by Tawny Weber
“Marc,” she said his name out loud. The name’s Marc, but Commander will do if you’re uncomfortable using it. “Commander,” she said firmly, pushing up from the bed.
She had some unpacking to do.
Not only that, she had to break out her sewing kit for a tape measure. She wanted to make sure all her uniform skirts were the exact same length—at her knee. If she intended to fight Miller Regs, she’d better make sure she met the Navy standard.
Chapter 2
0700 Friday
NAVAL SPECIAL WARFARE CENTER
Coronado, CA
At 0700 Friday morning, Tabby once again entered the cinder block building that served as SEAL training Headquarters. The place appeared deserted. Her footfalls echoed down the tiled passageway. Even the yeoman’s desk outside the Commander’s office stood vacant with the chair missing.
“Don’t tell me they all sleep in,” she muttered, looking around for signs of life. Generally the Navy day started early. She’d assumed the SEALs would be here since they were between BUD/S classes. But they could be anywhere.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee led her to Miller’s door.
It figured. He seemed like the type. All paperwork and no play made the Commander a dull boy. He probably read Navy manuals in his spare time.
When would that be? Before, during or after workouts?
She knocked and heard the muffled command. “Enter.”
Tabby hesitated. This was even tougher than yesterday.
She was, after all, disobeying his orders.
Taking a deep breath, she checked her gig line, making sure her belt buckle aligned with the placket of her khaki shirt. Then she opened the door.
Twenty-eight heads turned in her direction. All male. Her eyes went directly to the man in the center. Their gazes locked and she refused to look away first.
“Have a seat, Lieutenant,” he said in invitation. He sat on the corner of his desk, much like yesterday. “We’re in the middle of our morning briefing.”
She slipped into the room, stepping around one man and scooting past another before she could shut the door. There was standing room only in Miller’s office. A quick-thinking enlisted man jumped from his seat and offered her a chair. Tabby recognized him as the Commander’s yeoman and waved him off.
She took an inconspicuous spot at the back of the crowd.
A difficult accomplishment with all eyes on her.
From the looks on their faces, no introductions were necessary, they knew who she was and why she was here.
Marc shifted his gaze away from the interruption and focused on the sea of faces. “Where were we?” He knew damn well where he’d left off. And so did his men. Tension from what would remain unsaid, for now, supercharged the air.
He couldn’t believe she had the nerve to walk in three days early. Though she tried, she failed to blend in with the mix of uniformed officers and enlisted men. He didn’t know how he kept a straight face. What really got him was the fact she’d found a way around his hemline directive.
She wore pants!
Irony made life interesting. And Lieutenant Chapel apparently understood irony. “It seems we were talking about you, Lieutenant.”
“Sticks and stones...” she spouted, making some of the less restrained younger men chuckle.
Covering his own smile, Marc cleared his throat. “Rest assured we won’t be breaking any bones or resort to name calling.”
“I’m outta here.” Lieutenant Leighton popped to his feet. Glowering in Tabitha Chapel’s direction, Hugh “Houston” Leighton crushed his empty coffee cup and tossed it to the wastebasket on his way toward the door.
“Sit,” Marc ordered as others threatened to follow the Texan’s example. “Hugh, that includes you.”
Houston turned to meet his glare. “Marc—”
“Now!” He rarely raised his voice when he issued an order to one of the instructors. SEALs operated on a system of mutual respect. Officers and enlisted alike were treated as equals. But there was a pecking order. And he was the man up top.
Apparently Hugh needed a reminder.
Dragging his feet, Leighton shuffled back to his seat like a petulant schoolboy. Marc couldn’t blame him for that bit of defiance. Hugh felt threatened. They all did.
Because of a single, solitary female. Everything they were as men suddenly meant nothing, less than nothing, if women were allowed to join their ranks.
They were men. They were elite. They were Navy SEALs.
The job required brains, brawn and balls. She was clever he’d give her that.
Hugh made it to his seat, and Marc turned his attention to the senior enlisted man. “Master Chief, go ahead with announcements.”
Command Master Chief Jack Murphy stood. Adjusting his reading glasses, he unfolded a piece of paper and read, “The following personnel need to meet their jump quals...”
Throughout the reading, Lieutenant Chapel remained mute. Marc crooked his finger in her direction. He wanted her close. Close enough to keep an eye on her.
She eased her way through the crowd.
Several appreciative male gazes followed.
He patted the desktop beside him. “Sit,” he instructed. She propped a hip against the desk in a stance that mimicked his. Leaning over, he whispered, “Nice pants.”
Her mouth curved knowingly. Even smug she had a beautiful smile. Maybe he wanted her close. But he’d be better off if she was three thousand miles away in DC.
Marc shifted his attention to where it belonged.
“Don’t forget,” Murph continued. “Tonight is the retirement party for Master Chief Howard Thomas of SEAL Team One, 1900 at Manny’s Dive. The first keg is on the Chiefs’ Association. But we need two more designated drivers. Volunteers can see me after the briefing.” Finished, he signaled Marc with a nod.
“Dismissed.” Marc excused the men.
