In her news article, she’d highlighted the CO, Captain First Rank Nikolai Kirillovich Romanov, with a coded alert, letting her boss know he’d been tipped off to her from day one. Which still worried her. Where had he gotten his information? Was there a mole at CIA who had leaked her mission to them? How long could she continue to deny she was a spy when it was obvious he knew better and didn’t believe a word she said?
More important, what would happen when she finally
did
find the hidden SD card with the stolen Chinese UUV guidance system plans?
What she’d told Nikolai earlier was true—he really could search her few belongings anytime he pleased, including her computer if he was conversant with hacking skills. Too bad for him he’d find nothing incriminating. No hidden files. No gun. No disguises. No secret spy gadgets designed by a modern-day Q. Just one totally-out-of-her-element China analyst, a bunch of meaningless photos, and a so far useless one-word clue—which he wouldn’t find because she hadn’t written it down. All completely innocent . . . until she found that elusive SD card.
That
would be fairly incriminating.
Still, maybe she wouldn’t ever find the damn thing, so she wouldn’t have to worry about being exposed as a spy and shot on the spot when he discovered it in her possession.
With a groan, she stuck her satellite phone in her pocket, then did a double take at her shoes. She should really try to find some sneakers somewhere to change into. Maybe one of the women scientists had an extra pair she could borrow. Or Josh—Dr. Stedman. He was skinny enough he might be her size.
Oh, what the hell. Why bother? Who knew, maybe wearing the high heels with Nikolai’s coveralls gave her a slight psychological advantage over the man. He’d noticed for sure. He’d said she looked . . . fetching. Whatever that meant.
Maybe the sexy shoes would distract him by reminding him of their undeniable physical attraction—and the implied sexual meaning of her wearing his name on her chest—so maybe he’d pay less attention to his suspicions about her.
Hadn’t Sun Tzu said, “The opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself?”
It could happen.
Yeah. Maybe in an alternate universe.
Stifling another groan, she pulled in a deep breath, checked her watch for the dozenth time, and reluctantly headed for the control room. Time to face the music. Or more precisely, the ocean.
God, was she ever dreading this.
Almost more than she dreaded being shot as a spy.
Almost.
Nikolai made her wait, of course. The power play was so cliché it bordered on being humorous. But Julie was in no mood for laughing. In fact, as she stood at the foot of the barrel ladder leading up to the top of the sail, she was insanely grateful for the delay. It gave her a chance to gather her badly flagging courage.
Stupid.
Stupid, stupid,
stupid
.
Who was afraid of water?
Wimps.
Certainly not competent officers of the Central Intelligence Agency. Imagine if the enemy found out about her weakness and used it against her. Her training had warned her about techniques like that.
Except, of course, the enemy already
did
know about it.
It suddenly struck her. Good Lord. Was
that
what this was? Nikolai trying to break her down, not with the reporter thing, but through her fear of the ocean? Sex hadn’t worked, so now he was using psychological tactics?
Damn. The bastard!
Anger and indignation swept through her in equal measure. And this should surprise her? Not.
What did surprise her was the spike of hurt she felt.
Talk about stupid.
That’s what she got for wanting to think of him as a man instead of the enemy.
No. She’d be
damned
if she’d let him get to her. Either as a man
or
the enemy.
She turned to the officer who seemed to be in charge of watching over her while she was waiting. “The captain has obviously been delayed,” she clipped out. “Can you take me up to the bridge, please?” When he didn’t seem to understand she pointed at herself, then up the ladder.
The guy peered back at her like a deer caught in headlights.
“That’s not a problem, is it?” she asked, softening her tone.
“N-
nyet
,” he said on a cough. “No p-problem.” But the expression on his face told a very different story.
He shuffled a little and glanced behind her for help from the other men in the command center. None was forthcoming. Only shrugs. She smiled sweetly at him, and batted her eyelashes for good measure, then grasped the handrail of the ladder.
“I . . . Please to wait.” He hurriedly said something to one of the men in the room, who ducked through a door at the rear and a moment later emerged and held out a pair of thick woolen socks to her.
“Take,” the officer said in his heavy accent and pointed at her high heels. “Is danger.”
She accepted the socks with some relief. “Thank you.” She quickly made the change in footwear.
“Okay,” he said and gestured upward. “Is good.”
She took a steadying breath, clinging to her anger at Nikolai like a life preserver against her rising panic.
She could do this.
She started to climb. The rungs ended abruptly above a sturdy but open hatch, not outside as she’d expected, but in a dark, wet, tiny room. It had open steel doors leading both left and right. To the right was a small area choked by three long, thick metal columns. Probably the periscope housing or maybe the radar. Past those was an even smaller compartment with a row of clear, stubby windows overlooking the front end of the submarine. This must be the flying bridge Nikolai had mentioned.
