Navy Rules

As a junior officer, J.O., he’d idolized the Commanding Officer of his squadron who’d owned this place. When his Commanding Officer got divorced and the house was sold as part of the settlement, Max bought it. He’d rented it out while he was stationed in Florida, and eagerly returned to his prized home just under two years ago, when he took the Executive Officer/Commanding Officer, XO/CO, job in his squadron. He’d had his Change of Command party here last year and the world seemed to be his to conquer.

He’d been so much younger only a year ago. His Aviation Command of Prowler Squadron Eighty-One had been in front of him. He’d led over two hundred men and women into battle over Iraq and Afghanistan. They’d all come home intact.

Except him.

He raised his arms overhead to stretch his back, as the physical therapist had taught him. The shrapnel had been removed and the scars were healing.

Too bad his brain couldn’t get stitched back up so easily.

“You have PTSD. You know the drill, Max. You’re one of our Navy’s finest. We’ll get you a great job on Whidbey, shore duty, and give you time to heal. Then we’ll see where it all falls out for an O-6 command.”

His boss, the Wing Commander, had done everything Max would have done for one of his own charges. He’d been compassionate, honest, strong.

But having been a commanding officer himself, Max saw beyond the clichéd promises.

Max had seen the look of resignation in his boss’s eyes. He didn’t expect Max to return to a real Navy job. His operational days were done. No one came back whole from what he’d seen—the monster who’d appeared in the form of the suicide bomber he’d prevented from killing hundreds of fellow servicemen and women.

Instead of preparing his squadron for another deployment, during which they’d become the well-honed warriors they’d signed up to be, he was sitting on his deck, staring at the Cascade Mountains, waiting for some volunteer social worker to bring over a dog.

A dog.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like dogs. Max planned on having several once his Navy days were over. Hell, since he was on shore duty indefinitely, he could even consider going to the animal shelter in Coupeville and adopting himself a real dog. Something big and furry. He’d never been a tiny-dog fan. If the dog handler showed up with anything smaller than a bear cub he wasn’t going to work with it.

His problem wasn’t with the dog per se. Max’s problem was with still needing therapy. He’d accepted the weekly meetings with the on-base counselor. He’d met with the PTSD support group and shared his feelings. Yet his therapist thought he’d benefit from some dog time. Dog therapy time.

He blamed himself for asking what else he could do to help the other sailors. It was getting too painful to go back to the base day after day and not be able to walk into a hangar that he’d practically owned. Not to face a squadron of courageous young men and women and know that he was leading the best team on the planet. Know that he was the CO they could count on to lead them through hell and back.

His therapist had suggested canine therapy.

“Do you mean so I can give therapy to other vets?”

“No, Max. So you can get some healing from the dog. The caretaker isn’t a therapist, just a handler. You and the dog form the bond.”

“But you mean I’ll do this so I can then provide the same service to others, right?”

Marlene Goodreach, his therapist, had shifted in her seat. Her face was lined, no doubt because of the countless tales of horror she’d helped sailors like him unburden.

“Max. This is about you. You’ve done brilliantly—your physical wounds have healed, your memory is back. But you’re still resistant to facing your own anger and disappointment over the change in your career plans. I think working with a therapy dog would help the tension you still have in your gut.”

Max had learned that the price of throwing himself into his recovery and hoping to eventually help others was that his therapist got to know him too well. He didn’t have the option of keeping his emotions from Marlene.

At least the counselor had agreed to let him meet the dog and its handler on his own turf, away from the looks of pity on base NAS Whidbey Island.

He clenched his hands around the porch railing. Only when his grip became painful did he force himself to breathe and release his grip. He despised the well-meaning comments, the compassionate glances, the fatherly pats on the shoulder.

“Take care of yourself, Max. You’ve been through a lot.”

“Hey, you’ve had command, you brought the team home, relax.”

“You’ve earned this shore tour. Enjoy it.”

“Why not retire after this, take some time for Max? You’ll make O-6, what’s your worry?”

He didn’t even like working out on base anymore. Too many familiar faces. He flexed his feet. The soreness in his calves was a testament to the extra-long session he’d put on the spin bike he’d bought. He kept it on the glassed-in deck upstairs, so he could watch the sun come up as he rode in place.

