SEAL It With a Kiss Read online

  “Can we talk, Commander?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Copyright

  “Can we talk, Commander?”

  He shook his head. “Monday Right now I’m playing pool. And you’re leaving.”

  “Oh, really? Is that an order?” There was just enough impertinence in her voice to let him know she had no intention of following it.

  “Consider it a suggestion.”

  Tabby apparently decided to try a new tack. “Wanna play?” she asked, nodding toward the pool table.

  He picked up his cue stick and handed her another. “No shop talk,” he said before letting go.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She opened her eyes wide with feigned innocence.

  “Yeah, right.” That innocent act didn’t cut it with him, and neither did the femme fatale. She could hang around all night, use every feminine wile she possessed, and she still wouldn’t change his mind. But why not enjoy the company?

  He should have run when he had the chance.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  When a high-school aptitude test said she was suited to work in either a library or the clergy, Rogenna Brewer joined the navy. After boot camp, her first assignment was at Naval Air Station Midway Island. She started in the CO’s office but ended up in the chaplain’s, where her duties included operating the base library. Other duty stations followed, though she never actually left U.S. territory.

  Eventually she met and married a sailor and admits to being jealous of his travels. “My husband’s visited seventeen countries and was stationed aboard the USS Enterprise for the filming of two major motion pictures, Top Gun and The Hunt for Red October.

  After her stint in the navy, she became a bookseller and a reviewer. But she’s always wanted to be a writer.

  Rogenna would love to hear from her readers. You can write her at P.O. Box 9806, Denver, CO 80209; e-mail her at [email protected] or visit her web site at http://members.aol.com/Rogenna

  SEAL It With a Kiss

  Rogenna Brewer

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  For my mother who believed,

  For my husband, from the “Show Me” state,

  For my three sons just because,

  For my critique group/partners for their support...

  I love you all.

  Special thanks to my self-appointed research assistant,

  Tina Novinski, for the countless little things you do.

  Also to Deb Kastner for being able to read my mind.

  And to Kathy Holzapfel for being just an e-mail away.

  CHAPTER ONE

  0927 Thursday: The Commander’s Office

  NAVAL SPECIAL WARFARE CENTER,

  Coronado, CA

  THE COMMANDER CONTINUED his relentless pacing behind the desk as he read her file. “At ease,” he ordered without looking up.

  He seemed reluctant to give even that much. It wasn’t his tone, resonant and deeply masculine, or his words that gave Lieutenant Tabitha Chapel the insight. It was what Commander Marc Miller left unsaid.

  “Yes, sir.” Tabby removed her cover, tucking the hat to her forearm. Her feet throbbed in new shoes. There wasn’t a single pesky thread flagging her dress white uniform; she’d clipped them all down to the seam, wanting to make a good first impression. From the look on his face she was making anything but.

  Then again she’d known this wasn’t going to be easy.

  Staring straight ahead, she studied Miller as he moved in and out of her peripheral vision. The man was younger than expected for a Commanding Officer. midthirties possibly. A frown furrowed otherwise handsome features, drawing dark brows slightly above a strong angular nose while his mouth held a firm line. She suspected a smile was rare. In any case, there were no laugh lines around his eyes.

  For Tabby laugh lines on a man were a must.

  But she wasn’t here looking for a man. She was here reporting in for temporary duty, TDY in military terms.

  He stopped pacing and cleared his throat. “I said at ease.” Looking up from the file, he snapped it shut and leveled his baby blues at her. “That means relax.”

  She knew what it meant! She just didn’t know how to relax while the man held her future in his hands.

  “Yes, sir,” she repeated, forcing herself to slacken her stance. Now that she had his undivided attention she was acutely aware of the sharp intelligence shining in his eyes.

  Eyes that missed nothing.

  He tossed the folder to the desktop and moved around in front of it. Hitching up a pant leg of his khaki uniform, he perched on the corner and gave her the once-over. “Tell me why you’re here, Lieutenant.”

  “I believe the orders are self-explanatory, sir.” It was all there in black and white. He must have read them at least a dozen times.

  She was here to conduct a feasibility study on incorporating women into SEAL Training. Navy SEALs were part of the U.S. Special Operations Command. Miller was a prime example of their physical conditioning.

  His well-muscled biceps strained the stitching of three-quarter sleeves as he folded tanned arms across a broad chest. “I didn’t ask what your orders were. I asked why you, Tabitha Lilith Chapel-Prince were reporting in to my command.”

