Fleet Hospital. Anne Duquette Marie

a…pain, sir.”

      “You can stop with all the sirs, too.”

      She grinned, the smile definitely making her feminine and attractive despite the unflattering uniform and the melted mascara still speckling her cheeks.

      “Missed a spot.”

      She scrubbed at her face with the wadded tissue. “All gone, Chaplain?”

      “It is now, Petty Officer Jackson.”

      “Thank you, sir. Duty calls, sir.”

      He watched her military-trot toward the guard shack.

      From behind Daniel, a pleasant voice commented, “Now that’s an oxymoron—a military chaplain.”

      Daniel swiveled around to find another woman. Her face was more pretty than classically beautiful, and there was little delicacy in this sassy lady. A lightly tanned white civilian in scruffy jeans, she didn’t bother with a cap to shade a head of untidy, shoulder-length dark-blond curls. Her gray-eyed gaze met Daniel’s. He noted the two cameras slung over one trim shoulder. A piece of masking tape hand-printed with “Press” was stuck to her shirt below the neck with its two open snaps. He observed she had a very nice bust line, the only part of this woman that didn’t seem to need fattening up.

      She caught the quick flick of his eyes. “Judging by that look, I’d say you’re not a Catholic chaplain. Or a married Jewish one.”

      She had seen his cross. Jewish chaplains wore the Star of David, not that religious insignias mattered to a dying sailor. As with all military chaplains, Daniel had been trained in the rites and prayers of the three major religions, and was expected to use them.

      “Protestant chaplain, right? Single, too.”

      “Yep.” Not that he could’ve bypassed that figure even if he had been married. The smiling woman before him was in her early thirties and was as sexy as the MA2 was businesslike. Daniel warmed to this woman’s sensuality as quickly as he’d warmed to Jackson’s honest personality. The cross on his collar didn’t cancel out his masculinity, and as Ms. Reporter had noted, he wasn’t bound by a Catholic priest’s vow of celibacy.

      However, as a chaplain, he was bound to marital sex only. He wasn’t married, and his days in strange women’s beds were long over. He was only human, however, and sometimes that human side overcame his spiritual calling. Breasts were breasts, even if he refused to ogle them. But he had no plans for a girlfriend, fiancée or wife.

      “Lt. Daniel Preston, CHC.”

      She held out a friendly hand, which he shook. “I’m Jo Marche—that’s Marche with an ‘e’—AP. That’s Associated Press.”

      Daniel knew what AP meant.

      “I’m here to cover the training exercise, starting with you.”

      “Me?”

      “Yes. Everyone does stories on the poor wounded men and the Florence Nightingales who treat them.”

      She didn’t sound disparaging in the least, but as a good citizen in uniform he couldn’t help commenting. “That’s what war’s about—death and destruction, wounded men and women.”

      “Sadly, yes,” she said with real feeling, apparently not offended by his correction. “However, this is a training exercise, not a real war. I thought I’d get some different angles—a chaplain’s angle, for one, and you’re the only Chaplain Corps personnel assigned. You’re the first person I plan to talk to, since Michael McLowery is unavailable at present. Until I can get near him, I’d appreciate an interview.”

      Despite the blow to his pride, Daniel admired her frankness. He still wasn’t eager to volunteer as her subject. His experience as a chaplain wasn’t vast enough for her to report on, and he certainly didn’t consider himself representative of the Navy norm. Ever since he’d graduated from divinity school seven years ago in New York, his experience had been mostly with paperwork, not people. Even his years with Navy Reserves, serving a weekend once a month, plus two weeks in the summer, wasn’t enough to learn his trade…or maybe he just wasn’t very good at it. Best to tread cautiously here.

      He also intended to call as little attention to himself as possible. He’d been deeply shocked six weeks earlier, when he’d received his orders for Fleet Hospital. The CO’s name, Michael McLowery, had been printed in big bold letters. So far, McLowery hadn’t recognized him. Daniel had decided not to press his luck. For everyone’s sake, he’d decided not to reveal their childhood connection until the training exercise had concluded—if at all. No sense in rocking the boat.

      “My job isn’t that exciting from a media point of view.”

      “Oh, but it is. I did my research in the base library right here. I read about those two chaplains who each received our country’s Medal of Honor—Capodanno and O’Callahan, right?”

      “They were both Catholics,” he said, impressed at her knowledge. She had brains, as well as looks. “I’m Protestant.”

      “So tell me, are you Protestants cowardly? Or just smarter than Catholics? I can’t tell. I’m nondenominational myself.”

      Witty, too, it seemed. No way would he touch that remark. “Chaplains don’t earn medals in training exercises.”

      “Such an interesting fact. I’d better write it down.”

      Was she mocking him or flirting with him? He wasn’t sure. The woman whipped out a notebook and scribbled in it, then slipped it back into her jeans pocket. Maybe forced was a better word. There wasn’t a lot of room between that tightly rounded buttock and the thin denim. Despite her intelligent professional air, he decided it was time to abandon Ms. AP’s ship. Michael McLowery was welcome to her.

      “Please accept my apologies, Ms. Marche, but maybe you should find someone else.”

      “But it’s so hot out here,” she moaned. “Ordinarily I’m not such a wimp, but I definitely need a break—and an interview. The guard shack and ordnance areas aren’t air-conditioned, so I’m not interested in interviewing their staff until it cools down later on, and I can’t get near the CO. The hospital is air-conditioned, and since you’re assigned there, why don’t you make things easier for me?” She smiled with an easy sensuality.

      He had no good answer to that question, either. “I suppose I could walk you through the place this afternoon, if nothing comes up in the line of duty.”

      “Great. I’ll stick close for the next few days. I do have the command’s permission to stay for the full two weeks of training.”

      “In writing?”

      She promptly showed it to him. Damn, she did have it. “How about if I agree to the interview just for today? You won’t need more time with me than that.”

      They headed toward the Triage entrance, empty except for stretchers.

      “Sounds as if you’re trying to get rid of me.”

      He shrugged. “I’m here to work, and you’ll get bored,” he warned her. “I doubt there’ll be much for you to see. Casualties filter through Triage, Surgery and Post-op first. I don’t get them until ICU, Recovery or the Expectant area.” At her look of confusion, he explained, “Expectant—death and dying area.”

      “No problem. I can wait.”

      Her persistence didn’t bother him as much as his own lack of experience. “I doubt a photo of me reading my Bible is going to win a Pulitzer prize,” he said with undisguised sarcasm.

      She leaned his way, her camera brushing his hip. “Tell you a secret, Preacher Man. Heavy casualties will be on the way soon.”

      Daniel slowed his pace, unwilling to touch her camera, or anything else. “What makes you say that?”

      She winked. “The command gives civilians like me the whole