by Tawny Weber
He lifted a finger to hit the Delete button and paused. Dammit. He owed her an apology.
Then he smiled, remembering that tight ass and those sexy calves. He’d liked the way she was quick with a comeback and didn’t back down easily.
He wouldn’t apologize via e-mail. He wanted talk to her in person so he could see her again. No way was he going to tell her about Somalia, but he could explain that in person too. Sort of.
Maybe his interest in the historian was only because he was bored. But at least she’d given him a reason to get out of bed this morning. Unemployment was for shit. He needed to do something.
An e-mail from his buddy Alec Ravissant reminded him of the garden party this afternoon at the home of Dr. Patrick Hill, the head of The MacLeod-Hill Exploration Institute in Annapolis, Maryland. Rav was running for the open Senate seat in Maryland, and the party was intended to introduce Rav to Hill’s extensive connections in local politics and the military.
Hill’s guests would be power-hungry high-society and military personnel. People who wanted to ingratiate themselves with military leaders, like the socialite made infamous in the Petraeus scandal a while back.
Sorry, Rav. No way in hell. Keith might be bored in his very early retirement, but he wasn’t bored enough to attend a party that would require fending off the advances of married women while their husbands stood idly by, either oblivious, uncaring, or hoping their wives’ infidelity would gain them admission into the centers of power.
Christ. He was starting to sound like his dad.
Just before he hit the Delete button, his eye caught the note at the bottom. Curt Dominick would be there, and Rav wanted to introduce them. Keith knew the US Attorney General had been the one to finally convince Rav to run for the Senate, so it was no surprise that Dominick would attend. He was both a power player and a good friend of Rav’s. What gave Keith pause was realizing the man’s wife, Mara Garrett—who happened to be sexy Trina the historian’s boss—would probably attend as well.
Something Rav had said rang a bell—didn’t the MacLeod-Hill Institute have some sort of oceanic-mapping joint venture with the Navy? Specifically with the Navy’s underwater archaeology branch?
A quick Google search answered that question—yes—and revealed that the Navy’s underwater archaeology department was part of Naval History and Heritage Command.
Well, that changed everything. He’d lay odds everyone at NHHC with a connection to the MacLeod-Hill project had been invited to the party. This could be the perfect opportunity for Keith to apologize to the historian.
Chapter 2
Trina frowned at her reflection. Her day dress was perfect for the party in that it was conservative. Staid. Dull.
Keith Hatcher’s jab at her age and appearance still rankled four hours later. She would not show up at Dr. Hill’s party looking like a twenty-year-old librarian. She threw open her closet and searched through her dresses. Her hand stopped on a red, knee-length cocktail dress she’d never mustered the courage to wear. It showed cleavage, which she only had if she wore the really tight bra she’d bought just for this dress. Plus she’d have to wear a thong to avoid panty lines.
Screw it. She’d wear the miserable bra and underwear and look like an adult for a change. Dr. Hill’s assistant would be there, and Trina had harbored a crush on the guy since they started exchanging e-mails for a joint NHHC-MacLeod-Hill PR project. Perry Carlson was good-looking, successful, smart, and had the most important attribute of any potential date: he wasn’t in the military.
Because she was a military historian working on a military base, the only single men Trina met were in the military, and she’d dated a few of them. She was done with soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines. Hell, she was done with coast guardsmen too.
Senior Chief Petty Officer Keith Hatcher was a prime example why. Hot as hell and full of himself, he’d belittled her and assumed she was a fool.
No more. Perry Carlson was her ideal guy. Educated, charming. Plus, he respected her. He knew her work was important and could save the lives of servicemen and women in the future. And she’d be lying if she didn’t admit Perry’s looks were a bonus. He was gorgeous. Not rugged like disheveled Keith, but crisp, handsome.
The last time they’d met, at an event at the Institute, they’d chatted for thirty minutes over glasses of champagne, and she’d been certain he was about to ask her out, when Dr. Hill made some boring announcement that ruined the moment. Perry’d had to run off to assist his boss and failed to follow up on his promise to return and finish their conversation.