Hugh sprinted from the room. The rest swarmed the door behind the Texan, wheeling out several chairs with them.
Lieutenant Chapel pushed to her feet.
“Not you.” He touched her forearm, noting the softness beneath his callused fingertips. She looked pointedly at his hand, and he dropped it. He was out of line.
The last man out closed the door, leaving the two of them alone.
He should have asked the last man out to leave the door open. Suddenly the room felt too small, the space between them too close, his shirt collar too tight.
She tucked a falling strand of that unusual color hair behind her ear and stared at him with curious eyes.
He channeled all his energy into what he wanted to say. “I thought I’d made it clear I didn’t want to see your face around here until Monday.”
So why couldn’t he take his eyes off her?
“About Monday, Commander. There’s something you should know—”
“I got wind of the meeting, Lieutenant.” Marc reached behind him for his coffee mug. Taking a sip, he held back a grimace as he swallowed the bitter lukewarm mud. She wasn’t going to catch him off guard again. “Dismissed.”
2130 Friday
MANNY’S DIVE,
Coronado, CA
“I don’t even want to think about her, let alone talk about her.” Marc lined up his next shot. Friday nights were for kicking back with the guys. “Six ball, corner pocket.” He gestured with his cue stick. At Manny’s he could play a little pool, throw back a few brews and be himself.
Tonight’s retirement party packed the place with BUD/S instructors and Team One SEALs. It was the perfect atmosphere to forget about a certain strawberry blonde Lieutenant.
So why couldn’t he?
“You’re the one who brought up the subject.” Brad leaned against an old-fashioned jukebox blasting a new-fangled beat. Stick in one hand, beer bottle in the other, he toasted his observation.
Marc cast a glare over his shoulder. Commander Brad “Dog” Bailey, his best friend since Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, and his equal in
all things except pool, wasn’t about to let him get away with anything.
Especially not an outright lie.
He had been the one to bring up the subject of Lieutenant Tabitha Chapel. He couldn’t get past the fact that any woman would want to be a Navy SEAL.
She hadn’t said as much, but it was the only possible explanation. The study was her idea. Her maternal grandfather had been a SEAL before they were called Navy SEALs. Her father had been a SEAL.
So she just naturally thought she’d be a SEAL?
Did the Toad even know what his little girl was up to?
Marc tapped the cue ball and sent it spinning into the cushion with a thunk. Rebounding off the sidewall, and smacking the six ball with a satisfying crack, the white ball knocked balls two and six neatly into the corner pocket.
“All I said was I heard she’s hot. Is she, or isn’t she?”
Marc moved around the table to line up his next shot. “You’re married.”
“Married doesn’t mean buried.” Brad smiled and waved across the bar at his wife. Carol patiently occupied a corner booth while they played their game.
Marc shook his head. Coming from any other man the comment would have sounded asinine. Coming from Brad, it sounded endearing. He knew his friend took a lot of ribbing for bringing his wife to their off-base hangout.
But the newlyweds were inseparable.
For most SEALs married meant buried. And freedom meant everything.
Marc envied his friend’s lack of freedom. Except, in his opinion, Brad would be wiser to leave his wife at home.
Manny’s Dive was exactly that, a dockside hole-in-the-wall. A place for hardworking, hard-playing men to unwind. With the exception of frog hogs—an unflattering name for gun groupies—you didn’t walk in the place unless you were a Navy SEAL. Otherwise, you were quickly shown the door.
Occasionally a band of sailors or Marines would come to test their mettle against the Navy’s finest and the night would end in a brawl.
“Eight ball,” Marc called his shot.
“Well?” Brad prompted.
Marc chalked the felt tip of his stick before he answered. “She’s easy on the eye,” he admitted as he set the cube aside. “And a pain in the butt. My butt! Until I get her back to D.C. and out of my hair.” He positioned himself at the table. “Side pocket.”
“So you’re interested?”
“She’s—”
“Whoa!”
Marc lifted his gaze. The stick in his hand skipped, sending the cue ball into a harmless spin. He’d been about to say, off limits.
He straightened and hit his head on the low hanging lamp above the pool table. He winced, but not from the pain in his head.
His pain in the butt had just walked in the door.
Real or imagined there was a second of silence that told him they weren’t the only ones who’d noticed. Even the jukebox paused between songs. Static hummed, then another CD dropped in place. Something upbeat and empowering just for her.
And then the cat-calls started, spoiling the imagery.
“That her?” Brad let loose a low, easy whistle.
“That’s her.” Marc picked up his beer from the bumper. His gaze followed as she made her way through the press of male bodies with that cocky self-assurance.
Wearing a bomber jacket and jump boots, she was otherwise dressed in civilian clothes. Tight jeans hugged the flare of her hips. A pink top traced the outline of her breasts. Strawberry girl looked ripe for the picking.
If she’d come looking for company, she’d find it.
If she’d come looking for him, he’d better run.
She turned and stared directly at him.
His mouth went dry and he was glad for the beer in his hand. He took a long draw to quench his thirst. His eyes remained on her despite the bottle impeding his otherwise perfect vision.
