White Hot (3 page)

She reached the hatch and stretched up to grab the rim. “Hey, how ’bout someone up there giving me a hand?” she called up. Normally she’d rather chew off her own arm than ask for help, but her muscles felt like limp spaghetti. She was actually afraid she might slip and fall.

Lars Bolun knelt and reached down, trying to slip his arm around her torso as she climbed up another rung and popped her head through the hatch.

“Just relax, Cap’n,” the second mate said with a lopsided smile. “I can pull you the rest of the way up.”

She snorted and batted him away. “In your dreams, mate.” She did, however, grab his hand to steady herself as she hauled herself up onto the orlop deck. She wobbled a bit, and he put a hand to her waist to keep her from toppling.

She straightened away from him, forcing her rubbery legs to carry her weight whether they wanted to or not. She adjusted her cap. “Thanks, Mr. Bolun. I’m good.”

He gave her an amused look. “One of these days, Captain, you’ll fall willingly into my arms.”

At that, everyone
else
snorted.

She rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t hold my breath, mister.” They all knew he didn’t stand a chance.

Not that he wasn’t a good-looking guy. Tall and muscular, with a shock of long, blond hair, and smart to boot. But she was his boss. It just wasn’t going to happen.

Besides, he was steady, earnest, and resolute. In other words, the kind of man who’d be looking for clean, folded clothes, a martini at the door, and a lifelong commitment from a woman.

Sam didn’t trust commitment. Not anymore. Men threw away commitment like it was yesterday’s newspaper. They were far better at betrayal, and her heart couldn’t take another one of those.

Suddenly, there was a shout from the top of the narrow stairway leading topside to the main deck. “Capdhain Richardson! You need dho come up here!”

The distinctive East Indian accent belonged to Matty, the wiper—the young greenhorn seaman who got all the dirty maintenance and gopher jobs on board. But Matty had turned out to be a natural mechanic, so Sam had unofficially elevated him to assistant engineer, which was why he was on deck helping Shandy with the crane instead of reloading the cargo with the rest of them.

“What’s going on, Mr. Shijagurumayum?” she called back. His full name was Mahatma Shijagurumayum. The others called him Matty for obvious reasons. She’d had to practice in her cabin for half an hour before she’d gotten her tongue wrapped around his ridiculously long and unpronounceable last name.

“Ginger just saw a guy climbing up dhe aft mooring line!” Matty singsonged excitedly. Matty’s accent always deepened when he was excited. Ginger was the cook, and a good one, too. “Some idiot must be trying to stow away.”

“What?” She stared at Matty for a second in surprise, wading through his accent. Then she made a beeline for the companionway—the main staircase running the whole way up the center of the ship. A
stowaway
?
Hell
, no. That was not going to happen, either. “You didn’t let him get on board, did you?”

“No, ma’am. Mr. Shandy’s waiting at dhe dhop of the line to grab him.”

“Good.” She bounded up the metal stairs two at a time. The sound of her footfalls echoed like a popgun. She hadn’t thought to post a guard on the dock—she hadn’t thought she needed one. With the threat of terrorism and piracy worldwide, security at all their ports of call was normally tight as a barnacle on a hull. No unauthorized persons should be able to get to the cargo docks.

How had this stowaway made it past the gate?

She burst up onto the weather deck, followed closely by the others. They all ran aft across the mist-shrouded deck where Shandy stood at the port rail peering down at the ghostly dock twenty feet below. His gaze swept from side to side, searching the thick black void between the ship and
the cement dock. The mooring line cut like spider silk through the dark gap up to the hull. But no one was clinging to it like an insect. Or rather, a rat.

“Where is he? Did you get him?” Sam asked Shandy breathlessly, scanning the dockside. The dock lights were just glowing spheres of yellow in a shroud of shimmering gray. In the swirling fog, even with the feeble help of the midnight sun, it was impossible to see anything but the dim silhouettes of buildings and equipment.

Shandy looked up disgustedly. “Gone. He must have heard Ginger shout to me and taken off.”

Sam’s anxiety, along with her shoulders, notched down a fraction. “You’re sure?”

“Trust me, Cap’n, nobody got past me.” Shandy lifted a hand, which was clutching a big, oily wrench.

Sam winced a little but was grateful for his vigilance. “Okay. Good. But let’s set up a watch tonight, yeah? I’ll call the harbor cops and report an intruder.”

“I’ll take the watch tonight,” Lars Bolun volunteered. “I can sleep tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bolun,” she said, grateful. She could always count on the second mate to step up when needed. “I’ll send Ginger out with a plate of food and some coffee.” She turned to the others. “Hit the hay everyone. We sail at high tide. That means six a.m., not six fifteen.”

They all groaned as she started back inside to the companionway that went up past the crew deck, all the way to the bridge.

“Maybe we should just let the fucker come on board and work him like a dog,” Frank grumbled. “We
are
a man short….”

She threw him a withering smile and kept walking. “Right. Because we really want a desperate criminal or a terrorist working side by side with us.”

She made her way up the two flights to the bridge, where the ship-to-shore radio was located, and placed the call to the harbor police. Then she retired to her stateroom for a quick shower.

At last she sank onto her bunk and closed her eyes with a tired sigh. She was so exhausted her head was spinning.

Despite that, sleep refused to come. She just couldn’t put the intruder out of her mind. Who was he? An escaped prisoner? A terrorist? Or just some poor, homesick fishing bum or park rat who didn’t have money for passage to Nome or Seattle? Was he still out there somewhere, waiting to try again?

She shivered and pulled her blanket tight up under her chin. Of all the ships in Dutch Harbor, why had he chosen
Île de Cœur
to stow away on?

