Midway Between You and Me (Harlequin Super Romance)

by Rogenna Brewer

  She felt a surge of something… Wistfulness? But for what she didn’t know. “I was born in Hanoi, raised in Ho Chi Minh City until I was fifteen,” she admitted, but couldn’t explain why she chose to confide in him.

  She’d said too much.

  But not enough to erase the compassion in his eyes. If he thought it unusual for an Amerasian to be born in North Vietnam, he didn’t comment. Along with compassion she could see a spark of curiosity. Or perhaps interest that had been there all along.

  “Maybe someday you’ll go back for a visit. It’s a small world and getting smaller all the time.”

  She could never go back.

  “Not that small.” Even if he wasn’t referring to their obvious differences, he had to see that like Midway, she belonged neither east nor west.

  “Not when you’re a long way from home,” he agreed, holding out his hand. “Lieutenant Bowie Prince, CEC, USN.”

  She read his name off his uniform at the same time he said it and realized all he’d had to do was read her jacket to find out hers. He probably already had.

  She’d heard the loneliness in his words. They were both a long way from home. She should run away from him as fast and as far as her feet could carry her. She didn’t want to find a kindred spirit in this man. Hesitating, she took a deep breath and put her hand in his. “Professor Tam Nguyen, warden of Midway Islands.”

  “Professor.” He held her hand a moment too long.

  She pulled out of his grasp and wiped her slightly damp palm along her thigh. “So, Lieutenant, what are you doing on my island?”

  “Your island? I thought Midway Islands belonged to the Department of the Navy.”

  “The Navy likes to think so.”

  “My mistake.” He didn’t even try to disguise the amusement in his voice.

  It took a second to sink in. Then she realized just what he found so funny. Academy. CEC, USN.

  “You’re not Army, are you?”

  “’Fraid not. United States Navy at your service, ma’am.” He offered a mock salute.

  “Technically,” she said, backtracking, “the Naval Air Facility and islands still belong to the Navy.”

  “I know.”

  “I guess it just goes to show you can’t judge a man by his uniform.” Her natural skepticism returned. Because to her they were all alike.

  “Sure you can.” He lifted his right collar. “Double bars make me a lieutenant, same as a captain in the Army. Both are O-3—officer, third pay grade. Like you’re—what?—a GS-7?”

  He had the Government Service part right. “GS-13.”

  “I guess we know which one of us makes the big bucks.”

  They were actually about equal on the pay scale. And about the same age, she surmised. She’d been making a lot of assumptions, now curiosity got the better of her. “What about the initials, CEC?”

  “Civil Engineer Corps. Same as the speciality insignia on my left collar.” He pointed to the cluster of gold leaves and silver acorns.

  “A civil combat engineer? As if that’s not an oxy-moron.”

  “I’m trying to be serious.” But his smile said he wasn’t trying very hard. He wasn’t the serious, studious type. He wasn’t her type.

  “So tell me what the insignia above your name means?” She studied the bee anchored in another leaf cluster between crossed rifle and sword.

  “Seabee Combat Warfare Specialist. And the red kangaroo patch on my shoulder is for my unit, Naval Mobile Construction Battalion One Thirty-Three—the Running Roos. Long story short, NMCB133 was first commissioned to deploy to Australia. But World War Two came along and they shipped out to the South Pacific instead.”

  “And the one with the lightning bolt on your other shoulder?”

  “Underwater Demolition Trained.”

  That sounded dangerous. “Is there a story behind it, too?”

  “Never on a first date.”

  She ignored the implication. This wasn’t a date, only a chance meeting. “I suppose some women find a dangerous man fascinating.”

  “But not you.” He made it a statement, not a question. But there was a question hiding behind those words.

  She looked back up into those sea-green eyes. She could see herself drowning in them. “Not me,” she agreed.

  She found fascinating men dangerous.

  “I didn’t think so,” he conceded. “So now you know everything there is to know about me. Let’s talk about something more interesting.”

  “Like?”

  “You.”

  She’d drown, all right, or at least find herself in over her head without a life preserver. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Tam sought to change the subject. “You never did answer my question.”

  “What question was that?”

  “What are you doing on my island?”

  “I thought we decided this was my island?”

  “You’re just passing through, remember?” She made a point of reminding them both. And just in case she needed a further reminder, instead of his eyes, she contemplated the combat boots that would be marching right out of her life.

  His boots were caked in dried mud. But his trousers were wet to the knees and covered in sand and muck. Why was that?

  Could it be she’d found Bigfoot?

  Her gaze darted back up to meet his. “Been anywhere near Eastern Island tonight?”

  “That’s an odd question.”

  “Have you?” she persisted.

  “I could tell you,” he teased. “But then—”

  “Let me guess. You’d have to kill me? I’ve heard that one before.” Why wouldn’t he answer her simple question?

  “I’d have to seal your lips…somehow. But how is classified.”

  Ninety percent of all communication was supposed to be nonverbal. His message came through loud and clear on both levels, I want you.

  But he represented everything she didn’t want.

  He leaned in. And she realized in about one second she’d either come to her senses or wish she’d popped one of her Tic-Tacs. Tam cleared her throat. “I’m not going to let you kiss me.”

