White Hot (26 page)

“I’m not,” she interrupted, tugging again. She couldn’t be.

“And you know this how?”

“I just do.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. The knowledge in his prickly gaze nearly flayed her. Damn it, she did not need his sympathy. Did not want his pity. She was fine.
Fine.
“Let me go.”

“I don’t know who hurt you this badly, Samantha, but I’m not him. Remember that.” With that, he dropped his hold on her.

She spun away, terrified she was going to lose it. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and strode to the door. She didn’t want to believe him. Hell, she
didn’t
believe him. She’d slid down that particular rainbow before, and the pot at the end held only pain and heartache.

She didn’t need Clint Walker. She didn’t need her damned father, either. She didn’t need
any
man.

She was fine by herself.

She was fine, period.

Just fine.

She wrestled back the ancient demons, took in a deep, calming breath, and opened the door a crack to check that the coast was clear, then she took off at a trot for the ventilation shaft hatch.

Clint followed right behind her.

When they got to the chute, reaching into the darkness for the ladder she suddenly became conscious of the shudder and roll of the ship. At some point during the past turbulent hour, last night’s rough waves had returned in full force. No, they were even bigger now. How had she not noticed?

She grabbed the bottom rung and started up the vertical ladder. As always, pitch-blackness swallowed them after ascending just a few feet. She clung to the cold steel bars, swinging blindly back and forth as each wave hit and the
ship pitched forward and back. Still, it was almost a relief, because she was forced to concentrate on the climb more than she’d ever concentrated on anything since sitting for her captain’s exam.

Clint kept pace just below her. His strong, muscular arms bracketed her as they climbed, so close their bodies constantly brushed. Even his scent surrounded her, masculine, ocean-salty, with a lingering hint of spicy soap from an earlier shower. He was sticking to her like a damn barnacle.

Her teeth clenched in resentment. Why did he even bother? She could take care of herself.
And
the baby, if there was one. His pretending to care just made her angry. She’d rather he’d just be
honest
with her. That she could respect. She had zero illusions about the scope of their relationship. He’d made it very clear from the get-go he’d be history the moment the boat docked in Seattle.

Which was okay with her.

Really.

A potential pregnancy was
her
problem, and she did not want any help from him. She wouldn’t take it if he offered. She’d be too vulnerable, too open to the illusion of hope. Hope was such an insidious emotion, she knew all too well. One so easily betrayed…most often by one’s own naïveté.

She couldn’t begin to untangle the knotted skein of old hurts and unbidden hopes that had wrapped around her heart since meeting him. But whenever those feelings arose, a fall was sure to follow.

Hell
, no. Been there, done that.

“Here, let me.”

His deep whisper vaulted her out of her tangle of thoughts. She realized she’d stopped and was standing utterly still on the last rung before the rim at the top of the shaft. God, how long had she stood there immobile in the complete darkness, fuming over the past and terrified of the future?

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Just catching my breath.”

He grunted. “Duck.” His fingers wrapped around her waist and lifted her to sit on the ledge.

“Would you
stop
?” she snapped, but quietly, mindful of their precarious position.

“No,” he said evenly, and hoisted himself up next to her. “So deal with it.”

He’d given her back her own damn line. Before she could retort, he carefully raised the hatch. Brilliant ribbons of sunlight streamed in through the two-inch gap as he peered out, illuminating the stubborn square jaw and the hard, determined cast to his dark eyes.

She counted to ten in her mind, praying the Coast Guard was even now boarding
Île de Cœur
.

So she could get away from him.

The man was maddening. No, insufferable. What part of
I do not need you
didn’t he get?

“It’s a Coast Guard cutter,” he murmured.

She bolted to attention and looked. Immediately, her frustration evaporated.
Yes!
There it was, about a mile out, steaming toward them. The distinctive white and red hull stood out against the indigo sea, and a tall black radio array poked up reassuringly into the cloud-dotted sky. On the ship’s side were painted the most beautiful words in the English language,
U.S. Coast Guard WMEC-39
.

“Thank God,” she breathed. Tears of relief blurred her vision. The past twenty-four hours had been one long nightmare. She’d felt so responsible for her crew, so powerless to help them—or to do anything at all to stop what was happening—and so damn guilty that she wasn’t with them, a hostage, suffering the same violence and enduring the same terror they must be feeling. If it hadn’t been for Clint’s knowledge and steadying influence, she would surely have dissolved and given up.

But now they were saved. Everyone would be safe now.

Without thinking, she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. Profound relief poured through her body. “Oh, thank God.”

The scuttle lowered as he returned her embrace. His strong fingers stroked over her back, and his cheek pressed warmly against her hair. It felt so good, and she felt so secure
wrapped in his arms that it took several long moments for her to remember that hugging him was a bad idea.

Damn.

Rescue was imminent. He’d be leaving her soon.

Her heart squeezed, and she attempted to extract herself from his embrace. But as she did, his lips found hers. He kissed her so tenderly she totally lost the will to be strong.

He’d be leaving soon…

An unwilling tear trickled down her cheek—
from the relief of being rescued
. Her crew would soon be safe. And so would she and Clint. That was all that mattered. Not that she would never see him again, because she didn’t care about that. She
didn’t
.

She felt his thumb brush away the tear. More welled up at the gentleness of the gesture.
Oh, God.

Suddenly, she heard familiar voices from the deck. Clint broke the kiss and quickly turned to lift the scuttle. They both peeked out, raising their eyes to a commotion on the gangway above them.

“The crew!” she whispered excitedly, dashing the moisture from her eyes.

