Nick decided cocktails in a ship’s wardroom trumped naked knees every time. Granted, it was the hottest summer on record in the United Kingdom, but he couldn’t get over the British Naval officers wearing Bermuda shorts and knee socks while they sipped their pre-dinner drinks aboard the HMS Atlantic. But then, remembering the Royal Navy had several hundred years more experience than Uncle Sam’s, Nick decided to do his best to give this exchange officer program the old college try. He would resort to what he’d learned as a Plebe at the U.S. Naval Academy: keep his eyes and ears open, his mouth shut, and always be available if seconds were being passed. Especially if they were gin and tonics.
Dinner was an especially civilized affair around the long wardroom table. With wine. And brandy. And he’d never dined under the auspices of a queen before. But there he was. And so was she. Queen Elizabeth II smiling down from the bulkhead. With a banner strung across her chest and a crown upon her head. What was “Nick” Nikolopoulos of Brooklyn doing having dinner under a portrait of the Queen of England anyway?
Oh, that’s right. Because of a woman.
When they’d finished eating, the Commanding Officer clinked a spoon against his glass. “I’d like to introduce our new exchange officer. Please help me welcome Lieutenant Frank Nikolopoulos from the U.S. Navy. I hope I pronounced that properly. You prefer to be called ‘Nick,’ am I correct?”
Nick nodded to the British Captain, enjoying how the Brits pronounced lieutenant, left-tenant.
“Splendid. Nick will be spending the next year with us here aboard Atlantic and I’m hoping all of you will make him feel at home. He has just—oh, hullo, Trudy. Do try to come to mess on time.”
“Sorry, sir. Number two pump was playing up and…” The woman glanced down at her clean coveralls. “I had to change my uniform. I do apologize.”
Nick had stopped listening at “Hullo, Trudy.” Surely this Trudy was the sexiest woman he’d ever laid eyes on. My God, had he ever seen such a pouty pair of lips? She was easily six feet tall, with a pair of legs that went damn near up to her armpits. And wild curly hair that tried to escape its whatever you call it. He wasn’t certain if it was brown with blond shot through it or the other way around, but he’d give just about anything to see that wild, unruly mass unbound. She resembled a wanton Bohemian, a latent hippie lost in the twenty-first century.
In a pair of coveralls.
Never had Nick seen a woman fill out a pair of military coveralls as Trudy did. He was so busy keeping his tongue from hanging out he barely paid attention to the Captain’s voice. Nick wanted to memorize every feature of Trudy’s crazy-ass model existence. Not a model like a Sports Illustrated bathing suit model, but one of those offbeat women in a fashion show you see on the news. The kind who dress in weird stuff no one would actually wear. Trudy radiated offbeat and his peripheral vision scrambled to record every vibe of it.
Yeah, he’d given up women. Right, Nick.
At least she was dressed for work on a warship—unlike the other officers in their shorts and knee socks. Nick flashed back to parochial high school, where he’d spent four years fantasizing about what was above every co-ed’s freshly shaved kneecaps, while pretending his passion was for Sister Regina’s Latin instruction. But knee socks on adult military officers? He didn’t think so. Even with shoulder boards on their shirts, he wondered how they commanded respect from subordinates with their knees sticking out. Trudy’s coveralls were more appropriate for—
Suddenly the testosterone fog—with a side of jet lag—cleared in his brain and the words: number two pump filtered through. Pump? Coveralls? Was she, by any chance…?
“…your assistant engineer, Nick,” said the Captain.
Holy crap. Just what Nick did not need. A zany runway model as his assistant engineer. Hadn’t he come all the way across the pond to get away from a sexy woman?
A sexy naval officer woman?
Trudy reached up and mindlessly tucked stray tendrils of hair into her bun. Corkscrew curls defied her hands and coiled down her cheeks as she served herself a late dinner.
“Easy, mate, stop ogling the talent,” the ship’s doctor mumbled to Nick. “Trudy has the same effect on every bloke. But she’s not like that.”
“Like what?” Nick whispered back, never taking his eyes from the Captain. The same way he’d kept his gaze on Sister Regina all those years ago—even when his brain was elsewhere.
“You know what. I could see the cogs turning in your head when she walked in. I know what you’re thinking, but don’t.”
“You got it, mate,” Nick replied. Walked in? Trudy hadn’t walked in. She’d glided in. She’d slunk in. It was like the top half of her body didn’t move, while those long—looooong—legs reached out and propelled her forward.
To be his assistant.
The Commanding Officer signaled for the steward to refill his coffee. “So tell us about yourself, Nick.”