She thought about her sidearm, a shiny new Glock 23. It was stored in the bulkhead safe, and so far—thank goodness—had only come out for cleanings and her weekly sessions at the gun range. It was Richardson Shipping policy that all company ships keep a supply of firearms on board, so in addition to hers, there was also a gun safe with a half dozen pistols and three rifles in the officers’ lounge. Pirates were an ever-present concern. Okay, maybe not so much in the north Pacific. This was definitely not the South Seas—but better safe than sorry.

Finally she gave up, slid out of bed, and fetched the Glock from the safe. She even loaded the clip. But she drew the line at racking it. Setting the gun in a cubby next to her bunk, she got back into bed and firmly closed her eyes. She was going to get some sleep if it killed her.

She’d just sunk into that floaty twilight zone between waking and sleeping, her body relaxed and her lids heavy as lead, when there was a soft knock at her stateroom door.

She dragged up her eyelids and frowned. “Who is it?”

No one answered.

“Who
is
it?” she repeated, alarm creeping through her muzzy mind. She struggled up and groped for the Glock.

“It—It’s me,” a deep voice said softly.

She blinked, her hand hovering above the weapon. Who the hell would—“Bolun, is that you?” she snapped.
Really?

“Open the door,” he said, his voice muffled, but more cajoling than demanding. “I, um, need to…”

Oh, for godsake.
She rose from the bunk and grabbed her robe, wrapping it tightly around herself. At the last second, annoyance made her pick up the Glock. Padding to the door, she cracked it open and peeked out.

“What is it?” she asked. “I thought you were on watch.”

He was standing a few feet back. In the near darkness of the passageway, she couldn’t see more than the outline of his large body.

Except there was something wrong. His hair…it should be blond and pale, even in the dark. Instead it was black as the midnight sky.

Oh, crap.
Not Bolun.

She gasped and slammed the door.

Too late.

The man moved like lightning. He slapped his palm against the door, preventing it from closing, then pushed his massive frame into it so it flung open and she flew backward onto the bunk.

Suddenly she remembered the Glock in her hand. She whipped it up.

“
Don’t
,” he warned.

Her heart slammed to her throat.

A large, black pistol was pointing right back at her.

There was a woman in the captain’s quarters.

A woman with a gun in her hand.

What the hell?

The woman froze, her sleepy face showing a mix of terror and panic, but her gun was aimed squarely at Clint’s chest. Even in the dimly lit corridor, he was a sitting duck.

Shit.

Why was this always happening to him? He was the fucking
good
guy.

“Put down the gun, ma’am. I’m not here to hurt you,” he said calmly.

He slowly reached for the credentials in his back pocket. He should have thought to get them out earlier, but after he knocked on the door he’d been so surprised to hear a woman’s voice coming from the stateroom that his tired mind had been temporarily wiped blank.

That, he had not expected.
A female captain.
He could have sworn the nameplate on the door had said Captain Sam Richardson. Then it dawned on him.
For Samantha.

The irony of his stereotyping didn’t escape him. He, of all people, should be free of preconceived notions.

“Hey!” she protested as his fingers dipped into his back pocket. “Hands where I can see them!”

He halted, and asked, “What could I possibly be reaching for that’s worse than this SIG I already have aimed at your heart?”

She blinked. Looking…
Damn
. He hadn’t expected
that
, either. She looked, well, adorable.

Gradually, he lowered his weapon. “Relax. I’m just getting my identification.” He dug, and flipped open the thin wallet. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Clint Walker, and I work for U.S. Naval Intelligence. Mind if I come in?”

Her jaw dropped incredulously.

Not wanting to be seen by anyone else, he didn’t wait for her to regain speech. He stepped all the way into the stateroom and closed the door behind him, plunging the space into total darkness.

“Hey!” she squeaked again. “What are you—”

He didn’t relish being shot by accident, so he sidestepped and silently approached her. In a swift movement he relieved her of the pistol. He heard her panicked intake of breath and realized she was about to—
Hell
.

Even faster, he holstered his SIG and slapped his hand over her mouth to stifle her scream. She started to struggle. He ended up sitting in a tangle next to her on the bunk, the back of her head pressed hard into his shoulder. In the dark, her warm staccato breaths were amplified, and the slight tremors in her limbs seemed like earthquakes. He tried not to notice, but…damn, she smelled really nice, too. All warm and flowery and feminine. And her body…God, was she
naked
under that robe?

With difficulty, he wrangled his highly inappropriate thoughts back on task.

“Please don’t scream, ma’am. Honest to God, I’m not here to hurt you. I just need your help.”

She wriggled against him. Her soft hair tickled his chin and cheek. The silk of her robe glided across his skin.

God
damn
.

Light. He needed light.

He set her weapon down on the bunk and groped the bulkhead for the inevitable dome light switch. He flicked it on, and the stateroom filled with a dim glow. He looked down. The first thing he noticed was the pretty color of the hair under his chin. Flaxen blond, like liquid gold. Then he peered farther down. And saw her breasts. Naked, pale, and creamy white, tipped by rosy points. Her robe had gaped open, exposing them along with the satiny expanse of her concave belly.

Sweet Mother of God.

He slammed his eyes shut, fighting the instant urge to touch.

Damn
, he’d been in the field
way
too long.

He fumbled for her weapon, retrieved it, and pressed it back into her hand. “Here,” he said, and let her go as though burned by the feel of her skin instead of being so turned on by it. “Please. Just shoot me now.” He ground his palms into his eyes.

She leapt off the bunk, and he half expected to feel the bite of a bullet in his flesh. Which he fully deserved for bungling this so damn badly. But none came.

After a moment he dropped his hands and looked up at her. She’d fixed her robe—
thank you, Jesus
—and was holding the gun firmly in one hand. But it was pointed at the floor, not at him. In the other hand, she held his creds. Her gaze flicked between them and his face.