White Hot (12 page)

“Don’t.” He rubbed a hand over his hair in frustration. “That’s not fair. To you
or
me. Neither of us had any way of—”

“Fair?” She paced away from him, swiping the tears from her face. “
Fair?
Tell that to Bert Shandon!”

Mentally, Clint counted to ten. Make that twenty. Hell, he didn’t blame her for feeling this way. She couldn’t know how vital his mission was to the security of their country, and he couldn’t tell her. Not without putting her in even more danger. If the worst happened and Xing Guan got his hands on her…

He didn’t even want to think about that possibility. He’d do everything in his power to make sure it didn’t happen.

Everything short of surrendering the microcard.

He desperately needed a way out of this untenable situation. But he couldn’t put on a wetsuit, jump overboard, and swim to shore as he had from the Russian submarine where he’d acquired the SD card a week ago.
Île de Cœur
was too far out to sea. Besides, he wouldn’t leave Samantha and her crew to suffer an uncertain fate. Which he’d brought on them.

Nor could he hope to win this battle alone.

What he needed was the cavalry to come riding over the horizon. In the form of a U.S. Coast Guard cutter. Or better yet, a U.S. Navy destroyer.

He straightened, a glimmer of hope going through him. “Where is this ship registered?” he asked.

Samantha spun and glared at him. She must know why he was asking, but judging by the look on her face, he wouldn’t be getting the answer he’d hoped for.

She gave her head a curt shake. “Liberia.”

Hell.
His brief hope deflated.

Within a country’s territorial waters, or if a country’s own flagged vessel was threatened on the open seas, that country’s military was allowed to intervene and deal with the culprits. Of course, that almost never happened. Most
pirates were smart enough to wait until a ship was in international waters to strike and to pick ships registered in countries far from the attack site and with no inclination to rescue. Which effectively rendered the targeted ship helpless.

A different sort of anger flashed across her face, like a bad taste. “I’ve tried to get my father to change all his ships to U.S. registry, but he refuses to listen. All he cares about is the goddamn bottom line.”

Clint stared, momentarily taken aback. To fly the American flag, a ship must be owned and crewed by Americans, making it subject to U.S. labor laws, including minimum wage, which discouraged most ship owners from doing so. But it was the
other
thing she’d let slip that had snagged his attention. “Your
father
?”

Her lips thinned. “Richardson Shipping?” she said. “Sound familiar?”

Captain Sam—

Jesus.

Samantha Richardson?

Another important detail he’d missed last night in his exhausted stupor.

She was the daughter of none other than shipping magnate Jason Richardson, the last of a dying breed of American shipping line owners. An old-school renegade and a ruthless shark in business, if the stories about him were true.

She shuttered at his shocked expression. “Yeah.
That
Richardson.”

Fucking hell.
No wonder she was being so damn protective of the ship and crew!

On second thought, no. Daddy’s company or not, this captain would be protective of her crew, regardless. He hadn’t known her for very long, but he already knew that much about Samantha Richardson.

This put a whole different angle on things. Several things.

“Does the company have a plan in place to deal with this
sort of incident?” he asked briskly, setting aside the whole other ball of wax for now.

“Not to my knowledge. Piracy isn’t a big problem in the Arctic,” she said dryly. “In fact, I can’t remember the last time a ship was hijacked in the Bering Sea, if ever. Trust me, we’re on our own out here.”

They’d see about that. “We’ve got to alert the authorities,” he said.

She seemed to make an effort to gather herself. “Not that I disagree, but how do you propose we do that?”

At least she was still speaking to him.

“We have to get to the DSC.”

“I told you, the radio is on the bridge,” she reminded him. “How are we supposed to get past the guard they’ve posted?”

Yeah. That would be tricky.

In addition to the five tangos Clint had counted on deck, one of whom was now in engineering, plus the men on the bridge and the wardroom, he’d spotted two others on the trawler moored off their port side. So, eight tangos in all. Unless there were even more of them lurking somewhere else, hidden from view.

Eight against one. Well, two. Okay, one and a half.

Either way, not great odds.

There was really only one viable option that he could see.

“
Eliza Jane
,” he said. “The fishing trawler they arrived on. Every vessel at sea must be equipped with a radio and a DSC transmitter.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “You’ve got to be kidding. That trawler’s anchored at least three hundred feet away. And even if she were lashed alongside, you really think you could just leap over there without anyone seeing you?”

“Not leap. Swim. Three hundred feet is nothing.”

“Swim?”
She looked at him as though he’d completely lost his mind. “Are you freaking
insane
? That water’s freezing! Literally.”

He was pretty sure those were the exact words CIA officer Julie Severin had uttered last week when he’d suggested he don a wetsuit and brave twenty miles of frigid Bering Sea to reach Attu Island from the sinking Russian sub they’d both been trapped on. It was a swim that would have killed most people. But he wasn’t most people. He’d endured far worse in his SEAL days. Even so, the thought of doing it again made him shudder.

Yeah. He was
definitely
too old for this shit.

But it was either jump into the icy depths or be captured and shot by Xing Guan’s hit squad. And there was not a chance in hell he was going through
that
. Not a week ago. Not now. Not ever.

He cleared his throat. Hell, it was only a few hundred yards over to the trawler. Not twenty miles. He’d barely get wet.

“I assume you have an Arctic-weight wetsuit on board?” he asked.

Her mouth dropped open. “You’re serious.”

“As a bullet in the head.”

She cringed visibly. But he wasn’t about to mince words. They really had to do something, fast, or Shandy wouldn’t be the only one suffering that fate. Xing Guan wasn’t known for his patience or his mercy.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’ve got full Arctic dive equipment on board in case we need to make emergency repairs at sea.”

