Title: Against the Wind -- Part One
Author: Sooz
Email: sooz9009@aol.com
Rating: NC-17.
Classification: Romance, angst, H/M
Disclaimers: Not mine, non-profit.
Summary:  Harm and Mac take their first steps toward a life together.
Author's note: Begins soon after "Answered Prayers" and follows a slightly 
alternate path through the end of season seven.  



Against the Wind I


2400 Zulu (7 p.m. EST)
Fort Myer, Virginia
Late March, 2002

My locker slams behind me with a metallic 
boom as I swing my gym bag onto my shoulder 
and push through the heavy locker room door.  
It whooshes shut, cutting off the women's voices 
echoing over the hiss of the showers.

Thursday night.  Home to a silent apartment, 
NPR on the radio, Budget Gourmet in the 
microwave.  Packing for my weekend 
assignment.  Early to bed.  Not even poor old 
Jingo for company, since he's still with Chloe.

The squeak of my running shoes is loud on the 
polished concrete floors.  At the Fort Myer 
athletic complex, it's a long walk up the stairs 
from the locker rooms when you're exhausted 
from a tough workout.  

I welcome the comfortably tired feeling.  It 
makes it easier to get through an evening alone 
when you can hit the rack by nine o'clock.  
Sometimes I even sleep through.

At this hour there are always lots of officers 
here.  They arrive in uniform and leave in 
civvies, like me.  Mostly men, a few women.  
The Fort Myer O Club has a terrific pool and 
weight room and a quarter-mile indoor track, 
and it's convenient to JAG headquarters in Falls 
Church.  And of course, it beats hell out of those 
expensive health clubs in the city where the 
jerks try to pick you up.  Here, the oak leaves on 
my collar guarantee the leering will be subtle 
and won't get out of line.  

I've been coming here almost every evening 
after work for the past few months, when I'm in 
town.  It's one of the few calm, sane routines in 
my life anymore.  After September 11, none of 
our lives will ever be the same -- although for 
me, nothing has seemed normal since Harm 
crashed, and Mic left, and I ran away to the 
Guadalcanal to try to pull myself together.  
Whatever normal was, or is, my life sure as hell 
isn't it.

Since Harm and I agreed to a truce last fall, I 
haven't seen him much.  Maybe that has helped, 
I don't know.  For a long time I was so lost and 
hurt and angry at him, at Mic, at myself.  Lately, 
we've been away on separate assignments much 
of the time.  Our stints at headquarters have not 
overlapped very often, and when they do, we're 
a little wary of each other.  But it seems as if 
some of the barriers are coming down.  An 
uneasy truce at best, as Sturgis likes to point 
out.  That guy is too damn perceptive. 

My breath puffs out in a steamy cloud around 
my face as I push open the glass doors to the 
parking lot.  It must have started snowing again 
after I went in -- the air is thick with fat white 
flakes that blur in the lights, and the cold night 
air feels wonderful on my overheated skin.  
Then, as I head down the walk, I come to a dead 
stop.  

Harm is leaning against a light pole, arms 
crossed, looking down at me.  In his leather 
flight jacket and khakis, he looks as if he just 
stepped off the deck of a carrier at sea.  I could 
not be more startled if he had materialized out 
of thin air like Captain Kirk.  "Hey," he calls 
with a grin, looking utterly relaxed and cheerful.  

"Hey yourself." I shift the heavy bag on my 
shoulder. Damn the man.  Come on, Mackenzie, 
get a grip.  I give myself a little mental shake. 
"When did you get in?"

"Couple hours ago.  The Admiral told me to 
report straight from Andrews and not wait to 
change uniforms.  I just finished up with him."

"How did you know I was here?"

"Guessed.  So I cruised by and saw the 'vette in 
the lot."  His eyes are warm as his grin deepens.  
"Besides, I always know where you are, Marine, 
you know that."

"Well, I didn't know where  were." Harm 
was pulled off an important court martial ten 
days ago for an abrupt departure overseas, and 
not even scuttlebutt seems to know much about 
it.  

Now he's shaking his head, still smiling a little.  
"Sorry.  But I can tell you one thing -- you're 
going to catch cold.  Don't you know you 
shouldn't go out in winter with wet hair?  For 
Pete's sake, Mac, you're going to wind up with 
pneumonia."  While he's lecturing me, he 
reaches out and zips up my fleece parka.  

"Okay, Dad.  Thanks."  I blink snow off my 
eyelashes and can't help smiling back at him.  
"Have you had anything to eat yet?"

"No, you?"

"I had a date with the microwave."

He makes a face.  "I've been looking forward to 
a decent meal for ten days.  C'mon, let's go."  
We turn and head for the parked cars, and he 
casually reaches out and takes my duffel bag.  
Our feet crunch in the snow as we walk side by 
side, his presence big and solid beside me.  
Everything seems hushed.  

I dig in my pocket for my keys.  "Where do you 
want to go?" I ask.  "I'm not exactly dressed for 
anything in Alexandria."  Before I can stop him, 
Harm reaches out and takes the keys.  

"You're riding with me, Mac.  There's no way 
I'm letting you try to drive the 'vette in this 
weather."  

Ordinarily, his calm proprietary tone would 
infuriate me.  I'm ready to retaliate that I don't 
need some arrogant squid aviator to tell me 
when the roads are too dangerous.  And the 
words won't come.  I just stare at him, and he's 
watching me with that damn little amused gleam 
in his eyes, just waiting for me to argue.  And 
after a moment I shake my head.  "You realize 
you'll have to give me a ride back here to pick 
up my car tomorrow."

"No problem."

"I have to leave for Annapolis by 0700."  

"No problem."  Boy, he's really feeling stubborn 
about this if he's willing to get up that early.  
For an instant I flash on a fantasy about staying 
over at his place, then pull myself together.

I shrug and turn away, trying to hide my smile.  
If only I weren't so damn glad to see him.  
"Okay, flyboy.  You win.  This time."

"Okay," he grins, and flips the keyless entry on 
the Lexus.

* * *

Damn, how does she manage to look so good 
after a full day at the office and a hard workout?  

So many women seem sort of grey and rumpled 
until they fix their hair and makeup, but Mac is 
fresh and shining.  Her wet hair, combed back, 
outlines the shape of her proud little head, and I 
catch a faint, delicate fragrance of shampoo or 
conditioner or whatever the hell women use.  
She really ought to wear warmer clothes, 
though.  At the same time the thought crosses 
my mind, I'm admiring the way those thin grey 
sweat pants cling to her hips and thighs as she 
climbs into my SUV. 

We pull onto the highway past the Pentagon.  
The snow rushes to meet the headlights in a 
dizzy blur that reminds me of the Millennium 
Falcon going into hyperdrive, and I prudently 
ease back on the accelerator until I feel the SUV 
grab traction.  I level it out at about 30 before I 
glance over at Mac.  She's sitting with her arms 
and knees drawn up as if she's cold, and I adjust 
the heater.

"So what are you doing at Annapolis 
tomorrow?"

She turns to look at me.  "Filling in for a faculty 
member who went on medical leave.  I took 
over the general survey course on the UCMJ 
and a 300-level seminar on military legal ethics.  
I usually stay over on Saturday morning to see 
students and use the library to prepare for the 
following week." 

My eyebrows go up.  "Jeez, they must really 
have been impressed with that lecture you gave 
last spring."

Her eyes have an amused glint.  "You don't have 
to sound so surprised."

"On the contrary, I'm impressed.  And jealous.  
If the professors had looked like you when I was 
a mid, I wouldn't have minded calculus so 
much."

"Spare me, please, Mr. Trident Scholar, Magna 
cum Laude."

She must have looked up my record.  For some 
reason, I'm absurdly flattered.  "Well, I was a 
history major.  I never would have made it 
through all the math without Diane."  As soon 
as the words are out, my mouth slams shut.  
Rabb, you are such an ass sometimes.  

But Mac, God bless her, just cocks her head and 
gives me a warm look.  "Yeah, I'm sure.  
Especially since you had to pull better than a 
3.25 in engineering and physics to get flight 
school."

I shrug, embarrassed, and change the subject.  
"So what do you think of the Academy, 
anyway?"  I'm curious to know what Mac makes 
of the place that was, and is, such an important 
part of my life.

She is watching the snow in the oncoming 
headlights, but her eyes are distant.  "I think it's 
extraordinary," she says after a moment, her 
voice soft.  "I'm going to have to take back all 
those cracks and jokes I've made about it over 
the years."   Once again, she has surprised the 
hell out of me. 

I feel her eyes on me and I listen, intrigued and 
curious, as she continues, "I never realized 
before how intense it all is -- not just the 
academics, but the level of dedication everyone 
brings to it.  I had no idea that honor and 
integrity and duty are literally part of the 
curriculum."  Her voice gets even softer, and I 
have to listen intently as she says, "I understand 
a few things better now.  And I'm extremely 
proud to be part of it." 

"The Navy, or the Academy?" 

She gives a graceful little shrug.  "Maybe both."  
From the corner of my eye I catch a little smile.  
"Maybe the people who make them what they 
are."

Something tightens in my chest, and I turn my 
head to look at her.  Her eyes are dark and 
shining in the glow of the dash lights.  Then 
we're on the bridge approach and the slippery 
road and the traffic demand my concentration 
again.  After a moment I clear my throat.  "So 
how's the Arabic stuff going?"

She doesn't complain about being tired, but she 
must be.  Ever since 9/11, as one of the few 
people with high security clearance who is 
fluent in Farsi, Mac has been away more than 
she's been at headquarters.  They pulled her in at 
Langley for three weeks straight, doing 
translations and setting up a crash program to 
train CIA agents in Arabic dialects.  Then she 
spent another few weeks on and off at the FBI 
academy at Quantico, doing the same thing, all 
the while keeping things running at JAG as 
chief of staff.  Good thing she rarely sleeps, I 
guess -- but I worry about it anyway. 

She sighs.  "I spent three days at the War 
College last week while you were gone.  Now 
they're talking about making it a language 
requirement at the Academy.  I thought the 
Admiral was going to pop a gasket, trying to 
figure out how to keep things moving at JAG 
with both of us gone so much."  She cuts a 
quick glance at me, obviously thinking of my 
recent TDY.  "Can you talk about it?" 

I shake my head regretfully.  "Sorry, still 
classified.  And it looks like that won't be 
changing any time soon.  I'll be in Washington 
for the next ten days, but most of that will be out 
of the office.  After that, who knows."

