The Admiral's Bride

Well, that did it.

Stonegate stormed out.

Mac Forrest followed. “And I’ll help,” he murmured to Jake with a wink. “Anything I can do, Jake, you just let me know.”

The room was finally empty.

Jake drew in a deep breath and let it all out in a rush as he collected and organized his notes and papers.

That had gone far better than he’d hoped. He’d been sure his age was going to be an insurmountable issue, that none of his first choice of SEALs would accept the assignment. He’d gone so far as to have his hair colored for the occasion, covering the silver at his temples with his regular shade of dark brown. He’d figured looking as young as possible couldn’t hurt.

And it had made him look younger, there was no doubt about it.

He’d liked the way his colored hair looked more than he cared to admit. But he had admitted it. He’d forced himself to confront the issue. He hated the thought of growing old. He’d fought it ever since he’d turned thirty with every breath he took, cutting red meat and high-cholesterol-inducing foods out of his diet. Eating health foods and seaweeds and exercising religiously every day. Aerobics. Weights. Running.

He hadn’t lied to Ron Stonegate. He was in top-notch, near-perfect shape, even for a man fifteen years his junior.

There was only one type of exercise he no longer participated in regularly and that was—

Jake closed his briefcase with a snap and turned around and found himself staring directly into Zoe Lange’s eyes.

Sex.

Yes, it had definitely been nearly three years since he’d last had sex.

Jake swallowed and forced a smile. “God, I’m sorry,” he said. “How long have you been standing there? I didn’t realize you were still in the room.”

She shifted her briefcase to her other hand, and Jake realized that she was nervous. He made Pat Sullivan’s top operative nervous.

The feeling was extremely mutual—but for what had to be an entirely different reason. He found her attractive, college-girl getup and all. Much too attractive.

“I just wanted to thank you again for including me in this assignment,” she said, all but stammering. She was trying so hard to be cool, but he knew otherwise.

“Let’s see if you’re still thanking me after you get an up-close look at the CRO compound.” Jake headed for the door to get away from her subtle, freshly sweet scent. She wasn’t wearing perfume. He had to guess it was her hair. Hair that would slip between his fingers like silk. If he were close enough to touch it. Which he wasn’t.

“I’ve spent years in the Middle East. At least I won’t have to walk around wearing a veil in Montana.” She followed, almost tripping over her own feet to keep up. “I’m just…I’m thrilled to be working with you, sir.”

He stopped in the corridor just outside the third door. There was no doubt about it. “You’ve read Scooter’s damn book.”

For seventeen years, that book had been coming back to haunt him. Scoot had written his memoirs about his time in Nam. Who knew the monosyllabic, conversationally challenged SEAL was a budding Hemingway? But he’d written Laughing in the Face of Fire both eloquently and gracefully. It was one of the few books on Nam that Jake had actually almost liked—except for the fact that Scooter had made Jake out to be some kind of demigod.

Zoe Lange had probably read the damn thing when she was twelve or thirteen—or at some other god-awful impressionable age—and no doubt had been carrying around some crazy idea of Lieutenant Jake Robinson, superhero, ever since.

“Well, yeah, I’ve read it,” she told him. “Of course I’ve read it.” She was looking at him the way a ten-year-old boy would look at Mark McGwire or Sammy Sosa.

He hated it. Hero worship without a modicum of lust. What the hell had happened to him?

He’d turned fifty, that’s what. And children like Zoe Lange—who hadn’t even been born during his first few tours in Vietnam—thought of him as someone’s grandpa.

“Scooter exaggerated,” he said shortly, starting down the hall toward the elevators. He was mad at himself for giving a damn. So what if this girl didn’t see him as a man? It was better that way, considering they were going to be working together, considering he was not interested in getting involved with her. “Extensively.”

“Even if only ten percent of the stories he told were true, you would still be a hero.”

“There’s no such thing as a Vietnam war hero.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Yeah? You can’t be a hero alone in a room. You need the crowd. The ticker-tape parade. The gorgeous blonde rushing the convertible to kiss you silly. I know—I’ve seen pictures of U.S. soldiers coming home after the Second World War. They sure as hell didn’t get egged by college students.”

“The Vietnam era was a confusing time in history.”

Jake winced. “History. Jeez, it wasn’t that long ago. Make me feel old, why don’t you?”

“I don’t think you’re old, Admiral.”

“Okay, then start by calling me Jake. You’re on my team, we’re going to get to know each other pretty well by the time this is over.” Jake stopped at the elevators and punched his security code into the keypad. “And I am old. I’ve been around a half a century, and I’ve seen more than my share of terrible, violent, monstrous acts. The things people do to each other appalls me. But I’m going to use that in my favor. Everything I’ve seen and learned is going to help me keep Chris Vincent and the CRO from doing some awful, permanent damage to this country that I love.”

She laughed. Her teeth were white and straight. “And you claim you’re not a hero.” The elevator doors slid open and she followed him inside. “I think you’re wrong. I think you can be a hero alone in a room. I think you would’ve shied away from the ticker-tape parade anyway.”

“Are you kidding? I would’ve eaten it up with a spoon.” He punched in the code that would take them to the ground floor. “Look, Doc, I appreciate your support, I do. Just…don’t believe everything you read in Scooter’s book.”

“Four hundred and twenty-seven.”

“Four hundred and twenty-seven what?”

“Men.”

His first thought was surely a sign that he’d had sex on his mind far too frequently of late. But there was no innuendo in Zoe Lange’s face, no hint of a suggestion in her eyes that she wanted Jake to be number four hundred and twenty-eight in a very, very long line. In fact, such a long line, it was preposterous. He tried not to laugh and failed. “I cannot begin to guess what you’re talking about. I mean, I’m trying, but…” He laughed again at his own cluelessness. “You’ve lost me, Doctor.”

“My father was number four hundred and twenty-seven,” she said quietly. “He’s one of Jake’s Boys.”

Jake didn’t know what to say.

It happened sometimes. Someone would come up to him with emotion brimming in their eyes and shake his hand, whispering that their husband or son or father was one of Jake’s Boys. As if he still had some kind of hold over them. Or as if, upon saving their lives, he’d somehow become responsible for them until the end of time.

He’d learned to be courteous and brief. He’d shake their hand, touch their shoulder, smile into their eyes and pretend he remembered Private This or Corporal That. The truth was, he didn’t remember any of them. The faces stuck in his mind were only of the men he hadn’t been able to save. The men who died, who were already dead. Empty eyes. All those awful, empty eyes…

“Sergeant Matthew Lange,” she told him. “He was with the forty-fifth—”

“I don’t remember him.” He couldn’t lie to this woman. Not if she was going to be on his team.

She didn’t even blink. “I didn’t expect you to, sir. He was only one out of hundreds.” She smiled and reached out to take his hand, to squeeze his fingers. “You know, I owe my life to you, as well. I wasn’t born until a year after he came home.”

Which meant her father was probably younger than Jake was.

Perfect.

His one completely loyal ally, the one person on his team who honestly didn’t have any reservations about his age or ability, had just managed to make him feel undeniably old.