When Evan walked out of her flat, part of Tate wanted to pull the covers over her head and sleep for the rest of the day, while another part resisted the urge to jump up and watch Evan leave her building. Worse, after only a few minutes, she found she was already missing the sound of Evan’s voice. Not a happy discovery and something she would have to consider and deal with sooner rather than later.
But reality beckoned.
Shaking her head, she untangled the sheet wrapped around her waist and got out of bed. After taking a couple of extra-strength ibuprofen for the headache that was brewing behind her eyes, she padded to the bathroom looking forward to a long, cool shower. And by the time she had dressed and made her way to the embassy, she felt almost human.
The buzz among the staff was palpable.
“What’s happened?” she asked absently, continuing to replay her night with Evan while trying to pour coffee into a mug without spilling any.
An embassy staffer looked up. “There was a bombing at a club around three o’clock this morning. How the hell did you miss it, McKenna?”
Instantly alert, Tate looked up. “A bomb? Jesus, how bad?”
“Bad enough. Five dead. Fourteen injured, including several crew members from the Ronald Reagan.”
“Shit.”
“All shore leave was canceled effective immediately, and all navy personnel have been recalled to their ships,” Jillian added softly as she entered the room. She paused and the conversation resumed around her while she regarded Tate, then gave a slight grin and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “I’ll assume by the tired but smug oh-so-satisfied look you’re wearing this morning, the commander more than lived up to expectations before leaving you to return to her ship.”
There was a momentary silence as Tate considered an appropriate answer. “It was, um, I had—” She locked eyes with Jillian, felt herself blush, and smiled sheepishly. “God, it was amazing. I had a wonderful time.”
“I’m happy for you. I applaud your taste in women. And a part of me is insanely jealous.”
“Only part of you?”
Jillian’s eyes changed, darkened. She wasn’t smiling anymore as she closed the distance between them. “I’m not sure if I’m stepping in where I don’t belong, and if you want me to stay out of it, I will. But I had a chance to learn a few things about your commander after you left last evening.”
Tate nodded, knowing precisely where the conversation was leading. She lifted her chin slightly and gave a philosophical shrug. “I’m well aware of who she is, Jillian. In fact, I knew who she was before I made up my mind to leave with her, and it made no difference to me.”
“Really?”
“It was a personal decision.”
“Did you give any thought to what it might look like? A reporter taking the secretary of state’s daughter home from an embassy party?” Jillian’s voice was soft as she continued. “The daughter spending the night with you? Tate, she’s public property. What the hell were you thinking?”
That I wanted her and it’s nobody’s business who ends up in my bed. Tate considered her response as she toyed with her coffee mug, then thought about Althea Kane and her take-no-prisoners reputation.
“Do you think this is going to create a problem with my job? Should I talk to the bureau chief about finding someone to cover for me for the duration of Kane’s tour through the region? Preferably before she has me reassigned to McMurdo Station?”
Jillian’s expression softened. She gave a small laugh and shook her head. “I don’t think you need to start packing for an extended visit to Antarctica.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because your reputation as a journalist is that you’re fearless, passionate, and very good at what you do.” She paused and took a deep breath. “But also because I understand, last night’s tango notwithstanding, relations between mother and daughter are in the strained and not speaking category, and they hadn’t seen each other for quite some time. At least, that’s the gossip from Kane’s staff. So you don’t need to get someone to cover for you.”
Relief washed through her. “Good to know. I happen to like my job.”
“But, Tate, as your friend, I have to ask. Do you know what you’re doing?”
Tate remembered the taste of Evan’s mouth, the soft sounds she made, the way her body moved and arched against her. Remembered and wanted. “Do I know what I’m doing?” she repeated. “No, not at the moment.”
Jillian sighed and shook her head once again. “I think you’re crazy. I also happen to believe what you do in your private life, with Evan Kane or with anyone else, is no one’s business.”
Tate sensed there was more, beyond a friend’s reluctance to give unsolicited advice. “I hear a but coming,” she said lightly. “What is it?”
“You’re both intelligent women. If last night was just a one-night fling and you’re never going to see the very hot commander again, then no harm, no foul.”
“That’s great, except Evan said she wants to see me again.”
“And what do you want?”
Tate frowned and pressed her lips together as she stared at Jillian. “I honestly don’t know.” Feeling a surge of frustration, she blew out a breath. “I don’t deny I feel a strong physical reaction to Evan—I mean, hell, you’ve seen her. You also know I’m lousy at relationships and I’m not ready to go down that road again. But I don’t know if I can do a no-strings, just-sex kind of thing.”
Given their friendship, her response could hardly be surprising and was enough to make Jillian smile. “Sweetie, you’re not lousy at relationships. You just haven’t met the right woman.”
“I’m not looking for the right woman.”
“I know you’re not. And until you do, if you’re going to consider a purely physical relationship, I can’t think of a better choice than the made-for-sin Lieutenant Commander Kane.”
