by Geri Krotow
The arms around her middle and shoulders, and the hand that cradled her head, kept her from a total loss of consciousness as sparks spewed in front of her vision.
“Stay with me, Ro. Are you okay?”
She blinked at the all-too-familiar baritone. A groan made its way past her clenched teeth. Only one man fit the bill of hero and rescuer, and had that deep sexy voice to match.
Navy Chief Warrant Officer and Explosive Ordnance Expert Miles Mikowski.
“Miles?”
“You scared the shit out of me, Ro.”
Her breath came back in gasps. Anger began to warm her from the inside out.
“What the hell are you doing?”
His face was a mere inch from hers, his weight hard but hot in contrast with the frigid ground beneath her. She’d never seen his eyes this close—his pupils were pinpoints of black heat in his steel blue irises as his breath warmed her wind-burned cheeks.
“Ro, it’s okay. I’m here, and you’re not alone.”
“Alone in what?” Their physical proximity started to register across all her senses and she squirmed. “Will you get off me?”
Had he lost his mind?
Slowly, as though she were a hand-blown Easter egg, he inched up and off her, all the while retaining a firm grasp on her arms, her hands. He rocked back on his heels in a crouch and pulled her up to a seated position.
The sound of car engines and the call-outs of drivers forced Ro’s glance away from Miles and to the highway.
“What’s going on, folks?” A uniformed state trooper stood on the street next to them. “Are you okay, miss?”
Ro looked at the officer, then at Miles.
“I’m fine, Officer. At least I was, until my...my colleague seemed to think I was in trouble. Miles?”
He shook his head.
“Tell me you weren’t about to do something really stupid, Ro.”
“The only thing I was going to do, I did. I tossed my old engagement ring.” She stood up and ignored the sharp cries of pain from her battered bones. She was going to kill Miles when she had the chance.
He stared at her as if he was seeing a ghost.
“Sir, are you okay?” The trooper turned to Miles, a hand on his hip.
“Yes, I’m fine. Sorry about any confusion, Officer.” Miles ran his fingers over his chin and Ro caught the grimace he was trying to hide.
Miles, embarrassed? This was new.
“I was in the war, and since I’ve been back a lot of vets have, ah—” he glanced past the trooper, to the vista of the Strait of Juan de Fuca “—I’ve seen a lot of vets with PTSD. I acted on instinct when I saw Ro on the bridge, in these winds, at this hour.”
“That true, miss?” The trooper deferred to Ro.
“Yes, yes. Miles is my work friend. He’s a good man, Officer, and wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt me.” She looked the trooper straight in the eye. No matter how much Miles drove her to distraction with his steady, determined attempts to date her, she knew he’d never act on anything other than honorable motives.
“Okay. I got a call from a concerned driver who saw you both take a tumble, and I had to ascertain that it wasn’t assault or a suicide attempt.” He paused, a slow grin overtaking his face. “Since you were just throwing away an engagement ring, we’re fine. I won’t write you a citation for littering, but toss the next ring into the trash can, all right?”
Ro smiled at him.
“No worries—there won’t be another ring.” Not for a very long time.
* * *
“GET IN BEFORE we cause an accident out here.” His booming voice brought more goose bumps to her arms than the Whidbey wind ever could.
She skirted behind his red Ford F-150 pickup truck. Sure enough, the morning commuters were already lining up behind him. Most were headed to Naval Air Station Whidbey Island, where they would put in a full day’s work for their country. They were going to start honking their horns at any moment.
Her fists ached to punch the tailgate, kick the tires. Instead, she pulled the passenger door open and slid into the leather seat.
She slammed the door shut, as much as one could slam such a heavy piece of metal, and turned to glare at Miles.
“Just drive to the pull-off and let me out so the traffic can get by.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask for your help, Warrant.”
Light-headedness wasn’t familiar to Ro but sitting next to Miles Mikowski made her feel as though the air had been sucked out of the truck’s cab. The leather interior of the huge vehicle was roomy, even by American standards. Except when the likes of Miles took up the driver’s side. His long, lean yet muscular physique filled every inch. He had to be at least six feet four inches tall. Whenever she stood near him, which wasn’t often, he towered over her five feet six inches, normally a respectable height for a woman.
“You didn’t ask in words but being out on this bridge in these winds is begging for help, Roanna. Then to see you stopped at the high point like that.” He slapped the dashboard.
Guilt licked up her stomach and to her neck. Nausea threatened to overtake her anger. She had really frightened him. Miles, the man who’d already been through hell and back in the war.
“I know you like to run in the mornings but maybe you should check the weather report before you run onto the bridge in near-gale-force winds.”
His frequent use of her given name instead of her rank irked her. They were both officers, so of course it was okay to address each other by first name. Miles always addressed her as “Lieutenant Commander Brandywine” in public. Privately he used her name but only when he asked her out. And she’d always refused.
It’s not that he uses your first name. It’s how he says it.
The way her name sounded on his lips made her think of sex. Her awareness of him annoyed her, to say the least....
