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The SEAL's Baby
Rogenna Brewer


Engineer, single mom, weekend warriorHannah Stanton is all three–until she's called to active duty by the Navy. Then she becomes a warrior full-time. But that means she has to leave her baby behind while she flies helicopters in support of the Navy SEAL team that includes Mike McCaffrey–her old friend and colleague who also happens to be the onenight stand she never told about her pregnancy.Hannah always meant to tell McCaffrey about the baby, but when was she supposed to do that? A year ago he'd been sent in to a war zone half a world away. Jeopardizing his mission–and his life–with news he could do nothing about wasn't possible. And now… Now it seems too late, especially since he just announced that he likes kids–as long as they're not his. Walking away isn't an option, though, once the Navy sends them on a mission…together.









Had McCaffrey really said that he liked kids as long as they were “somebody else’s”?


“Hannah, wait up.” Her sister pushed the stroller at a slight jog to keep up with Hannah’s military stride. “He didn’t mean anything by it. He thinks—”

Hannah stopped short. “I know what he thinks, Samantha.”

“Excuse me?”

“What’s with you? Flirting with Fallon’s father, pretending to be her mother…”

“I never did any of that. He just assumed.”

Hannah took a deep breath, deep enough for the flush of anger and jealousy to fade just a little. She glanced toward McCaffrey, who was still talking to her mother. His assumptions played in to Hannah’s deepest fears—that in the end it would be her sister who would raise Fallon, not her.

Sammy followed her gaze. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe. You and Mom are cut from the same cloth.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means Mom’s going to keep quiet. And you… You button up all your emotions inside that white jacket, and the Navy rewards you for it with those ribbons worn in place of your heart.”

“I’m not emotionless,” Hannah denied. “Do you honestly think I don’t feel anything?”

“Then you deserve a Purple Heart. Because if you’re bleeding nobody knows it. Least of all him.”


Dear Reader,

Women make up about 15 percent of today’s active and reserve military, nearly double that of two decades ago when I enlisted in the United States Navy. One of the proudest moments of my service was when I signed into record that I would protect my chaplain with my life. I’m not sure how I was expected to do that, since the only time I’d fired a weapon was in boot camp. In fact, I’d shot off more rounds on my high school rifle team. Thankfully, it never came to that.

It was, however, a sign of things to come. Of course, we know that women have served and sacrificed in some capacity throughout history. But since the end of the first Gulf War 90 percent of military jobs have been open to women. The Pentagon’s “risk rule” assessment no longer applies and only Special Forces have closed their ranks—with the exception of pilots.

I wanted to explore that exception by taking things one step further. What happens when a single mother goes to war? Who takes care of the baby? How does she handle the separation? This book is about a woman who makes some tough choices to answer the call to duty.

I love to hear from readers. You can write to me in care of Harlequin, at my e-mail address Rogenna@aol.com, or visit my Web site, www.rogennabrewer.com.

Sincerely,

Rogenna Brewer




The Seal’s Baby

Rogenna Brewer





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For all women who have served their country.

Especially my fellow RomVets loopers—

talented women writers who served in the armed forces.

And my WhatsBrewin and CrewBrew loops—voracious

romance readers who love men and women in uniform.


Commander, Helicopter Combat Support

(Special) Squadron Nine

requests the pleasure of your company at the

Change of Command and

Retirement Ceremony

at which

Captain Jon Jordan Loring,

United States Navy

will be relieved by

Lieutenant Commander Hannah C. Stanton,

United States Navy Reserve (Active)

on Friday, the twenty-fifth of July at ten o’clock

Hangar Nine, Naval Air Station North Island

Coronado, California






Reception

immediately following the ceremony

Officers’ Club, Naval Air Station North Island

Coronado, California




—————————————————

—————————————

RSVP.

Commander, SEAL Team Eleven

Commander Mike “Mac” McCaffrey,

United States Navy

_______________________will accept

_________________________will be unable

to accept the invitation of the

Commander, Helicopter Combat Support

(Special) Squadron Nine

to attend the reception following the Change of

Command and

Retirement Ceremony




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN




CHAPTER ONE


NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE

Coronado, California

THE ONLY EASY DAY was yesterday. Commander Mike McCaffrey knew the Navy SEAL motto well. He’d just set foot inside Naval Special Warfare Command after five weeks on San Clemente Island, playing bad guy for the BUD/S in training. He still wore woodland-green cammies, complete with war paint, and toted his gear. The thud of heavy boots and raised voices bounced off the walls behind him as Bravo Squad entered to lighten their loads.

“Bravo Eleven, stow it! And blow it!” he called over his shoulder to seven of the best men he’d ever served with.

They knew what he meant. Weekend liberty for the enlisted. Shore leave for the officers. A chance to blow their wads, paycheck or otherwise.

A collective “hoo-yah!” followed the order.

“Hoo-yah,” Mike responded, unsure of his own plans for his first duty-free weekend in months. A two-inch thick T-bone ranked at the top of his list. A baked potato with all the fixin’s and an ice-cold beer to wash it down. It sure as hell beat endless rations of MRE. Uncle Sam’s Meals Ready-to-Eat weren’t exactly his idea of home cookin’.

Stopping by the central office to pick up his pigeonholed mail, Mike glanced at the invitation on top. Noting today’s date for the Change of Command Ceremony, he was about to deep-six it without even breaking his stride when the relieving officer’s name stopped him short.

Hannah.

He backtracked toward the yeoman manning the duty desk. “When did this come in?”

“Sir?” The yeoman looked up. “A couple weeks ago, I think.”

“Do I have any messages from a Lieutenant Commander Stanton?” He kept it formal even though any pretense of formality had been stripped once he’d gotten her naked.

“No, sir.” The yeoman shook his head. “The only messages are with your mail. Except for one or two and the dailies—they’re all from Commander, Naval Special Warfare.”

Mike responded with a curt nod and continued down the hall. When he reached his office, he dumped his gear and shut the door behind him. Tossing the rest of the bundled mail to his desk, he held on to the invitation. A quick check of his watch told him what he already knew, he was at least a week too late to RSVP, not to mention the fact that the proceedings had started ten minutes ago. And these things always started on time.

If the Seahawk had picked them up as scheduled he might have made it. Hell, he could have swum the sixty-eight nautical miles in the time they’d spent waiting for the bird this morning.

But it wasn’t Mac-Ass-Saving Time. He couldn’t turn the clock back one hour let alone one year. If he could there’d be a lot of things he’d change about the past, but Hannah wouldn’t be one of them—except maybe he’d savor the moment a little longer.

Twisting his watchband, he wondered if it had been her intention to shackle him with a constant reminder when she’d sent him the damn thing.

Forget?

How could he when her last words to him played like the persistent rattle of urgent Intel coming over his headset? No regrets, McCaffrey.

He tossed the invitation to the trash before he conjured up images of soft curves and satin sheets to go along with the voices in his head. As he rounded his desk he dug out the invitation again. He didn’t know what to make of it.

Reservists were being called to active duty by the shipload. Hell, he’d spent the better part of the past twelve months in parts unknown, or at least unspoken. Doing the unspeakable. The Teams were recruiting young blood in record numbers and calling up reserve forces. Activated civilian-sailors were being deployed right along with regular Sea, Air and Land Special Ops. The same would be true for the Wings.

But Hannah? Commander, Helicopter Combat Support (Special) Squadron Nine?

Emphasis on Special Warfare.

A part of him, a very selfish part, was almost glad.

She’d be activated a year or two at least. Which meant they’d be working together, not just training together two weeks a year in the Nevada desert.

Of course that complicated matters. Because the smartest thing she’d ever done was kiss him goodbye.

He shuffled through the rest of his mail and messages while his brain tried to sort out the situation and put it in perspective. She’d be here. They’d be working together. Period.

Too bad that set his pulse into overdrive.

Testing the limits of his self-control, he slammed on the brakes by putting the emphasis back on work. He sat down at his desk, rolled his shoulder to ease the damage done by sleeping on the cold, hard ground, then turned his energies to putting Hannah out of his head.

While processing his mail, he stalled at a message from HCS-9. Had Hannah called after all? That was one possibility. Though in all likelihood, Loring, or someone from Loring’s office, had decided to follow up on the invitation. But Mike had Hannah on the brain and his mind held on to that one possibility.

He looked up from the slip of paper to stare at his Choker Whites still in the dry-cleaning bag hanging on the back of his office door. If he were looking for a sign, his Service Dress Whites would be it. Normally the uniform hung in the back of his closet, worn only on those rare occasions when he dressed to impress.

But he wasn’t looking for a sign.

Was he?

Shaking free of the notion, he reached for the routing envelope containing the daily SOPA messages and got back to work. The Senior Officer Present Afloat coordinated information among the tenant ship and shore commands in and around the San Diego area. The top message read:

CAPT JJ LORING, USN, WILL BE RELIEVED AS COMMANDER, HCS-9 BY LCDR HC STANTON, USNR, IN CHANGE OF COMMAND/RETIREMENT CEREMONIES 1000 25 JUL AT HANGAR 9 NASNI. ALL INTERESTED PERSONNEL AND THEIR SPOUSES ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND. UNIFORM FOR ATTENDEES IS AS FOLLOWS: SERVICE DRESS WHITES. REQ SOPA ADMIN PASS TO ALL SHIP AND SHORE ACTIVITIES SAN DIEGO AREA.