Nick snapped his attention back to the group. “Yes, sir. I’m a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy. I chose the Navy after my Uncle Frank was killed on 9/11. He was a New York City firefighter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the Captain said.
“I feel your loss, mate,” added another officer.
Nick had learned to accept the condolences. “Thank you. I’ve served on a destroyer, a fast frigate, and it was a dream come true to be stationed on the USS New York. Not only does it have the 9/11 connection, but my uncle was a Marine Corps veteran and the New York transports Marines. I was the Damage Control Assistant for two years and might have fleeted up to Chief Engineer. I chose this exchange opportunity instead.”
The Captain nodded. “I’m sure it was a valuable experience for you, given your emotional bond with the ship. We’re thrilled to have you aboard Atlantic, although I’m curious as to why you left New York.”
Nick hesitated. Chose his words carefully. He figured, “A woman fucked me over,” would not be an appropriate response, especially with Queen Elizabeth eyeballing him from the bulkhead. “When the exchange orders came up, I knew this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I want to learn how our navies compare and I feel I’m doing a small part to maintain the strong historical ties between the U.S. and the U.K. Certainly your Lieutenant Pritchard will do the same in my job aboard New York. I’m sure he’ll find—”
“She,” Trudy interrupted between bites of supper.
Nick turned his head, thankful for an excuse to look directly at her. “Excuse me?”
“Left-tenant Pritchard is a she. Besides working in the same department and being behind her at Dartmouth—that’s our Naval Academy—we’re friends. And yes, she is excited about spending a year on the USS New York. You know, seeing how you Yanks run your navy.”
The Commanding Officer gave her a warning look across the wardroom table. “Trudy, Nick is our guest.”
“Aye, Captain, sir.” Trudy helped herself to more shepherd’s pie. Then glanced back at Nick. “Gwyn is looking forward to seeing how the U.S. Navy operates.”
Trudy stared him down until he looked away. Had he done something wrong? Or did she have an axe to grind with all Yanks? There didn’t appear to be any peacenik in this latent hippie. Maybe she’d already guessed he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame? But there didn’t appear to be any heat. As a matter of fact, all the vibes that radiated from her dripped with icicles.
* * *
Bloody hell.
This Yank was taking Gwyn’s place? So they really had followed through on the exchange officer thing. Trudy had hoped she might be asked to fill the vacancy since she would soon sit her board and be qualified. But apparently not. Looked like she’d be working for Lieutenant Dark and Handsome and, from what she could see, he appeared to be tall as well.
Since her own height had topped out at five-foot-eleven and a half inches in her stocking feet when she was fifteen years old, Trudy was a master at guessing men’s heights. Throw in a pair of combat boots and Trudy rose head and shoulders above most of the officers and lads aboard the ship—hell, in all the United Kingdom. And it had not slipped past her that the Yank had been eyeing her up. He’d tried to be subtle, but she was also a master at detecting blokes who checked her out without actually looking at her. Men could be such cheeky bastards.
And this one had a pole up his arse she could spot from across the room. Probably wouldn’t know a good time if it smacked him in the face. Just what she needed. Another hard-arsed man in her life. Another hard-arsed naval officer man. Telling her what to do. How to behave. How to keep her hair up under her hat.
Cut it all off, Trudy. Then it won’t be such a bother.
Ah, but then I couldn’t be a burr under your bloody saddle, now could I?
A sly grin lit her face. Trudy Ashcroft had a trick or two tucked away in her kit bag. She’d get Lieutenant Tall, Dark, and Serious to smile.
The officers went around the wardroom table, introducing themselves. A bad run for the Yank that he’d lost his uncle on 9/11. You’d think he’d have been so pleased with orders to the New York he never would have left it. Trudy smelled a rat. He wanted to maintain strong historical ties? Bollocks. Something had driven him away prematurely. It was a cracking opportunity for Gwyn to go to the Americans’ sacred ship, but what had motivated this Nick to leave his amphibious assault ship and come to hers? Something was a bit dodgy and Trudy had a feeling a woman was involved. After all, hadn’t Gwyn left because she’d split with a bloke? And speak of the devil…
“Pleased to meet you, Nick. I’m Lieutenant Commander Simon Jones, Senior Engineer on board. We’ll be working together, along with Trudy.”
Simon nodded toward her and she flashed a smile, then let her gaze wander back to the Yank, who was now blatantly giving her a lookover. She called his bluff and challenged him with a raised eyebrow until he glanced away again.
Simon continued, “Enjoy your first evening aboard—or perhaps we could interest you in an excursion to a local pub here in Plymouth.” There were laughs around the table. “In the morning, we’ll take you down to the engineering spaces and introduce you to the lads.”