He saw the sunrise every day. Sleep wasn’t a given for him anymore.

The dark clouds threatened rain but so far only gusts of tropical warmth rustled the underbrush under tall firs that waved with the wind. Spring on Whidbey meant chaos as far as the weather was concerned.

He saw the approaching car before he heard it. A compact station wagon. As it neared he recognized the larger shape in back—the dog.

The woman in the driver’s seat made him catch his breath.

No.

It was the same honey corkscrew hair, the same generous mouth under the too-round-to-be-classic nose.

Was this some kind of joke? The very woman he’d guided through the fires of her own hell when Tom died was here to reach a hand into his purgatory?

More importantly, the woman who’d rejected him and whom he’d avoided since his return.

He stood as she brought the car to a stop in front of his house. She stepped out and walked straight to the back. There was no mistaking her graceful gait, her purposeful stride.

Winnie always knew where she was going, save for that brief tortured time after Tom’s death.

She opened the back of the wagon and commanded the dog down. It was a big dog but not a fluffy soft breed. The mostly black coat ruffled a little in the strong breeze.

Not a tiny dog, at least.

Max let out a sigh. The dog appeared to be tough and knowing as he trotted next to Winnie up the driveway.

She drew closer and he tried to stay focused on the dog, Winnie’s muddy boots, her barn coat, her jeans. Anything but the face he had trouble forgetting… He’d prided himself on staying away from her since his return to Whidbey two months earlier. He hadn’t even checked to see if she was still on the island—he assumed she was, or nearby, since her family lived in the vicinity.

But he’d kept her out of his life, away from the mess his mental state had made of it.

Until now.

She stopped a few feet away, close enough for him to make out the almond shape of her long-lashed amber eyes, yet far enough not to invite physical contact. No hello hug.

“Max.” She’d known it was him; he saw that in the resigned line of her mouth. But she hadn’t called first, hadn’t given him fair warning.

Hell, why should she? She made her feelings clear when she didn’t return your calls over two years ago.

He’d last seen her just before he’d taken the one-year position of Executive Officer, which had led into his next tour, also one year, as Commanding Officer.

“Winnie.” He stood at the edge of the drive, his hands in his pockets. Her hands were busy, too—one thrust in her pocket and one on the leash.

He’d always loved her hands. They were warm, long-fingered, elegant.

If he thought the PTSD had robbed him of his sex drive, he’d been mistaken. The familiar surge of need he associated with Winnie made him clench his hands inside his jeans pockets.

Winnie seemed unmoved by their reunion except for the way she tossed a stray curl out of her face. He saw her do that just a few times before. When she’d heard Tom’s will read by the Navy JAG, when he’d stopped by her house in the weeks after Tom’s death and two years ago, when she’d agreed to meet him for a beer at the local microbrewery after the Air Show. If only one of them had said no that night. If only he hadn’t given in to the surprising yet delightful sexual attraction that sprang up between them. If only they’d preserved their basic friendship, this inevitable meeting might not be so bone-scrapingly painful.

“This is Sam.” She turned to Sam. “Good dog, Sam. Greet Max.”

The dog sat and wagged his tail, an expectant look on his dark face. As Max leaned lower he could see the blond eyebrows and wisps of blond coming out of Sam’s ears. He reached out his hand. “Hi, Sam.”

Sam sniffed inquisitively before he licked Max’s open palm. The dog sidled up to him and sat down next to Max’s sneakered foot.

“He likes you.” Winnie smiled at Sam while she avoided eye contact with Max.

His memory of that night two years ago was intact, always had been. She’d enjoyed their lovemaking as much as he had. She could have called him. But Winnie hadn’t, as he’d known she wouldn’t—it wasn’t her style. She’d probably been embarrassed that she’d revealed so much to him that night. Physically, anyhow.

He’d already seen her inside and out on an emotional level when Tom was killed and he’d been her CACO, her Casualty Assistance Calls Officer. He’d been the one, along with the base chaplain, to knock on Winnie’s door at six in the morning, to inform her that Tom was dead. He’d taken her through all the paperwork, the life insurance forms, the burial arrangements. He’d found child care for Krista when it was needed, when the proceedings were too grim for a seven-year-old child to partake in.