The Commander, Naval Special Warfare Command had attached a hand written Post-it. “I’ll save you a seat.”

While not a direct order, one was implied—a sign Mike couldn’t ignore.

“Ah, hell.” He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled, grease-painted kisser. He’d just run out of excuses. Or found the excuse he was looking for.

There’d be no easy out. And no easy day. At least not today. Because today he’d come face-to-face with the woman he’d spent the past three hundred and sixty-five yesterdays trying to forget.

NAVAL AIR STATION NORTH ISLAND

Coronado, California

FROM THE BACK SEAT of her staff car, idling in a line of staff cars, Lieutenant Commander Hannah C. Stanton peeled back a white glove to check her watch. Resigned to her fate, she braced herself with a sigh. These things never started on time, or at least it seemed that way.

In the distance a gull soared above the fleet of gray ladies harbored in San Diego Bay. Following its flight out to sea, Hannah’s gaze drifted in the general direction of San Clemente Island. Once again, she found herself fiddling with the band of her Chase-Durer. She’d indulged after receiving orders to active duty. The jeweler’s Special Forces collection had prompted her to buy another as a gift.

Impulse control was not her strong suit. At least not when it came to jewelry stores and a certain SPECWAR Operator. But with a little luck and a lot of help from the helicopter pilots over at HCS-5, McCaffrey would be a no-show and the case of B. Stefanouris ouzo it cost her would be worth it.

Even though Commander, SEAL Team Eleven hadn’t bothered to RSVP, she couldn’t take the chance he’d come. He had a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Today’s Change of Command Ceremony qualified as both. And if anyone knew two wrongs didn’t make a right, she did.

Banishing McCaffrey from her mind almost as quickly as he’d vanished from her bed, she sat back and tried to relax. An impossible task with the Navy’s Social Usage And Protocol Handbook on the seat beside her. She’d read it cover to cover half a dozen times. For every rule there was an exception. For every exception there was an exception.

In this case she was the exception, a female commander in the male-dominated world of SPECWAR. One misstep and she’d embarrass her entire sex, not to mention her new command. All eyes were on her, waiting for her to stumble, if not flat out fall.

She shuddered as cold air blasted her from the vent. Despite the chill, her palms were sweating through her gloves. The enormity of the situation made her long for civilian life. She had to keep reminding herself she’d trained for this. Well, not this.

She’d trained to fly Seahawks, the Navy’s version of the Hawk Class helicopter, for Combat Search and Rescue and Special Warfare Combat Support. But CSAR and SPECWAR ops were a far cry from all this pomp and circumstance. Further still from her safe little niche in the civilian world. Of course how safe would she feel ignoring the danger to her country? She’d much rather be on the front lines doing her duty, and doing it well enough to bring one more soldier or sailor home.

The driver inched the car forward, then stopped. The door opened. The waiting officer offered his free arm while keeping his sword to his side with the other. She accepted with the lightest touch.

Primly keeping her knees together, she swung her legs around and stepped white heels to the curb in a ladylike gesture that did her mother and the Navy proud.

Almost.

“I can take it from here, Spence.” She dismissed her dashing co-pilot.

“Sure thing.” The younger man winked in understanding as he took a step back.

Billy Idol lyrics in her head, she looked over her own White Wedding—or the closest she’d ever come to the real thing—and hoped she wasn’t committing career suicide. “Calypso, what have you done?”

She’d been tagged Calypso—after the sea nymph—while still flying CH-46 Sea Knights off the aircraft carrier USS Enterprise. On her first SAR mission she’d saved half a dozen stranded Greek fishermen from their sinking boat. Despite the increasing risk from hazardous weather conditions she’d hoisted every last man and the ship’s mutt aboard the helicopter. The grateful sailors had toasted her with a bottle of ouzo they’d salvaged from the wreckage, convinced only one of the Titan’s own could have pulled off the stunt.

They didn’t know how right they were.

At least Calypso had forever replaced Bubbles, the name a less-than-PC instructor had cursed her with in flight school. She hated that it made her sound like a stripper. But more than that she hated that it called attention to her weakest area in training—water.

One panic attack while upside down in the Dilbert Dunker, and she’d become infamous for those tiny little oxygen bubbles that rose to the surface when she hadn’t. Worse than almost drowning, worse than Navy swimmers having to rescue her from the simulated cockpit, was having to do it all over again or wash out of the program.

She’d made it out of the harness and to the surface on her second go-round and every time since when she updated her quals. But not without that feeling of utter panic.

That dunk tank was easy compared to this.

She took a last deep breath before taking her next career plunge.

Assuming command was very much like a marriage. It required commitment and, in this case, compromise. The only thing missing was her bouquet. And, of course, there was no groom caught in the crosshairs of her sights.

And no father of the bride at her side.

Hannah stepped onto the white carpet. Alone.

So much for embarrassing missteps. She’d now committed a major faux pas. With deliberate pride.

Pride goeth before the fall. So you damn well better not trip all over it, Stanton.

A pair of side boys, the appropriate honors for a lieutenant commander, stood at attention. On the Executive Officer’s command they rendered sharp hand salutes. Two gongs sounded. Then the XO, as Master of Ceremonies, announced her arrival.

The handbook said single ladies were to be escorted, but single female officers fell into a gray area. Because nowhere in that book did it say single male officers had to be escorted down the aisle.

First impressions were important. In marriage as in life, one should start out as one intended to go along. For Hannah that meant going without leaning on any man.

One last gong followed her march through the white-topped VIP tent. Despite her bravado, she missed her father more than she had since that day two Naval officers had shown up at their door. She would have liked to hear him say he was proud of her today.

Climbing the steps to the red-white-and-blue-swagged dais, she reached her seat to the left of Captain Loring. Admiral Riker, the highest-ranking official taking part in the ceremony, sat to Loring’s right. The chaplain sat to her left and the XO stood at a podium to the far right. The podium in the center remained open for their use.

“All rise for the national anthem,” the XO requested.

As she rendered honors to the flag, Hannah got her first good look at the assembled crowd. The squadron stood by in formation. The guests got to their feet from uniform rows of folding chairs. Except for a white rose, the first chair to the left of the aisle remained empty, in memory of Captain Loring’s deceased wife. The second chair held the folded triangle that had adorned the casket of Hannah’s father. Her mother, Rosemary Stanton, pressed a kiss to the bud she held and placed it on the flag beside her before covering her heart with her hand.

After that, everything became a blur set to band music as Hannah blinked back tears. Sometimes sacrifices were made on the battlefield. But just as often they were made on the home front.

Her younger sister Sammy, bouncing baby in her arms, stood beside their mother. The three-month-old needing all the attention was Hannah’s own precious daughter.

Fortunately her mother and sister were willing to go above and beyond the call of duty. If Sammy hadn’t been able to move to California, Hannah as a single mom would have been forced to leave her daughter behind with her family in Colorado.

Adventure aside, the United States Navy was a job 24/7.

She had to be deployable.

No excuses. Not even little ones. Like wanting to spend time with her baby girl.

Or big ones. Like wanting to keep her daughter from knowing the pain of losing a parent.

“The Star Spangled Banner” ended, and the XO requested everyone remain standing for the Chaplain’s invocation.

Hannah mouthed the words thank you to her mother and sister.

She had a two-year obligation to Uncle Sam and the two hundred men and women of HCS-9. In answering the call to duty she’d given up more than family time and social ties, more than a mid-six-figure salary in the aerospace industry and a plot of real estate in the Rocky Mountains. She’d given up her peace of mind. Because sooner or later she’d run into McCaffrey and out of excuses.

When she did, she’d need her family more than ever.

They’d been there for her when he hadn’t.

Seated once again, her gaze shifted to the audience. She tried hard not to make the comparison between the empty chair reserved for her father and the empty chair among the SEAL commanders. McCaffrey wasn’t here, but he’d been safe and sound when the Fire Hawks of HCS-5 picked him up from San Clemente Island. And as long as he stayed away so was their daughter.

The baby slept through most of the speeches, but woke fussy. Already showing signs of independence, like her mother, a chubby fist found its way to a rosebud mouth in the time it took Auntie Sammy to dig through the diaper bag for a bottle. Hannah somehow managed to maintain her military bearing even as every maternal instinct she possessed made her want to leap from the platform. But her complement of uniforms didn’t include Wonder Woman or Super Mom costumes, just a flight suit and the wings of a Naval Special Warfare Aviator.

Captain Loring stepped center stage, the cue for the participants on the dais to stand once again.

“The Change of Command Ceremony is a Navy tradition without equal in the Army or Air Force,” he began. “Custom has established that this observance be both formal and impressive while at its heart is the reading of official orders.” After a lengthy speech, he got around to doing just that. Afterward he turned to Hannah. “Ma’am, I am ready to be relieved.”

Hannah stepped forward and read her orders. As courtesy demanded of the relieving officer, she kept her comments brief. When finished, she turned to Loring and executed a sharp salute. “I relieve you, sir.”

Captain Loring returned the salute. “I stand relieved.”