In the glow of the dash lights I see her looking 
at me with awe.  "Damn.  You got it, didn't 
you?" she whispers.  

I lift an eyebrow at her.  People often take one 
look at Mac and get no further than her looks -- 
it's easy to underestimate her, but it's a mistake 
no one ever makes twice.  She didn't finish in 
the top one percent of her class at Duke Law for 
nothing. 

 She's looking at me as if I just threw a 60-yard 
pass to win the Super Bowl. "You're running the 
task force for the military tribunals, aren't you?" 
she says with certainty.

"I can neither confirm nor deny, counselor."  I 
can't quite keep the grin out of my voice.  "That 
operation is being run out of the Pentagon, you 
know that."

"And I know they are following the 
recommendations of experts on international 
military jurisdiction," she says, "which is you.  
God, Harm, it's a career-maker.  
Congratulations." 

I feel a warm glow at her approval and find 
myself wondering how many officers in the 
huge bureaucracy of the JAG Corps would be so 
whole-heartedly glad for me.  Once again, I 
realize how lucky I am to have Sarah Mackenzie 
for a friend.  

"If I could discuss it, Mac, I'd say thanks," I tell 
her, and take the exit ramp for Georgetown.  
"Now how about takeout for dinner?  Can we 
eat at your place?"  

"Sure.  How about the deli on the corner?"

"Nah, unless you're really up for it -- I was 
thinking about that new Japanese place on J 
Street.  I'm dying for some sushi, and you can 
get sukiyaki or something."

"Something cooked, at least," she laughs.  
"None of that low tide stuff."

"Hey, sushi is very good for you," I protest.  "If 
you'd just try it" --

"Not a chance.  Especially that gooshy yellow 
junk with the dead seaweed."

"That is sea urchin, and it's considered a 
delicacy."

"Okay, Emeril.  Just don't ask me to eat 
anything that might wave at me as I bite down.  
Or any of that tofu stuff."

"Soy is extremely good for you," I try to explain 
for the thousandth time as we pull up outside the 
restaurant.  Mac just throws her head back and 
laughs merrily -- she's heard it all before.   If 
tofu gets her to laugh like that, maybe I'll have 
to expand my repertoire to alfalfa sprouts and 
fish oil.  

* * *

"Listen, finding a parking spot within a block is 
really lucky," I try to tell him again as we trudge 
up the street to my door.  I'm carrying a warm, 
fragrant brown bag filled with our dinner, and 
Harm is lugging my duffel.  He is complaining 
about how heavy it is and how far we have to 
walk to my door.  I am enjoying it, because he's 
teasing about the former, and he's concerned 
about the latter -- not tonight, when we're 
together, but for other times when I have to 
walk from my parked car alone.  

As we turn the corner, he stops in his tracks and 
says, "Well, now at least I know what happened 
to your hat."  He's staring at the lopsided 
snowman leaning drunkenly on the snow beside 
my building.  It's a bit dilapidated by now, but 
it's still wearing a stylish red fleece chapeau.  

I reach out and straighten the hat, brushing away 
wet snowflakes.  "I made this with Jimmy from 
downstairs yesterday," I tell him proudly.  "My 
first snowman.  I don't know who was prouder, 
him or me."

Harm is silent, and I look up to find him looking 
at me in consternation.  "You never made a 
snowman before?"  He seems perplexed, and 
he's so cute I want to ruffle his hair, but he 
probably wouldn't appreciate it.  

"I grew up in the Sunbelt, you know that," I 
said.  "And I never had a seven-year-old 
neighbor before, either."

"They didn't have snow in Minnesota?"

"They were more preoccupied with chilling beer 
in it than playing with it," I say dryly.

Harm just stares at me, those incredible green 
eyes wide.  Suddenly, he smacks his forehead 
with the heel of his hand and topples backwards 
into the snow bank, arms flung out.  As I stand 
there with my mouth open, he waves his long 
arms and legs back and forth in the snow, 
looking for all the world like a giant stork doing 
the backstroke, and I start to laugh.  With a huge 
grin, he struggles upright and points to the 
outline with a flourish.

"What do you call that?"  I giggle.

He cocks his head.  "You've never made a snow 
angel, either?  You are culturally deprived, 
Marine.  That's about to change."  And without 
warning, he picks me up and tosses me onto my 
back in the snow.  "Flap your arms and legs, 
Mac," he calls loudly, not caring in the least that 
a few passers-by are staring.

Fascinated, I do as I'm told, then struggle to my 
feet and turn to look.  "It worked!  I made a 
snow angel!" I shout and fling my arms over my 
head like a referee signaling a touchdown.  
Harm is looking down at me and for a moment 
we just grin at each other like idiots.  God, that 
man's smile could melt bronze.

"You're the snow angel, Mac," he says, "and 
your nose is running."  He taps my cheek with 
his glove, gives me another charming leer and 
reaches for the duffel bag. 

My snowball smacks him on the neck with a 
soft "plop."  He straightens with a yelp and 
wheels on me, and I clap my mittened hands 
over my mouth to stifle a giggle.  "I can't 
believe they did that," I say, praying he'll go for 
it.  "A drive-by hit, I swear to God."  

"You're a dead woman!" he laughs, reaching for 
a handful of snow.  With a squeak of terror 
unworthy of a Marine, I dive for more 
ammunition, but Harm's missile gets me right 
between the shoulder blades.  I fire one back 
that is an ignominious miss, and then he's 
looming over me, all six-feet-four, two hundred 
pounds of him, and he's grabbing me around the 
waist and threatening to shove a handful of 
snow down my neck.  We're both laughing so 
hard we can scarcely breathe and I pull my 
shoulders up to my ears with an undignified 
shriek.  

"Give up?"

"I have not yet begun to fight!"

"That's Navy, not the Corps," he says.  "I win."  
He releases me and we both stand there, gasping 
for breath.  After a moment Harm straightens up 
and wipes his nose, which is red as a cherry.  

"Thanks for the introduction to winter sports, 
Navy," I grin.  

"Anytime, Marine," he says, and picks up the 
sack with our supper.  It's only slightly 
squashed.  "C'mon, let's get inside before 
someone decides I'm a mugger and calls the 
cops."  He holds out his hand, and I take it.

* * *

Mac flips on some lights as I head for the 
kitchen with our supper.  "Hey, where's Jingo?" 
I call after her.

"He's staying with Chloe on her grandparents' 
farm," Mac calls from the bedroom.  "Since I've 
been traveling so much."

I pull some plates out of the cabinet and spoon 
things out of cartons.  My hand goes to the right 
drawers without hesitation and the sense of 
being at home slides into place with a nearly 
audible click.  I usually cook for Mac at my 
place, but God knows how many takeout meals 
we have shared here.  Not for awhile, though.  
Too long.

I carry the things into the dining room and set 
out some place mats and silverware as I hear 
Mac coming.  "Tea okay?" I ask her, "after all, it 
is Japanese food" -- and then I look up.

She has dried her hair and changed into a casual 
velour top and pants.  They are the deep garnet 
color of cranberries, and she looks great.  How 
does she do that so fast?

"Tea's fine," she smiles.  She takes the napkins 
from my hand, where I seem to have forgotten 
them.  She's standing so close I can feel the 
warmth of her body and I wonder how soft her 
shirt would feel beneath my hands.  "Harm?  Is 
the tea okay for you?"

"Um, yeah, tea's good," I try to pull myself 
together.  Mac smiles at me and I forget what I 
was going to say.

She brings cups and a couple of glasses filled 
with ice water, and as I hold her chair, I lean 
close.  Damn, does she smell good.

So we eat, and talk, and laugh, and I watch the 
soft light play across her skin and listen to her 
voice, which always reminds me of smoky 
wine.  We share scuttlebutt, and Mac brings me 
up to speed on the latest at the office since I've 
been away.  When she tells me about her classes 
at the Academy, and how bright and challenging 
the students are, I watch her animated 
expression and wonder how those hapless 
midshipmen ever stay on track during class. 

It's been too long since we've spent an evening 
together like this, just us.  At last Mac looks up 
and shrugs, a little embarrassed.  "Sorry, I got 
carried away."

"You didn't," I say.  "And I'm glad you're 
enjoying the teaching so much."

"Yeah, I am," she says with a smile.  "Well, 
maybe just the change of pace.  Want some 
coffee?"  With surprise, I look at my watch and 
realize it's 2200 already.  

"No, thanks, I need to catch up on sleep, I think 
I'm still jetlagged," I tell her.  "Gotta be in the 
office early tomorrow to get caught up."

"Well, how about some more tea before you 
go?"

"Sounds great," I say, and stand up to stretch.  I 
reach for the dishes, but Mac shoos me away.  
"Go light the fire, will you?  I'll bring the tea," 
she says.

So I amble over to the fireplace and twist the 
knob for the gas log.  I installed this thing for 
Mac a few years ago, and it's nice if I do say so 
myself.  It better be, since I spent the better part 
of a day lying on my back with a hammer drill, 
breaking through the concrete to run the gas 
line.

Mac has these little wicker armchairs that were 
made for midgets, so I throw myself down in 
my usual spot on her sofa and lean back, 
watching the firelight.  Fortunately Mac doesn't 
object to shoeless feet on the coffee table, at 
least not my feet.  She comes in with two 
steaming mugs and turns off all but one soft 
lamp, then settles down at the other end of the 
sofa and hands me my mug.  Our fingers brush, 
and I see the contact spark in her eyes.

She settles back against the cushions and we 
relax in companionable silence for a minute.  
I'm just opening my mouth to tell her about my 
own project at Annapolis when she asks, "So 
when did you learn so much about snow, 
anyway?  I thought you grew up in California.  
You can't tell me you made snow angels at the 
Academy."

I grin, but I wonder what to say.  After a 
moment, I shrug.  "About a year after my dad 
went MIA, mom decided to move back to 
Connecticut to be with her family," I say.  "We 
moved in with my grandparents, and we lived 
there for the next five years."  It seems a little 
odd that I have never told Mac this.

Mac's watching me, knowing there's more.  
"How was it?" she asks cautiously.  Of course, 
she is aware that I have never mentioned my 
mother's parents before.

"I hated it.  At first I had this idea that my dad 
wouldn't know where to find us when he came 
home, or something.  And there was all this 
weird tension between my mom and her parents.  
I didn't figure out until I was older that they 
hadn't approved of the marriage -- the Navy 
didn't quite stack up as a career choice in their 
eyes.  I just knew that I wasn't supposed to talk 
about any of it."  I stare into the fire, 
remembering.