He’d seen sides of Winnie he’d never expected. The whiny wife he’d chalked her up to be, the woman who always wanted Tom to get out of the Navy, turned into a strong widow before his eyes. She didn’t blame the Navy or Tom for his untimely death. Through the devastating grief, he watched her accept the unwelcome change in her and Krista’s lives with dignified grace.

Her grace was one of the many things about her that attracted him. A more serious relationship with Winnie, however, had never been a remote possibility. His first allegiance was to Tom and the Navy, and he planned to keep it that way.

He had more work to do, as the counselor said. And not all of it concerned his PTSD.

“I have hot water for tea,” he said. “Would you like to come in?”

Winnie lifted her chin and her gaze finally met his. The sparks in their brown depths took him back to that night with her, that one great night.

Before his life as a Navy pilot had been shattered.

“Okay, thanks.” She offered him a smile, but it didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. “We won’t stay too long, just enough to make sure you’ll be comfortable with Sam this weekend.”

* * *

THE KITCHEN WAS SLEEK and modern, as she remembered. It had been “the” house when they were all so much younger. Before death had cast a long and early shadow across their lives. Winnie watched Max pour hot water from the stainless kettle into the iron teapot. She didn’t dare look at his face. But then, staring at his masculine hands was awkward, too; as she remembered the last time she’d seen him.

When those hands had been all over her.

She sighed. Not dating was the only option for her at the moment but it had its drawbacks. Being acutely aware of her sexual attraction to Max was one of them.

“How’s Krista?” His deep baritone broke the silence of the square house.

“Krista’s great, fine. She’s in middle school.”

Her reply was as bare, as unadorned, as the house. She knew it and, judging by his raised brows, so did Max.

“She’s a great kid. Tom would be proud of her.” Her cadence was still too clipped. He was going to wonder why.

Stop it.

“I’m glad. Has she—” Max pulled out a strainer for the tea “—adjusted okay?”

“It’s been almost six years, Max. It was a horrible time for her, but she doesn’t remember as much of the awfulness of it as we do.”

He poured the tea with practiced ease.

“I forgot you’re a tea drinker.” She’d grown up in Washington State where coffee was a staple. But Max’s mother was from England and his father a Harvard law professor; tea was the drink of choice in his childhood home. Years ago, Tom and their aviation friends had teased him mercilessly about it.

“Yeah, some things stay the same. Honey?” His voice triggered her awareness of him. And took her thoughts back to the night of the Air Show when he’d whispered in her ear.

“No, just plain. Thanks.” The kitchen counter stool was cold against her back. She had to focus on where she was today and stay away from memories of that night.

She had to get back to the purpose of her visit—telling Max what the fateful outcome of that night had been. Telling him he was a father.

But she couldn’t do it. “You want to have Sam for the whole weekend?” she asked. Nothing about Maeve, only the dog. She couldn’t strike the match that would ignite an explosion of feelings—recrimination, accusation, disbelief, anger.

“If it’s okay with you. Yes, I thought that would keep my therapist happy and cause the least amount of trouble for you.”

“It’s no trouble for me, Max. I come back and forth to the base every week. This is only another ten minutes past there. I can easily bring him over daily instead of leaving him.” She’d never leave Sam with a new client, but Max was hardly new to her.

“We’ll work it out.” He seemed distracted.

Tell him.

“Winnie, I owe you an apology. I was a real shit after the Air Show two years ago. I did try to reach you, but when you didn’t respond I should’ve been more persistent. I was getting ready to go to war, and frankly, that took over my life. But I want you to realize I didn’t take that night casually.”

Her stomach felt as if it had collapsed inward and she fought to keep her demeanor calm and collected. Without knowing it, Max was making her need to take responsibility more painful.

This isn’t about you. It’s about Maeve and her daddy. He deserves to know. Screw up your courage and get it over with.

“Stop it—we’re both adults. No apology needed.” Yet her face grew hotter by the second.

