Rogenna Brewer - The SEAL's Baby

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.