by Tawny Weber
“I see.” His tone told her he did see, too much.
“My apologies, sir. I was out of line.”
“You can drop the Academy polish. We’re a little less formal around here. The name’s Marc, but Commander will do if you’re uncomfortable using it.”
“Yes, sir—Commander,” Tabby corrected when his gaze narrowed.
“You’re in serious need of an attitude adjustment, Chapel. An insult is an insult no matter how pretty the package.”
He could have meant the insincerity of her words. But she suspected he was referring to the fact her boss, Rear Admiral Gromley—the Chief of Naval Personnel—had sent her and not a man to do the job.
Gromley being a woman—the highest-ranking woman in the Navy—made the Admiral a natural ally for this project.
Miller straightened from his perch. Tabby’s gaze drifted upward with his movement. At five-feet-ten, an even six feet in pumps, she rarely had to look up to anyone.
“I’m trying to initiate dialogue here,” he said.
“I volunteered to spearhead the study, Commander. I believe women can be an integral part of the Teams.” She maintained direct eye contact, noting the flash of surprise before he set his shuttered expression back in place.
“I see,” he repeated in that all-knowing tone of his. He retreated behind his desk and opened her service record again. As if he’d missed some obvious answer earlier, he searched for it now, flipping through the pages.
She felt the pinch of her toes with increasing discomfort as he delayed the inevitable. “Commander,” she broke protocol by speaking first, “I’m waiting for you to throw me out.”
“And I would do that, why?” He looked up.
“Because you don’t want me here.”
“I’ll work that out up the chain of command. I don’t make a habit of eating junior officers for breakfast.” He let her file fall closed and crossed his arms again. They stood facing each other on opposite sides of the desk and opposite sides of an issue equally important to both of them.
If he intended to go over her head, he had the rank and authority to do so. But Rear Admiral Gromley was her staunch ally on this project. And Tabby had a few tricks up her tailored uniform sleeve.
She wasn’t going anywhere. Not until the study was complete.
So he could very well wind up eating her for breakfast. Though he looked like a meat and potatoes man, she’d bet he’d make an exception for a junior officer who crossed whatever line he chose to draw. And she was going to cross it. The prospect that he’d chew her up and spit her out wasn’t all that appealing. But Miller would find her as tough as old boot leather.
“Is Chapel your maiden name?”
“My mother’s.” She’d grown up hyphenating her parents’ names, though neither of her brothers did, and she’d dropped her father’s name after joining the Navy.
“Any relation to a Captain Thaddeus Prince, retired Navy SEAL?”
“He’s my father.”
He acknowledged her answer with a curt nod. “Chapel-Prince, that makes you the granddaughter and daughter of two legends...I get it now.” His eyes drilled into hers seeing more than she wanted him to. “I trained under him, your father.”
That didn’t come as a surprise. Everyone who was anyone in the Navy knew her father. It was one of the reasons she used her mother’s maiden name. Her father had retired from the Commander’s very position fifteen years ago. It wasn’t hard to imagine their career paths crossing. “I’ll send your regards.”
“You do that.” His gaze locked on and held hers.
She’d read his bio. Miller was that rare breed the Navy called Mustang.
He’d risen through enlisted ranks to become an officer and hadn’t missed a beat by not getting a conventional college education. He’d earned both his bachelors and masters degrees, was working on a PhD in Education, and here he was the Commanding Officer of BUD/S.
And for now, at least, her commander.
He pushed her file across the desk. “Hand carry this back to Personnel.”
Tabby picked up the folder, wondering exactly what information he’d gleaned from it. She’d have to find a way to access his service record. His professional bio hadn’t given her much to go on. Now that she’d met the man, she wanted to know everything there was to know about him.
She waited, expecting him to dismiss her.
“Are you staying at the BOQ?”
“Yes, sir.” She’d checked into the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters that morning.
“Don’t get too settled, Lieutenant. I’ll have your new orders cut by Monday. By this time next week you’ll find yourself right back in D.C.”
She wondered if he was naturally optimistic, considering military paperwork and the fact that it was already past midweek. Or was the man just confident he had that much pull? She’d bet it was confidence. And she’d bet he was wrong.
“Until Monday? What time do you want me here in the morning?”
“As far as I’m concerned you’re on leave. Take a couple days to see Southern California compliments of Uncle Sam. Report back to me Monday at 0700.”
“If it’s just the same—”
“Dismissed, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.” No use arguing with a superior officer. She’d just show up tomorrow and let him deal with her then. She couldn’t be written up for disobeying a direct order when it contradicted a standing order from a higher authority.
A vacation on Uncle Sam indeed.
She was a woman with a mission and no man was going to stop her now.
She held out her hand to shake his, and then dropped it awkwardly when he didn’t return the courtesy. His hands remained tucked in his folded arms. Accepting the insult for what it was, Tabby turned to leave.
Let him take it up the chain. She’d just be caught in the push-pull of Navy politics for a while. She’d gotten used to that as an admiral’s aide in Washington, D.C. She didn’t expect to leave it behind in Coronado, California.
“And, Lieutenant...”
Tabby halted in her trek across the room. “Sir?”