But it was a work event for both of them; she understood why she’d been left hanging. And sure, Perry could have called her at work and asked her out, but maybe she hadn’t given off enough I’m interested vibes and he’d been afraid she’d turn him down. A legitimate concern, since it would have made working together on the PR project awkward.
Today would be different. If he didn’t ask her out, she’d go for it and ask him. Perry was exactly what she wanted in a man, and she would wear a dress that would show him she was a woman.
She slipped on the painful red bra and cinched it tight. Her meager breasts pulled together as promised. The dress fell into place, snug on the hips and bust. She turned to the mirror, making sure the fabric was smooth. Her body was skinny—a problem many women would love to have, she knew, but her slight frame contributed to everyone thinking she was ten years younger—or more—than she was. She’d never “filled out” during puberty and fit the same cup size she’d worn at fourteen. Eighty-five percent of the time she was content with her body. The other fifteen percent was usually triggered when her shape—or lack thereof—caused men to think she was in her teens.
It was embarrassing to be not just carded when ordering a drink, but questioned—address, astrological sign, and even birthstone—when out on a date, because the server assumed she had a fake ID. It invariably made her date uncomfortable too. She could tell by the way they shifted in their seat that they realized the waiter thought they were out with jailbait.
She twirled in front of the mirror. At least she had a decent butt. With just enough curve to look good in a tight dress, it didn’t disappear like her hips.
Dress decision made, what to do about her hair? Thick but dull brown, there wasn’t much she could do with it. She was tired of the French twist and decided to try a loose braid, which would keep it off her neck in the summer heat but didn’t look too librarian.
The one thing she couldn’t change was her glasses. She’d tried contact lenses several times over the years, but they hurt like hell. She’d given up and accepted her fate, choosing cute glasses in fun colors. So the glasses remained, but she chose the red-rimmed ones that matched her dress, then made a face at her reflection. She’d been feeling insecure about her appearance ever since meeting Keith Hatcher this morning, and the berating internal monologue needed to stop.
I am a smart, powerful adult woman. If I don’t respect myself, no one else will.
She stuck her tongue out at her reflection, an action that was neither powerful nor adult, but it did make her smile.
Keith Hatcher’s opinion of her looks didn’t define her. She knew who she was, inside and out, and no man’s two-second assessment should override her sense of self-worth. Yet the half-naked man she’d barely spoken to had gotten into her head.
Ridiculous. He was a source for information and nothing more. Unfortunately, she would face him again. Hatcher was her ticket away from spending her days analyzing World War II US Naval ship movements. Her account of the Navy’s action in Somalia would be beneficial to future troops and ensure the mistakes made there would never be repeated.
At least, she assumed there had been mistakes in Somalia. Why else would they give her the assignment? It also explained Hatcher’s reluctance to talk.
She’d already immersed herself in the details: the attitude of the Somali government toward al Qaeda, the rival warlords and interclan violence that
gave rise to the terrorist leader and the villagers who’d protected him. There had also been a UN peacekeepers camp, charged with protecting refugees who’d fled a warlord who had clashed with the al Qaeda leader. It should have been a case of the enemy of my enemy is my friend, but nothing was that simple in Somalia or with al Qaeda. As far as she could tell, the warlords had no concept of friend or ally.
She’d thought her new level of security clearance made the assignment a slam dunk, but she hadn’t counted on facing down a recalcitrant SEAL. Actually, several recalcitrant SEALs—no one on his team would talk to her. She’d hoped that because she hadn’t received an outright “no” to her e-mails, Keith Hatcher would be the exception.
Ready for the party, she knocked on her guest bedroom door. She’d rented out the extra room to an NHHC summer intern, Cressida Porter, who she liked a lot, but Trina was disappointed Cressida’s boyfriend was visiting for the weekend just so he could attend the party. Not because she didn’t like Todd, but because having set her sights on Perry, Trina needed a wingwoman, and with her boyfriend in tow, Cressida wasn’t available for the job.