  “No?” A trace of hope lingered behind that word.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “Because we just met?” He pulled back and searched her face. “Or because you don’t want to kiss me?”

  Did they just meet? He felt familiar.

  Did she want to kiss him?

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters to me. I swear—” he raised his hand in oath like the Boy Scout he wasn’t “—whatever the answer I’ll still respect you in the morning.”

  “It’s already morning.”

  “It’s always morning somewhere in the world. What are you afraid of?”

  “Bee stings.”

  For the first time an awkward silence fell between them. He’d taken her rejection personally this time.

  She’d meant it that way.

  “I guess you couldn’t be any more honest than that.”

  A shrill whistle came from the direction of the cargo plane. They both turned toward the soldier waving his arms. “L.T.!” the man shouted. “Time to move out!”

  “Guess you have to go.”

  “They won’t leave without me.” He adjusted the helmet full of loot at his hip.

  But the refueling truck headed back to the hangar. And there didn’t seem to be anything left to say, except goodbye. Though neither of them said it, their time together had come to an end.

  “L.T.!”

  “Coming!” he shouted, then frowned an apology to her, swallowing whatever it was he’d been about to say.

  “You really should go….” She searched for something to break his hold on her. Or her hold on him. She focused on his boots again, then up his thigh. And stopped. “Did you get that in Thailand?”

  “This?” He unsheathed the weapon strapped to his leg.

  “Handle’s ivory, isn’t it? I’m going to have to confiscate your
knife, Lieutenant.”

  “What?”

  “Please hand over your weapon.” She held out her hand.

  “Are you trying to disarm me, Warden? Because I could think of better ways to do it.” He made light of her request. That irritated her, not that she wasn’t used to it, but it didn’t deter her. “Your weapon.”

  “I happen to be the senior ranking officer on an American military installation—”

  “Under the management of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I’m a civilian doing my job. And as a U.S. citizen on U.S. soil you have no authority over me, Lieutenant. A fact that’s written into the United States Constitution.”

  “So we’re at a standoff.”

  “No, I still intend to have your knife. You’ll never get something like that through Customs. Importing ivory is illegal.”

  He sheathed the knife. She thought he’d walk away then, but he surprised her. Untying the thong with a jerk, he handed it to her. “Let’s just say I know which battles are worth fighting. I’ll be back for that.” He nodded toward the knife in her hand. “And maybe we’ll get around to having breakfast together, after all.”

  His words promised she’d have more than a fight on her hands. But it was the unspoken promise in his eyes that threatened her.

  She liked him better with his helmet on.

  Tam put her hands on her hips and tilted her chin to meet his steady gaze. “There’s one thing you should know about me, Lieutenant. I don’t cook.”

  “But I make a mean western omelet. And I didn’t buy that piece in Bangkok. It’s a family heirloom. So take very good care of it for me.”

  He walked away then, leaving Tam to squint into the rising sun. Each step took him farther away. She felt the tiniest tug at her heart, almost as if he were taking it with him.

  Impossible. She didn’t believe in love at first sight.

  She didn’t believe in love at all.

  Tam turned the ivory handle over in her hands. No question the knife had to be valuable—the craftsmanship alone made it a museum piece—but an heirloom?

  She touched the tip of the well-honed blade. The prick barely registered. Even if she did believe in love, she wouldn’t fall for a soldier.

  “A sailor,” she corrected herself, sucking her nicked finger. But it didn’t stop the sting. “A Seabee.”

  It didn’t really matter, though. Because soldier or sailor, the last thing she’d ever do would be to repeat her mother’s mistake.

  CHAPTER TWO

  0830 Wednesday

  NAVAL STATION PEARL HARBOR

  Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

  ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY commands operated out of Naval Station Pearl Harbor. Lieutenant Bowie Prince could only assume the cavernous underground bunker with high-tech security was one of them. They’d been taken there after landing, left alone in the interrogation room and not one member of his eight-man squad knew what to expect next.

  Bowie removed his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. “There’s enough grease on my scalp to replace a can of WD-40.” The laughter released the tension momentarily. “I guess we wait.” He set his helmet on a nearby conference table. Their gear and weapons had been left in a holding area. “Help yourselves to coffee.”

  A stainless-steel pot percolated in the corner. And several of his men did just that. Afterward they scattered to sit around the room.

  While he remained standing.

  Afraid he might fall asleep on his feet, Bowie paced from one end to the other. There were speakers in every corner, TV monitors built into the far wall, and a mirrored observation window framed the wall closest to him.

  He debated addressing the mirror.

  “Here.” Dylan McCain handed him a longed-for cup of coffee and joined him in staring at the window.

  “Thanks.” Right about now he needed to mainline the stuff straight to his bloodstream. “I hate to even grumble when I know my every word can be overheard, but I wish they’d just get on with it.”

  “You and me both,” the lieutenant junior grade agreed. He’d removed his helmet as well. His hair was just as dirty and he smelled just as bad. They all did. No less than to be expected after weeks spent in the jungles of Laos.