“The lads?”
“The stokers.” Simon chuckled. “You know, the engineering technicians. I suppose the saying is true: ‘We are a similar people separated by a common language.’ But we’ll have you speaking proper English in no time. And we’re counting on you to teach us the latest American lingo, especially the saucier slang.”
Everyone laughed except the Captain, although the corner of his mouth tipped up. “But we’ll keep it above board now won’t we, Simon?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Simon replied.
Introductions continued as Trudy pushed her plate away and reached for her pudding. No brandy for her tonight since she had the duty. Good. That would give her some time in the engine room to sort out how she was going to deal with the handsome Yank who had just encroached on her territory.
* * *
Royal Navy Lieutenant Gwyn Pritchard thought she’d prepared herself for seeing the USS New York up close and personal before flying to America. But apparently that wasn’t possible. Her mouth dropped open before the ship’s van even broached the New York’s pier at Naval Station Mayport. Just seeing the unique configuration of the ship took Gwyn’s breath away.
She rubbed her forearms. “Look at me. I’m all goose bumps.”
The driver turned and spoke over his shoulder. “It happens to the best of us, ma’am. Even after all this time I’ve been aboard. She gets to you. See her ‘twin towers’ rising up from the deck? They cover up her masts, making her stealthy. Since she has no right angles, she appears as a fishing boat on radar. This way, we can land Marines without detection. You know the story about her bow stem, right?”
“You mean that it was forged from World Trade Center steel?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s a floating memorial to those who died. Like a firebird rising from the ashes, the rubble was turned into action. You think you have goose bumps now, wait ’til you stand over her bow. They put the recovered steel there because it’s the part that cuts the water when she’s steaming. You know, the first part to arrive on the scene. Kind of like the first responders we lost on 9/11.”
A shiver worked its way up Gwyn’s spine.
As they pulled up to the brow, she again marveled at the ship’s size, shape, and military bearing. A few civilians milled about on the flight deck and peered over the guardrail at the pier below. Gwyn was glad to see the ship welcomed tours.
She gathered her personal belongings and followed the driver up the gangway where she was greeted by an oversized ship’s crest on the quarterdeck. Another wave of chills hit her when she read the New York’s motto: “Strength Forged Through Sacrifice. Never Forget.” Facing aft, Gwyn saluted the American flag. Then she snapped a half-turn and saluted the Officer of the Deck. “Lieutenant Gwyn Pritchard, Royal Navy, reporting for duty, sir. Permission to come aboard.”
The OOD returned her salute. “Permission granted. Welcome aboard New York. We’ve been expecting you and have someone assigned to escort you.” The duty officer paged her sponsor, then made polite conversation while they waited for her to arrive.
He asked Gwyn about her journey and what she thought of the United States thus far. “Hot,” she said as she fanned herself against the Florida heat and humidity.
“Commander Smith will be up soon. She came in today just to welcome you, so she has her kids with her.”
“Oh,” Gwyn said, “I was wondering about all the civilians. I guess people bring their families aboard on the weekends?”
The duty officer gave her an odd look, as if he didn’t understand what she was asking. He shook his head slightly to clear it, then responded, “No, not usually.”
Gwyn felt movement behind her and stepped aside to allow a man with a bicycle to approach the quarterdeck and sign in—no, belay the last—to allow the most buff, cut, ripped, fit man she’d ever seen, with a bicycle, to approach the quarterdeck to sign in. And he would have been the most handsome man ever, were it not for the scars that puckered his left temple and cheek, and crawled down his neck, shoulder, and arm, ending near his wrist. Gwyn didn’t think the war had reached as far as the blokes on ships, so perhaps this man had had an industrial accident of some sort. She noticed “146” written in marker on his right bicep, so he must have been in some sort of competition.
“Good race, Gunny?” the duty officer asked him.
“Naw, came in fourth for my age group.”
Gwyn had done her homework. Gunny meant gunnery sergeant in the U.S. Marines. Gwyn was used to Royal Marines on the HMS Atlantic, but they didn’t usually come aboard until the ship deployed. This man appeared to be stationed here.
Gunnery Sergeant Muscles finished signing into the log book, then turned to Gwyn, tipped an imaginary hat, and said, “Ma’am,” in what she supposed was a southern drawl because he strung it out for three syllables. Long enough for her to feel stripped of her Royal Navy uniform and viewed stark naked in the middle of the quarterdeck. He gave her a good-humored grin, and walked his bicycle—click, click, click—past her.
Good God, had it become even hotter than it had been a moment ago?