“Cress? You and Todd ready?”
The bedroom door opened. Cressida looked gorgeous in an orange day dress that looked fabulous against her olive complexion. Her brown eyes and broad smile always reminded Trina of the actress Natalie Portman. Cressida looked pretty even rumpled and groggy first thing in the morning, which just wasn’t fair.
“Wow, your dress is hot,” Cressida said, slipping a small purse over her shoulder. “Do I look okay? God, I’m so nervous.”
“You look great. Dr. Hill’s parties are easy—there will be enough of us from NHHC there to make it a friendly crowd.”
Todd draped an arm around Cressida’s shoulder. “I’m living the dream, showing up at the party with two gorgeous women.”
It was nice of Todd to include her in the statement, but she would never compare to Cressida’s movie-star looks. Not that she wanted to, but sometimes she wished she had the kind of curves a man like Keith Hatcher would notice. Men like that never noticed the skinny, nerdy-historian types.
I do not want a Keith Hatcher type. I want a Perry Carlson type. The Perry Carlsons of the world noticed and appreciated brainy historians.
Her apartment was a third-floor walk-up on the border between the Adams Morgan and Dupont Circle neighborhoods. Because the party was in Annapolis, and neither Cressida nor Trina had a car, her coworker Erica Kesling and her fiancé, Lee Scott, were giving them a ride. As her trio stepped out into the humid summer afternoon, Lee pulled up in front of the building.
She’d met and become fast friends with Erica when Trina was hired at NHHC nearly two years ago. Erica worked in the underwater archaeology division, housed in Building One at the Washington Navy Yard, whereas Trina, Cressida, and Mara worked with the historians and terrestrial archaeologists in the larger adjacent office building.
Cressida and Erica were chatty on the drive to Dr. Hill’s estate. The younger intern only had two weeks left in DC before she would head back to the underwater archaeology graduate program at Florida State University. Trina would miss her. She’d been a fun summer roommate and coworker.
“I’m going to try to convince Hill to give us a tour of his two-person research submarine,” Erica said, garnering a squeal of delight from Cressida. “The Navy is very interested in the mapping he’s been doing off the Carolina coast. There is a submerged Curtiss SBC Helldiver in the area, and I want to know if he can get me a pretty image of it with that new side-scan sonar he’s been bragging about.”
Todd, also a graduate student in Cressida’s program, launched into praise for the latest developments in side-scan sonar, and the three underwater archaeologists were off, chattering about things Trina knew nothing about.
“What’s new in history?” Lee asked.
She smiled. Lee was a military history buff and loved hearing about her research into World War II naval operations. “I’d tell you, but my current assignment is top secret. So, you know… I’d have to kill you.”
“Finally getting to use that new security clearance? Cool.”
The vetting process had taken months, and everyone knew the clearance was the necessary step if she wanted to finally move up in the ranks. She had Mara to thank for pushing her application through. She could have languished as junior historian for a decade if not for Mara’s support.
They arrived at the party, and Erica, Cressida, and Todd went off in search of Dr. Hill and his magic submarine, leaving Trina to either stay back with Lee or venture off to find Perry. She decided to get a drink and play it cool.
Lee glanced toward the outside patio and made a face. “I’m not in the mood for this today. Wanna play pool?” He nodded toward the game room to the right, which was just off the large patio.
She crossed her arms. She’d played pool with Lee before. “Only if you promise to shoot left-handed.”
He grinned. “Deal.”
He was probably just as good with his left. They headed into the empty game room. “I’ll get us beers if you rack,” he offered.
She nodded and grabbed the triangle. She’d relax, shoot some pool, drink some beer, and then head out in search of Perry. Maybe, if she were lucky, Perry would wander in and join the game. Yes. That would be better. Fun. Casual.
She was determined to make her move today.
Keith frowned as he circled the patio. No sign of his sexy historian anywhere. The Navy contingent at the party was high—but then, with the proximity to the Academy, he’d expected that.