“When you get here on Monday, I expect the hem of your skirt to be three inches below your knees.” He looked pointedly at her exposed kneecaps.
Was he kidding? To hell with protocol!
“Naval regulations state at or below the knee, Commander,” she snapped. “I prefer my hems as they are.” She continued toward the door.
“Miller Regs say three inches below. By Monday.” He cleared his throat. “One more thing...” Tabby gripped the doorknob, waiting for him to hurl his next directive.
“Welcome aboard SEAL training.”
Marc caught the chin tilt as she left his inner office and smiled to himself. He followed the feminine sway of skirt to the door. Casually resting his shoulder against the jamb, he watched her go. Damn, the lady knew how to make an exit.
“Attention on deck,” Jeff ‘the Preacher’ Perry popped to his feet as she passed by the yeoman’s desk.
The Lieutenant marched through reception and continued clicking her high-heeled way down the tiled passageway until she disappeared around the corner.
Marc shifted his gaze to the yeoman outfitted in woodland green cammies. “At ease, Preach,” he said, dispensing with the usual formalities between an officer and his men. “She’s out of the picture.”
“Did you get a look at those legs?” Perry slipped into his creaky desk chair and leaned back. “What I wouldn’t give to have them wrapped around me any night of the week!”
Since Petty Officer Second Class Perry rated women according to the day of the week he’d date them, Saturday being the highest and Sunday reserved for virgins, any day of the week was a pretty high compliment indeed.
Marc shook his head. Of course he’d gotten a look at the Lieutenant’s legs.
He couldn’t stop looking. That was the problem.
And the reason he’d buried his nose in her service record. So he wouldn’
t be caught looking. He preferred skirts above the knee, too.
“Pull out the Uniform Regs on hemlines before you head out to the gym,” he said.
“Hemlines. You got it.” Swiveling his chair around with a squeal, Perry faced a row of Navy manuals lining the credenza behind his desk.
“Better make that a copy of everything you can find on female uniforms,” Marc added.
“Gonna give her a hard time, Commander?” The yeoman opened the requested manual.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to give her.”
“I could think of a better way to do it,” Preach said with a cocky grin.
So could he.
Though he’d never admit it, and shouldn’t be encouraging comments from his yeoman. “Add a copy of the section on grooming standards. Could be she needs to lose an inch or two from the length of her hair.”
Her bun had looked a little loose. Only because he’d been pulling out her hairpins with his imagination.
Shaking his head, the petty officer moved to the Xerox machine along the far wall.
Marc pushed away from the door to sit on the yeoman’s desk. He planned to run Ms. Spit and Polish through an impromptu inspection before he sent her packing on Monday. There had to be something about her appearance he could pick on.
No woman was that close to perfect.
Filled with restless energy, he picked up a pencil and tapped it against his palm. “Would you say Lieutenant Chapel was a blonde or a redhead?” He affected a disinterested tone.
“She’s what you call a strawberry blonde.”
Marc stopped tapping and set the pencil aside to take the offered copies.
“Huh, whaddayaknow.” There was actually a hair color called strawberry. That would also describe the faint scent still lingering in the air.
Papers in hand, he pushed off the yeoman’s desk and headed back to his own office. Come Monday, he’d show Lieutenant Tabitha Chapel exactly who she was dealing with. Once he did, she wouldn’t be able to leave Coronado fast enough. They didn’t call him a hard-ass for nothing.
She’d shined up her brass so he’d have to shine up his.
“Preach, get me Admiral Dann on the horn.”
“The Chief of SEALs? You’ve got it.”
Marc closed his office door behind him. He glanced briefly at the pages in hand, and then tossed them to the In box on his desk. More paperwork to shuffle. He’d end up a lard-ass instead of a hard-ass if this kept up.
Rounding the piece of furniture he now called home, he picked up his copy of Lieutenant Chapel’s orders.
A woman in the SEALs? No way!
“Not in this man’s Navy.” Slapping the orders back to the blotter, he sat in his desk chair. Why did he have the feeling trouble was spelled “Tabitha” with a capital T?
SEALs were the Navy’s elite Special Warfare commandos of Sea, Air, and Land. Only a small percentage of candidates made it through the most grueling week of training, called Hell Week.
A very small percentage.
In recent years that percentage had slipped from 30% to 11% With BUD/S Class 227 graduating a mere 10 out of 88 men. At a time when operational readiness was at its most critical, SEAL training was considered an embarrassing waste of taxpayer money. Worse they couldn’t keep up with personnel replenishment demands from the Teams.
And he was the man brought in to turn it all around.
He’d been tasked with getting the graduation rate back up to a 30% minimum by the end of the year. Marc meant to exceed that by setting his sights on 40% without compromising the quality of graduates coming out of BUD/S Training.
If physically fit young men weren’t making it through the course, how was a woman supposed to? Her feasibility study couldn’t be allowed to go forward.
Instituting change was hard enough without adding one very determined Lieutenant with her own agenda. Heaven forbid she got SPECWAR to agree to this crazy idea of hers. He’d get his numbers up just to have them skewed all to hell with women trainees.