Two of the windows were also wide open, and she could feel a stinging ocean wind hit her face. It smelled thickly of salt. And lots and lots of water.
She quickly started to turn away.
“Miz Syev’ryin? Come in, come in!” a man exclaimed from inside the room. “You want tour?”
With a start she recognized the
kvartirmyeister
, Misha. She’d been so intent on the disturbing view through the windows that she hadn’t even seen him standing there. Another man, much younger, stood at his side.
Even if she’d wanted to go in, the compartment was so small it would be a very tight fit. And she didn’t particularly want to go in. Even from here she could see the pewter sea wash over the round nose of the submarine in huge waves, spraying the sides of the sail with bullets of white. A rolling wake churned outward in an inverted vee as the sub sliced steadily through the water.
Nausea bloomed instantly in her stomach.
And yet, it suddenly occurred to her that having those windows positioned firmly between her and the sea would be a great improvement over nothing but the thin air. Maybe she could get satellite reception in here. . . .
Swallowing sharply, she told herself not to be a baby.
“Hi, Misha,” she said in greeting. “I’m on my way up to the bridge. The other bridge.”
“In English can call top bridge cockpit. Less confusing.” He smiled.
“What are you doing up here?” she asked curiously, glancing around. There didn’t seem to be any equipment in the tiny space.
“Lookout. I watch for big ice and other boats,” he said with a wink. “Oleg is talker. He yell down to control room if we hit something.” He grinned. “Sometimes even before.”
She winced and made herself focus on Misha instead of scanning the disturbing expanse of water behind him for large white chunks of ice. “Mind if I take a picture?” she asked, to distract herself. The SD card could be hidden in here, too.
“Yes! Take many photos!” Misha urged, and he hammed it up for the camera, pulling a series of muscleman poses with his binoculars as a prop.
She laughed and snapped several of him and the young rating, Oleg, who was busy rolling his eyes and flashing his cute dimples. For a few minutes she actually forgot to be afraid. Then it was back to reality, and she could no longer delay the coming ordeal.
“Well, I better let you get back to your watch. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for us hitting an iceberg,” she said.
“I keep telling you there are no icebergs around here,” said a deep, familiar rumble behind her.
She spun to the sound, swaying out of the compartment as another wave rolled the deck. The door swung closed behind her, smacking her butt.
“Nikolai!”
“Ready to go up?”
“Yes, I—Yes.”
Despite the scowl on his face, he looked more handsome than ever in his rakishly tilted cap that reminded her a little of a Greek seaman’s cap, and a long black greatcoat. He had another coat in his hands. He held it up for her. “Here. Put this on. It’s chilly up there.”
She wanted to say no just on principle, but she really hated being cold. She stifled her mulishness and slid it on. “Thank you,” she said politely.
His narrowed gaze dipped to her feet. “I see you found some better footwear.”
“Thank goodness. One of your men gave them to me.”
He pulled a similar pair from his coat pocket. “I also brought you a pair. I promised to take care of you,
dorogaya
.”
She met his eyes defiantly. “No need. I can take care of myself.”
He reached out and fixed the collar of her coat. “Why do you fight me so, Julie Yelizaveta?”
Her pulse quickened. He was too close. Being too nice. Smelling too good. She swallowed. “You know why, Nikolai Kirillovich.”
The corner of his lip curved. He slowly smoothed his hands over her shoulders and down the arms of the coat, then pulled the front edges together, as though he was about to button it. “Because you want me. But you are afraid.”
“I don’t want you. And you threatened me.” She stepped back and started to button her coat herself.
“Wait.” He stopped her with a hand on hers. Her heartbeat skyrocketed. He put his other hand to her waist, gently tugging her closer.
She sucked in a breath, her body instantly reacting to the warm touch of his fingers on her skin.
“Nikolai, no—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, and from somewhere he produced a webbed belt and slid it around her waist. He expertly cinched it. Attached to the belt was a sturdy nylon line with a carabiner at the end. “Just putting on your safety harness. I told you I’d take care of you.”
For a second she couldn’t move. Confusion surged through her. Sharp disappointment that his touch hadn’t been for more personal reasons . . . along with intense relief that it hadn’t.
“Why?” she managed to ask, taming the urge to press her body into his and
make
it personal. God, she was so confused!
“So you don’t fall off the bridge into the water,” he said, catapulting her back to reality.
Her panic and fear flooded back instantly, and she stared at the lifeline, paralyzed. “Oh, God,” she whispered.
She didn’t even protest when he buttoned her coat for her. “Ready?” he asked when he was done.
“No!” she choked out. All her anger, frustration, and attraction dissolved into an adrenaline rush of dread. She stabbed her hand into her pocket. “I have a better idea. You go up and make the call for me.” She stuck out her phone to him. “It’s all set up to send. I’ll wait here for you.”