The Color Guard marched forward. Loring ordered his command pennant lowered, followed by Hannah ordering hers broken, readying it for unfurling. On command, the Color Guard raised her banner. Wind snapped it to attention. Above the command flag for the North Island Night Hawks of HCS-9, the simple white pennant bearing the silver eagle of a captain had been replaced by the silver oak leaf of a lieutenant commander.

Hannah turned to salute her immediate superior in the Chain of Command—Admiral Riker, Commander, Helicopter Wing Reserve. “Lieutenant Commander Hannah C. Stanton reporting for duty, sir.”




CHAPTER TWO


WITH ALL THE FORMALITIES OVER, except the receiving line, the squadron had been dismissed to “mill about smartly.” Which meant they were to remain on their toes. The Navy band played an endless stream of John Philip Sousa compositions. Officer and enlisted mingled under the shade of the open hangar bay and the scattered trees near the grassy knoll that separated the blacktop grinder from the paved parking lot. Distinguished military and civilian guests filed out from under the tent to pass through the line.

As protocol demanded, Hannah exchanged more white-gloved salutes and handshakes. To her left stood the departing CO. To her right the XO, because the book said a proper receiving line should not end with a lady, and the lady in question had no hand in the planning of today’s events. Otherwise she would have seen to that detail, as well.

“Congratulations, Commander Stanton.”

“Thank you for coming, Admiral Moore.” The exchange with the Commanding Officer of North Island lasted only as long as their brief hand clasp. Since he was also the Commanding Officer, Naval Base Coronado, Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, Outlying Field Imperial Beach, Navy Radio Receiving Facility, Mountain Training Facility LaPosta, Warner Springs Training Area and Naval Air Landing Facility San Clemente Island, that pretty much made him the most important man present.

Whether he supported her in her new roll as the CO of HCS-9 remained to be seen. She did note, however, that he’d dropped “Lieutenant” from her rank, but whether that was out of courtesy for her new title or simply Navy shorthand she didn’t know. At least she’d chalked up eight titles with one handshake. How many more to go before the good ol’ boys actually accepted her as one of them? Like that would ever happen.

Over the departing admiral’s gleaming gold shoulder board, she spotted a charter member of the boy’s club—one of the Bad Boys of Bravo. The Commander of SEAL Team Eleven, Mike “Mac” McCaffrey. He climbed out of his rust-bucket Jeep Wrangler, looking for all the world as if he’d staged his late arrival. Mirrored sunglasses in place, he reached back into the open cab for his headgear, then disappeared in a sea of white.

Hannah almost missed her cue to address the next uniform in line. Recovering with a sharp salute, she once again extended her white-gloved hand and exchanged a few polite words with Commander, Naval Special Warfare, Rear Admiral Warren Bell and his wife, Lucy.

“Call me Lu.” The woman’s exotic eyes suggested various ports of call where the couple might have met. A romantic notion at best. Mrs. Bell spoke English with the accent of a native Southern Californian. “Let’s skip the formality of a social call, Commander—may I call you Hannah?—and do lunch. Just us girls.” She glanced toward her husband. “Warren won’t mind, will you, dear?”

Lu’s question seemed perfunctory at best.

Admiral Bell shrugged. “I can see it’s out of my hands. However, I did wish to speak with the Commander—”

“Libby doesn’t need her father running interference, Warren.”

“Petty Officer Bell is your daughter? I’m sorry I hadn’t made the connection.” Hannah had committed the squadron roster to memory, including the detachment of rescue swimmers. “You must be very proud. Only a handful of women have ever made the cut.”

“The same could be said for Seahawk pilots.”

Hannah acknowledged the admiral’s compliment with a nod. At least she took it as a compliment. To even qualify she’d had to log over two thousand hours in the cockpit, and a command position was a long shot even for a man. “Is there a problem with Libby?”

“Absolutely not,” Lu said.

“We’ll discuss it later,” was the admiral’s noncommittal dismissal.

The remaining parade of names and faces passed by in a forgettable haze. Hannah told herself she’d only imagined McCaffrey because he was the last man on earth she wanted to see right now.

The receiving line had trickled down to one last handshake when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She didn’t need to turn around to know he stood right behind her. Her radar had been fine-tuned to Mac years ago. As the others in line drifted away in private conversation, she dared to turn around.

McCaffrey leaned against the now-empty grandstand. His broader shoulders and badder attitude set him apart from the rest. If it wasn’t for the Ray-Ban Predators he hooked to his breast pocket, the attitude might have been subdued by his Choker Whites. He pushed away from the platform and strode toward her.

Taking a deep breath, she sucked in her stomach. Twelve weeks of no carbs and brutal crunches still hadn’t primed her for this moment. Why did he have to look so damn ready for heart-stopping action in that uniform?

Her fingers twitched as she prepared to salute the rank of commander he wore on his epaulets. Just as she was about to execute the move, he outmaneuvered her by removing his cover. Hat in hand, looking anything but humble, he stopped a few paces from her. Dark crew-cut hair. Dark, unreadable eyes.

His gesture might have escaped notice in the gas-lamp district of San Diego. But the Navy had its traditions. Written and unwritten. He may as well have announced to everyone present they’d slept together.

Heat scalded her cheeks. Even legendary sea nymphs were entitled to one mistake with a sailor. Unfortunately, most of those epic stories ended in tragedy. This one was no different. Not that making love to Mike McCaffrey could ever be considered a tragedy. But falling in love with him might…

And committing to his and hers towels would mean hanging her career out to dry. Not to mention her heart. And her daughter’s.

McCaffrey surveyed her curves with the precision of a mine sweep. For once she could read exactly what was on his mind. He’d been hunkered down with his men for weeks on end during war games on San Clemente Island. He was male. He was horny. And that was pure unadulterated lust in his eyes.

“You look good, Han.”

“Don’t—” She crossed her arms, straining her uniform jacket, which had already been let out two inches in the bustline. “Don’t you dare—”

“Careful, Commander,” he warned. “Finish that sentence and I might think you actually missed me.”

She bit back her natural inclination to deny missing him. Why give the guy more ammo when he already carried a full clip? He was right about one thing—in a crowd of no less than six flag officers, she needed to be careful.

When she didn’t parry his remark, his jaw tensed, drawing attention to the spot of tissue just below his ear. She hated to think bureaucratic decisions made the Teams easy targets, but SEALs had been ordered to shave nonregulation beards grown in an effort to blend in with Middle Eastern customs. Shortly afterward Mac had been shot protecting a new and fragile democracy. She’d gleaned that bit of information from CNN. His shoulder bore the scar of that decision and must hurt like the devil when he abused it. And she knew he abused it.

She wanted to reach out, brush away the blood-spotted tissue and let her hand linger along the hard line of his jaw, trace his firm lips with the pad of her thumb, and that was just for starters. She wanted to kiss every inch of him, every scar, old and new—if she didn’t scratch out his eyes first.

“One of us was in a hurry to get here,” she said.

He ignored the gibe and followed her gaze with a curious hand beneath his ear. “Rush job,” he admitted, sweeping away the evidence. He broke eye contact in that instant, but only for a second. “I didn’t miss you either, Han.”

Her heart did stop then and it had nothing to do with his uniform. It would be safer to stay angry at him than to look for hidden meaning behind his words. Otherwise she risked opening a floodgate of emotions.

“You have lousy timing, McCaffrey.”

Really…lousy…timing.

Where were you a year ago? Three months? Yesterday?

Of course she knew. A year ago he’d been sent to the Middle East—though who knew where else after that. Three months ago he’d returned to the States, and yesterday he’d been a few miles away on San Clemente Island.

Today he stood right in front of her, a lifetime too late for everything she’d wanted to say to him. And everything she wanted him to say to her.

As Calypso she had full access to a part of his life he’d otherwise never be able to share. Next time he put his life on the line she’d be there to cover his six. And she’d do it again and again. Because of that there was one line they could never cross again.

“So you have nothing to say for yourself?” she asked.

Mike scanned the thinning crowd. The band played a Sousa trumpet-and-drum piece, “Hannah, My True Love.” His eyes returned to her, just as he knew he would. She looked uptight, prim and proper, not like Hannah at all—except maybe the dangerous curves restrained by tailored Dress Whites. He’d only seen her in a skirt once before. But he didn’t need a visual of her silk-clad legs to imagine them wrapped around him. “I think my timing is just about perfect.”

“To embarrass me?”

“Nobody noticed. And if they did, they don’t care. It’s acceptable for an officer to remove his cover outdoors in a social situation. Especially in the presence of a lady.”

“Bite your tongue. And you’re no gentleman, either.”

“You just figured that out?”

“I’ve had a year to mull it over.”

“I don’t rate more than a few minutes of mulling.” He searched her eyes for some sign that she’d thought about him for more than sixty seconds after he’d gone but resigned himself to the truth. “Not even that.”

“Not even that,” she agreed.

Standing this close, he could see beyond the flare of her temper to the hurt in her green eyes. She may not have given him a second thought, but the first one had been enough to piss her off.

Short, wispy curls framed her flushed face. When he’d left, her hair had been around her shoulders. But a lot more than her appearance had changed. “What happened to ‘no regrets’?”

He followed those expressive eyes to his wrist and lifted his sleeve a fraction to satisfy her curiosity.

