickly fingers as she looked past the harbor and out over Avachinskaya Bay with its deep, frigid water . . . and then back at the sinister gray submarine, B-403 Ostrov, lurking like a shark in the cold, churning waves before her. The cylindrical steel monster rose and fell, rose and fell, the long cement pier shaking and squealing like a banshee every time the curved hull rubbed up against its rubber bumpers. Lord, the mere words “submarine” and “ocean” sent chills of dread running down her spine. Thinking about going under those ominous waves in that floating death trap was likely to put her into a blind panic if she wasn’t careful.
There were only two things she truly hated in this world: large bodies of water . . . and Russians.
This mission involved both. In a big way.
“Miss?” the Russian sailor waiting to help her onto the ugly, bobbing submarine asked in heavily accented English.
She jolted back to the present. She felt the impatience of the gang of Russian submariners behind her, waiting for her to move forward so they could get on with their duties. The entire flat deck of the sub was a beehive of activity, men loading last-minute supplies, unfastening safety lines, and disconnecting heavy electrical cables. Julie was the last of the scientific expedition team to go on board, having used every possible excuse to delay her arrival at the pier. Unfortunately, there was no way to put it off any longer.
She had to find a way to get past her fears. Or she’d let down her boss, her country, and most of all herself.
The sour acid of fear bit into her insides as she steeled herself for what she must do.
“Ty v poryadke? Everything okay?” the Russian sailor asked.
It had to be.
Julie would do anything in her power to protect her country from its enemies.
Then again, she sure as hell didn’t have to like it.
“Yes. I’m fine,” Julie lied, straining not to let her teeth chatter from the freezing rain that continued to soak her to the bone. Or from the fear that clawed at her gut.
She forced her eyes open, but looked down at her high heels instead of out over the bay or at the submarine that was about to carry her down into the terrifying depths of all that horrible, horrible water.
Oh, God.
Russians and the deep blue sea.
Fabulous.
She pushed out a steadying breath and wrapped her frozen fingers around the handle of her bright red rolling carry-on, gripping her matching laptop case firmly in her other hand. If she could just get onto the boat and down inside its belly, she would no longer be able to see the suffocating expanse of water lapping at its sides like a hungry monster waiting to swallow her whole. She’d still know the sea was out there, lurking dangerously on the other side of the hull, but at least she wouldn’t have to stare it in the face.
Then she’d only have to deal with the Russian thing. Not that she hated the actual Russian people. No, of course not. It was the country she hated. The government. And most of all, the FSB.
Because they’d killed her father.
But now was not the time to think about her father’s death. The anger would wait . . . it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. It hadn’t for nearly twenty years.
Just get on the damn submarine. She took a soggy but determined step toward the gangway.
“Please,” the sailor said and indicated her suitcase. “I take for you.”
Grateful, she nodded and passed him the handle, wiping the icy rain from her face and shivering as it ran down her neck, soaking her silk blouse. “Thanks.”
He jerked his chin at the laptop. “I take that, too?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ll hang on to this one.” Her pint-sized notebook computer contained all her briefing files, plus the special software that would help complete her mission on board. Inside the case was also her precious satellite phone. No way was she letting go of either. Even if getting across that narrow, lurching gangplank alive clutching anything but the handrails would be a pure damn miracle.
“Okay,” the sailor invited politely. “You go first.”
Visions of walking the plank on a pirate ship flashed unnervingly through her mind.
Swallowing heavily, she took an unsteady step onto the gangway, striving not to think about the fact that if she lost her footing and fell off the flimsy thing she’d land in the water. Which, she thought with a certain macabre resignation, wouldn’t really matter because with the constant rocking of the sea, she’d almost certainly be squashed flat as a pancake between the solid concrete side of the pier and the heaving bulk of the submarine.
She sent up a silent prayer. The flimsy metal bridge swayed, and she wobbled precariously in her inappropriate footwear, silently cursing her decision to dress professionally rather than in more practical pants, sweater, and boots. The skirted suit and high heels had been a bad idea.
Suddenly a wave hit and the submarine pitched and rolled, causing the gangway to twist slightly, just enough to throw her off balance. She yelped, clutching her laptop case to her chest as the sailor grabbed for her arm and held her steady. “Have care!”
