Читать книгу The SEAL's Baby - Rogenna Brewer - Страница 9

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.”