LITMIR.BIZ

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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 compliment. 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

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