Her joy at seeing her friends alive and unharmed froze like ice in her chest. They were being hustled at gunpoint from the mess hall out onto the narrow gangway. Their captors were barking orders, clearly agitated.

“What are they doing?” she whispered, watching with a growing sense of unease. He didn’t answer. “Clint?”

“I don’t know,” he returned, but it sounded to her like he did know, and was not happy about it. “Is the crew all there?” he asked.

She did a quick head count. Matty, Johnny and Frank, Ginger, Jeeter, Carin, and Spiros were in a tight group as they were herded forward. Bolun stayed one step behind them, glancing all around. Keeping track of the bad guys? Or their weapons? She saw exactly when he spotted the Coast Guard cutter off in the distance. His step faltered for a millisecond, but a gun barrel shoved into his back, prodding him forward.

A fierce pride in the second mate filled Sam. “Yes,” she answered Clint’s question. “They’re all there.”

She saw their wrists had been freed of the duct tape bindings, and their gags had been taken off, too. All except for Lars Bolun’s. Still bound and gagged, he was looking a lot worse for wear, but definitely uncowed. As if sensing his defiance, the leader separated him from the rest of the group with a blow to his back with the butt of his machine gun.

“Oh, Lars,” she whispered in misery, “I’m so sorry.”

“This is not remotely your fault.” Clint’s voice was low but firm. It wasn’t the first time he’d told her that, but the words didn’t make her feel any better this time around than they had last time. “He’s a good man. You’re lucky to have him,” Clint murmured.

Her gut knotted as she darted him a sharp look. Wow. Already trying to pass her off to the next guy?

“Yeah,” she said, tamping down the inescapable hurt. “He is special.”

For a split second she thought about Lars Bolun, actually trying to visualize him as a father for her child. But as good a man as Lars was, the image just knotted her gut even more. It wasn’t Lars she wanted.

“I meant, lucky to have him as a second mate,” Clint said.

The narrow band of light shining through the hatch opening was like a slash of golden war paint over his mahogany eyes. Beautiful. Impenetrable. It was a hopeless task to decipher Clint Wolf Walker, or his intentions.

Suddenly the sound of a terrified scream ripped her back to the present.

Carin!
One of the hijackers had the petite redhead by the hair and was jamming a gun to her temple.

Sam gasped and started to rise. “What’s going on?” she whispered, heart in her throat.

Clint put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, keeping her in place. “I’m not sure. Wait and see.”

It was the guard from earlier, from up on the crew deck. He dragged Carin away from the group, his ugly black gun
pressed to the back of her head. The others called out and tried to rush to her aid but were quickly subdued and jerked back in the opposite direction. Lars Bolun looked like he was about to go berserk.

The leader strode over, grabbed Bolun’s arm, and shoved him toward the stairs to the bridge.

The rest of the crew was herded in the opposite direction, over against the forward quarterdeck rail. They huddled together in a knot, staying as far away as possible from the edge, obviously fearful of what their captors would do next.

Sam was, too.

A stab went through her chest.
Oh, dear lord.
“They wouldn’t dare throw them over—” She began in panic.

“No,” Clint interrupted. “They need the hostages alive as bargaining chips.”

Her alarm didn’t subside, but she hoped to God he was right.

He swore softly as the leader forced Bolun up the steep steps of the forecastle ladder and into the bridge. “They’re using Carin to make him radio the cutter.”

“Why would they want to talk to the Coast Guard?” she asked.

“Good question.”

“Do you think they want to negotiate?”

“For what? It’s me they want.”

She blinked at the reminder.

But all too soon their strategy became clear. Reluctantly, the crew raised their hands and started waving to the other vessel. The hijackers stood behind them, their weapons jabbing them, prodding the crew to show greater enthusiasm.

“Really?” Clint muttered under his breath in disgust. “
That’s
your plan?”

Doubtfully, Sam glanced back up at the bridge. But sure enough, Bolun was standing at the helm, speaking into the radio’s mike. “So, what, he’s telling them everything’s okay?” she guessed incredulously. “Will the Coast Guard actually believe him?”

“I hope to hell not.”

Sam’s heart pounded nervously as they waited. One minute. Two minutes. Three. And still the cutter maintained a steady course toward them. She was just starting to let out a small breath of relief when the red and white vessel began to slow down.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, instantly horrified. “No, no, no. Do not do this to us! Please, not this.”

About five hundred feet off the starboard quarter, the Coast Guard cutter churned to a stop.

On the poop deck above, her crew’s hands halted in midwave, suspended in the air like a living tableau.

Clint cursed savagely.

Guns jabbed into flesh. Carin let out a terrified yelp.

On the bridge, Bolun’s voice rose animatedly, his furious eyes never leaving the pretty young oiler. The crew resumed waving madly, as if their lives depended on it.

Sam held her breath, praying as she’d never prayed before.

A harrowing second later, the cutter’s engines throttled up. The vessel began to move. It went into a wide, steady turn.

And started to steam away.

What the
hell
?

“Oh, my God, they’re leaving!” Samantha exclaimed, her voice strangled.

No fucking shit.
Clint stared after the retreating ship. It didn’t make sense. He knew how seriously the Coast Guard took their homeland security duties, and they were not that easily fooled. Especially after the mayday he’d sent them earlier. No
way
would the cutter be leaving. At least not without first boarding
Île de Cœur
for a look-see to make sure all was well.

Either Bolun had given an Academy Award performance on that radio, or…

Ah.

Clint smiled inwardly. He could almost hear Julie Severin, the CIA analyst he’d met on the Russian sub last week, quoting her favorite author, Sun Tzu.
In war, nothing is as it appears to be.