Point Of Departure

Point Of Departure
Lindsay McKenna

IT TAKES A VERY SPECIAL MAN TO WIN THAT SPECIAL WOMAN!A woman in uniform had to be tough. But to face down a naval commander intent on harassing her out of the ranks, Lt. Callie Donovan needed more than moxie, she need a miracle…Top Gun Ty Ballard, assigned to represent Callie in a military board of inquiry, was no miracle worker. But having seen the stark vulnerability shadowint Callie's azure eyes–and knowing it had been put there by a predatory jet jocks just like him–he prayed he'd prove man enough to stand by this brave, beautiful woman in blue.

IT TAKES A VERY SPECIAL MAN TO WIN THAT SPECIAL WOMAN!

A woman in uniform had to be tough. But to face down a naval commander intent on harassing her out of the ranks, Lt. Callie Donovan needed more than moxie, she need a miracle…

Top Gun Ty Ballard, assigned to represent Callie in a military board of inquiry, was no miracle worker. But having seen the stark vulnerability shadowint Callie’s azure eyes-and knowing it had been put there by a predatory jet jocks just like him-he prayed he’d prove man enough to stand by this brave, beautiful woman in blue.

Point of Departure

Lindsay McKenna

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Author Note

I felt very proud to be asked to take part in the That Special Woman! program. My editors know my fondness for writing novels that emphasize women and their wonderful strengths, intelligence, creativity and courage. And I think my readers know where I stand on the issues of women and their rights. I’ve always supported women in every way.

Navy Lieutenant Callie Donovan faces a challenge while in a very male-dominated career position. She gets put up against a wall, and when she’s forced to, she fights back. I don’t think women like to fight; we’d rather work things out peaceably, but more and more we must stand up for our own integrity. I believe Lieutenant Callie Donovan has the “right stuff”—just as all women do. None of us should be treated disrespectfully or without integrity.

Lindsay McKenna

Table of Contents

Chapter One (#u7d7d6b7d-2f0c-5259-bf2a-1ce145cd7e7b)

Chapter Two (#u2a892654-6e65-554b-8533-7bf26e0f62ee)

Chapter Three (#u29c8cfd3-74ad-5a49-b7cb-4919df70bdac)

Chapter Four (#u1e2fe3d7-ea19-5339-a0be-7fc7acd8e7bd)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

Lieutenant Callie Donovan wondered if it was a good idea to grab a quick dinner at the Officer’s Club. Lately, with all the hubbub over the newspaper article about Callie and her sister Maggie coming to Miramar Naval Air Station—home of the cream of the naval aviation crop known as Top Guns—things had been going from bad to worse.

Callie frowned and pushed a lock of black hair off her forehead as she pulled into the Officer’s Club parking lot. She’d already changed out of her summer uniform in the women’s locker facility, and into a simple white, short-sleeved blouse, denim skirt and sandals. As she opened her car door, Callie laughed to herself, but the sound had a grim edge to it as she realized her carefully nondescript outfit was really more an attempt at camouflage than comfort.

Last Sunday’s newspaper had featured a full-page profile on the Donovan sisters, under the auspices of “women challenging the male military bastion.” Callie hadn’t wanted to be interviewed, but effervescent Maggie, always happy to be in the forefront of leading women into male-dominated areas, had somehow talked her into it. Shutting the car door, Callie realized that it was Friday night, and the O Club parking lot was nearly full—mostly with vehicles of the young, eager pilots who attended Top Gun school. Again, she hesitated. The last place she wanted to be was on the firing line with a bunch of chauvinistic pilots angry about the newspaper article.

Callie’s stomach rumbled. This was silly, she thought, impatiently smoothing her skirt. She needed to eat before driving to the local college to attend a still-life photography class, and the O Club was close and convenient. Shrugging off the intuitive warning, she slung her white purse across her shoulder and headed toward the club.

Day had turned to evening, but the dry desert heat lingered, and her blouse clung slightly to her damp skin. The light blue sky held a golden cast at the horizon. Although the Pacific Ocean was ten miles away, Callie caught a hint of saltiness on the air. In another hour, twilight would settle on the famous Southern California naval base and neighboring San Diego. Miramar was the aviation arm of the navy—and the most prestigious assignment Callie had ever been given. In her position as a satellite and photo interpreter, she’d always been hidden behind doors marked Top Secret, pouring over photos for hours, then issuing reports, never interfacing much with anyone but photographic intelligence staff. But Miramar was a different stripe of cat: there was always excitement at this station because the Top Guns trained here year round.

As she hurried across the asphalt, Callie saw many other young women heading for the club, mostly in groups of two and three. Her heart fell. These civilian women, dressed to the nines in snug skirts and high heels, were known as “groupies.” On Friday and Saturday nights, the women swarmed to the O Club, openly courting the cocky young pilots by flirting, dancing and drinking with them.

Callie wanted none of the scene that generated so much excitement among the carrier pilots, who eagerly looked forward to the weekends. She never had. Naval aviators tended to be aggressive toward women, and usually had enough lines to sink a battleship—as she knew from hard-won experience. In four years, she’d fallen three times for navy pilots. And, as Maggie had informed her one day, she’d crashed and burned each time—sucked in with a line, her own damning naivetñae paving the way to the end of the relationship.