“Gunny Connor is one of the permanent Marines on board. He’s with the Combat Cargo Detachment. One of his collateral duties is Physical Trainer. He’s helped a lot of our sailors get in shape, and he’ll be in even higher demand once the Marines embark,” the OOD explained.
Gwyn figured he must be in high demand now with the females on board. Blimey, but he’d just raised her temperature, even with those ghastly scars. A bead of sweat trickled down between her breasts. Apparently she didn’t know just how hot things could get in Florida.
The officer closed the logbook. “He’s a triathlete.”
“I gathered.” Gwyn wondered that he didn’t win every race, what with frightening away the competition with those scars. He appeared to wear them proudly in his sleeveless racing suit, like badges of honor.
“Ah, here she is now. Lieutenant Gwyn Pritchard, this is your sponsor, Commander Smith.”
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Gwyn.” The commander introduced her two children, who stood politely at her side. Obviously she had schooled her young ones as to the differences in the United States and Royal Navies, because they gushed with questions about everything from why it was pronounced left-tenant instead of loo-tenant and did HMS really stand for Her Majesty’s Ship and, by the way, was the Queen a nice lady?
“Later, kids. Lieutenant Gwyn will be coming home for dinner. Let’s get her things stowed in her room first. Then we’ll give her a tour of the ship.”
“And can we go on a ghost hunt?” asked the young boy.
“Shhh,” his mother admonished. “There will be none of that.” She turned to Gwyn. “Don’t mind him. I’m afraid he’s caught up in the rumors on board.”
The commander arranged for Gwyn’s seabag to be delivered to her cabin, then led her through a series of passageways that mirrored the Atlantic’s. The endless miles of cords and wires strapped to the overhead and bulkheads made her feel right at home. Every warship, no matter what country it hailed from, carried the scent of fresh gray paint with a side of diesel fuel.
They passed a man in a business suit and an elderly woman wearing a red jogging costume in the passageway. Was this man stationed on the New York and had he brought his mum aboard to visit? He seemed overdressed for a ship’s tour, but perhaps he’d come from church. Then why was the woman wearing a warm-up suit? The old lady eyed Gwyn up, then a warm, friendly smile lit her face. Gwyn responded with a tentative wave.
“Is the ship open for tours?” she asked her sponsor.
“Usually just for special occasions. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I just wondered.” Something didn’t quite match up, given the half dozen or so civilians she’d seen wandering the ship, seemingly without escorts. “I just wondered if the sailors bring their families aboard on weekends, like you?”
“Rarely. Come, let me show you this special passageway.”
They entered a corridor twice the width of a typical corridor on a Navy ship.
Commander Smith beamed proudly. “This,” she waved her arms in the wide space, “is Broadway. Get it? New York? Broadway?”
“Brilliant!” Gwyn said. But chills wracked her again when she noticed the World Trade Center subway sign posted on the bulkhead.
“Come,” her sponsor continued. “Your stateroom is this way.”
“That sounds fancy,” Gwyn said. “We call them cabins.”
Commander Smith laughed. “Sorry, nothing fancy about them. Just the basics.”
Gwyn stepped aside for one more group of visitors in civilian clothing: A man in a Hawaiian shirt, a woman in a suit and high heels—of all things to wear on a Navy ship—and a young, blond boy. He carried a stuffed dog with long, floppy ears in his left hand, with the thumb of his right hand stuck firmly in his mouth. The child’s eyes were as big as saucers and he appeared to be upset. Surely the man and woman were his parents and everything was okay. She was surprised Commander Smith hadn’t picked up on the child’s anxiety, being a mother with her own children and all. But when Gwyn looked behind her, the family was gone.
What had her sponsor’s son asked? Can we go on a ghost hunt? Gwyn had read reports of ghost sightings of 9/11 victims on board New York, but that was rubbish. She needed to tend to business and soldier on, but the goose bumps wouldn’t disappear and the hair at the nape of her neck tingled. To prove there were no such things as spirits on board, she decided to say hello to the next person who seemed out of place. Perhaps she would stop and talk with him or her. Make friendly conversation. Ask them how they were doing, how they liked the ship, and such.
And there he was. A handsome African-American man in a dress uniform. His shoulder boards and wings identified him as a pilot, although she hadn’t seen any aircraft on the flight deck. She’d chat with him for a second, just to quiet the flock of birds fluttering in her gut.
Funny he should pass Commander Smith with no acknowledgement on either of their parts. Surely the Yanks demanded their officers utilize good manners—officer and gentleman and all that. Gwyn waited for the man to come abreast before speaking to him. But when he approached, her jaws locked. Heart hammering, she slammed herself against the bulkhead and allowed him to pass.
There could only be one explanation for his wings to read, “United Airlines.”