Red Heat
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - PETROPAVLOVSK-KAMCHATSKIYA PACIFIC COAST OF RUSSIA LATE JUNE
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.”
“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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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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 copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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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.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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.
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 come 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.
“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.