“I’m not an idiot, Miles. I’ve lived here long enough to know I need to be careful. I’m on my way into the base, anyway. I’ve finished my run. I was cooling down.” He stayed silent. “My car’s right over here in the parking lot.”
You’re starting a new chapter today. Be nice.
“I didn’t realize you live off-island.” She referred to the fact that he was driving toward Whidbey.
“I don’t.”
No other explanations. She squirmed. What he did in his personal time was his business.
“Don’t worry, I’m not courting anyone else, Roanna.” He shot her a quick grin, an attempt at a return to their normal banter, while he waited for the car in front of him to inch forward. “I had to get up early to deliver a dog to a rescue group in Anacortes. It was the only time the volunteer could take delivery and get her out to Spokane today.”
“You work with a dog rescue?” Chagrin struck her as soon as she said the words. She’d heard he’d lost his working dog in the war.
“When I can.”
Miles swung off the right side of the highway and pulled into the small parking lot that heralded the start of Deception Pass Park. She didn’t miss how easily he maneuvered the big truck among the smaller, more practical cars. Apparently EOD training included massive vehicle handling.
Her gaze went from his hands on the wheel to his legs. Clad in workout pants his prosthetic leg wasn’t visible. But she’d seen him running in shorts on the naval air station jogging path, and working out in the gym. He had a titanium prosthetic for running and a more conventional one for his uniform.
“Looks like you’re going to work out, too.”
“Yup, every morning before I report to the wing. If I don’t keep my muscles in shape I’ll lose them.” His left hand rested on the top of the steering wheel while he leaned on his right arm, which was way too close to her on the center divid
er of the cab. She could even make out the fine blond-tinged hairs that covered parts of his hand and fingers.
“Hmm.” She wanted to tell him that his obvious strength of character impressed the hell out of her, but that might make him think she cared. Or that she’d reconsidered his previous invitations to go out for a meal or cup of coffee together.
Not happening.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Sure.”
She swallowed. “No, I mean it. You didn’t have to stop, didn’t have to give a damn. But you did. And I don’t have to be such a pain in the ass to you all the time.”
Now she had his attention. Bright sparks danced in his blue irises.
“So now, after almost a year, after I’ve made a fool of myself, you’re willing to be nice to me?”
“I’m sorry for the times I was rude, Miles. Truly.”
Before he made more out of this than necessary she pushed open the door, slid down from the high seat and got out of the truck. She was careful to appear casual as she shut the door and headed for her car. She noted that he waited until she was safely inside her car before he pulled out of the parking lot.
The drive into the base wasn’t going to be long enough to get his brilliant blue eyes and shy smile out of her mind.
Miles’s confident demeanor had pricked her bubble of I-don’t-need-a-man denial since the moment she’d met him the better part of a year ago. They’d first come face-to-face when her mother’s cat had decided to run up a tree. Miles had expertly scaled the tree and saved the cat. Unwittingly he’d also saved Roanna from her mother’s emotional fallout. It would have been pure hell if Henry the Eighth, Mom’s cat, had perished.
A week later he’d walked into the wing staff meeting as the new weapons officer and she’d been forced to acknowledge that he had an above-average physique. When she’d discovered he was an amputee she’d been in even more awe of his physical prowess, given the fact that he’d climbed such a huge tree.
But when he’d asked her out on a date she’d reeled in her drawbridge. No man was going to cross the moat she’d built around herself, especially not a man she found so attractive. Casually dating nonthreatening men was her modus operandi.
You played it safe with Dick and look where it got you.
Miles hadn’t given up on her right away, but at least now he appeared to accept that they were work colleagues, period. Another point in his favor, damn it. He was a nice guy.
* * *
RO WATCHED AS her best friend, Gwen, carried two cups of coffee from the on-base fast-food restaurant’s front counter. They had a standing appointment to meet each Friday morning, time permitting, to connect and see if they were going to do anything together over the weekend.
“Ah, heaven. Fresh hot coffee and it’s Friday!” Gwen smiled at Ro and placed the paper cups with steaming liquid on the table. Ro reflexively smiled back.
They’d met at the academy on the sailing team and had been good friends ever since. Gwen was a few years older, ahead of her in college, and her senior in naval year groups. They’d both been happy when Ro’s orders had come through for Whidbey—they hadn’t been in the same area for the past ten years. Ro, especially, had benefitted from having Gwen available to listen to her vent in person instead of on Skype as she came to terms with her new life without Dick.
Gwen’s frank gaze made Ro want to squirm.
“What? What is it you’re dying to tell me?”
“You could do a lot worse than Miles Mikowski, Ro. I know you didn’t want to go out with him, or anyone, when you first broke up with Dick and started this tour. But it’s been a long time. You finally threw away your past today, even if you couldn’t have chosen a stupider way to do it.” Gwen’s crooked smirk couldn’t erase her classic beauty. A tall, wispy blonde, she’d been the envy of the other female mids when they were in school. She’d done everything they did and still managed to look like a porcelain doll no matter how sweaty or dirty she got.
