Fleet Hospital. Anne Duquette Marie

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 exercise script in advance. This lull is to get everyone off guard before the shit hits the fan. I’ll get you a copy if you want,” she said helpfully.

      “No, thanks. It wouldn’t be—”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