Climbing the steps to the red-white-and-blue-swagged dais, she reached her seat to the left of Captain Loring. Admiral Riker, the highest-ranking official taking part in the ceremony, sat to Loring’s right. The chaplain sat to her left and the XO stood at a podium to the far right. The podium in the center remained open for their use.
“All rise for the national anthem,” the XO requested.
As she rendered honors to the flag, Hannah got her first good look at the assembled crowd. The squadron stood by in formation. The guests got to their feet from uniform rows of folding chairs. Except for a white rose, the first chair to the left of the aisle remained empty, in memory of Captain Loring’s deceased wife. The second chair held the folded triangle that had adorned the casket of Hannah’s father. Her mother, Rosemary Stanton, pressed a kiss to the bud she held and placed it on the flag beside her before covering her heart with her hand.
After that, everything became a blur set to band music as Hannah blinked back tears. Sometimes sacrifices were made on the battlefield. But just as often they were made on the home front.
Her younger sister Sammy, bouncing baby in her arms, stood beside their mother. The three-month-old needing all the attention was Hannah’s own precious daughter.
Fortunately her mother and sister were willing to go above and beyond the call of duty. If Sammy hadn’t been able to move to California, Hannah as a single mom would have been forced to leave her daughter behind with her family in Colorado.
Adventure aside, the United States Navy was a job 24/7.
She had to be deployable.
No excuses. Not even little ones. Like wanting to spend time with her baby girl.
Or big ones. Like wanting to keep her daughter from knowing the pain of losing a parent.
“The Star Spangled Banner” ended, and the XO requested everyone remain standing for the Chaplain’s invocation.
Hannah mouthed the words thank you to her mother and sister.
She had a two-year obligation to Uncle Sam and the two hundred men and women of HCS-9. In answering the call to duty she’d given up more than family time and social ties, more than a mid-six-figure salary in the aerospace industry and a plot of real estate in the Rocky Mountains. She’d given up her peace of mind. Because sooner or later she’d run into McCaffrey and out of excuses.
When she did, she’d need her family more than ever.
They’d been there for her when he hadn’t.
Seated once again, her gaze shifted to the audience. She tried hard not to make the comparison between the empty chair reserved for her father and the empty chair among the SEAL commanders. McCaffrey wasn’t here, but he’d been safe and sound when the Fire Hawks of HCS-5 picked him up from San Clemente Island. And as long as he stayed away so was their daughter.
The baby slept through most of the speeches, but woke fussy. Already showing signs of independence, like her mother, a chubby fist found its way to a rosebud mouth in the time it took Auntie Sammy to dig through the diaper bag for a bottle. Hannah somehow managed to maintain her military bearing even as every maternal instinct she possessed made her want to leap from the platform. But her complement of uniforms didn’t include Wonder Woman or Super Mom costumes, just a flight suit and the wings of a Naval Special Warfare Aviator.
Captain Loring stepped center stage, the cue for the participants on the dais to stand once again.
“The Change of Command Ceremony is a Navy tradition without equal in the Army or Air Force,” he began. “Custom has established that this observance be both formal and impressive while at its heart is the reading of official orders.” After a lengthy speech, he got around to doing just that. Afterward he turned to Hannah. “Ma’am, I am ready to be relieved.”
Hannah stepped forward and read her orders. As courtesy demanded of the relieving officer, she kept her comments brief. When finished, she turned to Loring and executed a sharp salute. “I relieve you, sir.”
Captain Loring returned the salute. “I stand relieved.”
The Color Guard marched forward. Loring ordered his command pennant lowered, followed by Hannah ordering hers broken, readying it for unfurling. On command, the Color Guard raised her banner. Wind snapped it to attention. Above the command flag for the North Island Night Hawks of HCS-9, the simple white pennant bearing the silver eagle of a captain had been replaced by the silver oak leaf of a lieutenant commander.
Hannah turned to salute her immediate superior in the Chain of Command—Admiral Riker, Commander, Helicopter Wing Reserve. “Lieutenant Commander Hannah C. Stanton reporting for duty, sir.”
CHAPTER TWO
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 complime
nt. 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 Ha
nnah 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?
The Seal’s Baby Page 2