  Thailand had been their official post in Asia, but after they’d run into a little snafu, the mission had turned classified—which was why they were here now waiting to be debriefed.

  “Sorry I snapped at you on the plane,” Bowie offered the awkward apology.

  “Forget it.”

  McCain had been the first to comment on the fact that Bowie’s knife was missing in action. Along with any chance of having breakfast with someone more appetizing than his squad.

  “Still thinking about the one that got away?”

  “You mean the one that got away with my knife? ‘Man is the hunter, woman is his game,’” Bowie quoted. “Only, Tennyson had it wrong, sometimes woman is the game warden.” And he wasn’t likely to forget that anytime soon.

  His next mission would be to get his knife back.

  “I believe this belongs to you, college boy.” Master Chief Russell “Rusty” Cohen handed over Bowie’s wallet.

  Bowie checked the contents and groaned, only one twenty dollar bill remained. His wallet had made the rounds along with his helmet full of junk food.

  “I’ll take that.” Rusty snatched up the last of his hard-earned cash.

  That would teach him to bet the entire squad he could scrounge up breakfast, a real breakfast. He’d never failed before. His stomach growled, as if in reminder. All he’d had today was a Coke and a Fig Newton.

  And a few minutes of female company.

  Company that had made it very clear she wasn’t interested. In him.

  “College boy, listen to your papa-san.” Rusty slung his arm around Bowie’s shoulder. “Forget about her. Tonight we’re taking you to a little place I know.”

  “I don’t know, Master Chief. I’m ready to crash—”

  The door opened just then. Their battalion commander, Captain Harris, straight from Gulfport, Mississippi, walked in and the tension returned. Harris led from behind the desk, but always showed up to take credit for a job well done.

  Rusty removed his arm from around Bowie and cleared his throat. “Attention on deck!”

  The men stood as one.

  The captain acknowledged them with a slight nod. A dozen or so uniformed officers and civilians filed in behind him. Bowie assumed the men and women were with Intelligence and would take and analyze their statements.

  Bringing up the rear was The Chief of SEALs. Admiral Mitchell Dann, his father’s best friend since the Kennedy era, strode toward Bowie, walking stick in hand.

  “Admiral,” Bowie extended his welcome.

  “Hell of a job, son!” The admiral clasped his hand, then pulled him into a bear hug in spite of their being in uniform and in company.

  Bowie met Harris’s disapproving gaze over his godfather’s shoulder and pulled back. “Reclamation projects and roadways are a Seabee speciality.”

  “The monsoon season hit Thailand hard this year. I’m sure the relief efforts of your detachment were appreciated. But you know damn well I’m referring to the drug warlord your boys captured,” the admiral said, dismissing his attempt at modesty.

  Bowie puzzled over the comment. “The last we heard the Thai government let General Xang go.”

  “Xang is a very powerful man. The Thai government doesn’t want border disputes with Laos and Burma to escalate any more than they already had. But that’s not the whole story…. At ease,” he ordered once he realized the rest of the men remained standing at attention. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  When the room settled down, the admiral introduced one of the civilians. “This is Robert Stevens. Rob is a former Navy SEAL who served with distinction in Vietnam. Team Seven. Alpha squad,” Dann noted for Bowie’s benefit.

  His father’s unit.

  The distinction the admiral referred to was the
rumor Stevens had had more than one hundred enemy kills during a covert operation at Parrot’s Beak, Laos. He’d gone through the war with a VC bounty of fifteen hundred U.S. dollars on his head. A hell of a lot of money in that place and time.

  His dad had never mentioned more than that, except to say Stevens hadn’t made it home. Bowie’d assumed the man had died over there because SEALs were known for never leaving a man behind. If he had, then Bowie stood talking to a ghost.

  And though Stevens may have grayed at the temples, he looked healthy enough. Like Bowie’s father and godfather, the ex-SEAL kept in shape.

  “Sir.” Bowie shook Stevens’s hand.

  “Lieutenant, I know I have at least twenty years on you, but I’m uncomfortable with officers addressing me as sir when my highest rank in the Navy was chief. Call me Rob.”

  “It would be an honor.”

  “And I’ll try to remember to call you Bowie. How’s your mother? And that old son of a gun you call a father?”

  “Great.” Bowie rubbed his thigh. Stevens had given his father the ivory-handled knife, the knife his father had entrusted to his youngest son. The knife the game warden on Midway had taken from him.

  “Rob is with the Central Intelligence Agency,” Admiral Dann continued. “Former head of the Far East division of Shadow Ops. And current head of that same division’s Air America.”

  “For the record,” Stevens said, “neither of those organizations exist.” He moved to the far end of the room and stood in front of the TV monitors. “Gentlemen, I’ll be debriefing you this morning.”

  So Stevens was a ghost. A CIA spook. And unless he operated from behind a desk, probably deep cover.

  “Congratulations,” Stevens began. “You’ve managed to do in three weeks what I haven’t been able to accomplish in thirty years. You captured General Bian Xang.” Stevens held up his hands as if he expected them to deny it. Xang’s face appeared on the monitors behind him. “I know you’ve heard Xang’s been released. And it’s true.”

  Disappointed murmurs followed the comment.