Shaking her head, Callie slowed down and allowed the groups of civilian women to enter the O Club first. They would go to the bar, she knew, a huge area designed for heavy drinking, rowdy behavior, loud rock music and packed bodies. Callie, however, opened the door and entered the much-quieter dining room, adjacent to the bar. Here there was a lot less chance of being hit on by some drunk aviator.

Not that she’d be much of a target, anyway, she thought as the hostess led her toward a table at the rear of the spacious room. With her short hair, bland clothes and lack of makeup, Callie was hardly the type to attract the roving “wolf packs.”

As Callie reached the small table, she recognized Lieutenant Andy Clark, who was assigned to Miramar as an Aggressor pilot—one of the men who trained the Top Gun candidates how to shoot to kill up in the sky. Seated two tables to her left, Andy looked up and nodded deferentially in her direction. Callie smiled and raised her hand in silent greeting before she sat down. Andy was married and the proud father of two little girls, she knew. His wife was a teacher, with the local school district, and they had a home in Bonsall, not far from the station.

Loud, irritating music drifted into the dining area, and with a sinking feeling, Callie realized that her table was easily viewed from the bar, which was packed, as usual, with aviators—in uniform to impress the multitude of circulating civilian women.

Games, she thought tiredly, as she sipped a glass of ice water. Callie hadn’t known what games really were until she’d joined the navy, following in her sisters’ footsteps. She’d learned fast, though, at Annapolis, where men had called her names, played dirty tricks on her, groped her and made her the object of their anger.

And the games hadn’t stopped with her recent promotion to Miramar, Callie thought glumly after the waitress had taken her order for a hamburger and fries. Her new boss in the Intelligence section, Lieutenant Commander Hal Remington, had, since her arrival here a month ago, been more than a pest. Tall, darkly tanned and arrogant—and carrying the nickname “Honcho”—Remington embodied the stereotypical pilot image, making him a favorite of the groupies.

No, the games Remington played were barely disguised displays of hostility toward women. At first, coming to Miramar had looked like a wonderful feather in her career cap and the achievement of Callie’s primary goal—job security. Transferring from the dark photographic rooms of the Pentagon to here, she’d felt like Persephone coming from the bowels of Hades to the topside of the world where there was sunshine, life and beauty.

Callie had earned her promotion. She’d paid her dues at the Pentagon, and her personnel jacket reflected her much-heralded abilities. But with Remington assigned as her immediate superior, Callie’s joy at coming to Miramar had been quickly eclipsed. He was like a wolf on the prowl, harassing and intimidating the women in his section. Worse, he seemed to zero in on Callie with his insinuating remarks and barely veiled come-ons. But fear of losing her job, or at least getting bad marks in her personnel jacket, had kept her tight-lipped about the problem—even to Maggie.

Within twenty minutes her meal had arrived and Callie was glad. Although she tried not to show it, she was nervous. From time to time, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed some of the pilots at the bar pointing disparagingly in her direction. The entire station knew about the newspaper article, which, thanks largely to Maggie’s outspokenness, had stirred up a lot of heated debate.

Why had she allowed Maggie to drag her into that interview? Callie thought for about the thousandth time since last Sunday. Not that she’d said much anyway. Maggie was so fiery and confident in comparison to Callie that the female reporter naturally had honed in on her. And for that, Callie was grateful. She concentrated on quickly eating her meal, mentally preparing for her upcoming class. Tonight she would be showing some photo techniques in the darkroom, and she wanted to get there a little early to look at her notes and doublecheck the equipment.

“Hey, sweet thing…”

Callie’s heart took one gigantic bound, and a french fry halted halfway to her mouth. She’d recognize that grating voice anywhere. It was Lieutenant Commander Remington. Lifting her head, Callie firmly ordered herself not to react although fear sizzled through her gut, tightening it into a knot.

Remington smiled and lifted his hand in a sloppy salute. “You know, you could dress in a burlap bag and it wouldn’t matter, Donovan,” he said, his words slurring slightly. He weaved unsteadily and took a step back to peer down at her crossed legs. “Your legs have been driving me nuts all day. I’m glad you stopped by the O Club. It gives me another chance to look at them.”

Callie gulped and saw that Remington’s narrow blue eyes were hazed from alcohol. He was her superior. What should she do? Her heart was bounding like a rabbit’s—a rabbit caught between the paws of a slavering wolf.

Maybe if she played along, tried teasing him back, it would make him go away, Callie thought. Attempting to smile, she set her food aside.

“Commander, I’m sure your wife has a very nice set of legs, too.” Remington had just recently married for a third time, from what she understood.

He lurched forward and placed his hands flat on the white linen cloth of the table. Patches adorned each arm of his olive green one-piece flight suit, and his name was printed in gold on a black leather square above the left breast pocket. His mouth drew into a little-boy smile as he pinned her with his gaze. “Sweet cheeks, I still think you’ve got the best legs on the station, despite that asinine article I read last Sunday.”