“You’re wearing it?” She sounded surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I? Chronograph functions down to the tenth of a second. Advanced illumination system. Even an underwater resistance rating up to three hundred and thirty feet. What more could a Navy SEAL want?” He didn’t even try to hide the bite of sarcasm.

“Nothing, I’m sure.”

Nothing? Not when everything he wanted stood right in front of him. And just out of reach.

“You can’t wear it in the field.”

“I kept my go-to-hell watch.” Navy issue. No personal information, nothing that could be traced back to Uncle Sam. Which gave his Uncle deniability if he were ever captured someplace where the U.S. had no business being. Unlike the Chase-Durer, which was not only traceable, but contained enough personal information to make him vulnerable to the enemy. If only he knew what that personal information meant. He unfastened the security clasp and read the inscription on the back, “No regrets. Fallon. If my memory is correct it was Reno, not Fallon, Nevada. How about a decoder ring to go along with it?”

When women started giving him gifts he knew it was past time to cut bait and run. But the gifts were usually more cute ’n’ cuddly. And every guy knew that after the stuffed animals came the kittens and the puppies and the expectations of a long-term commitment.

He and Hannah had had one night.

No expectations. No commitment.

Just sex. Mind-blowing, falling-off-the-bed-and-onto-the-floor sex. All-night-long-and-into-the-next-morning sex. Couldn’t-get-enough-of-each-other sex. Sex and something more they’d never be able to explore because it had been preempted by his pager.

“So is the watch a memento? Or an expensive kiss-off?”

“I have good taste,” she said. “Your point?”

His hand closed over the watch face. What was she telling him? “It brought me this far.”

“I’m going to have to borrow that decoder ring.”

“Aren’t we both just holding out to see which of us can hold out the longest?”

“Is that the game we’re playing?”

She shifted in those sexy-as-hell heels, making her better equipped for interrogation than any enemy. He was spilling his guts here, but she wasn’t giving him any quarter. “You should have called or written, McCaffrey.”

“That works both ways.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again as if she’d been about to say something and thought better of it. He could imagine the tongue-lashing she wanted to deliver. The morning-after felt awkward enough without it taking place a year later. He’d just never thought it would be this awkward with Hannah. She knew who and what he was. Because they were two of a kind. If it hadn’t been his pager, it would have been hers.

“I’m sorry if you have regrets, Han, but I don’t.”

“What did you expect?” she asked with a defiant tilt to her chin. “Open arms?”

Something like that.

Maybe not.

Which was why he hadn’t made the connection when he picked up the phone in Manila, P.I. Or Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. Or Coronado, California. What could he say?

They’d both changed. For her, life had gone on. For him, it had been put on hold. He remembered every detail of their night together as if it were yesterday, which didn’t mean he could just pick up where he’d left off. Where they’d left off.

Time had created an unbreachable distance.

“You arranged the late bird this morning,” he said with resignation. “If you didn’t want me here, why the invite?”

“I didn’t invite you. In fact I tried to uninvite you, but you’re a hard man to track down.”

“I see.” He compressed his lips. That solved the mystery of the phone call.

Pity shone in her eyes. “You don’t see at all.”

But he knew a see-you-around-sucker when he heard one. Not that that was possible. Every time his team needed a ride she’d be there. He held her gaze until she dropped his.

“See you around, Han.” He’d be damned if he’d let her say it first. He’d already set aside his pride to come here today. He had nothing left to give. Shoving the watch into his pocket, he turned his back on her and everything they might have had together. Who was he kidding, they’d never had a chance.

“Mike, wait! Please…”

His hands stilled in the automatic action of putting on his cover and he brought it back down to his side. Turning back around, he wished his heart hadn’t taken that leap when she’d called his name. Because right now it was stuck somewhere in his throat.

“You didn’t make me any promises you didn’t keep. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

Her admission wasn’t much of a consolation prize. But he offered a curt nod. “For what it’s worth, I know I blew it.”

Her eyes softened to the color of moss after a midday shower in the jungles of the P.I. He knew because he’d spent six months of the past year making that direct comparison. It beat the hell out of counting blood-thirsty mosquitoes taking bites out of his thick hide.

For the first time since he’d approached her, she let her guard down and uncrossed her arms. “Mike, there’s something—”

Whatever Hannah had been about to say she kept to herself. Checking over his shoulder, he discovered an older woman had intruded on their moment. Midfifties. Trim figure. Designer pantsuit, all white. Salon-enhanced red hair.

Hannah’s mother?

The approaching woman clung to a tri-folded flag. No red showed, in reverence to the blood shed. Mike had seen more than enough of that symbol in the past few months to last a lifetime. He wouldn’t be standing here in this awkward silence if his Choker Whites hadn’t been stained by a young widow’s tears three months ago.

Hannah had never mentioned having a father who’d died in service to his country. Come to think of it, Hannah had never mentioned a father. Or a family. He knew every curve of her body, but he didn’t really know her at all.

“Hannah,” the woman called out, “they’re waiting for you over at the Officers’ Club.”

“Be right there, Mother. Just give me a moment—”

But Hannah’s mother wasn’t about to be dismissed that easily. She drew even with him and smiled. “You’re welcome to join us, Commander,” she correctly identified him by rank. “Is that a Navy SEAL Trident…” Her gaze swept over his budwiser and the ribbons on his chest that proved he led his team from the front lines and not behind a desk. Which was the only reason he could face those widows at all. Her smile faded as she settled on his name tag. “Commander McCaffrey?”

“The Mike McCaffrey? Navy SEAL extraordinaire?” The query came from a younger woman. Shorter, chubbier, more blond than redheaded and pushing a baby stroller. “Commander of SEAL Team Eleven? The team that drills with my sister’s squadron every year in Fallon, Nevada? The same Mike McCaffrey who drove my sister to the airport in Reno last summer—”

“Enough, Sam.” Hannah cut her off with a look. Mike didn’t know what that look meant. Only that he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of it.

The sister turned wide green eyes on Hannah. A Stanton trademark if he wasn’t mistaken.

“I see my reputation precedes me.” He raised an eyebrow in question. He’d driven Hannah to the airport, but she’d been bumped from the flight. From there they’d checked into a hotel suite and gambled with their friendship—a lose/lose proposition at best. One he couldn’t regret. But whatever her family thought they knew about him, it wasn’t good.

“All bad,” Hannah assured him.

No doubt.

He felt an urgent need to break the ice with a better first impression. “How about introductions?” he insisted, tucking his cover under his arm.

True to form, Hannah gave in to his request with the grace of good manners. “Commander…my mother, Rosemary Stanton.”

“Ma’am.” He extended his hand.

Her mother didn’t.

“Samantha, Hannah’s sister,” the sister latched on to his hand, “her younger, recently single sister. Should I call you Mac or Mike, Commander?” She pumped his arm as she pumped him for information, but it would have been hard not to notice the mother’s cool reception. The simple fact that they even knew his name should have told him something. He’d hurt Hannah. Of course he’d chosen that route as being the least complicated.

“It’s Mac.” He smiled anyway. “Mike gets confusing in the field.”

“Mike is the phonetic letter M,” Hannah offered the explanation.

He had his own. She’d called out Mike, not Mac or McCaffrey when he’d come inside her, and she’d called out Mike just a few minutes ago.

“So, Mac,” the sister said, “are there any more like you at home?”

“As you can see, I’m one of a kind.” He managed to extract his hand while evading her real question. He had a brother. Not to mention four sisters.

Hannah’s sister assessed him with the same openness as in her demeanor. She had a pretty face and generous curves beneath a gauzy summer dress. She also had a kid and no wedding band. She’d said she was recently single.

Divorced? Widowed? In his experience widows wore their rings a lot longer than recently. But anything was possible. The flag her mother carried could belong to her. Samantha Stanton seemed to expect something from him, and it wasn’t his shoulder.

He glanced at the stroller. The sleeping rug rat squirmed, scrunching its face until it turned cherry red. He recognized that look thanks to his half-dozen nieces and nephews, glad that was one diaper he didn’t have to change. Three of his four sisters were married, two with kids. The youngest, Meg was still single. So was their brother, Buddy. But while they all shared the same gene pool, Buddy had that something extra that made him special.

Of course, every mother thought her kid was special. “Cute kid.” It was the right thing to say.

Samantha Stanton beamed at him. “Do you like children, Commander?”

“Mac,” he reminded her. “Sure.” He shrugged. “As long as they’re somebody else’s.”




CHAPTER THREE


“EXCUSE ME, I have a cake to cut.” Hannah left McCaffrey and her family, but especially Mac, to make of her exit what they would. She had to get away before she did or said something she might regret.

He liked kids as long as they’re somebody else’s. What else had she expected?

“Hannah! Hannah, wait up.” Sammy pushed the stroller at a slight jog to keep up with Hannah’s military stride. “He didn’t mean anything by it. He thinks—”

Hannah stopped short, turning on her sister. “I know what he thinks, Sam. Excuse me, Samantha,” she corrected.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on, Sammy, you’ve never gone by Samantha a day in your life! What’s with you? Flirting with Fallon’s father. Pretending to be her mother—”

“I never did any of that. He just assumed.”

