'Uncommonly sensitive? I
'And so delicate in expressing it. Forgive me for doubting you, but you-Ouch.'
'Dammit, I'll show you delicate.' She punched him again in the arm. 'First, you make me feel guilty, and then you tell me I'm a callous bitch.'
'I didn't actually say it.' He laughed as he backed away from her. 'And you shouldn't object if I did. You have to admit that it's not your gentler side that fills you with pride. You're definitely a nononsense woman, Hannah. I'm surprised you took offense.'
She was a little surprised too. From the time she was ten years old she had known what she wanted of her life. Machines had always fascinated her, and the sea had called her with a power that couldn't be denied. Every college break she had spent on a ship, working and perfecting her knowledge and skills. Even after she had graduated with honors, it still hadn't been an easy road. She had fought her way up the ladder in a man's world by her independence and tough-mindedness. It was odd that little remark by Conner had triggered a sudden rush of guilt. Or maybe not so odd. It could be that she had been worrying about Conner on a subconscious level for a long time. 'You know, if you ever want to leave me and get a job in Boston closer to Cathy and the kids, it will be okay with me.' She was lying. It wouldn't be okay. They'd been together too long. As children they'd had the usual sibling rivalries, but that had passed, and they'd grown closer and closer over the years. From the time she had brought him on board on her first independent job, he had been her anchor and her friend as well as her brother. She'd be miserably lonely without him.
He grinned mischievously. 'I'd consider it, but I'd hate to wreck your career. We both know I'm the only one who'd put up with you. One of my biggest career assets is my ability to smooth down all the assholes you refuse to tolerate. What I lack in brains I make up for in social skills. That's why we're such a good team.'
She opened her mouth to defend herself, then closed it again. 'Come on, we're supposed to meet Bradworth at the bed-and-breakfast in an hour.' She turned away and started back up the pier. 'But you're right, I certainly don't know what I'd do without you.'
'My, my, sensitivity again? I was expecting you to give me a verbal knockout punch. What's gotten into you?'
She smiled at him over her shoulder. 'Maybe you're rubbing off on me. Next, I'll be comparing that damn sub to a sunset or a tropical flower.' She glanced at the submarine lying still and dark in the water like a sleek shark waiting to attack its prey. Another chill went through her, and she quickly looked away. 'But somehow I don't think so.'
Bradworth rocked slowly back and forth in the rocking chair on the porch of Richardson's Bed-and-Breakfast, his gaze on the glimpse of sea he could see in the distance. It was nice here, he thought wistfully. Quiet, pleasant, ocean views that made him remember the house near Myrtle Beach where he'd grown up.
Jesus, he must be getting old if he was already starting to think of the good old days. Nah, the juices were still flowing if he could feel that stir of lust as he watched Hannah Bryson and her brother walk up the street toward him. At least, he assumed it was her brother, Conner. He'd never been introduced to him and had only briefly met Hannah two weeks ago when he and Randolph, the public relations director for the museum, had gone to her apartment in Boston to offer her the job. They didn't look much alike. Conner Bryson was smaller, built with a lean, wiry muscularity, and his tightly curled dark hair and triangular face gave him a puckish appearance. There was nothing puckish about Hannah. Her features were strong, with high cheekbones, deep-set blue eyes, and chestnut hair that curled wildly and incongruously around that riveting face. According to her dossier she was thirty-five, but she looked younger. No, that wasn't quite right. She was one of those women who appeared ageless. She was probably five-foot-nine or -ten with a strong, slim body, long legs, and great shoulders. God, he loved women with straight, broad shoulders. Tits and ass were all very well, but there was something more subtly challenging in the turn-on of those smooth, broad shoulders and that bold carriage. It made a man want to meet that challenge in the most basic sexual way.
Hell, Hannah Bryson was probably going to be a challenge in more ways than the physical. She was exceptionally intelligent. He had recently watched a two-year-old National Geographic special in which Hannah had described her childhood obsession with scuba diving, and her ever-increasing desire to go farther and deeper than her tanks could ever take her. Before she'd even graduated from college, she had made a name for herself with a series of radical yet extremely workable sub designs that instantly catapulted her to the forefront of the traditionally male-dominated profession of marine architecture. She possessed an amazing photographic memory that gave her instant mental access to every sub ever designed, and her skill and creativity enabled her to improve on many of them.
Bradworth ruefully shook his head. Dammit, he would have preferred to have someone a hell of a lot less sharp, but he'd been forced to accept her. He just hoped he could get her through this and-
His phone rang, and he picked up. 'Bradworth.'
'Is she there?'
He tensed. 'Dammit, Kirov, I told you I'd call you after I spoke to her. Stop pressuring me.'
'Is she there?'
'She's walking down the street toward me right now.'
'She took her time. They were down at the pier looking at the sub an hour ago.'
'And you were there watching her. I told you to stay away from that damn sub, Kirov.'
'And I told you to go to hell. I'll do what I please.' He paused. 'I wasn't the only one watching her. There was a small yacht cruising around the bay, and I saw the man on the bridge was using highpowered video binoculars.'
'Could have been nothing. A five-hundred-and-fifty-foot Russian submarine is definitely a curiosity in these waters.'
'And it could have been Pavski. We'll assume it was until proven otherwise.'
Annoyance seared through him. Arrogant bastard. Call him on it? He hesitated. Oh, what the hell. He was tired of pussyfooting around with Kirov. He had to prove to the son of a bitch that he wasn't to be intimidated. 'You're sure you're not using Pavski as an excuse?'
Silence. 'I beg your pardon?'
The words were spoken softly, but Bradworth felt a chill go down his spine. He smothered it and kept his voice as low and hard as Kirov's. 'I've gone to a good deal of trouble to set this up, and I'd be very annoyed if I found out that you have another agenda other than our mutually agreed objective.'
'Really? And what would you do?'
'You're not irreplaceable. We created you. We can destroy you.'
'Indeed? Try.' Kirov's voice was still soft, but the inflection had become icy. 'And you didn't create me. I'm my own creation. I started as a skeleton with nothing inside but hate, and I infused that corpse with blood and guts.'
'And you don't owe us anything for teaching you, helping you?'
Kirov laughed. 'My God, you expect me to be grateful? Hell, yes, I learned from you. And then it wasn't enough and I went to Hong Kong and learned more and then I went to India and had them teach-' He stopped, and then said, 'Let's just say, you were only the first step in my education. As for helping me, every time you helped me, you helped yourself. And do you think I haven't looked over my shoulder all the way to make sure you didn't decide I was expendable? I'm
'I didn't say we were going to target you. I just wanted to make our position clear.' Bradworth was backtracking, he realized with disgust. He hadn't expected to unleash quite this much deadliness in Kirov. He'd only been concerned with his own pride and selfrespect. No, he wouldn't have been that unprofessional. He'd also been told that Kirov might have to be reined in. The bastard had been walking too close to the edge lately. 'If you're being entirely honest with us, then you have nothing to fear.'
'I'm not afraid.' Kirov's voice was suddenly weary. 'I got rid of that emotion along with other nonessentials a long time ago.' His tone changed to brusqueness. 'The license number of that yacht is PA 3717 ZW. Check it out and get back to me. Start the Bryson woman working on the sub tomorrow morning. I want her to finish as soon as possible.'
'And what if she's not ready to start yet?'
'Persuade her. But I think she'll be ready. According to the dossier you furnished me, she's a dynamo, and