"That's lousy, Harm.  It must have been hell on 
your mother."  I look up and see Mac looking 
indignant.  

"Yeah, I think it was.  I just remember that 
overnight, the most powerful person in my 
whole world disappeared, and all they ever told 
me was not to cry.  I think I was scared that if it 
could happen to Dad, it could happen to my 
mom, or me, or anybody.  The only thing to do 
was to be so strong that nothing could ever 
touch us again."  I hesitate.  Where the hell did 
all this come from?  I don't know that I've 
actually said any of this stuff before.  

"That was a lot for a little boy," Mac says softly.  
I look at her, and somehow it feels right to go 
on.  

"I knew mom was devastated," I tell her slowly, 
remembering. "I used to lie in bed at night, after 
she had turned off my light, and I'd hear her 
next door, crying in the bath tub."  That's the 
worst memory, the one I can never shake.

"When you're a kid, adults seem so powerful -- 
it's awful when you see they're just as scared 
and clueless as you are," Mac says.  With a little 
start, I realize that Mac really does get it, as few 
people could.

"I just couldn't protect her -- not from all of it," I 
remember.  "And the kids at Greenwich Country 
Day were the worst.  This was the late sixties, 
early seventies, and everybody hated the war, 
especially a bunch of elitist jerks who knew 
their student deferments would keep them out of 
it.  There was no such thing as a military hero.  I 
got in a lot of fights."

"I'll bet your grandparents loved that."

I snort.  "Then when I was twelve, mom married 
Frank and we moved to La Jolla."

"And four years later you ran off to Laos."

"Yeah, I guess I thought if I could just find Dad 
that everything would be okay again, you know?  
I was angry at Mom, at Frank, at life -- just 
generally pissed off.  Hell, I was sixteen.  I 
thought I could fix it somehow."

My arm is resting along the back of the sofa, 
and after a moment Mac sort of slides her hand 
over and I take it in mine.  And it feels so 
peaceful and right, just sitting there in the 
firelight for awhile longer, two friends who 
don't need to talk.    

* * *

Saturday, 0530 hours
Annapolis, Maryland

The Severn River is barely beginning to show 
the pale shimmering grey of dawn.  The light 
wind off the Chesapeake Bay is thin and cold 
and smells of the sea.

My running shoes make scarcely any sound as I 
pound along the path beside the harbor.  The 
historic brick houses of Annapolis flash by on 
my left, and sailboats bob in the marina.  Their 
rigging clangs against the spars and makes a 
faint metallic jingle in the morning breeze. 

I have come to cherish my weekly visits to this 
quaint old town, particularly on the quiet 
mornings before any tourists are around.  
Yesterday was a long day.  I left D.C. at 0700 to 
get here in plenty of time for my lecture at 0900, 
and it didn't end until 2030 last night after the 
faculty reception at the Admiral's home.  

After nearly falling asleep on my sofa Thursday 
night, Harm showed up at my door promptly at 
0600 Friday morning to run me down to Fort 
Myer to pick up my Corvette.  He was sleepy 
and grumpy and had cut himself shaving, and he 
made a point of telling me he was allowing me 
drive to Annapolis alone only because the snow 
had stopped and the roads were clear.  I gave 
him fresh coffee and a warm bagel from the 
corner deli, which I ran out to get before he 
arrived, and he cheered up.  God, he is adorable 
sometimes.

My breathing is deep and measured as I cruise 
along, but my thoughts are far away from the 
jogging path.  It has been a long time since 
Harm opened up to me the way he did the other 
night.  Remembering all the times when I 
pushed, only to feel him pull away.  

Frustrating, infuriating, impossible man.  I 
wonder what he's up to this weekend.  Maybe 
I'll give him a call before I leave.

The faculty thing last night was actually kind of 
fun.  I'm beginning to connect a few faces and 
names, and I'm pleased to realize how quickly I 
have remembered the rhythm of an academic 
community, how much I enjoy the interactions 
with students and colleagues.  Of course, it's 
also a military installation, and despite the fact 
that half the faculty are civilians, most 
professors I know would find it painfully 
conservative and regimented -- but I feel right at 
home, despite being here just two days a week.  
After my chaotic schedule of the past months, 
it's nice to have this to look forward to.

This morning, it feels great to get out and stretch 
my legs and my lungs.  I need to spend a few 
hours in the library later, pulling references for 
my next few lectures and mapping out the 
syllabus for the coming weeks, but for now I 
can relax and enjoy some time to myself.  

After five miles I'm breathing hard.  But the 
cold salt air blowing my hair feels wonderful, 
the Academy dock is sight, and I bear down, 
sprinting to touch the stanchion before relaxing 
into a slow jog.  

There's a light burning in one end of the big 
boathouse, and a couple of people are moving 
around.  On impulse, I head down the concrete 
steps and enter the wide central breezeway, a 
dark tunnel open to the river on the far end.  My 
footsteps echo with a hollow sound I walk 
slowly past the looming silent shapes of the 
crew shells poised on their racks.  

At the other end there's a flight of shallow 
wooden steps down to a wide wooden platform 
across the entire back of the building -- I 
suppose they'd call it a dock, but it looks like a 
dance floor to me, swaying in the light chop of 
the water.  A couple of gigantic midshipmen are 
lowering themselves gingerly into a delicate 
two-man shell that is bumping against the side 
of the platform.

I watch as they fit their shoes into the footrests 
and adjust their sliding seats.  There are four 
long, slender sculls lying alongside on the dock, 
and one by one they fit them into the oarlocks 
before shoving off.  They lean forward, oars 
poised, and then shoot across the water with no 
visible signal.  I watch, fascinated, as the 
delicate little craft skims away into the sunrise, 
the oars dipping in perfect unison.  The tips 
scarcely seem to touch the water, grazing it like 
birds' wings.

I pull the clean salt breeze deep into my lungs 
and let it out with a sigh.  A few more rowers 
are moving around and I realize I'm going to be 
in the way, so I head back inside and wait for a 
moment until my eyes adjust to the dimness.

The floors and walls are dark with years of 
varnish and smell like the inside of a cigar box.  
Shelves of trophies and framed pictures line the 
walls, and I walk slowly along, seeing faces in 
handlebar mustaches and sideburns from the 
turn of the last century, followed by groups of 
stern young men lined up on the same dock I 
saw outside.  Row on row, decade after decade, 
dim black and white prints changing to color for 
the last fifteen years or so, and I realize with a 
little lump in my throat how many of these boys 
never came home.  

For no reason at all, my eye catches and holds 
on one photograph. Clear handwriting across the 
mat beneath the dusty glass reads, "Head of the 
Charles, Championship Eight, October 1983."  
Eight young men and the female coxwain stand 
behind their shell, which is lying on a dock with 
a big silver trophy poised in front.  They are 
wearing Naval Academy shirts, holding their 
oars vertically, and each boy is broad 
shouldered and grinning proudly.

I'd know the smile on the guy on the left 
anywhere.  It's Harm.  

Something twists inside as I realize how young 
he was -- what, maybe nineteen?  The face and 
the tall figure are more slender than I recall, but 
the shoulders are already there.  I stare at his 
face, at once so familiar and so touchingly 
young.  I fancy I see a maturity, a strength of 
character in Harm's face that is not yet present 
in his teammates.

"Can I help you?"  A man's voice startles me 
from my hypnotized focus on the photograph.

"No, thanks, master chief," I smile into the lean 
tanned face of the tough looking man standing 
before me.  His insignia is on his ball cap, and 
suddenly I realize I must look like a gawking 
tourist.  "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Mackenzie," I 
tell him.  

"Yes, ma'am.  Sorry ma'am.  We get a lot of 
civilians wandering in here," he says.  "You 
interested in the pictures?"

"I -- I know someone in this one," I tell him.  
"Commander Rabb.  We serve together in the 
JAG Corps."

His face splits into a friendly grin.  "You know 
Rabb?  Damn, how's he doin'?  I heard he'd 
become a damn Jag after that Tomcat crash, 
goddamn shame.  Not the lawyer part, of 
course," he adds hastily.  "No offense, ma'am."

"None taken, master chief," I laugh.  "I'm sure 
he agrees with you.  And he still flies whenever 
they let him."

"Yeah, I heard about those two DFCs," he 
snorted.  "Well, Rabb always did have more 
guts than brains."

"I'll tell him you said so," I smile.  

"You tell him Master Chief Bledsoe said so," he 
says with a glint in his eye.  "Tell Rabb to come 
back and see me sometime.  I'll put him on the 
ergometer and we'll see what kind of shape he's 
in."  He shakes his head.  "Damn Rabb.  One of 
the best I ever coached.  Don't tell him that," he 
glares at me fiercely.

"Don't worry, his ego is still aviator-size," I 
promise.  "Nice to meet you, Master Chief."

"And you, ma'am.  You just here visiting?"

"No, I'm teaching a couple of courses for 
Captain Hastings."

Bledsoe scowls again, and I can't tell if he's mad 
or if squinting is all he can do after a lifetime on 
the water.  "Damn Marines," he mutters.  "At 
least they're making them better looking, 
ma'am."  Now I catch the twinkle.

"I'll tell Hastings you said so," I answer sweetly, 
and wave as I leave.  

* * *

"Colonel Mackenzie!"

A woman is standing at the top of the marble 
steps as I come out of the library into the 
portico.  She raises her hand in a quick wave, 
and I walk over to join her. 

"Mrs. Benson," I greet her with a smile.  "Thank 
you again for last night.  I had a lovely time."

The admiral's wife stands tall and erect, with 
silver hair caught in a French twist.  She gives 
me a warm smile and extends a long slim hand.  
Her handshake is surprisingly firm, evidence of 
a lifetime of official functions.  

"It's a pleasure to have you with us, Colonel," 
she says now.  "Even if you're here only two 
days a week.  I hear that the UCMJ survey 
course has never been so popular."

"Well, the fact that it's a requirement has a lot to 
do with it," I grin.

"I suspect it's you, my dear," she replies.

"The midshipmen don't see a lot of female 
officers," I point out.  "And my seminar students 
are a terrific group.  I'm having a hard time 
staying a step ahead."

"It must be quite a change from JAG division 
headquarters. It sounds like you're enjoying it, 
though."

"It's wonderful," I say, and realize with a sense 
of surprise that it's true.  "I love the feeling that 
I'm doing something positive, instead of just 
trying to resolve problems." 

"You're a fine litigator, I hear."

"I hope so, ma'am.  It's very challenging, and I 
love working for Admiral Chegwidden."