Hannah took a deep breath, deep enough for the flush of anger and jealousy to fade just a little. She was only picking a fight with her sister because she wanted to go fifteen rounds with Mac.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Hannah glanced toward McCaffrey, who was still talking to her mother. His assumptions played into Hannah’s deepest fears—that in the end it would be Sammy raising their daughter. “Have I told you today how much I love and appreciate you?”

“Don’t go getting all mushy on me now.”

“I know I don’t say it often enough.”

“Forget it,” Sammy said. “I know you’re upset. And I didn’t help any by playing devil’s advocate.”

“You’re not the only one.” Hannah nodded toward their mother. A few minutes ago she’d snubbed McCaffrey, now they were engaged in animated conversation. “What in the world do you suppose they have to talk about?”

“The weather?”

“Funny.”

“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe,” Sammy said with real regret. “You and Mom are cut from the same cloth. Neither of you would ever air your dirty laundry in public.”

Hannah returned her full attention to her sister. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means Mom’s going to keep mum. I think she invented the term soldier on. And you…I don’t know why you ever left active duty for the reserves in the first place. The uniform suits you. You button up all your emotions inside that white jacket, and they reward you for it with those ribbons worn in place of your heart.”

“I’m not emotionless,” Hannah denied. “I just keep my feelings to myself. Do you honestly think I don’t feel anything?”

“Then you deserve a Purple Heart. Because if you’re bleeding, nobody knows it. Least of all him.”

“It doesn’t matter. McCaffrey means nothing to me. Less than nothing,” she emphasized. “A one-night stand with a military man. How much more cliché can it get?”

Although, technically, she’d known him for more than one night. Well enough to know he didn’t want children. Just the same it hurt to hear him say it out loud.

“Nothing?” her sister asked over the stroller she rocked back and forth.

Hannah stole a glance at her daughter. She’d dressed Fallon in a cute pink sailor dress and hat for the festivities. Her eyes were still shut tight. Otherwise McCaffrey would have seen how much they looked like his own. “Okay, so maybe he meant something to me once. But from now on he’s just the sperm donor.”

“You have to tell him. If you’ve been waiting for the right opportunity—”

“That opportunity has long since passed. It would be different if I were still a civilian. But no good can come from telling him now. Or anyone else for that matter.”

This was another one of those gray areas.

She’d be better off letting her military co-workers believe, as most of her civilian co-workers did, that she was a thirty-three-year-old woman tired of waiting for Mr. Right, so she’d decided to have a baby on her own. Somehow it seemed more acceptable than the truth.

She’d made a mistake. She’d taken responsibility. She didn’t need McCaffrey to do his duty. Because the truth was she was a thirty-three-year-old woman who’d given up on finding Mr. Right a long time ago. Which didn’t mean she was going to settle for Commander Wrong.

If McCaffrey had thought enough of her and their one night together to keep in touch, maybe they would have had a chance to work something out.

That works both ways. His challenge echoed.

She’d started so many letters during her pregnancy, all crumpled after a line or two. Aside from being at a loss for words, she could admit that stubborn pride had kept her from finishing even a single note. She’d wanted him to make the first move.

He’d made his move today.

After an invitation he’d thought she’d sent.

And long after she’d sent him the watch. She now regretted that impulse. In a moment of weakness, she’d dropped the watch into the mailbox. She’d been at the post office mailing Fallon’s birth announcements. The announcement she intended for him never made it into the box. But the clues were there if, and that was a big if, he chose to decipher them. Then what?

“Even sperm donors have some say in the matter,” Sammy said with such a look of pity Hannah had to wonder how long she’d been lost in her own thoughts.

“I can’t deal with this right now. Fallon needs changing. And I need to get over to the O Club where I’m sure an impatient photographer is waiting.”

“I’ll change Fallon,” Sammy offered.

“I’ve got her. I’ll just be a minute.” Hannah picked up the reassuring weight of her daughter. Wrestling the stroller single-handed, she headed toward her office inside Hangar Nine. “He didn’t mean it,” she whispered with her cheek pressed against the baby’s, although she wasn’t quite sure which one of them needed reassuring. She felt an ache in her breast that had nothing to do with her milk letting down.

Fallon rooted for a nipple, settling on those ribbons above Hannah’s heart. Putting on the uniform did make Hannah feel different. But honor, courage and commitment to the core values of the Navy didn’t make her heartless or mean she had anything less to give her daughter. In many ways it meant she was willing to give her daughter more.

“Enough now. Auntie Sammy already fed you.”

After Fallon had been born, Hannah had considered contacting McCaffrey through third-party notification. His command, her command, even his family would have been able to send him a Health and Welfare message through the American Red Cross. But did she really want him hearing that he was a father through a SOPA?

Chances were, as CO, he’d have seen the message even before the chaplain had a chance to soften the blow. What would his reaction have been? What if he’d been in a hot zone? Would he have been able to do his duty without distraction? Would he have even got the message?

There were too many unknown variables. With time they’d turned into obstacles.

Pride wasn’t the only thing that had kept her from tracking him down. Doubts about his desire to be a father had crept in. The fact that she knew he’d do his duty regardless only hurt her more. And then Fallon had been born, and Hannah felt the overwhelming need to protect her daughter. Fallon didn’t need a father who’d be in and out of her life so often he’d cease to exist even in her memories.

The single cloudy memory Hannah had of her own father was of him leaving. Her daughter deserved more.

Just as she reached the door to her office, the cell phone in the diaper bag started ringing. Hannah propped the door open with the stroller and grabbed for the phone.

She picked up at the same time she settled Fallon on the couch in her office. “Hello?” She sat down angled toward her daughter and continued to dig in the bag for the necessary diaper and wipes.

“Hannah, it’s Peter.”

“Is everything all right?”

“You mean aside from the fact this project is falling apart without you? We need you, Hannah. I need you.”

“You don’t need me, Peter. You only think you do.”

“I’m a rocket scientist, not a manager. You know I don’t know which way is up without you.”

“You’ll do fine. You have good people working for you—”

“I lost my glasses yesterday. And today I lost my spare.”

“Look up…on top of your head.”

He clicked his tongue, apparently finding them right where she’d said they’d be. “That just proves my point. I need you. Maybe you could fly back for the weekend?”

“Peter—”

“Just for the weekend—”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“I thought you might say that.”

She felt annoyed with him for even asking. She’d cut her maternity leave short to minimize the effect of her longer military absence on the company. He didn’t understand that, at least temporarily, she was no longer available to him. By law he had to hold her job for her. As a friend there was no question that he would. If there was a company to go back to. With so many reservists deploying, it impacted small businesses and big-city police forces alike. She was Peter’s Gal Friday. He counted on her. “If you’re that desperate maybe—”

“I’ve already booked a flight.”

“I was going to say, maybe you could e-mail the proposal, and I could find some time to look it over.” What was she saying? What time? “Peter—”

“Did you get the flowers?”

Hannah was busy peeling the tabs on the clean diaper she’d managed to wrestle under Fallon’s bare bottom, but she wedged the phone between her neck and shoulder and looked around the office. There was a bouquet on her desk. One more wedding item. “Yes.”

“And?” he prompted.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, folding the poopy diaper and stashing it in a plastic bag for later disposal. She’d have to pick up a Diaper Genie for her office. Maybe bring in a portable playpen and some toys… What was she thinking? It wasn’t like she’d be bringing Fallon to the office every day or even be here herself. With less than seventy-two hours’ notice she could be anywhere in the world. Including the latest hot zone.

“You haven’t read the card, have you?”

“No, I’m sorry.” She cleaned her hands with a baby wipe. “I’ve been…busy—”

“I understand.”

Did he really?

Her daughter was now clean and content, gurgling in response to Hannah’s smiles. Peter’s voice barely registered as Hannah got caught up in playing peekaboo.

“Is that Fallon cooing in the background?”

“She’s a Charmin Chatty with a big beau-ti-ful smile,” she emphasized for the baby. See for yourself.” She snapped and sent the digital image from her camera phone to his. “I’m glad you always manage to talk me into the latest gadgets.”

“So am I.”

She took several more pictures. During the photo shoot, Fallon surprised them both by rolling over onto her belly with help from the seat cushion. Lifting her bobble head, she peeked over her shoulder looking for Hannah.

“Yes, Mommy sees your new trick.” She smiled at her daughter’s stunned expression. Fallon’s whole face lit up, her arms and legs windmilled, celebrating the joy of her newfound talent. She was already a handful, but she was really going to be a handful when she started crawling. Hannah could only hope she’d be there to see it. “Did you catch all that?” she asked Peter.

“I miss you both,” he said.

“We miss you, too.”

“How do you feel about long-distance relationships?”

He was a good boss. And a better friend. Perhaps that’s why it was so easy for them to take each other for granted. But he was not without his faults. Sometimes she thought he mistook their friendship for something more. Poor Peter. He needed someone the exact opposite of her. Which was why she didn’t assign a deeper meaning to his words. But he deserved an answer.

Saved by a knock on her office door.

“Peter, I have to go.” She hung up on his goodbye.

The Commander, Naval Special Warfare, poked his bald head around the open door. This was the first time she’d seen him uncovered. The look suited a man of his stature. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No!” She picked up Fallon and stood. “Admiral Bell, come in, please.” She gestured toward the couch where she’d just finished changing the baby. He remained standing, which was probably just as well considering he wore white from head to toe.