“Well. There you go. We’re all set.” He started for the door.

“There’s just one slight problem,” she said unhappily. “Over and above the craziness factor.”

He turned, a sinking feeling in his gut. “What’s that?”

“Well, two problems, actually.”

“What?” he repeated, more vehemently.

“First, there’s only one wetsuit.” She eyed him up and down. “And it’s for someone a lot smaller than you are. I doubt it’ll fit.”

He almost groaned. Fabulous. There was nothing better
than a wetsuit that crammed your balls up to your Adam’s apple and restricted the movement of your limbs. “I’ll make do,” he said, determined to do just that. “And second?”

She made a noise of frustration. “It’s in the uniform closet. On the crew deck. Next to the officers’ staterooms.”

Fucking hell.

Right where the guard was posted.

“This is ridiculous,” Samantha muttered, though softly, so even Clint had trouble hearing the words. But he could read the look on her face without a problem. It was a wellspring of frustration. As was his, no doubt.

“He’s got to turn away at some point,” Clint responded in an equally low whisper, watching the guard take another slug from a supersize plastic soda bottle. He’d been drinking steadily for the past quarter hour as they’d observed him, hoping to catch a window and sneak past to the uniform closet. The bottle was nearly empty. “Or take a pee break.”

Clint and Samantha were making like snipers on the ro-ro deck below the main companionway, lying side by side as they peered up at the guard from their hiding place beneath a big yellow earthmover, part of the ship’s cargo. Other vehicles and equipment filled the width of the deck, helping to shield them—Chinese versions of John Deeres and Caterpillars, plus a dozen or two Japanese snowmobiles. The overhead lights had been left on, but as long as no one was looking for them, they should be fine. They kept their sparse
conversation barely audible, only daring to speak because the sound of their voices was swallowed in the creaks and groans of the bulky cargo.

“I need a pee break, too,” Samantha grumbled. “Just watching him drinking all that tea, or whatever it is, is making my bladder hurt.”

Clint shot her a grin. “Should have brought the adult diapers, I guess,” he whispered.

“Ha ha,” she mouthed, and rolled her eyes, then went silent for a beat. “But that’s not what I meant was ridiculous.”

“No?” Inwardly, he fought his irritation. He’d been waiting for an argument from her. Up until now, their need to keep quiet had prevented it.

“This whole idea. It’s insane,” she said.

“Which part?” he asked with guarded patience.

“
Every
part! Trying to sneak by this guard. You swimming in that ice-cold ocean. Possibly getting shot for your trouble.” Her voice strangled a little on that last bit.

Out of respect for Shandy, he tempered his response. “I told you, I was a SEAL. This is what I do.” He grimaced. “Did.”

“And how long ago was that?” she challenged, zeroing in on the last word.

He tried not to be insulted. “I’m not
that
old.” He allowed a knowing glance and raked it over her, memories of their passion flooding through him. “You certainly weren’t complaining about my stamina this afternoon.”

Her answering withering look was belied by a twitch of her lips. Their eyes held, and for a moment they were both back in that hammock, locked in each other’s arms. Had it really been just hours ago he’d held her naked body under his, experiencing more pleasure than he’d ever felt in his life?

Her cheeks went rosy, and his body quickened. Hell of a time to get a hard-on.

She tore her gaze away. “Okay, let’s pretend you don’t freeze your ass solid in that water. There are still two bad
guys on that trawler. How are you going to get past them to the radio?”

He shifted on his elbows.
Details.
“I’ll deal with that when I get there.” He was trained to think on his feet. “But whatever happens to me, you need to stay safe. Promise me you’ll stay hidden no matter what.”

“I’ll do what I have to do,” she said, her tone uncompromising. Gone were the weakness and despair of the woman in the hideaway.

As was the palpable heat of their connection seconds ago.

He bit back a curse. “Why are you like this? Why do you have to fight me every fucking inch of the way, every fucking minute of the day?”

She blinked at his rebuke. But to his mild surprise, she didn’t give him a knee-jerk retort. She sighed and remained mute for several moments. At length, she said, “I don’t like when men try to steamroll over me. You said it yourself, it happens all too often. Especially in my profession. Men think because I’m a woman, and blond, that I’m a brainless idiot.”

“I don’t think that,” he returned evenly.

“Maybe not. But you do have a bad habit of issuing me orders. I know you’re the terrorist expert here, but it’s
me
who’s captain of this ship. I’m the one ultimately responsible for everything that happens on board.”

He swallowed back his own knee-jerk response. He wasn’t about to get into a debate on military versus civilian rank and whose orders took precedence in a situation like this. “We both want the best possible outcome for the ship and the crew,” he said reasonably. “If achieving that means I, as the expert, have to give you orders, so be it.” But he decided a concession wouldn’t go amiss, and added, “However, I’ll try to include you more in the decisions.”

For a brief second her lips thinned. She said, “That’s all I ask.”

They went back to staking out the guard, and Clint’s respect for Samantha inched up a notch. This couldn’t be easy on her. She must be torn up inside and champing at the bit to do something to defend her crew, let alone save her father’s ship. She was handling herself well, considering. Okay. He really would try to dial down on the commands.

It was probably a mistake, but he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the frown lines between her brows.

Her eyes sought his warily. “What was that for?”

He didn’t answer, just winked, and turned his attention back on task. Mostly because he wasn’t sure why he’d done it. Hell, he didn’t want to know.

When
Île de Cœur
left Dutch Harbor this morning, he was convinced he’d shaken off his dogged pursuers—at least until they reached their next port of call.

That had been his first mistake.