"Oh yes, A.J.  Please tell him hello.  We haven't 
seen him here for Alumni Week in a while."  

As we stand together in the shadow of the tall 
pillars, a group of officers in the quad below 
catches my attention.  Admiral Benson, the 
Academy superintendent, is there, and Captain 
Hildebrandt, the academic dean.  They are 
talking intently with a tall, broad shouldered 
commander who has his back to us, but it's a 
back I could pick out of any crowd, anywhere.

"Excuse me?"  With a start, I realize that Helen 
Benson is waiting for a reply.  "I'm so sorry, I 
didn't hear you," I apologize in confusion, but 
I'm still distracted.  With a quick salute, the 
commander turns and looks straight at me.  I'm 
so astonished I just stand there as he flashes me 
that dazzling grin and strides up the steps 
toward us.  In his immaculately tailored dress 
blues and ribbons, he is a dominant presence 
even here, among men trained to command.  

Mrs. Benson fixes me with a sharp stare, then 
follows my gaze.  "Never mind, dear," she says 
with amusement in her voice.

Harm comes to attention before us, looking 
dapper and impossibly handsome.  "Colonel," 
he greets me.  "Ma'am."

Somehow I hear myself saying, "Helen Benson, 
may I introduce Commander Harmon Rabb?  
Harm, this is Mrs. Benson, Admiral Benson's 
wife."

He takes her extended hand.  "It's nice to see 
you again, ma'am," he says with a courteous 
bow.

"Mr. Rabb," she greets him.  "I didn't realize 
this was one of your weekends."

"It's not, ma'am," he looks down at her with a 
smile.  "But one of my guys called.  I've been 
away on assignment, and I thought I'd better 
stop by while I had the chance."

"You know each other?" I try to cover my 
surprise.  And what "guys?"  Admiral Benson 
has been head of the Academy for five or six 
years, so he and his wife couldn't remember 
Harm as a midshipman.  Helen Benson is 
smiling back at him, and I feel a fleeting spasm 
of irritation.  Is there a woman drawing breath 
on the planet that he can't charm? 

"Commander Rabb is head of our Officer 
Mentoring Program," Helen tells me.  "He 
spends a weekend or two here every month, 
don't you?"

"Unless I'm overseas, ma'am," Harm answers.

"You've got quite a group working on it now, 
isn't it up to twenty or twenty-five?"

"Mostly from my class, ma'am.  We need some 
of the younger men."

"Oh, I don't know.  I think there's something to 
be said for maturity," Helen smiles.

Harm puts his hand over his heart.  "That's the 
first time anyone has ever called us mature, 
ma'am.  Please, we have a reputation to protect.  
Excuse me -- yes?" A blond crewcut 
midshipman who doesn't look old enough to 
shave is hovering respectfully at Harm's elbow, 
and he turns away for a moment to speak to the 
boy.

Helen laughs pleasantly.  "Speaking of maturity, 
I see Harvey getting impatient -- I can't keep the 
Admiral waiting.  Colonel, it was lovely to see 
you and the Commander."  As she turns, she 
fixes me with a bright glance. "So that's the 
man," she whispers.

At my bewildered expression, she simply shakes 
her elegant head.  "Sarah, dear.  When a woman 
like you is still unattached, there is invariably a 
reason."  

With that, Helen Benson descends the marble 
steps to join her husband without a backward 
glance.  I'm left staring after her rather vacantly, 
the thin early spring sunshine warm across my 
shoulders.  After a moment, Harm returns the 
midshipman's crisp salute and turns back to me. 

"Officer Mentoring Program?"  I inquire, 
eyebrows raised.

"Mac."  He's looking down at me, his eyes 
warm.  "I started to tell you about it the other 
night, and we got sidetracked.  I didn't know I 
was coming up today, or I would have 
mentioned it."

"You don't have to explain, Harm.  But what's 
this program all about?"

He crosses his arms and looks out over the quad, 
where midshipmen in their dark uniforms are 
hurrying to and fro.  Then he shrugs a little.  
"Midshipmen who request it are assigned an 
Academy graduate as a mentor.  It's pretty 
informal -- you visit once a month or so, take 
them out to eat, listen to them.  It's just a chance 
to talk to someone who knows the ropes, 
without having to worry about grades and 
protocol.  It's kind of a safety valve, too.  These 
kids are under a hell of a lot of pressure to excel, 
and sometimes you just need somebody to help 
put it in perspective." 

"Like when they think they don't have the right 
stuff and go UA?"  I ask, remembering Keeter.

He looks down at me with a twinkle.  "Exactly 
like that."  I feel him watching me.  "Mac?  
What is it?"

"I had no idea you were doing anything like 
this, Harm.  It's wonderful."  With a pang, I 
realize just how much I've missed in the past 
two years.

Harm's eyes are clear and changeable as the sea, 
framed by those gorgeous black lashes with the 
faint melancholy slant at the outer corners.  
Now, as I finally look up, I am startled to see 
tenderness there.  He arches an eyebrow.

"What, you think all I do on weekends is fool 
around with my car and my plane?"

"You left out blondes."  I try to sound stern.

Now his expression is simmering with secret 
amusement.  "You planning to bust my chops 
for the rest of our lives?"

"Probably."  

"What, you never pictured me as a role model?"

"And which role did you have in mind?  
Outstanding midshipman, or overgrown juvenile 
delinquent who was too smart to get caught?"

"Whatever you may have inferred from Sturgis 
about our undergraduate career, the statute of 
limitations has expired."

"That's what he said, too."

"Yeah?  And just what else did Commander 
Bigmouth tell you?"

"He didn't, damn it."

"Thank God.  I wouldn't want to be the one to 
besmirch his otherwise exemplary record."

"Does that mean you'd squeal?"

"Absolutely."

I laugh at that, and together we start down the 
steps.  Our shadows run before us, intertwined.

* * *

Damn, she looks great.

She walks down those wide stone steps with her 
usual unconscious grace, her gorgeous long legs 
and those trim, hard ankles flashing along in 
heels that bring the top of her head up to my 
chin.  Heads turn discretely to watch her, and I 
feel my heart swell with unabashed male pride.

"Damn, you're the best thing to happen to this 
place in years," I tell her.

"Because I'm female, or because I'm a Marine?"

"Because of the way you look in that uniform."  
I'm on thin ice here, but I figure she won't try to 
hurt me in the middle of the quad.  "I mean 
come on, Mac, a midshipman's uniform makes 
most of these girls look like fullbacks."

"And that's bad because?" she starts to get all 
ruffled up, then stops and gives me a look.  
"Nice try, commander.  It's just too much fun to 
pull my chain, is that it?"

"Why would you think that, Mac?" I sidestep 
airily, then reverse field.  "Anyway, how do you 
like Mrs. Benson?  She's an original, isn't she?"

"Actually, she reminds me of Maddie," she says.

"Who's Maddie?"

Mac doesn't reply right away.  We're walking 
slowly along the walk toward the chapel, and 
she takes her time picking her way across a line 
of cobblestones.  It must be tricky in those 
pumps.  

"Maddie was  mentor," she says at last.  I 
know by the softness of her tone that this is 
important. "She was a professor of French 
literature at Minnesota, and she kind of took me 
under her wing.  I used to go over to her home 
for tea in the afternoons, and we became 
friends."

After a moment, Mac continues, "I still don't 
know why she took such an interest, but she 
absolutely changed my life.  She taught me how 
to dress, how to speak, how to behave.  I mean, 
I was this gawky 18-year-old who had grown up 
chewing gum and riding motorcycles.  I was 
trying to get my B.A. in a three-year program, 
and my idea of a fancy party was when the beer 
is served in a glass.  Maddie changed all that -- I 
used to call her Professor Higgins, and she 
called me Eliza."

"She must be quite a lady."

"She used to say that a lady wasn't someone 
who was rich, or who had the nicest things -- a 
lady was someone who knew how to put people 
at ease in any situation.  She was the most 
elegant person I've ever known, and she had 
absolutely no patience with pretensions."

I have occasionally wondered how Mac 
overcame her background.  Her parents went 
three for three with abuse, alcoholism, and 
abandonment, and as far as I know, neither of 
them had any education beyond high school.  
Yet Mac herself has grace and poise that seem 
bred in the bone.  

"Do you still stay in touch with Maddie?"  I 
figure I should at least have heard of her before 
now.  And then I remember that I just got 
around to telling Mac about one of the important 
chunks of my early life a couple of nights ago.  

Mac's eyes are somber.  "She died a couple of 
years ago."  It must have happened when I was 
pulling sea duty with the squadron on the 
Patrick Henry.  That was just a few months after 
Mac's father died and her mother showed up -- 
and I wasn't there for her that time, either.  I feel 
a stab of something more complicated than 
guilt, and all too familiar.

"So now you're doing it for Chloe," I tell her.  "I 
bet Maddie would like knowing that, Mac."

"I do it for me, Harm.  Because I care about 
her."

"I'd say it's mutual," I tell her.  "Now, what do 
you have on your dance card for this 
afternoon?"

"I was hoping you'd buy me lunch before I drive 
back to D.C."

"Sorry, I'm booked.  I'm taking one of my guys 
for lunch, he needs to tell me why he's flunking 
electrical engineering.  But a bunch of us are 
playing rugby this afternoon, the mids against 
the officers.  Wanna come cheer for us?"

"Do I have to bring bandages?"

"Nah, we like to bleed.  Can you stay for the tap 
afterwards?"

"Doesn't that involve large quantities of beer 
and lots of drunken singing?  Where few women 
emerge unscathed?"

"If anybody tries any scathing, my money's on 
you, Mac."

* * *
Feeling a little like an undergraduate in my 
jeans and turtleneck, I find a seat on the first tier 
of bleachers and shove my hands deep into the 
pockets of my fleece-lined jacket.  It's a 
beautiful sunny afternoon, but the breeze is 
cold, and clouds are beginning to blow in from 
the bay.

There's a small group of fans in the cheering 
section, mostly girlfriends and wives, I guess.  
Two or three older men are standing around a 
big plastic barrel of Gatorade, kibitzing -- 
they're probably senior officers, judging by their 
military haircuts and posture.  

The players are milling around in groups of two 
and three, talking and taking practice kicks.  The 
mids are wearing navy blue Academy shirts, the 
officers are wearing grey ones, and everybody is 
wearing shorts and knee socks despite the cold.  
It would look like a soccer game except for the 
brown football.  I see Harm standing with a 
bunch of other guys, talking.  He sees me and 
waves, and I wave back.