The splash barely registered. But from the corner of her eye she’d seen the flash of red go past. Ah hell!
“My suitcase!” she cried.
Too late.
She and seven submariners gawped down at the churning waters of the quickly closing gap between the sub and the pier. She winced as the soft-sided carry-on was ground to shreds.
“Oh, no! My clothes!” she groaned.
Her escort’s face reddened in dismay. “I am so sorry, miss! Come. Quickly! Before—”
He didn’t finish his admonition, but hustled her onto the deck of the submarine before any more mishaps occurred. Rain was sheeting over the rocking deck, making it slippery underfoot, especially in her heels. He led her over to a big hole. She peeked gingerly over the edge, careful not to get too close.
He motioned her toward it. “Here is to get in.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she muttered when she realized what he meant for her to do. There was a vertical ladder attached to the side of the gaping hole, which disappeared down into the stygian depths of the submarine.
This was the entry hatch? Why didn’t this floating sardine can have a civilized door like an airplane or a subway car?
The skirt and heels had been a really bad idea.
With another mental groan, she added it to her ever-lengthening list of Stupid Things I’ve Done Lately. Principal among which was not to quit her damn job rather than accept this last-minute assignment from hell.
Her boss knew very well about her issues, her background, and her father’s fate, the bastard. And yet, Thurman had picked her to do this. Why?
This is the kind of assignment that comes once a lifetime. It can make or break a career, Miss Severin.
Yeah. Fuck you very much, Mr. Thurman.
Clamping her chattering teeth, she grabbed the slick metal rails of the ladder and swung onto it. Descending down through the round hatch felt like descending straight into the seventh circle of her own personal hell. Despite the frigid rain and chilly outside temperature, her palms were clammy with sweat.
Making her day complete, a clutch of grinning Russian submariners in dark blue coveralls peered up at her as she endeavored to maintain a modicum of decorum on her way down. Between the skirt and the heels, it wasn’t easy.
Suddenly an order was barked in a deep, authoritative voice and the men snapped to, scattering like balls on a pool table. Thank God for small favors.
She reached the bottom of the ladder and felt a strong hand grasp her elbow, supporting her as her high heels found balance on the rocking deck.
“Steady on, there. Are you okay?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m just—”
She turned to her rescuer. And almost fell over. Her words froze in her throat.
Oh. My. God.
It was him.
Tall, chisel jawed, blue eyed, with hair the color of golden honey peeking out from under his wide, distinctive black officer’s hat, killer handsome in his uniform of black and gold.
Smiling down at her was the other Stupid Thing She’d Done Lately.
Well, almost done.
The man holding her elbow was the sexy, arrogant hunk from the hotel last night. The one with the ego as vast as Siberia, but who’d been such an amazing kisser she’d nearly overlooked that slight character flaw—and his bigger sin of being a Russian.
She gaped in shock, clutching her laptop case to her sodden chest. Despite the welcome warmth of the air inside the submarine, she shivered violently. This was so not good.
“Miss Severin,” he said, peeling one of her hands from its grip on the case. He bowed over it formally. “Welcome aboard podvodnaya lodka Ostrov. I am Kapitan Nikolai Kirillovich Romanov.”
Kapitan.
Ho-boy.
The man she’d almost slept with last night was the commander of the vessel she’d been sent to covertly search for top-secret material. The same commander who, if he caught her at it, would without hesitation have her arrested for espionage. And probably shot.
This could be . . . interesting.
Especially since the knowing smile presently creasing his lips and his unprompted use of her last name told her he’d known exactly who she was last night when he’d tried to seduce her. The bastard. She’d known she shouldn’t trust a damned Russian.
But did he know he couldn’t trust her? Had her mission already been compromised? She felt a knot tighten in her stomach. How could it not be? Not if he knew who she was. . . .
“Captain,” she managed, striving desperately to sound a whole lot cooler and calmer than she felt inside. Please, God, let me wake up from this nightmare. “You should have introduced yourself properly last night.”