She’d managed to surprise him. After a moment of astonishment, he hiked his brows and actually looked tempted to take it. But then he shook his head. “No, Julie. You need to do this. And sooner rather than later. Trust me, you’ll kick yourself if you wait until the last day to conquer this useless phobia and miss all the incredible sights along the way.”
She was taken aback. Was that
concern
she detected in his statement? Surely not.
“What makes you so certain I’ll conquer my phobia?” she asked. “Maybe it’ll conquer me instead.”
He snapped up the collar of her coat and buttoned the top button for her. “
Nyet
. You will.”
She searched his expression. There was little doubt he meant it. It was the strangest thing. The man had faith in her when she didn’t have faith in herself. Could it be this trip up to the bridge
wasn’t
about torture and intimidation, after all?
But if not . . . what—?
Her musings were interrupted when he plopped a hat on her head. A big, round furry one that was much too large and covered her entire head from her eyebrows to her nape. It was thick and silky and utterly gorgeous. “I don’t wear fur,” she protested, at once feeling guilty for wanting to luxuriate in its amazing soft warmth. “I don’t believe in killing wild animals.”
“Neither do I,” he said.
“This hat isn’t yours?”
“It is.” He looked at her for several moments, as if debating how to explain. “When I was a boy,” he said at length, “my family was at our dacha one winter, and I found a wounded wolf out in the forest. Two of its legs had been badly hurt in a trap and it was very weak. I was young, and didn’t know any better, so I wrapped it in a blanket and brought it home. Hid it in the sleigh barn, and tried to nurse it back to health in secret. Almost succeeded, too.”
He raised his fingers and stroked them gently over the long fur with a sad little smile.
“What happened?” she asked, quietly bespelled by the poignant look in his clear blue eyes.
“My father shot it,” he said and dropped his hand.
She was so shocked she didn’t know how to react. “My God,” she said. “That’s . . .”
He straightened the hat on her head, his fingers lingering in the fur, his eyes gazing at something far in the past. “My mother skinned the wolf and made this
ushanka
for me from its pelt, as a Christmas gift. But she died in November, and my father . . . he doesn’t believe in Christmas. Or in giving. I discovered it in a chest of her belongings years later, just before I left for university. It was still wrapped in bright red paper.”
At the infinite hurt lurking deep in his words, the last of her anger fell away. She wanted to put her arms around him and kiss the sadness from his lips. “Oh, Nikolai. I’m so sorry.”
His face shuttered and his voice cooled. “I keep it with me so I’ll always have a reminder.”
Julie waited, but the silence just stretched. “A reminder of your mother?” she asked softly.
He came back to the present and his eyes focused on her. He smiled, but it wasn’t a nice kind of smile. Instead of answering, he said, “So, Julie Yelizaveta Severina. Are you ready to go up now and face your worst fear?”
And suddenly she realized that seeing the vast ocean spread out before her was not her worst fear. Not by a long shot.
Far worse was the genuine fear that what she was feeling for Nikolai Kirillovich Romanov was not simple sexual attraction for a handsome guy in a uniform. But that she was really, truly falling for this man . . . this Russian . . . this enemy of her family and her country. And that there was no way to stop it, nor a damn thing she could do about it.
Suddenly
that
was her worst fear.
“No,” she said, shaking her head in dismay.
He tipped her chin up and looked into her eyes, reading her mind like a sea chart. “It would never work, you know,” he said softly. After gazing at her regretfully for an endless moment, he straightened and turned her with his powerful hands so she was facing the ladder. “Now climb. Before I put you over my shoulder and carry you up.”
She climbed.
“What do I do when I get to the top?” Julie asked, her limbs actually starting to shake.
From the torment up ahead,
she told herself.
Not because of the man climbing after her.
“I sent
Starpom
Varnas ahead to clear the cockpit for us,” he said. “He’ll clip you to the rail and help you up.”
She searched her memory and recalled the young executive officer from when she’d first come on board
Ostrov
. He’d been the one with the disapproving glare when Nikolai had ordered Misha to put her in the captain’s quarters.
Great
.
Her life would be in the hands of one man bound and determined to expose her as a foreign intelligence officer, and another who thought she was the captain’s bed warmer.
Or, God help her, maybe Nikolai had already told the XO of his suspicions about her being a spy. Wow. Even better.
She reached the top of the ladder and found an outstretched hand waiting for her. Behind it was a ruddy, smiling face. “Welcome to top of world, Miss Severin.”
“Thanks. I think.” Had he changed his mind about her? Or was that a spider-to-the-fly kind of smile . . . ?
She took his hand and her pulse pounded madly. She barely resisted squeezing her eyes shut as he helped her up into a postage stamp–sized observation well sunk into the forward sail. Right behind her, Nikolai passed him the end of her harness and he clipped it to a toe-rail. A breath of relief whooshed out of her lungs.