Where was this reaction coming from? She’d decided to keep him out of her life, away from Maeve.

You’re angry at yourself. You’ve kept him from his daughter.

“No, it was totally wrong of me on so many levels. I enjoyed my time with you, and that night, believe it or not, was special to me. But I went back to Florida, and then got the command posting here, the deployment orders to Afghanistan and, well, I figured you might have regrets and not want to talk about it. I never wanted to cause you any pain, Winnie.”

“Max, please, drop it.” She was terrible at lying.

“I tried emailing you, too, but when you didn’t reply, I felt it was probably best for both of us.”

She kept her eyes glued on the steel-gray mug she drank from, but the sense of being watched made her look up and into his dark blue eyes. Shame clawed at her and sent heat up her neck, onto her cheeks. She should have called him. But she’d found out he was going to war. Not a good time to tell someone he had a baby on the way.

“I want you to be able to trust me, Winnie.” He set his cup on the counter and leaned toward her. She felt the warmth that radiated from him, smelled the scent that had imprinted on her mind two years ago.

“I trust you, Max.” That had never been an issue between them.

“With your dog.”

She blinked.

“I don’t have a problem leaving Sam with you. I mean, as far as trust goes.”

“But?”

Winnie shifted on the hard stool This really was a bachelor’s home—it looked slick and modern but definitely lacked comfort.

“The girls and I rely on Sam for our weekends. He’s part of the family.”

“Girls?”

She winced and hoped it was inward.

God, please don’t let me blow this. Not now.

“I have two children, Max. Krista and Maeve.”

His expression went still. She saw his gaze on her left hand, watched as his eyes registered her bare ring finger.

“I didn’t know you were with someone new.”

“I’m not with anyone. But would it be such a shock? It’s been a long time.”

“Of course not. I was surprised you didn’t move on more quickly.” He had his back to her, rinsing out the teapot in the sink.

“Oh?”

“Your marriage with Tom was so solid. Most of the widows I’ve dealt with over the years remarry sooner rather than later if they had a strong first marriage.”

She sighed and forced her hands to unclench the fists they’d become on the granite counter. She felt so stiff, as if warding off an attack, and here was Max giving her a compliment.

“No, I haven’t remarried and I don’t see any reason to. The girls and I have a good life, and the thought of bringing in a third party at this point isn’t on my priority list.”

A moment ago she was ready to tell him. Now she wanted to turn tail and run.

He nodded. “I hear you. When I was Commanding Officer of my squadron, before we deployed, most of my late-night calls, unfortunately, were domestic violence or child molestation—many at the hands of a boyfriend or second husband. It’s scary out there.”

She relaxed her shoulders. This was much safer ground. As much as she’d convinced herself she was ready to tell Max about Maeve, she was nowhere near prepared to deal with the storm of emotions it would inevitably release.

Emotions from a man who’d spent the past months doing everything he could to repress all emotion, just to survive. Who was still recovering from the effects of his own hell.

Stay focused, damn it.

“Yes, it is. I’m not willing to take any risks when it comes to my girls and their safety.”

He sipped his tea and regarded her with steady eyes.

“There’s one thing you haven’t mentioned, Winnie.”

Her breath caught, her mind beginning its all-too-familiar racing. What had she forgotten? How had she left the girls vulnerable? “What?”

“What do you do when you’re lonely, Winnie? Who do you turn to?”

CHAPTER TWO

MAX EYED WINNIE as she clenched and unclenched her fists. He hadn’t forgotten one nuance of her expression. He was going on pure instinct but he knew she was hiding something from him.

He supposed he should be relieved. The blast and resulting PTSD hadn’t erased all his memory. Anything that had to with Winnie seemed to be etched on his brain. Probably on his heart, too, but he had enough soul-searching to do without adding her.

Max hadn’t dared to hope anything would happen between him and Winnie again. But from the minute he saw her get out of her car, thoughts of having her back in his bed flashed across his mind. He swallowed a grin. For months he’d tried to fight off any kind of “flashes,” especially flashbacks to the bombing. Now he’d love to relive one—of Winnie naked and begging him to push harder.