“Why me?” Marc groaned, but only because nobody could hear him. He wasn’t the type to wallow in self-pity, at least not when it was counterproductive and he recognized it as such.
He’d been CO for less than a fiscal quarter with barely one class of SEAL wannabes behind him. His Commander’s cluster was so new he wasn’t even getting the O-5 pay yet. But Marc knew he could handle anything one determined junior officer could throw at him.
She was what? All of twenty-seven. Twenty-eight, next month. He’d noted her birth date in her service record. He was thirty-four, seven years and a world of experience older. And he’d be the man standing between Tabitha Chapel and the coveted Trident Insignia.
He dug into his In box without much enthusiasm. There were a few things he needed to get done before heading to the gym. He checked his dive watch and discovered it was later than he thought.
Who was he kidding? He wouldn’t get any work done this morning. Marc tossed the papers back to the overflowing box. Physical activity was exactly what he needed right now. Otherwise he’d spend the rest of the day thinking about strawberries, long legs and green cat eyes.
He didn’t understand the effect she had on him. It wasn’t like he’d never seen a woman in uniform before. But right now he was as horny as any seaman on his first shore leave.
He’d obviously been going without for too long. But his days of thumbing through that little black book were over. It had been three years. And even if it meant three more, he intended to abstain for as long as it took to prove he was in control of his baser instincts.
And better than his paternity.
Though he had to agree with Perry—the Lieutenant deserved an any-night-of-the-week rating. She’d offered her hand, and he’d been afraid to reach out and take it. One touch just wouldn’t be enough.
Maybe he’d skip the workout and head straight for the cold shower. Whatever name she called herself, Tabitha Lilith Chapel-Prince was still the Toad Prince’s daughter. If he dared touch, he imagined the retired SEAL would have something to say about it.
“Commander?” Perry knocked and poked his head in.
“Yeah?” Marc looked up glad for the interruption.
“The Admiral’s secretary said he’s out of the office this week and next. She faxed this over.” Perry approached with a sheet of paper in his outstretched hand. “We’re on his agenda for Monday at 0900. Under Feasibility Study.”
Marc grabbed the fax. There was indeed a meeting scheduled for 0900 at The Naval Special Warfare Center, Coronado, California. His office.
Typed in bold black letters were the names of the attending officers: Admiral Mitchell Dann, Commander Marc Miller, and Lieutenant Tabitha Chapel.
“Damn!” Jerking open the file drawer to his left, Marc felt his way to the back where he kept a stash of Tootsie Pops. He pulled one out, unwrapped it and stuck the sucker in his mouth.
Even after fifteen years as a nonsmoker, he still craved the oral gratification of cigarettes when he was frustrated. But did it have to be strawberry?
1134 Thursday Lieutenant Chapel’s room
BACHELOR OFFICERS' QUARTERS,
Coronado, CA
“Welcome aboard SEAL training.” Tabby plopped down on the bunk in her BOQ room. Easing off first one white patent leather pump and then the other, she dropped the shoes to the floor and rubbed her aching tootsies. “And by the way, Chapel, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” She offered a mock salute to her closed door. “Aye, aye, Commander. I’ll be sure to let down those hemlines as set forth in Miller Regs.”
And to think she’d worn new shoes just to impress him.
Impress him, ha!
She’d had to walk all the way back to Personnel with her file. That’s how unimpressed the man was. “There are only three things that impress me…blah, blah, blah…”
Was she supposed to guess what they were?
She’d known from the start he wasn’t going to bend over
and take it.
Tabby unbuttoned her uniform jacket and slumped back against the pillow and let the tension drain from her body in a satisfied sigh. At least she was here.
She’d gotten her foot in the door and was one step closer to becoming the first female Navy SEAL. Her mouth curved into a smile.
She’d been brought up to believe girls and boys were equal in all things.
But would her dad really understand what she was trying to accomplish here?
Although he hadn’t said anything about Zach and Bowie taking different paths for their Naval careers, she could tell he’d been disappointed that neither had chosen to follow in his flippers, while at the same time overlooking the fact that his daughter was the one barreling ahead.
In fact, most men didn’t see her coming until she was slipping her agenda right past them. Miller wasn’t most men, however, and may have already put two and two together.
I get it now.
She was the daughter of the first Frog to be called Navy SEAL and the granddaughter of the Navy’s first Frogman. Miller had called them legends.
She had a lot to live up to.
But she had all her ducks in a row.
And all her admirals, too.
She’d been planning this for years. Had chosen her strategy carefully. Only Commander Marc Miller stood in her way.
She looked forward to matching wits with him.
She’d seen the challenge in those cornflower-blue eyes. Actually, now that she thought about it, his eyes were the deeper shade of periwinkle. No, more like morning glories. What would the man think of her comparing his eyes to flowers?
It would probably be a direct hit to his over inflated ego.
She could tell by their single encounter he was tough, controlled.
Grudgingly, she admired that control. Oh, how she wanted to break it—break him—just enough to see what lay beneath the veneer of Commanding Officer.
Staring at the ceiling, she recalled his firm jaw and set lips.
His dark hair, military short—even though SEALs had alternate grooming standards. It looked soft to the touch and was probably the only soft thing about him.