Rugby is a wild cross between football and 
soccer, where perfectly nice men turn into 
Mongolian hoards.  They throw passes and 
punches, tackle and kick the ball, each other, 
whatever.  Instead of a line of scrimmage, they 
all get into something called a scrum, which is 
really just a gigantic shoving match until 
somebody breaks free and starts to run or throws 
the ball.  After that it's just pure testosterone, no 
holds barred.  The players don't always 
remember to stop running and you can get 
trampled if you're on the sidelines.  I love it.

Eventually somebody blows a whistle and 
they're off.  It's easy to follow Harm because 
he's so tall, but a lot of these guys are enormous 
and pretty soon they're all covered with mud.  
Waves of players surge up and down the field, 
seemingly at random, and I get a secret rush out 
of their ferocity.  I can't tell who's winning, but 
at one point Harm jumps high to catch a pass 
and is immediately crunched between two 
behemoths.  I wince, and see Harm slug one 
with his elbow as he pitches the ball to a 
teammate.  Then he's buried beneath a pile of 
bodies as play surges past.

After a while the officers score, and someone 
calls time out.  I've been screaming myself 
hoarse, so I amble over to the beverage table 
behind the stands to get the biggest cup of 
coffee I can find.

"Hey, Mac!"  Harm's calling to me from a 
crowd gathered around the Gatorade, and I head 
over.  As he stands there, breathing hard, the 
only spot on him that's not muddy is his smile. 

I peer closely and inquire, "Do I know you, 
sailor?" Surreptitiously I lean closer to catch the 
warm scent of clean male sweat.

"You ought to feel right at home, Marine," he 
reaches out and puts a smudge of mud on the tip 
of my nose, and we laugh.  His hair is sticking 
up in spikes, he has a blue bruise on his 
cheekbone, and he's bleeding from a scratch on 
his forehead. He looks magnificent.  

Harm is holding a big paper cup, and he throws 
his head back and chugs the whole thing.  Some 
of the drink runs down his neck, mingling with 
his sweat, and I watch, mesmerized by the sight 
of the powerful muscles working in his throat.  
Finished, he crumples the cup in his fist and 
flips it into the trash basket.

"Let's go, guys," somebody yells, and a hoarse 
shout goes up from a dozen male throats as they 
all go trotting back onto the field.

"Kick ass," I tell him, and he grins and sketches 
a salute.  Thoughtfully I admire his ass in those 
tight shorts as he runs.

I'm standing at the end of the block of bleachers, 
watching the field, and at first I don't pay 
attention to two grey-haired officers who remain 
at the beverage table.  With all the noise of the 
game, you'd think their voices wouldn't carry, 
but some trick of echoes beneath the stands 
throws the sound to me.

"So who's the brunette with the chest?" I'm not 
listening, but the reply brings me to attention.  

"That's Mackenzie, the Marine."

"Jesus, you're kidding.  She's filling in for 
Hastings?"

"Yeah.  She's a trial lawyer, chief of staff for 
Chegwidden."

"No kidding. "Think he's fucking her?"

"Ah, you never know with A.J.  If he isn't he's 
crazy."

"Well, if she's a Marine, God help us in 
Afghanistan.  Who's that she's with?"

"That's Rabb, he runs the mentoring program for 
us.  He's a JAG too."

The answering snort of derision is drowned in a 
cheer from the stands.  I stand there frozen, 
holding onto my temper with a tight leash.  I 
recognize them now, they're both senior 
captains on the faculty.  If I confront them, I'll 
win the battle but I'll lose the war.  God damn it.

Shaking with fury, I climb back into the stands 
and pull my jacket tighter around me, crossing 
my arms over my breasts.  Two stiff, angry tears 
are clinging to my eyelashes, stinging, and I 
brush at them angrily.  

It's not me, I think desperately.  They can't hurt 
me, it's not my fault.  They're jerks and they'll 
always be jerks.  What makes me so goddamn 
angry is thinking what guys like this can do to 
decent officers, like the Admiral and Harm, who 
give women an even break.  I've had to take my 
share of grief in the service, like any woman, 
but I've always known I could handle it. I'm not 
sure I can handle it when it's directed at men I 
admire.

And Harm -- my God, all the crap he has 
probably had to take over the years, just for 
being my partner. Abruptly it becomes clear just 
how much he has protected me.  And how 
difficult and unfair it would be if we ever did 
get involved.  Complicated, indeed.

"Shit," I mutter to myself.  "Shit."

And what about the female midshipmen here at 
the Academy?  How much does it affect them, 
the hidden hostility they still encounter every 
day?

I take a deep breath and make myself a promise.  
Looks like I'll be getting involved in Harm's 
mentoring program, after all.

* * *

2330 Zulu (6:30 p.m. EST)
Visiting Officers Quarters (VOQ)
U.S. Naval Academy

Mac answers the knock on her door almost 
before I drop my hand.

"Hi," I say with what I hope is a charming grin.  
It's a little difficult with the cut on my lip.

She stands there, considering me.  "It's alive," 
she finally decides.

"Jesus, Mac, give me some credit.  A victorious 
warrior stands before you," I tell her.  "Go easy 
on me."

The skeptical gleam in her eye is replaced by 
concern.  "You're bleeding," she says, and lifts a 
gentle hand to my face.  

"It's nothing," I pull my head away impatiently.  
"Just a scratch."  She grabs my wrist and pulls 
me inside, and I suppress a hiss as her hand 
brushes my raw, scraped knuckles.  

"Rabb, you are a mess," she pronounces in a 
matter-of-fact tone.  She goes over to the dresser 
and quickly scoops a couple of ice cubes into a 
wash cloth, then dips it in a little water before 
turning back to me.  "Sit," she commands, and I 
drop onto the sagging cot.  For a moment I have 
a perfect mental picture of Mac keeping a whole 
family of teenagers in line, and grin to myself.

"Ow!" I try to jerk back as she presses the ice 
carefully against the mouse under my eye.

"Hold still, Harm.  I'm going to get the first aid 
box from the bathroom.  Don't you dare move 
off that bed."

"I've been waiting for you to say that," I call 
after her as the door swings shut.  I know she 
heard me.

I lean my elbow on the back of the hard wooden 
chair and glance around.  Apparently the VOQ 
treats women officers just as lousy as the men.  
Besides the bed where I'm parked, the tiny 
featureless room has a scarred wooden desk, a 
chair, a chest of drawers, and a single overhead 
light bulb that fills the small uncarpeted room 
with a harsh glare.  It reminds me of every dorm 
room I have ever seen.  Oh well, it's convenient, 
and the price is right. 

Mac returns and rummages around in the white 
tin box with the red cross on top.  While I was 
sluicing off the mud after the game, she changed 
into a pair of slim black pants and a thin white 
cashmere sweater that gives a whole new 
meaning to the term Sweater Girl.  I just lean 
there, holding the ice to my face and 
appreciating the heart shaped curve of her ass.

She moves closer, positioning her knees on 
either side of my leg, and my breath catches as 
she lifts my right hand and sprays it with 
something cool.  I watch as she wraps the 
knuckles in white gauze, her fingers light and 
quick.  Then without any warning, she raises my 
hand to her lips and brushes a light kiss across 
my fingers.  I forget what I was going to say.  
The amazing thing is, it really does stop hurting.

"Tell me the other guy looks worse," she 
murmurs, stroking my hair back from the bruise 
on my forehead.  I am rapidly losing track of the 
conversation.  

"Yeah," I manage.  

"You beat the shit out of him?" she whispers.  

"He'll be lucky to survive."

She leans closer, and a shadow of cleavage is 
barely visible at the neckline of her sweater.  
The scent rising from it is heady and sweet.  I 
wonder what she would do if I just pressed my 
mouth --

"OW!"

"Oh, hold still, don't be such a baby.  I was 
trying to see if you need stitches for this, but it's 
just a scratch."

"It feels like the Grand Canyon," I wince as her 
gentle fingers press a pad of gauze against my 
hairline.

"Scalp wounds bleed like crazy, but this is 
slowing down," she says.  "Hold still now."  She 
cradles my cheek in one cool hand while she 
dabs antibiotic cream carefully onto my 
forehead.  Without thinking, I rest my hand on 
the curve of her hip, and I hear her breath 
quicken.

She's standing so close, I can feel her warmth on 
my face.  Her lipstick is that soft shade of rose I 
love, and my hand tightens on her waist as I 
lean in --

"Not so fast, squid," she's laughing at me, her 
hands on my shoulders, and her eyes are bright.  
For one heartbeat we both hesitate, and then 
Mac gives a self-conscious little flip to her hair 
and turns away to clean up the first aid box.

"So, did you win enough on the game to buy me 
dinner?" she asks nonchalantly.

"Wagering for money?  With underage 
midshipmen?  Surely you're mistaken, ma'am," I 
reply.  She picks up a jacket and slides into it, 
and I stand up with a groan.

"You okay?" she gives me a quick, worried 
glance that warms my heart.  I try to straighten 
up without wincing.

"Nothing a handful of Advil won't cure," I tell 
her as I hold the door.

"You're limping," she says, and slips her hand 
into the crook of my elbow.

"Ah, it's okay.  That knee I tore up last spring 
stiffens up sometimes."

She's quiet as we go downstairs and turn to walk 
across the campus.  After a minute I look down, 
then stop and bend to see her face.  She won't 
meet my eyes.

"Mac?  What is it?"  I cup my hand over her 
cheek.

Her lips tighten, and then she says, "It just 
brings it all back, that terrible night when I 
didn't know if you were going to be okay or 
not."

"Mac, that's ancient history" --
 
"I came by the hospital," she says, low and fast.  
"Later, after that idiotic visit when everybody 
was crowding in" --

"Mac" -- I stop, because she's not listening.

"That first night, I came back around ten.  I told 
Mic I was going for a drive.  You were asleep.  I 
waited for an hour."  Angrily she brushes at her 
eyes.  "Then I tried again the next night, after 
work, and Renee was there.  I didn't stay, I just 
left."

"She never mentioned it," I tell her.  Goddamn 
Renee.  

"I should have been there for you." 

"And I should have talked to you."

"I didn't make it easy," she mutters, looking at 
the ground.

"No, you didn't."

"You don't have to agree with me so fast," she 
says, and a corner of her mouth kicks up.

"Jeez, I can't win," I smile at her.  We stand 
there, and I reach out and cradle her face in both 
hands.  "Sarah, I never meant to hurt you," I say.

"I know."  Her hands come up and cover mine.

"Do you still miss him?"  I blurt out.  Shit.