He looked down at her from under the brim of his uniform hat through distractingly thick and tawny lashes. The sexy little crinkles at the corners of his eyes nearly sabotaged her concentration. “Would it have changed your mind about me?” he asked, as though they were discussing what to have for breakfast.
She thinned her lips. “No.”
“Well, then. No harm, no foul.”
Only to her equilibrium. And possibly to her mission. She’d really have to watch herself around the good captain.
Speaking of which. The submariners at their posts were starting to stare at them speculatively. Nikolai—Captain Romanov, she corrected herself—was still holding her hand.
She yanked it back.
He just smiled. Then his eyes narrowed as he took note of her rain-streaked face and sodden hair and clothes. “Good God, you’re soaked. You must be freezing,” he said with concern. “I’ll have you taken to your quarters so you can change out of those wet things immediately.”
“Yeah, well. That could be a problem,” she murmured, just as the man who’d escorted her on board stepped forward and spoke to him in rapid Russian accompanied by much gesturing.
For a second Nikolai looked taken aback. “He dropped your suitcase?”
She nodded. “It was me or it. He made the right choice.”
Without taking his eyes off her, Nikolai spoke to her escort in Russian. The man’s expression froze and his gaze darted to her, then back to his commander. A young officer standing next to them scowled and said something to Nikolai in staccato Russian. Nikolai responded coolly to the officer, then snapped another order at her escort, who came to attention and said, “Da, Kapitan.”
Nikolai gestured him over to Julie. “This is the boat’s quartermaster, Kvartirmyeister Misha Kresney. He will show you to your quarters and find you a hair dryer. No doubt one of the lady scientists has brought one along. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do at the moment. We are running behind schedule and must get under way. When we’re clear of the bay, I’ll attend to this matter.”
“Thank you,” she said, grateful for his impersonal demeanor, and for his promise of help.
“And we can continue our other discussion,” he added in a low voice for her ears only.
So much for impersonal.
Before she could set him straight, Romanov touched the brim of his uniform hat, turned, and strode away. He disappeared through a narrow opening in the seemingly solid maze of hanging pipes and crowded instrument panels that filled nearly every square inch of the claustrophobic space. It was as though the escape hatch ladder had deposited her in a closet cluttered with the debris of a hundred years.
Escape. Now there was a good idea. She gazed up at the hatch and thought longingly of her pristine desk back at Langley.<
br />
A half second later Nikolai’s head reappeared amid the pipes. He gave one more unintelligible order to Kvartirmyeister Kresney, then vanished again, this time for good.
For a brief moment she really wished she spoke Russian. Understanding the enemy always gave one an advantage. In The Art of War, the ancient Chinese strategist Sun Tzu said, “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.” She was fluent in three other languages. How hard would it be to learn one more? Then again, no way did she want those words in her head. She wanted nothing to do with the country that had killed her father. Not its language. Not its secrets. And certainly not one of its navy captains . . . no matter how sexy or awesome a kisser he was. Thank goodness she’d had the sense and fortitude to turn him down last night.
Sun Tzu had also said, “Do not swallow bait offered by the enemy.”
No damn kidding.
Already this mission was turning into a battle—of knowledge, of wits, of temptation. The lines had been clearly drawn between her and the attractive Russian navy captain. She just hoped to God she could keep up her resistance to him. Because as bait went, Captain Nikolai Kirillovich Romanov was far too enticing—and far too dangerous.
3
Julie followed Kresney’s stout, compact form into the same narrow passageway where Nikolai had vanished. The quartermaster slipped easily through a round opening that punctuated the end of the passage. She’d seen enough World War II movies to know this was one of the watertight doors that sealed off one compartment from the next in case of flooding. Or sinking.
The door was wide open, but seeing it was a rude reminder she was now several meters underwater, two thin, rusting husks of metal the only thing separating her from certain death.
Her chest squeezed, and she had to grab the hard edge of the watertight door to keep from sprinting back to the exit ladder and out of this nightmare.
When she didn’t follow right away, Kvartirmyeister Kresney peered back at her through the opening. Her panic must have shown in her face.
“Eto horosho,” he told her in a thick accent. “Is okay. She is not pretty, but Ostrov is good boat. We do not sink, I promise.” He grinned. A young sailor hurried past, eyeing her skirt.
