Rogenna Brewer - The SEAL's Baby

“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

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

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

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.