"What?"  She looks genuinely bewildered, and 
then she understands and shakes her head.  
Thank God, I don't have to explain.  

"No, Harm," she tells me.  "At some point, I 
realized I don't miss him at all.  How pathetic is 
that?"  

"You gave away your ring."  

"It was getting pretty heavy to carry around."  
Her gaze is clear and untroubled.

I feel like a hundred pounds just slid off my 
shoulders.  Judging by Mac's expression, she 
does too.

We stand there in the moonlight, beneath the 
soaring dome of the Academy chapel, and after 
a minute I slide my arms around her and pull her 
close.  Her head rests against my chest, and her 
arms go around my waist as she gives a little 
sigh.

"At least you lost the love handles," she 
mumbles.

"Hey, you try sitting around for six weeks with 
no running and no exercise," I protest.  "It took 
me six months to get back in shape."

She gives me a final hug, then steps back, and 
now she's grinning.  "Who says you're in 
shape?"

"Any time, anywhere, Marine."

We start down the walk, and she takes the hand 
that I conveniently make available.  "So where 
are we going for this party, anyway?" she asks.  
"Am I going to get anything to eat?"

* * *

2400 Zulu (7 p.m. EST)
The Captain's Pub
Annapolis, Maryland

We pull open the inner door and find ourselves 
in a crowded bar filled with noise and people 
packed in elbow to elbow.  It's one of those 
wonderful old places on the harbor that have 
looked the same for a hundred years, all dark 
polished wood and tin ceilings and ship models.

"Where's the party?" I call over the din.

Harm is scanning over the heads of the crowd -- 
sometimes it's awfully convenient to be tall.  
"This way," he shouts in my ear, and rests his 
hand in the small of my back to guide me 
through an archway into a room filled with 
tables and more people.  Somebody raises a 
hand, and we head that way.

"Harm!"  A trim tanned man with a grey 
crewcut is standing to greet us, grinning at 
Harm and shaking his hand.  "Thought you 
weren't going to make it, buddy."

"Took awhile to apply battlefield dressings," 
Harm replies.  "Commander Brent Hanover, 
Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie."

My hand is seized in a crushing grip, and I'm 
glad I am a Marine and know how to squeeze 
back.  "Sarah, a pleasure," Hanover says.  "You 
a JAG too?"

"Yes" --

"They let Brent drive a cruiser in the Med," 
Harm bellows in my ear and turns to shake 
someone else's hand.  Hanover gestures to the 
table where he was sitting.

"Sarah, my wife Karen.  That's Bill Byington 
and Jana, and that's Patrick McKelvey and his 
wife Amy."

I nod and smile and try to keep at least first 
names straight as I slide into one of the heavy 
wooden captain's chairs.  These kinds of 
occasions with too many strangers tend to bring 
out all my innate shyness, even when I'm not 
coping with Harm and the way he keeps 
knocking me off balance.  

Harm gets pulled away to the next table, which 
also seems to be filled with people he knows.  
The room is so noisy it's hard to hear the person 
next to you, and I look around with a vague 
smile plastered on my face, casually avoiding 
eye contact.  

"So, Sarah," Amy McKelvey leans forward, 
giving me the once-over. "How do you know 
Harm?"  She has an avid gleam in her eye.  
Something tells me Harm has been a topic of 
conversation in this crowd before.

"We work together," I tell her.  She's much 
younger than Patrick and extremely pregnant, 
maybe a second wife.

"Oh.  You're at JAG too?"

"Yes, I'm chief of staff."

She's eyeing me dubiously, trying to size me up.  
"Oh, you're in charge of all the secretaries!  That 
must be a big job."

I keep a straight face and say pleasantly, "No, 
I'm a lieutenant colonel.  I'm a litigator."

"Oh."  She seems confused, and I turn to the 
woman on my right, Karen -- Karen Hanover, 
that's it.  She seems to be around her husband's 
age, with a sensible face and short, graying hair.  
She meets my eyes with a small twinkle.

I ask, "Are all of your husbands from the Class 
of '85?  Do you come back for these weekends 
often?"

"Only when Brent's in port," Karen tells me.  
"That hasn't coincided with a rugby game in 
awhile."

Jana leans over and says archly, "Harm's never 
brought a girl before."  She's fair and plump and 
her blonde hair is one of those stupid Muffy 
pageboy jobs that probably hasn't changed since 
she was in high school.

I look her in the eye and say, "I teach here on 
Fridays and Saturdays.  We just ran into each 
other."

Jana leans across, squashing Karen.  "Oh tell the 
truth, Sarah.  He is totally hot.  How long have 
you two been seeing each other?"

What is it with women?  You haven't known 
them five minutes and they're playing twenty 
questions.   For a moment I have a vivid mental 
picture of Carolyn Imes insinuating 
interrogations.  I plaster a noncommittal smile 
on my face and wait it out.

Amy isn't easily deterred.  "Do you have kids?"  

Does she mean with Harm?  I take a firm hold 
on my temper. "No, I don't."  I'm about to ask 
when hers is due, hoping to change the subject 
once and for all, when Harm mercifully returns.  
He drops into the chair beside me and hands me 
a large Coke.  

"So, Harm," Jana smirks, "you finally brought a 
girl along."

Harm's eyebrows go up a fraction.  "Girl?  
That's funny, all I see here is a bunch of 
gorgeous women," he says cheerfully, and 
smiles at me.  At ease, Marine, his eyes 
telegraph.  Not a problem, I smile back.

"Hey, Harm," Patrick yells down the table.  
"The mids want to buy us a beer downstairs."

"To the victors belong the spoils," Harm grins, 
and slides his chair back.  "If you'll excuse us, 
ladies?"

"What's all that about?" I ask when they're gone.

"Oh, the kids gather in the basement where they 
can get rowdy," Amy shrugs.  "The losers 
always buy the winners a beer." 

"So, have all of you been getting together like 
this for a long time?" I ask brightly. 

"Oh yeah, but the people change, depending on 
who's stateside at the time.  Bill and I get 
transferred every three years.  We just got back 
to the Pentagon in November."

"At least he wasn't there in September," I say.

Karen leans in for the first time.  "I know," she 
says quietly.  "We all knew people, of course.  
God, I was never so glad Brent was deployed."

"It must be difficult when you have children," I 
say.

"Honey, you can't imagine," Jana drawls.  "Bill's 
an aviator, and those boys show up once every 
six months.  They knock you up, then they're 
gone.  It's like being a single mom."

"Do you have a job, too?"  I ask hesitantly.  "I 
mean, I know being a mom is already a full time 
job."

Jana shakes her head.  "No way, Jose. Not with 
three kids under twelve."

"I do," Karen says.  "Our kids are teenagers, and 
college is coming up.  I went back to work when 
the youngest started junior high."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a human resources manager for a company 
in D.C."

"It must be hard when Brent is away so much."

She gives a rueful little smile.  "The hardest 
thing is figuring out how to be a couple again 
when he comes home," she says.  "I mean, most 
of the time I'm in charge.  Then for a couple of 
months the commander is around.  He's used to 
telling everyone around him to jump and having 
them say, 'How high?'"  Everyone laughs.

"How do you manage when he's reassigned?" I 
ask curiously.  "You can't just take a job like 
yours with you."

"No, it's difficult," Karen says.  "I'm lucky, the 
corporation I'm with has offices all over the 
world, but some duty stations aren't anywhere 
nearby.  The last time, when Brent was 
reassigned from the Pacific to the Med, the kids 
and I stayed in California.  We just moved to 
D.C. in January.  How long have you been in 
Washington, Sarah?"

"Six years."

"Harm's been there a long time, too, hasn't he?"

"Yes, but it's a little different for litigators, we're 
based in D.C. but we travel at least half the 
time.  Still, I guess we'll each have to take an 
overseas tour somewhere pretty soon if we're 
going to stay on the promotion track."

"It must be easier when you're not married," she 
says.

There's nothing to reply to that, so I just sip on 
my straw.  When it comes to Harm and me and 
the implications of our military careers, I have 
always tried to avoid thinking about the 
inevitable.

"Well hey, what are a bunch of good lookin' 
wimmin like you doin' here all alone, sweet 
thang?"  Bill grabs Jana and leans around to kiss 
her.  The rest of the men pull out chairs and 
Patrick starts yelling for a waitress over the din.

"How was the toast?" I inquire.  Harm just grins 
at me.

"Always good to remind them who's boss.  
What are we eating?"  Someone hands menus 
around and I relax until I hear Jana's cloying 
southern drawl.

"So Harm, how long have you and Sarah been 
dating?"  I catch the glance from Karen, the 
quick shake of the head.  But Harm is unfazed.

"About five minutes, isn't it, colonel?"

"About," I say.

"Isn't that against the rules or something?"  Amy 
asks ingenuously.  "I mean, I thought you 
couldn't date if you're in the same command."

Patrick gives her a look.  "Only if Harm were 
the senior officer, honey," he says with a 
warning note in his voice.

"But I thought couples couldn't serve together."

"That's why you're not a Marine, right baby?"  
He grabs her around the shoulders and gives her 
a big kiss, and everybody laughs.

I'm still trying to swallow that remark about 
being a couple when Harm catches my eye, and 
I feel myself flush. God damn it.  Then 
someone, thank God, says something and the 
conversation takes another turn.  After a minute 
I get myself together and tune into what Brent's 
saying to Harm.

" . . . haven't had leave in fourteen months, and 
lucky to get back for a couple of weeks to help 
Karen move."

"You're going back to the Hightower?"

"Yeah.  You'll see, man, we're going to be 
fighting this thing on two fronts soon."

Harm is listening with that particular intensity 
he brings to everything he does, and I just 
watch.  "Maybe three fronts," he's following up 
on Brent's comment.  "Indonesia" --

"Hey, Hormone," Bill Byington yells, 
flourishing his beer mug.  "Let's drink to 
aviators.  All the rest of 'em are just a bunch of 
pussies."  I feel myself start to tense up, the way 
I always do when I'm around a drunk, but Harm 
simply raises his Coke and clinks it with Bill's 
glass.

"Hey, what's that shit, get this guy a beer" -- Bill 
starts to bluster, but Harm holds his hand up as 
the pitcher comes his way and turns back to 
Brent.  I notice Byington scowling as he listens.

"Aw hell," he interjects suddenly, "We could 
take care of this whole damn thing if they'd just 
get some balls for about five minutes and let us 
knock out those goddamn camel jockeys.  We 
had that fucking Mullah Omar Whassisname in 
our damn sights, and instead of bombing the 
hell out of them, some pansy from the Point 
sends in a battalion of Rangers, and they go in 
there and get their asses kicked -- what a total 
goat fuck."