“We didn’t get much time in the receiving line. I just wanted to find out how you were settling in.”

“I’ve only been here a couple of days for orientation, but fine, so far.”

“Good, good.” He moved farther into the office, picking up the picture of Fallon from Hannah’s desk. “Have you enrolled her in swimming lessons yet? They offer Mommy and Me classes on base. I regret not having that experience with Libby. Drown-proofing SEAL style was the extent of our lessons.”

Hannah pushed the disturbing image aside. She doubted that meant he’d thrown his daughter into a pool with hands and feet bound like the BUD/S in training. Still… “You must have made up for it at some point. She obviously loves the water now.” Hannah wouldn’t be drown-proofing her own daughter anytime soon—if ever.

“Almost drowned when she was six. Riptide out in the Bay. For years she wouldn’t go near water. But as you pointed out, she loves it now.”

“Did you need to speak with me about Libby, Admiral?”

“It’s nothing really.” He took her cue and set the picture aside. “Just that she doesn’t like being the admiral’s kid. So…no special treatment, you understand. She wants to find her own way in the world. Which is of course why she enlisted when her mother and I would have preferred she get a college education and a commission. Or steer clear of military service altogether.” He hesitated for a moment. “She transferred into your unit, Commander, because she sees you as a role model.”

Hannah adjusted Fallon higher on her shoulder.

His wise gaze settled on her and the baby in her arms. “I understand you’re a single mother?”

Hannah stiffened. “Yes, sir.”

“I imagine you feel a little like you’ve been thrown in the deep end.”

“We’re keeping our heads above water.”

“I’m assuming you have a parenting plan in place?”

This wasn’t the civilian world. He had a right, a responsibility to pry. But men in general just didn’t get it. She needed a wife more than she needed a husband.

“Just like every other working mother in America.”

“Only the commute is to hell in a helicopter and the business trips last months, even years,” he pointed out.

“My note to the nanny includes a power of attorney. And a will. I’ve filled out the Navy’s Dependent Care Certificate. I could fax a copy to your office—” She rummaged the Out box on her desk for proof. “My sister’s taken on the baby’s guardianship—”

“That won’t be necessary, Commander. I’m just checking to see that everything’s a go for Monday.”

“Yes, of course. Squadron Nine has coordinated efforts for the joint training op with SEAL Team One. We’ll be wheels up at 0700 sharp.”

“Just the same, if you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask…”

“Thank you, Admiral. I’m indebted—”

He shook his head. “Your father already paid that debt.”

Hannah’s chest tightened.

“Did you know him?” She failed to keep the wistfulness out of her voice.

“We served together for a time in the brown water Navy of Vietnam. He hated those mud puddles…” The admiral broke off eye contact. “He spoke of you often.”

True or not, it was the nicest possible thing he could have said to her. “And after the war?”

The admiral shook his head. “He stayed with Team One. And I went on to form the counterterrorist group, Team Eleven.”

“They told my mother he died in a training accident.”

He wasn’t supposed to die. The war was over. He’d promised to return. He’d kissed her and her sister and her mother and he’d promised.

“What can I bring you for your birthday, pumpkin?”

“An Easy Bake oven.”

He looked helplessly at her mother, standing in the doorway, holding the baby. “Are you sure you’re old enough? How old are you going to be anyway? Five? Six?” he teased.

“Seven, Daddy. You know I’m going to be seven.”

“Seven. You can’t be seven. You’re growing up too fast.” He lifted her in the air and spun her around. “I’m going to have to start beating those boys off with a baseball bat. Are you sure I can’t bring you a new ball and glove?”

She giggled. “You can bring me whatever you want, Daddy, as long as you promise you’ll be home to help blow out the candles and cut the cake.”

He didn’t promise in words, he never promised in words. But he hugged her so tight the promise didn’t have to be spoken, it was there in the way he loved her.

The admiral didn’t comment further. He simply nodded and changed the subject. “If I’m not mistaken, last year around this time your squadron drilled with Team Eleven, McCaffrey and his boys?”

What could she say except “Yes, sir.”

Maybe the admiral didn’t think the change in subject was such a stretch. He followed his question with a lifted eyebrow, clearly expecting her to elaborate.

She didn’t.

He offered one last bit of advice. “Sometimes the only way to conquer a fear is to face the harsh reality of it.”

When he left, Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. She strapped Fallon back into her stroller, then quickly stripped out of her uniform jacket. She’d soaked through her nursing pads to her blouse.

Luckily she kept spare uniforms at the office and still had a few of her dwindling supply of nursing pads in the diaper bag. Monday would be her first separation from her baby girl—two weeks of training exercises in the Nevada desert. Weaning Fallon earlier than she would have liked had been one of those not so small sacrifices required to do her job.

Buttoning her jacket after changing blouses, she decided to bolster her confidence with an old flight-school trick. She picked up an orange, an apple and a stress ball from her desk. “Want to see what Mommy can do?” she asked, juggling the balls.

Fallon followed with bright-eyed fascination.

“The trick is running through calculations at the same time. If an HH-60H Seahawk leaves S.C.I. at 1000 hours, flying at a maximum air speed of one hundred and eighty knots, how long— Oops!” The orange bounced across the desk, rolling into the flower vase. Hannah averted disaster. Almost. She caught the vase, but she’d dropped several balls today. “The idea is to keep all the balls in the air. And the answer is he never should have made it.”

Setting her juggling act aside, she plucked the card from the flowers. You’ve taken command of my heart. Love Peter.

“Shoot!” It looked like she had a man caught in those crosshairs after all.




CHAPTER FOUR


OFFICERS’ CLUB NORTH ISLAND

Coronado, California

“WAITING FOR Lieutenant Commander Stanton?” Mike strode up to the lieutenant, impatiently cooling his heels at the curb outside the Officers’ Club.

“Sir. Yes, sir.” Spencer “Hollywood” Holden acknowledged Mike with a sharp salute, but he was trying too hard in Mike’s opinion. He still had a hard time believing the former child-star hadn’t joined the Navy as some sort of publicity stunt.

“Not anymore,” Mike said, returning the salute. “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“Sir?”

“Lend me the getup. Sword and gloves.”

Holden complied without question. Good thing, because Mike wasn’t in the mood for insubordination.

Stripped of his gear, Hannah’s co-pilot didn’t seem so Tom Cruise cocky. Which made up for Mike having to stretch the white gloves and let the belt out a notch. But both would do in a pinch.

Even without the added flash of his Full Dress medals, anyone could see by his ribbon résumé he was a highly decorated officer. A highly decorated officer making an ass of himself over a woman. Hell, he was in good company. For centuries men had waged entire wars over women. And Mike was in the mood for a fight.

Holden disappeared inside, and Mike took the lieutenant’s place curbside. Somewhere between Hannah’s abrupt departure and the drive over, he’d decided that if she had something to say to him, he wanted to hear it. Even if it was “Take your go-to-hell watch and shove it.”

He owed her that much at least.

Identifying the HCS-9 staff car by the Night Hawks flag as it pulled to the curb, he opened the door and offered his arm. “Spence—” she began, using him as leverage, only to be brought nose to shoulder board with his gold epaulet. She snatched her hand back as if from a snake. Once bitten, twice shy?

He tried not to take it personally; SEALs were called snake eaters, but never cold-blooded reptiles. Besides just her touch was enough to warm his blood.

“Sorry, not Holden,” he drawled. “Disappointed? And here I strapped on my sword just for you.” Or rather commandeered it.

“If I’d known, I would have worn my strap on.”

“Now that I’d like to see.”

“Then it’s too bad a lady has no need for a tempered-steel phallic symbol.”

That sounded more like the Hannah he knew and…missed. He let loose a hearty chuckle. How long had it been since he’d felt like laughing? How long had it been since they’d last exchanged banter? “From what I hear the lady created quite a stir arriving at the Change of Command Ceremony unescorted.”

“So they drafted you to be my handler?”

“This is an all-volunteer Navy.”

She raised a perfect eyebrow. “Speaking of volunteers, what have you done with Spence?”

“Ordered him to get lost.”

“Rank has its privileges?”

“Absolutely.”

That, and the green-eyed monster had reared its ugly head. Holden had been her co-pilot for at least the four years Mike had known her. He wasn’t so cynical that he believed men and women couldn’t be friends, but in his experience sex always got in the way.

More staff cars pulled up to the curb and he crooked his elbow. “Shall we?”

RHIP. His rank left her little choice but to accept his offered arm. She acquiesced, latching on to his biceps, and he measured his stride to hers. Although her legs were long and lovely, they weren’t as long as his.

The side boys opened the double doors.

“Ladies first,” he insisted, pressing a hand to the small of her back to keep that contact as he guided her toward the cloakroom.

Once inside, they removed their headgear and gloves, or in his case Holden’s, securing them inside their covers. Hannah handed them off to the hatcheck girl while Mike removed the scabbard and exchanged the ensemble for the ticket.

“Separate tickets, please,” Hannah insisted, fluffing out her hair.

“If you insist.”

“I insist.”

The hatcheck girl was riveted by their conversation. Mike took the second ticket but didn’t offer it to Hannah right away.

“I have three hundred guests waiting,” she prompted.

“Before your mother and sister came along, you were about to say something….”

