{"product_id":"white-hot-isbn-9780425243985","title":"White Hot","description":"U.S. Navy Lieutenant Commander Clint Walker is on the run across the icy Alaskan Bering Sea. The Chinese operatives tracking him will do anything to retrieve the stolen military plans in Clint's possession--and kill him for their trouble. Desperate to safeguard the documents, he stows aboard a cargo ship--and comes face to face with the most beautiful--and determined--ship's commander he's ever encountered...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCaptain Samantha Richardson won't let anything--or anyone--stand in the way of her career...especially now with her whole future riding on this latest run. Yet the sight of her brash stowaway's enticing bedroom eyes and his hard, muscular body has Sam fantasizing about indulging in a small indiscretion, just this once. After all, Clint Walker is her ideal man: hot, intriguing, and temporary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut when Clint and Sam give in to their simmering passion, they emerge to face an exploding danger that threatens to put an all too permanent end to their growing feelings...and their lives.\"Suspense just got a whole lot hotter.\"—Allison Brennan, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nina Bruhns excels at writing romantic suspense with plenty of action and incendiary passion between her main characters.\"—\u003ci\u003eRomantic Novel News\u003c\/i\u003eNina Bruhns is an award-winning author of numerous books. She has lived and traveled all over the world, including a six-year stint in Sweden. She has two graduate degrees in archaeology (with a specialty in Egyptology), and, like her idol Indiana Jones, has been on scientific expeditions from California to Spain to Egypt and the Sudan. All this has been great fodder for her books. A native of Canada, Nina grew up in California and currently resides in beautiful Charleston, South Carolina, with her family.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cp\u003eDutch Harbor, Amaknak Island, the Aleutians, Alaska\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJuly\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor a man on the run, the fog was both a blessing and a curse. It hid  you from your enemies . . . but it could also turn against you.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor the past week, U.S. Navy Lieutenant Commander Clint Walker had  been grateful for the recurring blanket of mist as he’d scrambled to  stay two steps ahead of his pursuers, island-hopping his way along the  Aleutians toward mainland Alaska. So far he’d managed to evade the  tangos hot on his trail—a Chinese black-ops team determined to retrieve  the stolen military plans in Clint’s possession . . . and no doubt kill  him for their trouble.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut that would only be the beginning of the trouble for the U.S.  Navy—and for the country—should the Chinese succeed in stopping him from  delivering those plans.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA severe storm had left Dutch Harbor under a dense shroud of gray  that blotted out the pale rays of the midnight sun and cast the  surrounding landscape in an eerie, impenetrable glow. It seemed like  he’d been jogging through the thick soup for miles, getting nowhere.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs he ran, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. His  grandfather would say it was the breath of the bear. But this was more  like the breath of the dragon. Drawing on the lessons Grandfather had  taught him during those long ago summers they’d lived on the land using  only the gifts nature had given them, he focused every sense on the  danger lurking out there in the mist. Clint even knew the dragon’s name:  Xing Guan, commander of the Chinese black-ops team of trained assassins  that had been sent to bring back, at any cost, the small data storage  card that had been stolen from their navy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eClint had yet to see Xing Guan’s face. But he knew his ruthless  reputation from the scatter of reports that had come across his desk at  Naval Intelligence regarding the notorious commander. The man was  brutal, relentless, and smart as a fox. And he was out there right now.  Close by. \u003ci\u003eStalking him\u003c\/i\u003e. Clint could feel his pursuer’s menacing presence down to his very marrow.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to guess where he was heading.  The biggest airport in the Aleutians was here in Dutch Harbor. The  Chinese operators tracking him might already be hiding there, lying in  wait for him to show up. But he’d have to risk it. He needed to get the  micro SD data card containing the stolen plans back to Washington, D.C.,  ASAP.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eIf he could find the damned airport.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfter four days of stinking hell working his passage on a fishing  trawler, Clint was dead on his feet. All he wanted was to find a way  back to Washington and his apartment, grab a steaming hot shower, and  sleep for twenty-four hours straight.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe stopped jogging long enough to catch his breath. And listen. He  could hear the shallow waves of Iliuliuk Bay sucking at the nearby  shore, so he knew he was still on the right road. In the distance, a  foghorn’s low, mournful moan did a duet with the distinctive metallic  clank of anchor chains from the dozen or more ships that were moored  along the piers lining both sides of the harbor. The sharp smell of raw  fish filled the air but gave no clue as to whether he was closer to the  airport or to cannery row. Of course, with just one change of clothes,  it might be himself he was smelling.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eHell\u003c\/i\u003e. He couldn’t see a goddamn thing in this fucking pea  soup. He must have missed the turnoff for the airport. Maybe. He was on  his last legs, and both his SEAL training and the hunting instincts  learned at the knee of his grandfather were rapidly failing him tonight.  He needed to focus.