Tate narrowed her eyes. “Are you seriously encouraging me?”
“Sure, why not? You liked her, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it will work.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” Tate bit back the sarcasm about to roll off her tongue. “Look, let’s just forget about this conversation, okay?”
But Jillian waited expectantly and wouldn’t let her off the hook. “Tell me why it won’t work first.”
“Because, damn it. My job makes things complicated. You’ve seen it firsthand. The odds are high she’ll get leave and want to get together. But it will be like it’s always been. I’ll be unavailable because I’ve gone to Cairo or Benghazi or Kabul on some story. And after a couple of tries, no matter how good the sex is, she’ll grow tired and move on.”
“I agree it’s bound to happen at some point,” Jillian countered mildly, “but I’d think if anyone is going to understand the unpredictable nature of your job, it’s a pilot serving on the Nimitz. Isn’t she just as likely to be unavailable when you have an urge to get together?”
Tate opened her mouth to protest and then stopped as she realized Jillian was right. Well, damn. What was she supposed to say to that? Turning, she narrowed her eyes and stared at her sharply. But all Jillian did was smile blandly.
“Let me know how it works out,” she said before she slipped out of the room.
*
The moment she stepped on board the Nimitz, Evan was met by three fellow pilots—Deacon Walker, J.D. McNeely, and Will Jones—all sparking with an as yet unidentified energy. Not necessarily a good sign, she mused, but after the night she’d spent with Tate, she doubted if anything they said could dampen her mood.
Brow lifted, she smiled. “A reception committee? How sweet.”
Of the three men facing her, she’d known Deacon the longest. He was not only her wingman. He’d been her closest friend since she’d abandoned graduate school and joined the navy. The scowl he sent her was therefore rendered meaningless.
“Commander,” he said, casually saluting. “About time you got back. The captain wants to meet with us ASAP.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, scuttlebutt has it he wants us to participate in some high-level exercises with a group of air force pilots from the UK and Saudi Arabia. He’s waiting to hear you think we’re up for it and won’t embarrass the US Navy.”
Because she recognized the gleam in his eye, Evan narrowed her own. “Does that mean I won’t have to spend the next two weeks serving as Landing Signal Officer while a bunch of nuggets do carrier qualifications?”
Deacon almost managed to maintain a straight face. “Why yes, ma’am, I believe it does.”
“Cool.” Evan grinned. “Do I have time to get changed?”
Jones responded, “Hell, no. Doesn’t pay to keep the captain waiting. He might pass this opportunity on to someone else, so you’re just going to have to see him looking like you spent the night with some gorgeous woman screaming out your name.” He paused for effect before grinning and adding, “Of course, I say that with the utmost respect, Commander.”
“He’s just jealous because you score with the ladies more than he does,” Deacon said.
“Everyone scores with the ladies more than Jones,” McNeely said dismissively.
“Unfortunate, but true,” Jones conceded. “But if the commander would be willing to give me some pointers—”
“What?” Evan choked on a surprised laugh and felt her face heat but wasn’t certain if it was embarrassment or annoyance. She shook her head, muttered something inventive, and blew out a breath. “Sorry, Jones, but that’s one discussion we’ll never have.”
“I don’t believe your suggestion is anatomically possible,” Deacon said with a laugh as he fell in step beside her, while Jones and McNeely quickly walked ahead. “Don’t mind Jones. He’s been jealous ever since you hooked up with that sexy British pilot when we were in Tokyo.”
“Julianna Spencer.”
“That’s the one.” He paused and glanced at Evan. “Since the Brits are involved, I wonder if the lovely Captain Spencer will be part of the upcoming exercise.”
Considering, remembering, Evan looked away. “That would make it interesting. She’s a hell of a pilot.”
“That’s it? No interest in revisiting a past conquest?”
“Not particularly.”
Something in her face must have given her away, although Evan would have sworn she kept it blank and unreadable. She felt Deacon’s questioning gaze and silently cursed. He knew her—too well—and there was something about the way he looked at her that could always get to the core. Immediately, she tensed, closed up. And he saw it.
“Evan?” He lowered his voice. “Is everything all right? Did something happen last night after you left the embassy party?”
Ten seconds passed, then twenty. “Maybe. I guess so.” She swallowed. “All I know is I met the most amazing woman.” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head helplessly.
“The sexy redhead?”
She responded with a quick nod. “No smart remarks?”
“Never crossed my mind, Commander.” But the corner of his lips quirked.
“Smart-ass. Don’t know why, but I’ve always liked that about you.”
Deacon said nothing, but his grin widened.
Evan struggled not to smile back at him, ended up laughing instead. “Damn it, Deacon. Don’t grin while I’m trying to figure out how I got in over my head so quickly.”
Obediently, Deacon wiped the smile from his face. “Sorry.” He watched her a moment longer. “Are you thinking about seeing her again?”