Brent is frowning, and Harm cuts a sharp glance 
across the table.  "Not here, Bill," he tells him 
quietly.  "Not now."

Byington leans back, offended.  "Oh, pardon 
me,   I forgot we had one of the 
JAGs from division here.  The same guys who 
called off the air strikes last month."  His face is 
getting red and his eyes glassy.  His wife is busy 
shrieking with laughter at the other end of the 
table.  So far the others aren't listening, and Bill 
isn't finished.

"You gave up flying again, didn't you, Harm?  
What, was the front seat of an F-14 just too 
small for a big guy like you?  Not as nice as 
polishing your shoes on all that deep 
Washington carpet?  Or maybe it got a little too 
real after that swim you took last summer?"

There's an acrid taste in my mouth and 
everything is a little too sharp and clear.  I hear 
my own voice from a distance.  "The people 
who gave him two DFCs didn't seem to think 
so."

Byington's sweaty face flushes an ugly red.  
Without taking his pale little eyes from Harm, 
he sneers, "Well, well.  It must be nice having 
your very own Marine guard watching your 
ass."

I'm about to come up with some ill-advised 
annihilating retort when I feel Harm's hand 
close over mine beneath the table.  When he 
speaks, his voice is unperturbed, but the steel is 
there, like a sword in a scabbard. 

"Bill, there are days I'd give anything to be back 
in a squadron. But walls have ears around here, 
you know?  Anyway, this is supposed to be a 
celebration."  Harm raises his glass, and Brent 
and Patrick follow suit.  Sullenly, Bill complies.  
Harm turns to Patrick with some question about 
the Pentagon reconstruction and Brent 
thankfully joins in.  

I take a deep breath and am glad to feel Harm 
give my fingers another gentle squeeze beneath 
the table.  He's listening to his friends, not 
looking at me, but the reassuring connection is 
there, running between us like a strong current.  
I watch him, thinking that without uttering a 
word, his intelligence and humor and sheer 
potent force are overwhelming.  I wonder how 
anyone could ever hope to overshadow this 
man.

* * *

It's a boisterous crowd, and the noise level is 
escalating with every pitcher of beer.  I see Mac 
smiling and laughing with the rest, but she's 
only picking at her burger and I can tell she's 
making an effort.  When Patrick starts telling 
some long, involved shaggy dog story, I turn to 
her and close my hand over her wrist.  "Dance?"

She looks at me with a little flush of pleased 
surprise, then pushes her chair back and rises 
gracefully.  I turn my shoulder to shield her 
from the nudge Jana gives Amy, and steer Mac 
to the crowded little dance floor by the jukebox.  
It's playing something slow and pretty, and I 
hold out my arms and she steps into them.  

It always surprises me when Mac wears flat 
shoes -- her head comes just to my shoulder.   
She seems so small and fragile as I slide my 
hand against the small of her back and feel the 
sweet slender curve of her waist.  For just a 
second I let my mind flash back to a cool spring 
night, the rustle of her silk dress, the smoothness 
of her skin . . .

It's too crowded to move much and we just 
stand there, rocking in time to the music.  After 
a minute, Mac tilts her head up.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper with your friend, 
Harm."

"Oh, Byington's always been a bit of a jerk, but 
he's okay.  He hasn't made commander yet, and 
he has zero hope of ever getting an air group.  
He'll probably retire when his twenty is up, and 
end up flying a desk at Boeing.  Besides," I grin 
at her, "he nearly had to take on a pissed off 
Marine.  I was afraid you were going to go over 
the table after him, and I'd have to back you up." 

"Marines take care of their own," she says with 
a glint in her eye that tells me Byington was 
luckier than he knows, and my heart expands at 
the compliment.  Somehow, knowing that she 
doesn't realize how it sounded makes it even 
better.  Then I see her eyebrow go up.  
"Hormone?"  Great.  I was cherishing hopes she 
missed it.  

"Mac, please, I used to beat up guys who called 
me that."  She laughs, and I'm slightly relieved 
that she has decided to let me off the hook.  
Without thinking, I pull her a little closer and 
rest my cheek against her silky hair.

I murmur into her ear, "You know, this is the 
first time we've ever actually gone out.  On a 
date, I mean."

"And how do you figure that one?" Her voice is 
warm and low.

"Well, we're not on assignment.  It's not work 
related, and I don't see any of our colleagues 
here, for once."

"And that's a good thing?"  The question is 
oddly tentative.

I pull back enough to see her face.  "Yes," I 
murmur.  Her eyes are full of questions she 
won't ask.  I tighten my arms and feel her sway 
toward me.  The tips of her breasts brush my 
chest, and instantly her pupils dilate until her 
eyes look black.

At some point we must have stopped dancing.  
We're standing here in the middle of the crowd, 
and it feels like we're all alone.  Mac is staring 
at me with those big eyes that seem to see all the 
way inside me, and I feel her touch flash 
through my body.

"Harm."  She barely whispers it, but I hear her 
over the music and laughter and noise. 

"Come on," I say a little roughly, and turn her 
back toward our table.

Thank God, the party is breaking up and we 
don't have to make an obvious escape.  I throw 
some bills onto the pile, Brent announces that 
we're all even, and then everybody is shrugging 
into coats and shaking hands.  I hold Mac's 
jacket for her, smooth it across her shoulders, 
and put my arm around her to guide her through 
the crowd to the door.

Then we're out on the street, our breath smoking 
in the chill off the bay as we head back, and 
Mac slips her hand into mine.  With most 
women I have to shorten my stride to walk side 
by side, but Mac matches my pace easily.  Just 
like always.  We walk in a sort of charged 
silence that neither one of us seems ready to 
break.  

We're nearly back to the VOQ when she says, 
"You want to go running tomorrow?  Oh-six 
hundred?"

Every sore muscle in my body protests.  "Sure," 
I answer, "sounds good."  I clear my throat.  
"Look, Mac, neither one of us has had a 
weekend off in awhile.  How would you like to 
take a boat out tomorrow, sail down the bay?  
We could drive back tomorrow night."

Her eyes are shining.  "You mean on a 
sailboat?"

"Well, yeah.  I am a sailor, after all."

"I've never been on a sailboat."  Suddenly she 
gives me one of those brilliant smiles, the first 
genuine "Mac" smile of the evening, and it 
gives me a rush of pleasure that something so 
simple could make her so happy.

"So, you want to try it?"

"When do we leave?"  For a smile like that, I'd 
charter the Queen Mary.  

I hear myself saying, "We can get some 
breakfast down by the harbor and rent the boat, 
and take off around nine."

"I can't wait."

I pull her to a stop outside the VOQ doorway 
and take her face in my hands. "I can't wait 
anymore either," I mutter, and I lean down and 
kiss her.

Like strawberries in summer sunshine . . . .  I 
slide my hands into her hair and pull her close, 
closer, feeling her yielding even through our 
layers of clothing . . . .

Then she's leaning against me, her breath warm 
on my face and her eyes soft and blurry, and her 
hands come up and pull my head down for 
another kiss, harder, more intense than before.  
God, does she know how to kiss . . . .  And 
somehow her mouth is open and we're tasting 
each other and her lips are so soft as they move 
against mine.  I'm vaguely aware that I'm 
crushing her against me, and "I'm hurting you," 
I gasp, and try to lean back.  "No," she says, low 
in her throat, and I feel her hands unbuttoning 
my coat, sliding inside, around my waist and up 
my back.  Then her coat is open too and I'm 
leaning against the rough brick wall at my back, 
and I spread my legs and bend my knees to 
bring our faces level as I press her against me.  

Her head drops back with a sharp intake of 
breath and her legs are trembling and the wall is 
the only thing holding us up.

After a long moment I pull her head against my 
shoulder, and we just stand there panting like a 
couple of teenagers.  I am struggling for control, 
about one heartbeat away from crushing her up 
against the wall and doing it right here in this 
damn doorway.  And then her mouth is moving 
over my face, soft and gentle, soothing and 
calming me, and I think there will never be 
anything as sweet as kissing Sarah Mackenzie in 
the moonlight.

At last we break apart and I rest my forehead 
against hers, eyes closed.  "We can't do this 
here," I rasp out.

"I know," she whispers.

We lean against the wall, holding each other.  
After awhile Mac brushes a quick kiss on my 
chin and slips inside without a word, leaving me 
there with the cold seeping into my open jacket.

* * *

At 0515, I'm lacing up my running shoes when 
the tap comes on my door.

"Mac?  You awake?"  

I open the door and feel a corner of my mouth 
turn up.  "Guess you couldn't sleep either."

Harm gives me a sheepish grin as he leans in my 
doorway, his hands shoved deep in the front 
pocket of his sweatshirt.  He hasn't shaved yet.  
Clearly he didn't get any more rest than I did.  

"Do you have any idea how many times I almost 
knocked on your door last night?" he asks.  I'm 
startled to realize he's looking right at me, not 
gazing aimlessly around the way he does when 
he's embarrassed.  

"Probably just about as many times as I did," I 
answer, not very coherently.  Actually I lay 
awake for hours, keyed up and not at all sleepy, 
feeling my body humming with suppressed lust 
and my mind weirdly blank.

"Wanna go run?" 

I grab my fleece jacket and follow him out.  It's 
still dark and chilly, but the sky has that faint 
glimmer you get just before dawn. Without a 
word, we jog slowly down the street, shoulder to 
shoulder.

And we still haven't said more than a dozen 
words when we come to a halt fifty-two minutes 
later, back where we started on the sidewalk 
outside the VOQ.  Harm leans over, panting, 
and I run the zipper up on my jacket and brush 
my sweaty hair off my forehead.  

"Coffee in 30?" he gasps.

"Pancakes."

He grins, straightens up, and hooks his arm 
around my neck as he brushes a kiss on my 
forehead.  "Wear plenty of warm clothes.  It'll 
be cold on the water."  

With that, he sprints up the steps and bangs the 
door.  I follow and spend more time than I 
should in the shower, just leaning against the 
tiles as the water beats on me.

A couple of hours later, I am perched in the 
cockpit of a 30-foot sailboat as it rocks against 
the pier, watching Harm at work and trying to 
stay out of the way.  A stiff breeze is blowing 
down the bay, with rank on rank of high grey 
clouds stacked like fish scales across the sky.  
I'm glad of the knit watch cap Harm tossed at 
me as I huddle into the yellow rain gear we 
rented along with the boat.

