Fleet Hospital. Anne Duquette Marie

      “Kosher? That’s okay. You’re Christian.” She smiled at her little joke. He didn’t. “Trust me, it’ll be moulage city before you can say ‘hit the deck.’ So, whaddaya say, Preach? Stay and do the interview?”

      “Perhaps later, but on two conditions.”

      She halted. Her sensuality, healthy or not—he couldn’t tell on so short an acquaintance—continued to flow. “Yes?”

      “First, I go by ‘Chaplain’ or ‘Lieutenant.’ Second, snap up that shirt and keep a nice post-Tailhook body space between us. I don’t care if you’re a civilian or not. Professionalism is the order of the day. Do you have a problem with that?”

      “Give me a break!” she said, obviously offended. She reached for the open snap at her neck, and her fingers tracked down to the next one just a few inches below. “I could go to church in this! Though it certainly wouldn’t be yours. I’ve never ever seduced anyone on the job, and if I decided to start, it wouldn’t be some self-righteous Arthur Dimmesdale-type, either. That, for your information, was the name of the hypocritical minister in The Scarlet Letter. So you can just take your—”

      “I get the point, Ms. Marche. And I do recognize the literary reference. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” He gave Ms. Marche with an “e” his crispest military nod of dismissal. “By the way, the tour is off. You can forget the interview, too.” Even if he’d misjudged her, she seemed a tough nut, obviously a seasoned reporter. Probably a tiger in the sack, as well, but he had no intention of finding out for himself. On a hot Hawaiian day years ago, a pair of pert breasts in a white nurse’s uniform had cost him dearly.

      It’d be a cold day in FHOTC—Fleet Hospital Operations and Training Command—Camp Pendleton’s desert hell, if another set of female attributes cost him his Navy uniform, his chaplain’s cross and his immortal, admittedly flawed, excuse for a soul. He fingered the cross on his collar as he watched her saunter off, hips swaying rhythmically.

      Sweet Lord, have mercy!

      AT TRIAGE AND RECEIVING Jo Marche fiddled with the manual film loader on her old backup camera. Mentally she cursed both the uncooperative tab of plastic and herself.

      She hadn’t come on too strong, had she? She wasn’t even trying to be sexy, but watching the CO with the GQ face and trying to catch up to him had its effect. That man and his body had her motor running, and she supposed the chaplain had inadvertently been the recipient of her overspilling hormones. The CO was bedroom-handsome: an officer with a wow body, snapping baby blues, glossy black hair and a higher rank than Lt. Prim Preacher. He could pose for a recruiting poster or TV commercial in a second. He had that look—officer, gentleman, woman’s dream lover, hero—especially hero. Not just the look, either; McLowery seemed like a good man to her because of the way he handled his troops. Nothing like that priggish chaplain.

      Jo did a slow burn. She’d never been big on church, but two open snaps over a basic bra did not equal Tailhook, for heaven’s sake! Time to move on.

      She pulled out her duty roster. Michael James McLowery. Rank: Capt. Age: 44. Status: Single. And sexy. Not only that, he’s my ticket to the big time. I can’t wait to track this cutie down and speak to him instead of just staring at him from afar. Smile pretty for the camera, McLowery.

      No wedding ring on the CO’s hand, she recalled.

      When a woman had morals and no money…well, business came first, and dating took money. But after their brief meeting to set up an appointment, this man piqued her interest so much it surprised even her. After she wrote her story and business was concluded, maybe she’d check him out on a more personal level. But first her circumstances had to change. She couldn’t go on a date and then ask the man back to her car for a nightcap. She had to make a life for herself, a normal life. She was thirty-three, a tabloid writer trapped with Elvis and aliens and haunted toilets, and getting older every day. As they said in journalism class, the camera never lies.

      Even if the journalist does.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Naval Fleet Hospital

       Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base

       Day 1

      CAPTAIN MICHAEL JAMES McLowery, Medical Service Corps, CO, Fleet Hospital Training Command, reluctantly locked up his desk. Time to leave the lovely air-conditioning and make the trek to his car and its air-conditioning. He hated the heat. Always had, especially since Hawaii, but he could function in it. For the command’s sake, Michael hoped this class—officer nurses and doctors, enlisted corpsmen and support personnel—wasn’t as slow in the broiling temperatures as the previous group had been. Class wasn’t over until every job was finished.

      For today, Michael was off the hook. He’d already planned to take the afternoon off to attend the funeral of one of his stepmother’s old friends. In long hot polyester dress whites, no less, which were even hotter than the cotton cammies he now wore. How did Sunshine manage to talk him into this one? He spent his whole life trying to stay cool. Damn sun. Damn California. Damn dress whites. The camouflage clothing he wore was hot enough. He could name a hundred guys stationed in the East, from Long Island to Groton to Newport, who would trade snow and ice for the hell of this relentless San Diego sun in a second.

      Would the Navy give him a berth home in Boston? Or anywhere on the chilly East Coast? No. God knows why. At least Sunshine’s departed friend had the sense to belong to an air-conditioned church. He finished with his computer program, encrypted it with his lockdown password, then shut down.

      “I’m out of here, YN3.”

      The little Yeoman Third Class with the pixie haircut and baby face nodded. Mia Gibson was one of many who’d joined the military to escape a life mapped out for them by family. He’d heard that as soon as her brothers had finished high school, they’d jumped right onto the tractors at the family farm—a job they’d been doing since the age of ten. Farming was a noble profession to be sure, but not for Mia. She received her high-school diploma and joined the Navy as soon as she’d turned seventeen three years earlier. She hadn’t been astride a tractor since.

      Michael momentarily turned back to her desk. “My pager’s on if you need me. B or B only.”

      “Blood or bodies—got it, Captain. Shall I reschedule your interview with that reporter from Associated Press?”

      “Jo Marche.” He surprised himself by remembering her name. Ordinarily he didn’t bother with civilian reporters admitted to Navy exercises. But in this case… “Please do. I just haven’t had time for it. Maybe tomorrow during my lunch.”

      “You want to eat lunch with her, sir?”

      “Affirmative.” He didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, especially his Yeoman. “Eleven hundred will be fine.”

      “Will do, Captain. Oh, the staff sent flowers to the funeral home. Tell your mother I’m sorry about her friend.”

      “I will.” His smile was warm. “The staff” meant the Chief, but the Yeoman would be the one to pick out the arrangement. She had a pleasant voice and a calm disposition, which made his office a more cheerful place to work than previous duty stations. “Thanks.”

      Ten seconds later he was as hot and sweaty as the Chief, who met him outside the Admin building. Michael’s administrative department head and computer systems coordinator, Chief Valmore Bouchard carried a metal clipboard in one hand, his other swinging freely at his side. Naval salutes weren’t required in hospitals or inside buildings except on formal occasions, and the Fleet compound was no exception.

      “Leaving, sir?”

      “Just about, Chief.” Michael took the proffered clipboard, checked the afternoon schedule and passed it back to the smaller man. “How’s the class shaping up?”

      The question covered three areas: physical (would they pass out?), mental (were they stupid?) and morale (did they take the training