“You could have just told me you needed a girls’ night or weekend and we could have gone to Whistler for a spa weekend. There are plenty of high mountains to throw a ring off there, with no threat of being tackled by an EOD dude.” Gwen stirred two packets of sugar into her coffee. “You’re damned lucky the trooper didn’t haul you off for a psych evaluation.”
“Yeah, well, Miles could say the same. As for going on a trip, I had to do it on my own. You know that.”
“I do.” Gwen regarded her steadily with pine-green eyes. “This was better, wasn’t it? Being in a hotel in Whistler with your best friend wouldn’t have gotten you tackled by Miles.”
Gwen leaned forward.
“Be honest—was it hot?”
Ro took a good gulp of her cappuccino to hide her smile. Gwen made her laugh but she didn’t want to laugh about Miles. Not when every inch of her ached from the way he’d “saved” her this morning.
“How are you and Drew adjusting to the command tour?” She wasn’t going to admit her feelings even to Gwen.
Gwen puckered her lips and raised her eyebrows.
“We’re doing as well as we can, considering he’s still upset I took the command tour orders. No, let me change that. We’re doing horribly, and I don’t know why we’re still together. How’s that for a depressing take on marriage?”
“And you want me to date Miles.”
“Dating and getting married are vastly different. Miles is perfect for you. If you think about it, it’s pretty romantic that he pounced on you when he thought you were going to leap off the bridge.”
“He was acting on instinct—he said it himself. He’s been on too many battlefields, seen too many people in the throes of their PTSD. He did the right thing, I guess. Except that he should’ve taken a minute to ask me first before he assumed I was suicidal.”
“Don’t be so hard on him, Ro. Or on yourself. You said you want to let go of your past, open up your mind. Have you ever considered a more permanent change? Have you thought about getting out of the navy?”
No, but she knew this was the next area of her life that had to be addressed. At more than nine years in, she was nearing the halfway mark to retirement.
“I’m only willing to handle one life change per day, Gwen. You’re the last person I’d expect to ask me about whether or not I’m making the navy a career. Where is this coming from?”
Gwen’s glance strayed to the view of the runway the window they sat next to provided. She shrugged and looked back at Ro.
“With all the stress my new tour has put on my marriage, I’m wondering if I should have gotten out sooner, taken a job with the airlines. Drew’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve having to worry about me flying war missions all over the globe.”
“B.S.! You’re one of the most talented, proficient pilots in the whole navy! Drew needs to chill. After this tour you can get out if you want to, or take a shore tour and think about it.”
Gwen shook her head.
“I just want you to consider that you have many, many options. You’re an academy grad, you’ve served in wartime and you have a background in computer systems. You’re eminently employable. But what about your knitting? There’s more to your interests, lots of things I don’t think you’ve even considered yet. This is your shore tour to do that.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom.”
“Cut it out.” Gwen looked at her watch. “Gotta go. You’ve got an AOM today, too, don’t you?”
Ro nodded.
“Suggestion—say ‘yes’ to Miles when you see him.” Gwen smiled and gave her shoulder a squeeze before she walked out of the fast-food place.
Indeed.
CHAPTER TWO
TWO HOURS LATER Roanna straightened her khaki uniform skirt and put on her favorite tinted lip moisturizer before she left her desk to wa
lk to the wing conference room. It was only a quarter to nine but she’d lived a lifetime since she’d left her house for her run on Deception Pass this morning.
Each week the wing staff, along with various squadron representatives, briefed the wing commander, also referred to as the wing commodore, on the status of all wing patrol squadron forces in the world that were under his command. A complete intelligence brief was part of the package, as was a weather brief, operations brief and maintenance brief.
Ro was responsible for the intelligence brief, but whenever possible it was presented by a squadron intelligence officer or one of her intelligence specialists. She’d had enough face time to last her an entire career. She believed in giving less experienced intel types a chance to improve their skills.
Ro entered the roomy air-conditioned space and glanced at the dozen or so seats around the huge wood conference table and the seats lined up at the sides of the room. Miles wasn’t there yet and she let out her breath. At least she had a few more minutes during which she didn’t have to worry about him looking at her.
Go ahead, tell yourself that. You’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t show up.
She was giving Miles way too much rental space in her head. She pulled out a chair three down from the head of the table, where the commodore would sit. He’d be flanked by his chief staff officer and the operations officer, followed by maintenance and intelligence. All rank-related.
Right after she sat down, the senior enlisted sailor came into the room and handed her a piece of paper.
“Good morning, Commander.” The rank of lieutenant commander was often shortened to “Commander” in regular conversation.
“Hey, Master Chief Reis, how are you doing?”
“Fine, ma’am. The commodore wants to meet with you after the AOM.” Master Chief Petty Officer Lydia Reis referred to the all officers meeting, AOM, as Ro took the small yellow slip of paper.
“Did his secretary say what for?”
“No, and it wasn’t his secretary who told me—it was Commodore Sanders.”