“You seem to be taking your time getting settled.” She looked around the Spartan living room and nodded at the empty bookshelves.

He followed her gaze and smiled.

“I built them myself. Helped pass the time when I first got back and couldn’t work full days yet. I just haven’t gotten around to unpacking all of my books. They’re still stacked in boxes, in the garage.”

“I know you love your World War II history. It’s hard to think of you without full bookshelves.”

He felt a warm stab in his gut. Did he care that Winnie remembered something personal about him?

“I have an electronic reader and I tend to use that for straight history. But you’re right, I miss my books. There’s nothing like looking at photographs of vintage aircraft.”

“I imagine you don’t have too many extra hours, what with work. Are you back full-time, then?”

“No, not quite. I’m close, though. I just have to do this dog thing with you—or rather, Sam.” Sam’s ears pricked but he remained at Max’s feet on the kitchen floor. “Hopefully my therapist will be satisfied that I’m ready to play like a big boy again and let me get back to a real job.”

“This ‘dog thing’ can’t be all that’s keeping you from working full-time.”

Same Winnie, same cut-the-bullshit attitude.

Instead of annoying him like they used to, her questions now seemed oddly comforting.

“No, it’s not. You’re right. I still have two more weeks before I’ll be released from the mandatory rest I had to take for my shrapnel wounds.” Truth be told, he’d needed the two days off per week. Until about a month ago, he’d found the exhaustion the hardest part of all the injuries, physical and mental.

“Are you on meds?”

“Are you a medical doctor?” His reply cut across the unavoidable buildup of sexual tension between them.

“No. I’m sorry, Max.” She did look sorry. And jumpy. When and why had she ever been jumpy around him?

She crossed her arms in front of her and stood in the middle of his living room. “We haven’t, I haven’t, we, um…”

“We haven’t spoken in over two years.” He finished it for her.

“No, and I don’t know where to start, especially since—”

“The last time we were together we didn’t have clothes on?”

Bingo. Red flush, bright eyes.

She’s still attracted to you.

“About that—” she began.

“No, Winnie, stop. We don’t have to go over any of this. It was two years ago, and like you said, we never spoke again. There’s no sense in dredging it up now. But I am curious as to why you agreed to work with me. You must’ve known it was me before you came out here.”

“Yes, of course I did.” She raised her chin. “I thought it was the least I owed you after everything you did for Krista and me.”

“You never have to thank me for that, Winnie. Tom was my friend.”

“I know, and I know I thanked you back then and again two years ago.” She paused. “But I can never thank you enough for all your help.”

He held up his hand and fought the urge to come around the counter and gather her in his arms.

“It’s over, Winnie. We’re moving on. No more reliving all that history, okay?”

He saw her eyes cloud as she bit her bottom lip.

He wanted to ease her obvious distress.

Old habits die hard.

She nodded. “You’re right, Max. It’s not fair to you, to either of us, to keep bringing up Tom and when he died.”

Was this the same Winnie he knew? The woman who’d fought so hard for whatever she wanted from Tom, who’d all but ordered him to leave the Navy after his first tour?

He was reminded of why he’d been so attracted to Winnie two years ago; that night of the Air Show. He’d seen this quality in her then, recognizing the mature woman she’d been hiding under her younger, often self-centered, persona.

He drummed his fingers on the counter. “So that’s that. Now tell me more about your new business and your life.”

The relief in her expression was almost comical.

“I love the business I started. It’s not really new anymore—heck, it’s been almost four years and I’ve been turning a decent profit for the past eighteen months. Great considering the economy, you know?”

Her eyes widened as she regarded him and he couldn’t keep his mouth from twitching.

“What, Max?”

“Winnie, we’ve known each other for how long—ten, twelve years?”

“Fifteen.” Her answer was soft and swift.

“Okay, fifteen. I’ve seen you through your best days and your not-so-good days.” He wouldn’t say “worst,” since they’d just agreed to keep Tom’s death out of it. “The Winnie I used to know says ‘hell’ and doesn’t make bullshit small-talk with her friends.”

Her eyes narrowed and she bit her lower lip. A sensual memory of how he’d licked and sucked on that lip punched him in the gut.