Chapter 3
Tabby locked on that familiar blue gaze. Just the man she wanted to see. She acknowledged him with a nod he didn’t bother to return.
Well, at least she knew he was here.
The retirement party provided the perfect excuse. Master Chief Howard Thomas was an old friend of her father’s and she needed to pay her respects. The Thomas’ were family when she was little. She looked around, but didn’t see him or his wife. And she didn’t know if either of their adult children would be her, but she hoped so, she’d love to see them again.
Her gaze kept wandering back to the one man intent on ignoring her.
Dismissing the Commander with a frown, she leaned across the polished bar. “Miller Light.” The significance registered only after it was too late to take it back.
The bartender spun his wheelchair around. A platform behind the bar put them on equal ground. “What else, sweetheart?” he asked, handing her the bottle.
“Nothing, thanks.”
“Name’s Manny, like the sign outside. If you need anything, just holler.” The middle-aged owner had a generous sprinkle of salt coloring his thick beard and overlong hair. “In case you’re the curious type, only two of my three legs are out of commission.” He waggled his brows suggestively.
In a single sentence the man told her everything she never wanted to know about him. Shifting her black leather backpack, she pulled out her billfold. “What do I owe you?”
“Put it away, sweetheart,” he said. “Your money’s no good here. Let one of the boys get it.”
Every sailor within five feet reached for his wallet. Tabby shook her head at the offers. She could have thrown her cash down on the bar, but she knew how this game was played. So she tucked her money away and picked the biggest, baddest and safest guy in the place.
“Put it on Marc Miller’s tab.”
Wallets disappeared with murmurs of apology.
Manny’s bushy brows rose above his beady eyes. “About what I said—”
“Forget it.”
“I had no idea you were with Miller.”
Technically she wasn’t with anyone. But she smiled and let the assumption stand. It didn’t hurt that Commander Miller had the rank to back up his attitude, and hers.
Picking up her beer, she made her way to the pool tables. He had his back to her as she approached. His broad shoulders filled the chambray shirt he wore tucked into belted stonewashed jeans.
She hesitated before accepting that this was the same man who wore a commander’s cluster. The Navy was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. But tonight, the image of officer didn’t fit. Not like that shirt and those jeans anyway.
“Tell me something,” he said, without turning around. “Are you here looking for trouble? Or are you just going to let it find you?” Retrieving the colored balls from the chute in pairs, he rolled them toward the man at the opposite end. But there was no mistaking the fact he was talking to her.
“I’m here looking for you.”
He set down the next batch of balls and turned to face her. Leaning back against the cushioned bumper, he folded his arms. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Well, I am here.” she said, putting her beer down beside his.
“This isn’t the kind of place nice girls wander into.”
“Really? What kind of girls wander into a SEAL bar?”
“The lost and the lonely.”
As sad as that sounded, it pretty much summed up the few she’d seen. “Well, I’m not lost. And I’m not lonely.”
“I know.” He shifted his gaze to take in the room. “And you just made me the envy of every man in the place. Now, why are you looking for me?”
His words sent a thrill through Tabby. “I thought we needed to talk. Out of uniform.”
“If I wasn’t a nice guy, I’d take you up on that offer, Tabitha.”
Heat burst over her cheeks like a warning flare. “You know I meant civilian clothes.”
“A-hem.”
She shifted her gaze to the man clearing his throat.
“Before anyone takes off their clothes, how about an introduc
tion.” He looked expectantly at Miller who ignored the request. “Brad Bailey,” he introduced himself, filling the silence with a broad grin as he walked toward her with his hand extended. “CO, SEAL Team One and Marc’s swim buddy since we went through BUD/S training together.”
His handshake was firm but friendly, and she smiled into warm chocolate eyes. His build was slighter than Marc’s. And though Brad’s brown hair receded from his forehead, she guessed them to be about the same age.
“Tabitha Chapel.”
“I know. Marc’s been telling me all about you.”
So they’d been talking about her?
“That can’t be good.” But at least he wasn’t dismissing her. “Call me Tabby.”
“It was all good.” Brad winked at her. “I knew your old man—“
“Brad, I hear Carol calling,” Marc said.
Tabby didn’t hear a thing.
“What? Oh, right.” Brad nodded. “Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.” He flashed both thumbs-up.
“Where were we?” Miller raked a hand through his hair.
“Talking.” She suggested.
His frown deepened. “I’m off duty.”
“Since when is conversation considered duty?”
He shifted, knocking the bottle at his side. Her hand darted out at the same time as his, and they caught the bottle together.
“Nice catch,” he said, without letting go.
His mouth quirked at the corner, and Tabby got the feeling he was holding back a thousand-kilowatt grin that would light up even the darkest and loneliest night.
“Martial arts.” The explanation escaped on a husky note. “Hones the reflexes.” Now she was babbling. She felt the warm of his hand touching hers and slid her hand down the long neck bottle and from beneath his.
“I read that in your file.” He picked up her beer and held it out to her. “I’m not impressed.”
Why didn’t that surprise her? He was probably a fourth degree black belt of some sort. Careful not to touch him again, she took the bottle. “What would impress you, Commander?”