“Mike, not here.” She glanced at the girl behind him and cleared her throat. “Given the fact we’ll be working together, I think we should keep it strictly professional.”

He didn’t care about the girl, but Hannah was lucky. The next wave of guests entered the building, leaving him little choice but to respect her wishes. “If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

That’s not what her eyes were saying as they held his gaze and wouldn’t let go. Or maybe he was the one who couldn’t let go. “Why didn’t you tell me your father was a Navy SEAL?”

“You’ve been talking to my mother. What’s there to tell? I barely remember him.”

“I’m sorry, Han.” He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for—her father’s death, his own disappearing act, or both. How could he explain his fear of hurting her when that’s exactly what he’d done?

“Are we through with apologies?”

“I guess we are. And since we’re being so PC, Commander, I’ll expect a formal call at your earliest convenience.” He had no intention of letting this conversation go.

“Fine. May I have the ticket, please? I’m a big girl and can make it to the party on my own. I’ll call you if I need an escort, Commander.”

Ouch! He handed over the ticket, more than ready to abandon his duty. But he couldn’t let her go in there unarmed. “Han, word of advice for getting along with these guys. If you’re going to rock the boat, think gentle waves.”



POSITIONED NEXT TO Captain Loring, behind the giant sheet cake with the Night Hawks logo, Hannah mustered a smile for the camera.

Think gentle waves and rocking boats.

Capsized was more like it. Seeing McCaffrey today had turned hers upside down. There was something she wanted to tell him, but couldn’t without rocking several boats.

The enlisted Photographer’s Mate snapped the photo capturing her frown. “One more of the two of you cutting the cake,” he insisted.

Loring dipped his sword into the first slice as they both held on to the handle. “I don’t see your mother, Hannah?”

Hannah cast a sidelong glance at the man just as the photographer took his next snapshot. “Hold for one more,” he said again.

If she didn’t manage a smile, they’d be here all day.

“She’s driving over with my sister and the baby in our car. It’s easier than switching Fallon’s car seat back and forth.”

“Will your mother be in the San Diego area long?”

“Until the end of next week.”

“Maybe she’ll have time for dinner with an old friend.” He smiled into the camera.

Her mom and Captain Loring? Friends? Now that would take some getting used to. A slower, less certain smile spread across Hannah’s face. “Maybe.”

“Got it!” the photographer said.

Before the polite applause ended, she found herself searching the O Club for her mother and sister. “Sammy! Over here!” Hannah waved her through the door of the crowded banquet room. “Where’s Fallon?”

“Fallon’s cranky. Mom had me drive them home.”

“Oh.” Hannah quickly hid her disappointment. With McCaffrey here maybe it was for the best. “I should go, too.”

At home she could look into her daughter’s eyes, where the reason for keeping father and daughter apart made sense. She didn’t want to hurt either of them. But it was a decision already causing her pain.

“No way, this is your big day. Besides, you promised to introduce me to Spencer Holden. I’ve only been in love with him forever.”

Like every other groupie.

Holden had caused quite a stir when he’d walked away from the fame and fortune of Hollywood to enroll in an Ivy League college. A few years later he’d walked into a Navy recruiting office. The paparazzi still followed him around as if he were Elvis.

At first Hannah had found it all amusing, but it soon became annoying. And now her own sister had joined the ranks of the starstruck.

Sammy leaned back against the bar and surveyed the room. “Wow! Are all these guys single?”

“Not all.” Hannah was too jaded not to see past a well-cut uniform—with one exception of course, and he seemed to have disappeared. Finally she could relax. Except Sammy had that kid-in-a-candy-store look that made Hannah want to rush her sister from the O Club before she bit into the goodies.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant Commander Stanton.” Lieutenant Russell Parish, her Executive Officer squeezed through the crowd and came toward them.

“Yes, Russ, what is it?” He stopped next to Sammy, who had eyes only for Spence and every other pilot out on the dance floor.

“Ma’am.” Russ acknowledged Sammy as he reached across her to hand Hannah his calling card.

Sammy shifted her gaze to give Russ the once-over, but dismissed the crew-cut pilot for other more appealing eye candy.

Russ was too well mannered to take offense. “When would you like me to come calling, ma’am?” This time the “ma’am” was directed at Hannah.

“Why don’t I have my social secretary call you?”

Parish’s eyes skittered to her sister, but he didn’t so much as smile. “Yes, ma’am.” He spared another “ma’am” and a nod to Sammy before he moved away.

“What a geek,” Sammy said when he was out of earshot.

Privately Hannah agreed, but he was a geek who followed protocol. She handed Sammy the card. “There are going to be more of these.”

“Give me a break. I’m not drop-dead gorgeous. I’m not tall. Or thin. Or you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

Sammy had put on the freshman fifteen in college. Then another as she’d settled into teaching at the elementary level. And another during a rotten relationship that had been a blessing in disguise for Hannah and Fallon—Sammy’s need to “get away” had coincided with Hannah’s need for a nanny— But Hannah had never realized until now that the highs and lows in her sister’s life were marked by weight gain. Or that her sister might be unhappy about that.

Hannah gave her sister a squeeze. “I think you’re beautiful.”

“Just what every gal wants to hear,” Sammy said, but she squeezed back.

“Regardless, there will be more of these. Squadron Officers have to call on the new CO.” She softened the blow to Sammy’s ego with a smile.

“Back up, you’re saying they have to call on you?”

“It gives me a chance to talk with them one-on-one.” Just like she had a duty to call on her superiors. As McCaffrey had been so quick to point out, she’d only managed to put off the inevitable confrontation. From here on out they moved in the same social and professional stratosphere. Avoiding him was out of the question.

At least she had the lunch with Lu to look forward to. Officers’ wives tended to exclude female officers from their circles, but then so did their husbands. Rarely did she experience the day-to-day camaraderie her male counterparts relished.

With the exception of her co-pilot, fellow pilots were respectful but guarded around her. Like her XO. Which was fine. She wasn’t interested in anything but a professional relationship with them. She should have extended her rule to include the SEALs they shuttled. Of course she’d never felt the need for such a rule before.

“So we’re going to have a parade of single guys over for dinner?”

“It doesn’t have to be dinner.”

“Are you kidding? I love to cook,” Sammy said with a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin.

“Sammy, do not consider my command your personal dating service.”

Her sister fanned herself with Parish’s card. “I think I’m going to like being your nanny, Hannah.”



“DRINKING ALONE? And before noon?” Admiral Bell pulled up a stool next to Mike.

“You know I take my drinking seriously.” Mike automatically checked his bare wrist, then dug out the watch from his pocket. “Besides, it’s after noon.”

By six seconds.

And sitting at this bar kept him out of the main banquet hall. Out of sight, out of mind. Yeah, right.

At least the lights and the music were lower in here, which suited his mood.

“Nice watch,” Warren commented as Mike strapped his shackle back on. “Since when do commanders make more than admirals?”

“It was a gift.”

“Nice gift. Chase-Durer, the military pilot’s watch of choice.” Warren picked up on details like that. Mike could only imagine the conclusions the man had already drawn. “How long after you received the gift before you started running?”

Mike snorted back a half laugh. Warren knew him too well. “I started running before,” he admitted.

“You must have really liked this one.” Leaving Mike to sort out his conflicting thoughts on the subject, the admiral ordered a rye. “A double. And another round for the Commander here,” he said to the bartender, even though Mike was still nursing his first beer.

He did like Hannah. That was the problem.

After their drinks were lined up, the admiral dispensed with the small talk. “I saved you a seat. What happened?”

“Got back late from San Clemente.”

“So I heard. Something about a case of ouzo exchanging hands.” Warren nodded in the direction of a young airman.

“What the hell?” Mike watched said case go by on the shoulder of the enlisted man. “Tell Norton I’m going to kick his ass if he pulls a stunt like that again,” Mike called after the kid. The airman stepped up his pace and Mike had no doubt the message would be delivered to HCS-5 along with the B. Stefanouris. “So that’s how she did it.”

“Which is beside the point. What the hell were you doing on S.C.I. to begin with? I told you to have your team stand down.”

“We were standing down.”

Despite Warren’s bluster, the admiral had been kept apprised of Mike’s whereabouts. And Mike had kept up with the more mundane tasks of being a Commanding Officer.

“I know the demons driving you, Mac. Maybe you don’t want a break, but your men deserve one.”

“I gave them the option. They volunteered for SCI.”

Warren set down his drink. “With everything hanging over their heads right now, I guess I can’t blame them.”

Mike scrubbed a weary hand over his face. “We lost two good men last time out. Then came home and—” he shook his head because he still couldn’t quite believe it “—now Nash is accused of killing his pregnant wife in some posttraumatic-stress-disorder episode.”

“There was an eyewitness. The sister-in-law—”

“Nash didn’t kill his wife.” Mike defended his men as hotly as they fought for him in battle. “But he’s being called a monster and looking at life from behind bars while his newborn son fights for his.”

“Kenneth Nash had his day in court, Mac.”

And thankfully still had a few appeals to run through. “Nash is—” Mike shrugged off the present tense he’d been about to use and replaced it with the past “—was one of the few married men on my team. The others are scared of the fear they see in their wives’ eyes. And the rest of us don’t even have that much to go home to.” Thank God. Mike swiveled to look at Warren. “Trust me to know what’s best for my team.” And right now that was keeping them busy.

