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nervous steps backward. She looked . . . regretful.
    За ебис.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t do this.”
    The taste of her swirled on his tongue. He drew in a steadying breath. “You’re not afraid of me, are you? I’m sorry if I’ve been too rough . . .”
    She shook her head. “No. It’s not that. It’s just, you’re Russian. And . . . and I’m leaving in the morning.”
    Well . . . duh, he was Russian. That was the whole point of this. Right . . . ?
    For a split second he wondered if Cherenkov had pegged her all wrong. Maybe she really was just a reporter. A seasoned undercover agent would not be this skittish about a one-night stand with the other side. Quite the opposite.
    Or perhaps she was just very good at her job, and this was merely part of her usual blushing flower routine.
    He hiked a brow. “I’m leaving in the morning, too. And as for being Russian, the Cold War is over, milaya moya —my sweet. You won’t be sleeping with the enemy, I promise.”
    That earned him a little smile. The sight of her full, curved lips made him a little lightheaded.
    She took a few more steps backward. “I’m sorry if I led you on, Nikolai. Honestly I didn’t mean—You’re very attractive, and . . . a wonderful kisser. Believe me, if I did this sort of thing, you’d be on top of my list.”
    His body wanted to roar in protest, but he knew when he was being given the heave-ho. So he did the gentlemanly thing. For now.
    With a feigned sigh of defeat, a few words of regret, and a traditional Russian kiss on both cheeks plus one for good measure, he let her go.
    For now .
    This was frustrating, but he wasn’t too worried. Next time, they’d both be trapped in the confines of a two-thousand-square-foot submarine with nowhere to go. She wouldn’t get away from him then. He’d make damn sure of that. And she would give him everything he wanted. Everything .
    Because he knew something she didn’t.
    He really was the enemy.
    Ostrov might be a broken-down wreck of a submarine, but she was his broken-down wreck of a submarine. He had no intention of letting a CIA operative—no matter how sweet and tantalizingly sexy—wreak havoc on or upon his boat.
    Oh, yeah. He would definitely be getting up close and personal with the recalcitrant Ms. Severin, whether she liked it or not. For the next three weeks he’d be stuck to her like a barnacle on a hull. He might despise the FSB for dragging him back into their sordid world of lies and intrigue, but if they were right about this woman, he was grateful for the heads-up. Hell, she was attractive enough that he just might have tried his luck with her anyway. And fallen right into her trap.
    He had to find out what she was up to and prevent whatever bit of sabotage or espionage she had been sent to carry out against his boat or his men . . . and against his country.
    If that involved finishing what they’d started tonight, so much the better. He had his orders. And for once, he had no intention of rebelling against them.
    Hell, there was a solid door on the captain’s stateroom, and it had a lock.
    He narrowed his eyes speculatively as an idea formed in his mind. Well, what the hell. Why not? It would be against every regulation in the book . . . but seriously, what could his navy superiors do to him if they found out? Demote him? He snorted. Too late . At least this time he’d have earned it.
    As he walked away, he turned one last time to look back at her on his way down the corridor. She waved uncertainly and sent him a regretful smile.
    Slowly he smiled back.
    A hot tangle of conflicting emotions churned through his body.
    But regret? Nyet . Not one of those warring emotions was regret.

2

    “ Gospozhá Severin?”
    Central Intelligence Agency analyst Julie Elizabeth Severin stood at the end of a very long pier jutting into Petropavlovsk Harbor, and did her best to steady her rocketing heartbeat. How the hell had this happened?
    She was in Russia—