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe glanced around. Because it was the middle of the night, the  airport runway lights had been turned off, and there were no other  visual or auditory clues to indicate direction. The entire island seemed  to be closed up tight as a clam and wrapped in cotton wool. Thankfully,  it was the height of tourist season; by dawn the airport would be  humming with activity. He had to be close.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRather than risk running into the enemy black-ops team, he’d hunker  down for the night. First thing in the morning he’d scout out a plane to  hitch a ride on to Anchorage or Seattle.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eUnless they found him first . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe froze.\u003ci\u003e Footsteps\u003c\/i\u003e?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo. Just the rustle of leaves.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe’d spotted his pursuers back on Adak Island. There’d been three of  them, moving in concert through the harbor to hunt him down, a stealthy,  efficient killing unit. The Chinese \u003ci\u003ereally \u003c\/i\u003ewanted those plans  back. That was when Clint had decided he’d rather face the wrath of a  fishing trawler captain as a stowaway and work off his unplanned passage  than risk being taken by Xing Guan. He could not lose that data card.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn it were top secret Chinese plans for a revolutionary new  long-range guidance system for their ever-growing fleet of unmanned  underwater vehicles, or UUVs. Information crucial that the United States  acquire, for the protection of our North American coastlines. We were  already vulnerable. Without countermeasures to the silent, deadly,  nearly undetectable UUVs, it would be open season on our coastal cities.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePulling down a deep breath, Clint started to jog again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eSonofabitch\u003c\/i\u003e. He was getting too old for this shit. If he  managed to make it back to D.C. in one piece, maybe he’d actually accept  that Pentagon job the commander had been dangling in front of his nose  for a few years now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOr not.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEven in his midthirties, as a former Navy SEAL Clint was not exactly  enthralled by the idea of sitting behind a desk from nine to five.  Although right about now, a warm, clean office sounded damn good, even  if it did come with a ball and chain. Maybe he could even start thinking  about a family. Grandfather was long gone, and there was no one else.  No wife, no clan, not even a rez any more—not since the casino mafia had  driven the honest folk off the reservation.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSuddenly the faint whisper of hushed human voices floated out from the fog. Not leaves. And not his imagination.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAgain Clint halted in his tracks and listened. \u003ci\u003eOne, two, three speakers\u003c\/i\u003e. Male. He couldn’t hear the language they were speaking, but it didn’t sound English. \u003ci\u003eIt sounded Chinese\u003c\/i\u003e. And the men didn’t sound happy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe swore silently and veered off the road. Folding himself into a  patch of low juniper, he waited. Moments later, three mute black  silhouettes glided stealthily past.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe swore again. \u003ci\u003eSo much for the airport\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe assessed his options. There was only one road off Amaknak Island  into Dutch Harbor proper. The sea lapped at one side of it, and when the  fog lifted, the stunted tundra shrubs on the other side wouldn’t hide a  large cat. Going forward, an ambush awaited; to the sides, total  exposure.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFucking hell\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was only one thing left to do.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe turned and started to sprint, heading back the way he’d come.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTime for plan B.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003eCaptain Samantha Richardson heaved the last insanely heavy box into  place on top of a seemingly endless row of crates and cartons. She and  most of her ship’s crew had spent the past three hours restacking them.  Who knew biscuits weighed so damn much?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA freak summer storm had swept across the Bering Sea yesterday, pounding \u003ci\u003eÎle de Cœur \u003c\/i\u003ewith  fifteen-foot waves and wreaking havoc in three of the seven cargo holds  in the bowels of the old tramp freighter. They were only three-quarters  full, and anything not nailed down had been tossed about like confetti.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSamantha had already fired and booted off the chief mate, the  merchant marine officer responsible for overseeing the loading and  securing of the cargo in Japan. Or rather, not securing it. She didn’t  want to think his neglect had been deliberate, but she wouldn’t be  surprised. There were those in the company who were diehard old  school—men like her father and her ex-husband—and believed a woman’s  place was raising children, changing sheets, and meeting a man at the  door with a martini and a smile when he came home from three months at  sea. Anything but being the captain of her own ship, spending three  months at sea herself.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer chest tightened briefly. \u003ci\u003eWhat. Ever.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eÎle de Cœur\u003c\/i\u003e was now a man down, but Sam would manage. If this  was a sample of the chief mate’s handiwork, good riddance to him. In  reality, she’d been glad for the excuse to fire him. The guy’d had a  real attitude problem, and she desperately needed this transit to go  smoothly. She’d put all her eggs in this single basket. Or rather, her  father had. This transit would make or break her career.