Navy Orders. Geri Krotow

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      CHAPTER THREE

      MILES DIDN’T LIKE the feel of this. He wasn’t a Commodore Sanders fan, per se. Au contraire. He found the senior navy pilot, like most navy aviators he’d met, to be pompous and a bit too free with his good opinion of himself.

      The commodore was justified in wanting an officer or two from the wing to keep tabs, as much as possible, on the case. Miles would have done the same.

      But Sanders had paired him with Ro.

      It was hard enough seeing her almost every day, knowing she didn’t want to go out with him. Didn’t want much to do with him at all. The fact that she was the first woman who’d ever gotten under his skin to this degree didn’t help matters. Nor did it assuage his ego, which she’d flattened last year with her repeated rejections.

      Add his freak show of an overreaction this morning on Deception Pass Bridge, and his future with Ro was bleaker than ever.

      A pang of longing to work with an operational team downrange hit him. In the fleet there wasn’t time for personality conflicts or egos to get in the way. They had a mission and they accomplished it come hell or high water, often both. Even while clearing mines in a godforsaken field in Afghanistan, when he’d lost his leg along with his dog, he’d completed the mission. The SEAL team he’d been supporting had been able to go forward with no further loss of life or limb and successfully root out a group of Taliban.

      “This is such a hard time for our wing, for the entire community. I don’t want anyone who worked with Perez to think for one minute that they could have prevented this or that it’s their fault. This is a horrible and perhaps inevitable outcome of war.”

      Commodore Sanders said all the right words but Miles relied on his carefully trained powers of observation. The commodore kept looking down and didn’t make sustained eye contact with any of them. His speech pattern was faster than usual, indicating his excitement or anxiety over the prospect of being cast in the middle of a national news-making case. Miles suspected that guilt was eating at Sanders, no matter what the commodore said about no one needing to feel guilty. It was natural for a leader to feel responsible when one of his own came to injury. Or worse.

      The bottom line was that they’d all failed Perez if he’d committed suicide. Miles didn’t believe in anything except the team concept when it came to his shipmates.

      “I need you two—” the commodore looked at Miles and Ro again “―to be my eyes and ears on this case. Get to the beach and survey the scene of his suicide. Make sure the local LEA doesn’t turn this into anything overblown or sensationalize it. Sailors commit suicide. It happens. It isn’t always because of PTSD or pressure from the military, but even if it is, no one deserves the disrespect of a magnifying glass on his own death. Not my sailor, not on my watch.”

      “Sir, it’s not anyone’s fault that Perez had PTSD, if that’s what it was.” Ro’s emphatic pronouncement gave the old man pause as he stared at his intel officer.

      Miles fought to not roll his eyes.

      Why did she have to be such a master of the obvious? This was what was wrong with support staff like intel. Ro was going to have to learn to toughen up and only worry about the investigation. How the commodore felt about the loss wasn’t the issue.

      The commodore’s glance strayed again, but just for a moment.

      “What are you waiting for? Get the hell out of here.” He finished his last sentence in a low growl, Sanders’s way of making a tough order less emotional for all of them.

      Ro left first and Miles followed her. She turned around to wait for him in the hallway. For the first time he saw the cracks in her “work” face that revealed her frustrations and her questions about what had happened.

      Ro was obviously as thrilled as he was that they’d been paired to do the investigation. He was surprised she hadn’t said so to the commodore, or simply refused to work with him.

      Her blue eyes widened in query.

      “What—”

      “Not here.” He held up his hands and nodded forward. Ro clamped her mouth shut and turned around. It afforded him a wonderful view of her backside as he trailed her down the hall. Judging by the pronounced swing of her hips she was working up to a good fight.

      He’d rarely looked twice at the few military women he’d worked with. EOD teams still didn’t have many females, although he’d worked alongside his share of operational and staff officers who were women. He knew he’d been in the midst of intense operational situations during those times and he could blame that for not being distracted by the opposite sex—he’d had a war to fight.

      He also knew that was complete bullshit. He’d be aware of Ro if they were both in the Arctic bundled in cold-weather gear with only their eyes showing through tinted goggles. Even in the midst of a firestorm he’d want to kiss Ro like he’d dreamed of since he’d first laid eyes on her.

      He’d noticed her the day he’d met her, the weekend before she reported to the wing. She’d been wearing tight jeans that revealed just how curvy her ass was under her khaki uniform. She’d been spitting mad that his friend Max’s dog had chased her mother’s cat up a tree. Her anger had boiled over when she realized he was perfectly certain he could rescue her mother’s cat from the sixty-foot fir tree. When he climbed back down the trunk with the fuzzy creature under his arm it had only ticked her off more.

      He suppressed a grin at the memory.

      They exited the plush corridor into the utilitarian part of the hangar, above the main aircraft parking area. Ro turned to face him again and he fell in step with her.

      “Let’s go outside. We can take my truck to the beach.”

      “I have to get my purse.”

      “Do you have your identification on you?”

      “Yes, of course I have my ID,” she snapped.

      “Then you don’t need anything else. Not for now. Let’s keep walking and get out of here.”

      “Aye-aye, sir.” Sarcasm tinged her words and Miles smiled. He knew he sounded like a jerk to a softie like Roanna. It was clear to him that she was already bored at the wing after being there for not even half of her assigned tour length. Like him, she’d been out in the fleet fighting the war until circumstances brought her home. Like him, she wasn’t a native of Whidbey Island or Washington State. Unlike him, she showed no indication that the beauty and mystery of the Pacific Northwest had seduced her.

      You haven’t seduced her, either.

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