  Tabby tilted her chin. She understood perfectly. He was asking why she, a female, was reporting in to his all-male command. Because she had a lot more brass behind her than he did. At least she hoped she did.

  “Then, sir, I’m afraid I don’t understand your question.”

  “I don’t buy that. According to your service record, five years ago you graduated first in your class at Annapolis. Is the Naval Academy lowering its standards to accommodate female Midshipmen?”

  “No!” she snapped, immediately regretting her outburst If he was trying to get a rise out of her, he’d gotten one. “No, sir,” she corrected.

  “I’m not impressed, Lieutenant. There are only three things that impress me. Honesty is one of them.”

  Did the top brass in Washington know about this guy? He belonged on a recruiting poster, finger pointing, the words I Want You in bold black letters with Old Glory flying in the background.

  “I’m here because I was ordered here TDY,” she said, a touch too haughtily for addressing a senior officer. Commander or not, she wasn’t going to back down. And this man would likely turn out to be her worst enemy, if he wasn’t already.

  “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, Lieutenant. An insult is an insult no matter how pretty the package.”

  He could have meant the insincerity of her words. But she suspected the insult was the fact her boss, Rear Admiral Gromley—the Chief of Naval Personnel—had sent her and not a man to do the job.

&nbs
p; And why not? Gromley was a woman. The highest ranking woman in the Navy. More importantly, she supported Tabby’s agenda.

  He straightened. 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 continued.

  “I volunteered, Commander. Because the study is my idea.” 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.”

  “True enough. I don’t want you here. But I’ll work out that issue 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.

  At least 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 junior officers who crossed the 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 the least bit appealing. But Miller would find her as tough as old boot leather.

  “Chapel’s your maiden name?” he asked, derailing her train of thought.

  “My mother’s. But I prefer it.”

  “Are you related to Captain Tad Prince, retired Navy?”

  “He’s my father.”

  He acknowledged her answer with a curt nod. “I knew your father. Once upon a time...”

  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.

  She’d read Miller’s bio. He was that rare breed the Navy called Mustang. He’d gone through SEAL Training as a nineteen-year-old Seaman. While serving his enlistment, he’d earned his bachelor’s degree through applied studies and night school. Then he’d attended Officer Candidate School and received his commission at age twenty-three.

  Miller hadn’t missed a beat by not getting a conventional college education. He didn’t seem like the Ivy League type anyway, too rough around the edges. And he definitely wasn’t Academy material.

  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. The sketchy bio hadn’t given her much to go on. Now that she’d met him, she wanted to know as much as possible about the man. She waited, expecting him to dismiss her.

  “Are you staying at the BOQ?”

  “Yes.” 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. In fact, she was banking on it.

  “Until Monday? What time do you want me here in the morning?”

  “As far as I’m concerned you’re on liberty. Take a couple days to see 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 had a mission.

  She held out her hand to shake his, then dropped it awkwardly when he didn’t return the courtesy. His hand 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.

  To hell with protocol!

  “Naval regulations state three inches above or below the knee, Commander,” she snapped. “I prefer three inches above.” 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 of fice 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.

  The lady knew how to make an exit.

  “Attention on deck,” Jeff “the Preacher” Perry called out, jumping to his feet.

  The Lieutenant marched past 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 green fatigues. “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 on which 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 off the question and the accompanying comment with a shake of 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 uniform skirts three inches above the knee, too.

  “Pull out the Uniform Regs on hemlines before you head out to the gym,” he instructed.

  “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?” With a cocky grin, the young enlisted man opened the requested manual.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to give her.”

  “I could think of a better way to do it.”

  So could he. But he’d never admit it.

  “Add a copy of the section on grooming standards,” Marc said. “Could be she needs to lose an inch from the length of her hair.”

  Shaking his blond he
ad, 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 a little 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 the Lieutenant was a blonde or a redhead?” He affected a disinterested tone.

  “She’s what you call one of them strawberry blondes,” Perry informed him. “Here.” He handed Marc the copies.

  Marc stopped tapping and set the pencil aside. “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.

  If she’d shined up her brass, he’d shine up his.

  “Preach, get me Admiral Dann on the horn.” She had the Chief of Naval Personnel in her pocket. But he had the Chief of SEALs in his.

  Marc closed his office door behind him. He glanced briefly at the pages in hand, 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 didn’t stop.

  Rounding the piece of furniture he called home, he picked up his copy of Lieutenant Chapel’s orders.

  Women SEALs? No way!

  “Not in this man’s Navy.” Slapping the orders back to the blotter, he sat down. Why did he have the feeling trouble was spelled “Tabitha” with a capital T?