He finally caught sight of Rav, three-deep behind suck-ups who were hedging their bets that the man would be the next junior senator from Maryland. He caught Rav’s eye, and his friend grinned, extracted himself from the sycophants, and greeted him with a pat on the back. “I didn’t think you’d show.”
“Well, there’s a woman I’m hoping is here.”
Rav rolled his eyes. “Figures. Do I know her?”
“No clue. She works for Mara Garrett at NHHC. She’s an historian.”
“Good. For a second, I thought you were going to say she’s an archaeologist, and I was going to warn you to stay the hell away.”
“That’s right, the nut job who’s giving you trouble with the Alaska compound is an archaeologist. Is the compound still closed?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about—and why I want you to meet Curt.” Rav nodded toward the house. “He’s inside, getting his ass kicked at pool. C’mon. I’ll introduce you. Mara’s in there, so maybe your historian is there too.”
Keith followed Rav through a sliding glass door into a large room with a pool table in the center. Along the side of the room were vintage pinball machines and a sweet old Wurlitzer jukebox.
After a quick scan of the occupants of the room, he forgot all about Hill’s expensive toys. He recognized the gorgeous ass in the tight red dress bent over the rail and smiled. She took a shot, and her cue was true. A striped ball rolled into the pocket, and Trina straightened and high-fived the tall man by her side.
Holy shit, if he’d thought her sexy in the buttoned-up blouse and prim skirt, she was smoking now in a snug dress that highlighted her slim figure and revealed a little cleavage. He found himself stupid jealous of the tall man who was now giving her tips on how to line up her next shot.
“That’s enough coaching, Lee,” said a man who stood on the opposite side of the table with a cue in hand. “Trina’s kicking my ass enough as it is.” Keith recognized him as Curt Dominick. The man caught sight of Rav and said, “Alec, you done sucking up yet? I could use your help here.”
Rav made a face. “I wish.”
Trina and the tall man turned to face the door. Trina’s eyes widened, and she let slip a faint gasp.
Keith liked being the cause of that slight intake of breath. For the second time today, he watched her cheeks redden, but this time, she couldn’t bolt down the stairs and get away. No, she had to face him, and h
e liked her flustered reaction. He liked even more that she didn’t lean toward the man by her side. If the guy were her boyfriend, she sure as hell would make it clear in front of Keith. But the man and Dominick were both focused on Rav. No one but Keith seemed to notice Trina’s distress.
She stepped back and murmured something to another woman—Mara Garrett?—then handed over her stick and left the room without a word. Keith’s gaze followed her until she slipped out of sight in the garden.
“Trina’s your historian?” Rav asked.
He nodded.
Rav snickered. “Clearly not yours, though, given her quick exit.”
“Give me time, man. The party is young.”
Mara Garrett studied him from across the room, her gaze speculative.
Keith faced the men he was ostensibly here to talk to and was introduced to Lee Scott and Curt Dominick. “So, what’s going on with the Alaska compound?” Keith asked, referring to a state-of-the-art military training ground that Rav had acquired when he purchased Raptor, a private security and tactical training organization.
“It’s going to reopen the first week of September,” Rav said. “Lee is flying out next week to go over the computer security. Someone hacked the system, but I don’t think it’s the woman who’s been lobbying to get the training ground shut down permanently.”
“Why not?”
“As far as I can tell,” Lee said, “she doesn’t have the necessary skills. It’s a sophisticated hack, and while the woman is clearly smart, she’s no techie.”
Keith nodded. “And what do you want from me?”
Rav smiled. “I want you to consider giving up your premature and lazy-assed retirement. I need you at Raptor.” He nodded toward Dominick. “And for the position I’m thinking of, Curt here needs to vet you.”
The attorney general was doing background checks? This was no petty security guard position Rav was offering. Keith knew Dominick had vetted Rav personally—that was how the two men had met—before the government approved Rav’s purchase of the company after it had been seized from the previous owners. The attorney general, his wife, and Raptor had bad history.