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSamantha surveyed the evenly distributed and well-secured stacks of  crates that she and the crew were now standing on top of. “Finally,” she  muttered. She tipped back the old-fashioned yachting cap she always  wore and wiped the sweat from her brow with a sleeve. “I thought we’d  never finish.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLuckily, she’d spent three years as a chief mate herself en route to her captain’s license, and \u003ci\u003eÎle de Cœur\u003c\/i\u003e’s  second mate, Lars Bolun, was taking the captain’s exam this fall, so  together they knew how to expertly redistribute the load so it wouldn’t  shift again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt her sigh of profound relief, a weary chorus of “Amen!” came back  at her from the five men and one woman heading for the ladder up to the  orlop—the lowest regular deck. Second Mate Lars Bolun, Carin Tornarsuk  the oiler, and four able seamen, Johnny Dorn, Frank Tennyson, Jeeter  Pond, and the old salt Spiros Tsanaka.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was well past midnight, and if they all managed to climb out of  the cargo hold, grab a bite to eat, and fall into their bunks without  losing consciousness from exhaustion first, it would be a pure damn  miracle. Before this, they’d cleaned up hold five, where three pallets  of Sapporo Reserve had slipped their ropes and crashed into each other  like cymbals, leaving glass bottles shattered and beer sprayed over  everything. And before\u003ci\u003e that \u003c\/i\u003ethey’d had to completely unload and  reorganize hold two, which was filled with vehicle tires, spare  machinery parts, and lethally sharp logging equipment, all of which were  supposed to be neatly arranged according to purchaser, and had been,  when they’d left Sapporo. After the storm, hold two had looked like a  cyclone had gone through it. It had been a nightmare to match up the  shipping labels—printed in Japanese, naturally—with the lading bills so  the orders could be unloaded and picked up quickly when they reached  Nome, Alaska, which was their last port of call before heading home to  Seattle.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll this lifting had been done by hand without the aid of their deck  crane, the top of which had been nearly ripped off during the storm by a  killer wave. The crane was useless until the chief engineer, Shandy,  could repair it. Hopefully he’d get it working by morning.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEither way, they had to shove off by oh-six-hundred. Sam absolutely,  unequivocally, without fail, must get this cargo to Nome before noon on  the Fourth of July. In hold three they were carrying the precious order  of special fireworks she’d managed by hook, crook, and more than a few  shady side deals to scrounge together last week for the new mayor of  Nome and his self-aggrandizing election celebration.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe new mayor was the founder and owner of Bravo Logging Corp,  Richardson Shipping’s biggest client, with eyes on the Alaska governor’s  mansion. Sam’s father, Jason Richardson, had promised the mayor his  fireworks—even though at this late date every firework in Japan and  China had long since been spoken for and shipped out. Then dear old Dad  had deliberately given Sam the assignment of fulfilling the order.  Knowing she’d fail. \u003ci\u003eOr so he thought\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut dear old Dad didn’t know her well enough. One thing father and  daughter shared—“failure” was not a word in either of their  vocabularies.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWell, other than in marriage. Neither of them had done so well in that department.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe swallowed down the spurt of unwilling hurt that shot through her.  After a lifetime of hurts, you’d think she’d be used to it by now. But  this last one, Jim’s betrayal, had really knocked the wind from her  sails. But such was life.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe straightened determinedly and headed for the ladder.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBringing in this cargo, intact and on time, would ensure at least one  part of her life stayed on track—her career. Her father and his  fossilized cronies would be forced to end her infuriating “trial  contract” and hire her on permanently at Richardson Shipping. Those who  wanted her gone from the family business would be effectively robbed of  the ammunition they needed to convince her father to fire her—despite  her being his only child. Even if he’d never formally acknowledged she  was his, other than allowing her his name at birth.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe didn’t give a damn about blood ties. She knew better than to think  he wouldn’t show her the door, with half a reason. She intended to see  he didn’t have a reason. Not even a fraction of one.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSeaman Johnny Dorn’s expressive moan brought her out of her  frustrating thoughts. “I am never, ever, ever going to eat another White  Lover as long as I live,” Johnny Dorn declared, collapsing back against  the steel bulkhead as the crew waited for her to catch up to them at  the ladder. “Even after drinking a \u003ci\u003ehundred\u003c\/i\u003e gallons of beer.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEveryone was too wiped out to laugh at the raunchy play on words. The  inevitable ribald jokes about the unfortunately-named Japanese  biscuits, combined with the spilled beer, had kept them amused for the  first fifteen minutes of lifting and heaving cartons. After that, the  humor had fizzled under the weight of the task.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hell, Dorn, maybe you ought to hang on to at least one White Lovers  box,” seaman Frank Tennyson taunted with a grin as they climbed the  ladder and he hoisted himself up through the man-sized hatch onto the  deck above. “Might be the only chance you get to—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Okay,” Sam interrupted with a chuckle, \u003ci\u003ereally\u003c\/i\u003e not wanting to  hear where that conversation was headed. Frank was Brad Pitt to Johnny’s  Bernie Mac, and their verbal exchanges were often hilarious, but always  off-color. “Mixed company here,” she said dryly as she hung up the  clipboard with the cargo manifest on a wall hook beside the metal  bulkhead ladder.