The eyewitness was wrong. Nash would have come to him if he’d thought he was losing it. Because of their ingrained buddy system, SEALs had a low rate of PTSD. They served as a team. They went into ops together and they came out together. Homecomings were quiet affairs, and while home they were each other’s support system.

The other services were just now learning this.

But what if Mike was wrong? What if Nash had lost it?

Wasn’t he himself on edge? Feeling unsettled?

“All right, Mac. You win. But since you can’t show up on time and without ants in your pants I’ve decided that instead of Team One, I’m sending your team to Nevada to work with the new Commander of HCS-9.”

“Are you shittin’ me?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“Other than I’d rather donate another pint of blood to the Middle East, none at all.” Telling the admiral his problem with the Commander wasn’t an option. So he sucked it up and polished off his beer.

Warren stirred his drink, clinking the ice against the glass. “You know her old man was a SEAL.”

Mike nodded. Rosemary Stanton had said as much. She’d also told him her husband had died on a training op. After ’Nam. But that was all the information she’d volunteered. Maybe that was all she knew.

Training op was often code for undisclosed mission. Like the Shadow War in Laos that started before and ended after Vietnam.

It sure as hell wasn’t a two-week boondoggle in Nevada.

“What was he like?”

“Van Stanton?” The admiral looked thoughtful as he tapped into his memories. “Wide receiver for the U of Wisconsin-Oshkosh Titans. Nationally ranked player. Good, but not good enough. Instead of being drafted into the NFL he was drafted into the Navy. Though I don’t remember him as being the type to look back on what might have been.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“He was a lot like you, Mac. One hundred and ten percent in the game. Whether that game was football or shadow ops.”

Mike cursed under his breath. It wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear, but it was what he needed to know. He glanced across the bar and had to do a double take. Hannah was doling out cash to the bartender, probably for the case of B. Stefanouris.

Calypso’s signature drink. She wanted rid of him that bad, huh? She caught sight of him and returned his bold stare. He raised his beer in salute. She nodded, but without that teasing light in her eyes he’d grown accustomed to seeing over the years. Was he responsible for putting that light out?

Why had she wanted him in the first place?

And why was he driving himself crazy wanting her? He’d been the one to walk, or rather run. Coward.

Warren’s gaze followed. “Trust me to know what’s best for my Teams.” He threw Mike’s words back at him, emphasizing the plural. “You’re going to Nevada. Whatever’s between the two of you, get it worked out. You have two weeks.”

Mike knew better than to argue with subtle suggestions that passed for bona fide orders. Warren whipped out his wallet and enough bills to cover the tab. “Do the right thing, Mac.”



“PINCH ME so I know I’m not dreaming,” Sammy said.

They’d arrived home that evening with a stack of calling cards. Hannah turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. “You’re dreaming.”

“I don’t know. Mr. and Mrs. Spencer Holden has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Or is that Lieutenant and Mrs. Spencer Holden?”

“Don’t start sending out the invitations just yet.” Sammy had managed to corner Spence. The pair had danced a couple of times. But she failed to acknowledge that he’d danced with every other female in the room. Except Hannah, who’d politely refused.

“A girl can window-shop, can’t she?”

Hannah flipped on the light switch in the entry hall. “That depends. For the dress or the man? With the right shoes a little black number can do wonders. But you don’t need a man to make you whole. You know that, don’t you?”

“I may not need him, but I want him,” Sammy said, missing the point entirely. “Besides if he doesn’t want me, there’s always one of these guys.” She rattled off a couple names. Then stopped at one card. “That Marine, Hunter, wasn’t half-bad—he really stood out in a room full of sailors. And of course, Parish,” she said with a snort, having reached the bottom of the pile. “Did you notice his receding hairline? I give the guy ten years tops before he’s a total cue ball.”

“Some men look good bald.”

“He’s not one of them.”

“Don’t go screwing with my XO’s head—” Hannah hung her purse on a peg near the door, but stopped in the middle of removing her jacket. The house remained unusually quiet except for the soft sound of someone crying.

“Mom?” Hannah called out as she ran through the bare living room and up the stairs toward her own bedroom and the baby’s Portacrib. When she entered, Fallon was sound asleep. Her mother sat in a dark corner, rocking the single chair in the room and hugging the flag.

Hannah knew those private tears too well. She wanted to tell her mother it was okay to cry. But she knew her mother wouldn’t think so.

“Mom, it’s okay to talk about him.” I want to talk about him. “I know you must miss him.” I miss him, too.

But I’m afraid I can’t remember him.

Please, help me remember him.

“I’m fine,” her mother said, blotting her eyes with a perfectly folded tissue. Because her mother did everything perfectly. One fold for every blow. Which was exactly three times. Then dry eyes and a stiff upper lip. “It’s just being back here after all these years. Everything is the same, and so different.”

Hannah sat down on the window seat, ignoring the ocean view she’d paid such a pretty penny for. “Captain Loring asked why you weren’t at the reception. I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

“You were probably too young to remember. But JJ and Liz were our neighbors when we lived in Navy Housing all those years ago. Of course, Liz is gone now, as well.”

“I don’t remember,” Hannah confessed. Those happy days were lost to her, locked up somewhere too painful to remember.




CHAPTER FIVE


PETER PETRONE ARRIVED by taxicab the following morning. Hannah stepped out her front door just in time to watch the cab pull away from the curb. “Peter?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

He wandered up her walkway, briefcase in hand, summer-weight suit jacket flung over his arm. His wrinkled pants, rolled-up sleeves and loose tie had been the norm since college. “Don’t I get a hug?”

“Of course.” She stepped into his outstretched arms.

She’d never slept with him, but her college roommate had. Sydney claimed she couldn’t resist that boyish dimpled grin. Personally Hannah liked the rumpled blond hair and intelligent green eyes behind the wire-framed rims.

The three of them had taken aerospace engineering courses together at CU Boulder—go Buffs—but only one of them was a genius. Syd had dropped out of aerospace altogether. Hannah, a typical over-achiever, had worked hard for every grade she got. For her it had been all about flying anyway.

But for Peter the laws of physics and how to defy them came naturally. He’d had offers from Boeing, Lockheed-Martin and NASA before he’d even graduated. Instead he’d joined forces with a small Boulder-based company, making Hall-Petrone Aerospace Tech and himself rich with his patents.

She pulled back and looked into his eyes, still wondering what the hell he was doing here.

“Look at you,” he said. “So this is what all the well-dressed pilots are wearing to wage war?”

“Drab olive-green is always in season,” she said through tight lips. She knew what was coming next.

“I wish you’d change your mind, Hannah. Come home.”

“It’s not a matter of changing my mind. My mind is made up. It’s my duty to be here.”

“And is it your duty to get yourself killed halfway around the world? For what?”

“I’m not going to debate foreign policy or politics with you, Peter. I made my commitment to the reserves long before I came to work for you. Please, let’s just agree to disagree on the subject. You didn’t fly all this way for an argument, did you? Why are you here?”

“I told you I was flying in for the weekend.”

She tried hard to remember their hurried phone conversation. “You may have said something,” she conceded. Clearly she’d misunderstood. “But, Peter, I have a job to do. The work doesn’t get put on hold just because it’s Saturday.” Not when she had to ready the squadron to deploy on Monday. And she was already late for her first day as Commanding Officer. What an impression that would make. “I don’t have time to entertain company. I have to get to the base—”

“I could tag along,” he offered hopefully.

Hannah almost groaned out loud. A male tagging along was not the image she wanted to present to her squadron her first day at the helm. “That’s really not a good idea.”

“Not for the whole day, just to the base. I scheduled a meeting at the Naval Amphibious Base with a Rear Admiral Bell. He wants a look at the prototype for the fuel cell.” Peter tipped his briefcase. “This could be my biggest military contract yet. We can celebrate at dinner.”

“And that doesn’t seem the least bit hypocritical to you? You object to my contract with the service because it involves personal sacrifice, but you’re willing to contract with the service for personal gain.”

“Hypocritical? Not at all, not if you’re assigned as my Navy liaison. You won’t have to fight. And you’ll be doing your duty from behind a desk in Colorado. You do want to stay home with Fallon, don’t you?”

Oh, great. Now he was going to throw that guilt trip at her. He was worse than her mother. Or in league with her. Hannah felt positive she wouldn’t feel like being wined and dined this evening. But they needed to talk. Big time. “Peter—”

“I’ll take you somewhere nice,” he said. “I’m staying at the Hotel Del Coronado. How does the Prince of Wales Room sound for dinner?”

She knew the hotel’s restaurant by reputation only. “Like you’re going to need a lot of pull.” Not to mention a reservation—unless of course you were a gazillionaire with a company named after you about to go public on the NASDAQ, or was it NYSE? She knew he’d get the reservation, but she was more concerned he might actually have enough clout to get her reassigned.

For whatever reason, her personal merit or some admiral wanting to add “politically correct” to his résumé, she’d been given the opportunity to command. She didn’t think she’d lose it per one civilian’s request. But if she screwed up, the Navy might think she’d be better off serving in another less visible capacity. It would be best if Peter understood her position right from the start.




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