Evan shook her head. Saw the disappointment in Deacon’s eyes. “Don’t need to think about it, I know I’m going to see her again. Just have to figure out the when and how.”
She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, nearly jolted at the sound of her own voice as she watched Deacon’s grin flash.
“I’ll be damned,” he said softly.
Yeah, except the lady wasn’t certain she was interested. Now all Evan had to do was figure out how to convince Tate to give her a chance.
*
A full week flew by before Tate had the opportunity to try and learn more about Evan Kane. Seven grueling, chaotic days spent breathing the dust and sand and detritus of thousands of years as she chased interviews and stories throughout a troubled region.
Finally, exhausted and alone in her tiny flat, she lit a candle, poured herself a glass from the bottle of California red Jillian had managed to score for her, and allowed herself to decompress. The wine eased the dryness in her throat and reminded her of home. And in the gathering darkness, as she circled a finger around the top of her half-full glass, she watched the candle’s flame reflected in the wine and thought of Evan.
At the moment, she had more than enough on her plate professionally, yet as hectic as the past week had been, Tate had found herself constantly distracted by thoughts of Evan. Too often for her own peace of mind. She had also spent an inordinate amount of time wishing she would hear from her. A voice mail or an e-mail. Anything that would let her know Evan was at least thinking about her.
No one had ever captured her interest the way Evan Kane had managed to do. And the ache was amplified each time she heard or saw military jets flying high overhead. Or each time she saw someone in a navy uniform.
Or each time she breathed.
But there had been no call, no e-mail, and Tate began to wonder if, despite Evan’s assurances to the contrary, the night they had spent together had indeed been a one-time occurrence. One night of hot sex and nothing more. If that was the case, she’d gotten exactly what she’d wanted.
She didn’t bother asking herself why it bothered her. Why it mattered. She only knew it did and she was too tired to deny it.
It was possible her usually flawless memory had exaggerated Evan’s appeal. But no. Evan’s appeal was undeniable, and Tate remembered the pull with perfect clarity. Just thinking about her—the laughing eyes, the sensuous mouth—tugged at her. She wanted to feel the attraction again, to enjoy it, to understand it.
Still the question remained. What did she really know about Evan Kane?
She was drop-dead gorgeous. She was bright, laughed easily, and could dance the tango like no one she had ever known. She was adventurous and uninhibited.
And, damn it all, Tate was unbelievably attracted to her.
Acting on impulse, she reached for her laptop and initiated a search before she could question her own motives too closely. Maybe if she could relegate the enigma that was Evan Kane to a tidy little niche in her mind, she could forget about her and move on. But as long as there were so many unanswered questions, Evan would continue to linger in her thoughts.
Three hours later, she sat in the darkness, surprised by how limited the information available actually was. Considering how often they themselves made the news, Althea and Robert Kane had quite clearly done an admirable job of protecting their children’s privacy.
But not completely. Completely was impossible in the information age, Tate thought, as Evan’s image stared back at her from the computer screen. The photograph she was looking at was her favorite of all the images she’d come across. It had been taken at a party political fundraiser, when Evan would have been perhaps eighteen.
She had a face photographers would love. But there could be no question Evan was even more striking in person than in her pictures, Tate decided. Because of her vitality. Her intelligence. Her humor. In person, she was irresistible.
At the time the photograph was taken, her face had been framed by a tumble of long ebony hair that gave her a wild, sexy look—a free spirit in the midst of political movers and shakers. Wearing a slim-fitting Alexander McQueen with a plunging neckline, diamonds sparkling in her ears, Evan looked sleek and sophisticated. Her angular face might be younger, but she was instantly recognizable. There was no mistaking the luminous gray eyes, the high cheekbones, and the boldly sensuous mouth flanked by the twin dimples.
Her smile was full and beckoning. Provocative.
Through the wonders of Google, Tate learned Evan Kane had been educated at private schools in Europe and Washington and had graduated from Stanford with a degree in aeronautical engineering. She’d been everywhere by the time she was seventeen and spoke seven or eight languages, with Farsi, Arabic, Mandarin, and Japanese among them. With those skills and her mother’s connections, it was a wonder no one in Washington had reeled her in yet.
There were also numerous hits on her brother Alex—a twin—described as an out-and-proud artist who was rapidly making a name for himself in the West Coast art scene.
She continued to sit, staring at the photograph without moving until long after the candle burned out.
*
The flowers arrived two days later, a crystal vase filled with roses and Asiatic lilies in varying shades of yellow and orange. Inexplicably touched by the gesture, Tate tried to remember the last time anyone had sent her flowers, but nothing came to mind.
The card simply read Evan. Perhaps more was unnecessary, she mused, especially when she could Google the language of the flowers in the delicately beautiful arrangement.
The lilies symbolized feminine sexuality, while the roses spoke of passion.
Yellow for the promise of a new beginning. Orange for desire.
Are you trying to tell me something, Commander?