Rogenna Brewer - The SEAL's Baby

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.

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.”