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe grabbed the ladder and followed them up. The cargo holds were  down in the very lowest depths of the ship, below the orlop—or the  engineering deck—which was in turn below the huge garage-like ro-ro deck  where the roll-on roll-off cargo was parked and tied down. Above the  ro-ro deck was the main outside deck, or weather deck, where five  railroad containers were secured along with an old Malaysian trolley car  headed for San Francisco. That was also where the currently disabled  deck crane was positioned. Rising up amidships from the weather deck was  the ship’s midstructure, which housed the crew deck, then above that  the quarterdeck that housed the mess, galley, and lounges. Above that,  perched atop the midstructure like a penthouse, was the bridge. Thank  God the big stuff on the weather deck had all been tied down correctly.  Talk about a potential disaster. She reminded herself to quadruple-check  the railroad containers in the morning.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe 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 to ask for help, but her muscles felt  like limp spaghetti. She was actually afraid she might slip and fall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLars 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Just relax, Cap’n,” the second mate said with a lopsided smile. “I can pull you the rest of the way up.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe gave her an amused look. “One of these days, Captain, you’ll fall willingly into my arms.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt that, everyone \u003ci\u003eelse\u003c\/i\u003e snorted.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t hold my breath, mister.” They all knew he didn’t stand a chance.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBesides, 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSam 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSuddenly, 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!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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 \u003ci\u003estowaway\u003c\/i\u003e? Hell, no. That was not going to happen, either. “You didn’t let him get on board, did you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No, ma’am. Mr. Shandy’s waiting at dhe dhop of the line to grab him.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHow had this stowaway made it past the gate?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShandy looked up disgustedly. “Gone. He must have heard Ginger shout to me and taken off.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSam’s anxiety, along with her shoulders, notched down a fraction. “You’re sure?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Trust me, Cap’n, nobody got past me.” Shandy lifted a hand, which was clutching a big, oily wrench.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSam 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’ll take the watch tonight,” Lars Bolun volunteered. “I can sleep tomorrow.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey all groaned as she started back inside to the companionway that went up past the crew deck, all the way to the bridge.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Maybe we should just let the fucker come on board and work him like a dog,” Frank grumbled. “We are a man short. . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt last she sank onto her bunk and closed her eyes with a tired sigh. She was so exhausted her head was spinning.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDespite 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?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe shivered and pulled her blanket tight up under her chin. Of all the ships in Dutch Harbor, why had he chosen \u003ci\u003eÎle de Cœur\u003c\/i\u003e to stow away on?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFinally 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe’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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe dragged up her eyelids and frowned. “Who is it?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo one answered.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Who is it?” she repeated, alarm creeping through her muzzy mind. She struggled up and groped for the Glock.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It—It’s me,” a deep voice said softly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe blinked, her hand hovering above the weapon. Who the hell would—“Bolun, is that you?” she snapped. \u003ci\u003eReally\u003c\/i\u003e?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Open the door,” he said, his voice muffled, but more cajoling than demanding. “I, um, need to . . .”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eOh, for godsake\u003c\/i\u003e. 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What is it?” she asked. “I thought you were on watch.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eExcept there was something wrong. His hair . . . it should be blond  and pale, even in the dark. Instead it was black as the midnight sky.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOh, crap. \u003ci\u003eNot Bolun\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe gasped and slammed the door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eToo late\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSuddenly she remembered the Glock in her hand. She whipped it up.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“\u003ci\u003eDon’t\u003c\/i\u003e,” he warned.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer heart slammed to her throat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA large, black pistol was pointing right back at her.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304743129317,"sku":"NP9780425243985","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780425243985.jpg?v=1767744124","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/white-hot-isbn-9780425243985","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}