Kara stood framed against the backdrop of the starry sky and moonlit waters. She had changed out of her clothes into a thick cotton robe. Her feet were bare. She turned as he entered, catching his reflection in the window.
“That will be all, Yanni,” she said, dismissing the steward.
Once he’d vacated the suite, she raised a hand, vaguely pointing at the sofa. “I’d offer you a nightcap, but this bloody boat’s as dry as all Arabia.”
Painter crossed and settled in the seat as Kara shifted to one of the chairs and sat down. “Not a problem. I don’t drink, myself.”
“AA?” she asked.
“Personal preference,” he said with a deep frown. It seemed the stereotype of the drunken Indian persisted even in Britain—not that it didn’t have some truth. His own father had found more solace within a bottle of Jack Daniel’s than in family and friends.
She shrugged.
Painter cleared his throat. “You mentioned updating me on the itinerary?”
“It’ll be printed up and under your door before sunrise.”
One eye narrowed. “Then why the late-night meeting?” He found himself staring at her bare ankles as she crossed her legs. Had she asked him up here for more personal reasons? He knew from his briefing that Kara Kensington went through men as often as she changed hairstyles.
“Safia,” she said simply, surprising him.
Painter blinked back up at her.
“I can tell by the way she looks at you.” There was a long pause. “She’s more fragile than she appears.”
And tougher than you all think she is, he added to himself.
“If you’re using her, then you’d best find some forgotten corner of the world to hide in afterward. If it’s just sex, you’d best keep your pants zipped or you’ll be missing a significant part of your anatomy. So which is it?”
Painter shook his head. For the second time in a matter of hours, he was being questioned about his affection for Safia: first by his partner, now by this woman. “It’s neither,” he said more harshly than he intended.
“Then explain it.”
Painter kept his face unreadable. He could not dismiss Kara as easily as he had Coral earlier. In fact, his mission would fare better with her cooperation than with her present hostility. But he remained silent. He couldn’t even come up with a good lie. The best lies were those closest to the truth—but what was the truth? How did he feel about Safia?
For the first time, he considered it more fully. Without a doubt, he found Safia attractive: her emerald eyes, her coffee-smooth skin, the way even a shy smile lit up her face. But he had encountered many beautiful women over the course of his life. So what was it about this particular woman? Safia was smart, accomplished, and there was certainly a strength in her to which the others seemed blind, a core of granite that could not be broken.
Yet, as he looked back, Cassandra had been just as strong, resourceful, and beautiful, and it had taken him years to respond to her. So what was it about Safia that should stir him so quickly?
He had a suspicion, but one he was reluctant to admit…even to himself.
Staring toward the ship’s windows, Painter pictured Safia’s eyes, the soft wound behind the emerald shine. He remembered her arms around his shoulders as she was lowered down from the museum roof, squeezing tight to him, the whisper of relief, the tears. Even then, there had been something about her that begged the hand to touch, something that called to the man in him. Unlike Cassandra, Safia was not just granite. She was a well of strength and vulnerability, the hard and the soft.
Deep in his heart, he knew it was this contradiction that fascinated him more than anything else. Something he wanted to explore in more depth.
“Well?” Kara pressed after his long silence.
He was saved from answering by the first explosion.
1:55 A.M.
O MAHA AWOKE with thunder in his ears. He sat up, startled, feeling the vibration in his gut, hearing the rattle of the tiny porthole window. He had known they were headed into a squall. He checked his watch. Less than ten minutes had passed. Too soon for the storm…
Danny slipped from the upper bunk, landing in a tumble, catching himself with one hand, hiking up his boxers with the other. “Damn! What was that?”
The chatter of gunfire erupted over their heads. Shouts followed.
Omaha threw back his covers. They had sailed into a storm all right…just not the one predicted by any weatherman. “We’re under attack!”
Danny grabbed his eyeglasses from the top drawer of a small desk. “Who’s attacking? Why?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Omaha leaped to his feet and pulled a shirt over his head, feeling less exposed. He cursed himself for leaving his shotgun and pistols crated in the hold. He knew how treacherous the Arabian seas could be, plied by modern-day pirates and paramilitary factions tied to terrorist organizations. It seemed the high seas were still ripe with bounty to plunder. But he had never suspected anyone would attack the flagship of the Omani navy.
Omaha creaked the door open an inch and peered out into the dark passageway. A single wall sconce cast a pool of light near the stairwell that led to the upper two levels and the open deck. As usual, Kara had assigned Omaha and his brother the worst berths, one floor above the bilge, a crew cabin versus the more luxurious passenger accommodations. Across the passage, another door peeked open.
Omaha and his brother were not the only ones granted the lowliest cabins. “Crowe,” he called out.
The far door pushed wider to reveal Crowe’s partner instead. Coral Novak crept out barefoot, in sweatpants and a sports bra, her white blond hair loose past her shoulders. She waved him silent. She carried a dagger in her right hand, a wicked length of polished stainless steel with a black carbonized handle. Military design. She held it low, deadly steady, even with the barrage of gunfire breaking out in spats above their heads.
She was alone.
“Where’s Crowe?” he hissed.
She cocked a thumb up. “Gone to meet Kara twenty minutes ago.”
Where the gunfire seemed to concentrate, Omaha added. Fear narrowed his vision as he stared toward the stairs. Safia and her student had private cabins below Kara’s suite, both close to the fighting. His heart clutched with every burst of rifle fire. He had to get to her. He stepped toward the stairway.
A new spate of gunplay erupted, sounding from the top of the stairs.
Booted footsteps pounded, coming their way.
“Weapons?” Coral whispered.