He's still not saying much.  Harm is normally 
cheerful in the morning, but today he was quiet 
over breakfast in the busy little diner, drinking 
coffee and eating oatmeal while I picked at a 
stack of pancakes.  Every now and then he'd 
look up and catch my eye and give me a quick 
smile.  Once he reached out and squeezed my 
hand.  But the silence stretched out, and every 
bite began to stick in my throat.  I finally gave 
up and concentrated on coffee. 

If this were any other man, we would have 
headed straight for the nearest Holiday Inn and 
spent today blissfully in bed.  But for the 
moment, all of Harm's defenses are firmly back 
in place, and I don't know whether to laugh or 
cry or slug him.

So I just wait while he busies himself with 
getting underway.  I sit where he tells me and 
hold the things he tells me to hold.  Even in the 
depths of my frustration, I'm impressed by the 
competent way Harm moves around the big 
boat.  He handles the confusing welter of 
rigging and equipment with easy confidence as 
he maneuvers us through the harbor, the small 
engine chugging quietly.  As we clear the 
channel buoy, he raises the sails, and I feel the 
deck heel against the force of the wind as we 
shoulder into the first wave.  Grateful for some 
relief from my swirling emotions, I lift my face 
to the salt spray and laugh with delight.

Harm is standing at the stainless steel wheel.  In 
his ball cap and aviator shades, he looks like a 
skipper in the America's Cup.  His grin answers 
my own.  

"Like it?" He calls above the rush of the wind.

"I love it!" I shout back.  A memory echoes in 
my mind, the two of us in his yellow Stearman 
the first time he took me flying.  We scarcely 
knew each other back then, and I ended up 
trusting him with my life.  Nothing in the 
intervening years has caused me to change my 
mind.  

One thing I have learned though -- he cannot be 
pushed.  So I leave him alone while I sit on the 
gunwale and lean out over the water, letting the 
roar of the wind and the fresh clean scent of the 
sea wash over me.  Harm is holding the wheel, 
his long legs canted easily against the angle of 
the deck.  Occasionally he looks up at the sails, 
but most of the time he's staring out over the 
water, totally focused, balancing the forces of 
the wind and the sea.  It must be a little like 
flying.  He is dependent on no one but himself, 
and I wonder if he feels safer that way.

Feeling vulnerable must seem scary to someone 
who has never allowed himself to lean.

After awhile I cautiously make my way to the 
narrow little steps that lead down into the cabin.  
"Head?"  I call, pointing.  Harm nods, and I 
climb down, holding onto the railing.

The ceiling is so low I have to duck, and Harm 
would need to bend double.  It's dim in here, but 
I can make out a small galley with a hotplate 
and a tiny stainless steel sink. On either side of a 
central table, which is bolted to the floor, there 
are two narrow benches.  I suppose they make 
up into bunks at night, but now they are covered 
with blue plaid upholstery that matches the 
dusty curtains over the port holes, or whatever 
you call the little windows.  The whole place is 
bare and cold and smells musty, and I remember 
that this is a rental that probably sees hard use in 
the summer and gets little attention in the 
winter.

Whatever fantasies I may have harbored about 
seducing Harm at sea disappear when I see the 
forward cabin.  There is no bunk, just some 
extra sails and coils of rope in a cramped 
triangular area in the bows.

I pick my way around with distaste and find the 
head, a miniscule cupboard with a sink and a 
chemical toilet.  Everything looks a little grimy, 
but at least it doesn't smell.  

Oh well, so much for romance.  I clamber up the 
steps and emerge on deck to find the overcast 
sky lower, and the wind even stronger.  Far off 
to our right, the hills of the Eastern Shore are a 
smudge on the horizon.  We're plunging and 
rising as we meet the dark waves before they 
explode in spray against our bow.

"Want to take her?"  Harm calls to me.

I have a horrible qualm as the wind gusts even 
harder, but I'm damned if I'll be scared.  "You 
bet!" I yell, and move carefully toward the stern 
on the sloping deck.  I stagger a little, and he 
catches me around the waist with an arm that 
feels like steel.

"Easy," he says, and guides me into position.  
Tentatively I grasp the wheel and feel its power 
come alive beneath my hands, tugging like an 
eager racehorse.  I set my stance and try to hold 
the wheel steady.

I am laughing like a lunatic with excitement and 
I feel Harm's arm tighten.  He's standing right 
behind me, bracing me against him, and I can't 
feel afraid with his big solid body holding me.  I 
glance over my shoulder, and he's laughing with 
me.  "Okay?" he asks.  My smile must be 
answer enough, and he gives me a quick hug.  I 
turn back to the wheel, and from time to time he 
touches it lightly, adjusting our course.

We're coming up fast on the shoreline, and 
suddenly the wind eases off to barely a breeze 
as we round a headland.  Harm touches a switch 
and the mainsail furls down.  "Hold her steady," 
he tells me, and climbs forward to take in the 
jib.  After only a few minutes he's back, taking 
the wheel and starting the engine.  We're 
ghosting over the smooth water of a harbor, and 
as I swivel around I see a marina with boats in 
slips and some utility shacks covered in metal, 
standing against the shore.  A rickety wooden 
stair rises to a rambling clapboard building 
overlooking the water.

"Looks like they're open," he calls.  "Want to 
get some lunch?"

"Yes," I agree instantly, eager for something 
hot.  "I can't believe it's noon already.  I'm 
starving."

"Well at least some things never change," he 
teases.  "Okay, grab the boathook, Mac."  
Slowly he eases us up to the dock and cuts the 
engine.  There are lots of empty slips in the 
marina this time of year, but there's still a 
sizeable flotilla of gorgeous, expensive private 
yachts tied up here.  There's a strong smell of 
the sea and engine oil.  Harm ties up to the 
cleats fore and aft, and I help him stow our rain 
gear and secure the sails and rigging.

He steps from the bobbing deck to the dock and 
holds out his hand for me.  I plant my foot 
carefully on the gunwale, but my shoe slips a 
little as I jump and he catches me with both 
hands gripping my arms.  The blood pounds 
between my thighs with a powerful jolt that 
shocks me.  

For a moment I can't breathe, I can't even blink.  
When I look up, Harm is staring at me fiercely 
and his breathing is uneven, too.  He doesn't let 
me go right away.  He starts to brush my hair 
away from my face, then stops, and without a 
word he follows me as we walk along the 
swaying dock toward the stairs.

Even though he isn't touching me, it seems that I 
can feel every breath, every beat of his heart, 
every drop of blood in his body.

We reach the top of the stairs and find ourselves 
on a wide, sunny deck with a panoramic view of 
the water.  In the summer I suppose they have 
tables out here with umbrellas.  Harm leads the 
way toward a glass door leading inside and 
holds it open for me.  He touches my back 
lightly to guide me, and the contact seems to 
burn right through my jacket.  I have a strange, 
floating feeling, as if my legs belong to 
someone else.  

I hang onto the tattered rags of my poise as he 
follows me across the creaking hardwood floor 
of a lobby filled with well-worn chintz furniture.  
An archway to the right opens onto a dining 
room lined with old-fashioned casement 
windows. Only two or three tables are occupied.  

A sweet-faced lady with grey hair comes out 
from behind the reception desk to greet us, and 
over her shoulder I notice a hand painted sign 
about bed and breakfast rates.  Oh God.

"We weren't sure you'd be open," Harm gives 
her a friendly smile.  

"Yes, we're open on weekends all year round.  
Lots of local people like to stop in."

"Is the hotel open, too?"  He asks blandly, with 
an intense stare from those deep set, half-veiled 
eyes.  I have to remind myself to take a deep 
breath.

"Well, we don't have many overnight guests this 
time of year, but we keep the rooms made up.  
You folks thinking of staying?"

Harm lifts an eyebrow.  His gaze never leaves 
mine -- and if it were any hotter, I'd probably go 
up in flames right here. "The weather is getting 
pretty rough.  We were thinking about maybe 
staying over and running back early in the 
morning."  He's waiting for me.

"It  look like rain," I manage to say.  
Something flickers in his face, and I feel the 
blood pulsing hard in my fingertips.  "Um" -- I 
have to clear my throat with a little cough -- "I 
could really use a chance to clean up before 
lunch.  Would our room be available now?"

The old lady beams at us.  "It may be a little 
chilly up there, dear, but I'll have the fire lighted 
right away."  She picks up the house phone and 
pushes a registration form across the desk.  
Harm gives me another piercing look and takes 
out a credit card.

* * *

A young kid lugging a carrier full of birch logs 
leads the way up the wide old stairs.  We still 
haven't said a word directly to each other, and 
Mac is keeping her eyes down.

She retreats into the bathroom while the kid 
works to get the fire going, and when she comes 
out she still doesn't look at me.  She just puts 
her shoes under a chair and pads over to the 
window in sock feet.  She keeps staring out at 
the water with her back to the room the entire 
time.  

The kindling finally catches, blooming up with a 
welcome spark of yellow flame.  The kid adjusts 
the damper and takes the five bucks I hold out, 
then beats it.  I shut the door behind him with a 
solid click.

The beautiful old room is so quiet, I can hear the 
wind and a few patters of rain blowing off the 
bay. 

I haven't been at a loss about what to do with a 
woman in a hotel room since I was seventeen.  
But now, when I'm finally here with the one 
woman who matters, I'm starting to get nervous.  
Mac is being awfully quiet.  God, don't let her 
be regretting this.  

We've gone through so much together to arrive 
at this little haven in time.  It ought to be funny I 
guess -- it doesn't usually take me six years to 
get a woman into bed.  But as well as I know 
my Mac, this feels like stepping off into space.  

But my God, I've held back for so long.  

There's an unfamiliar ache in my heart as I 
watch her standing over there with her arms 
wrapped around her waist as if she's cold.  
Maybe she's scared, too. 

I stand behind her, feeling her warmth in the 
cold room, and hesitantly put my hands on her 
slim shoulders.  The nape of her neck looks so 
vulnerable, and gently I touch my lips to it.  She 
trembles, just a tiny quaver.  "Sarah," I hear 
myself say, "if you don't want" --

Her hands come up to cover mine, and then she 
turns.  Those incredible eyes search mine 
wonderingly.  Then she takes my face in her soft 
hands, and something tight gives way inside me.  
"Harm," she says softly, "I don't think I've ever 
wanted anything more in my life." 

And then she's in my arms and we're clinging 
together, helpless with relief.  At last, I think, at 
last.  I lift her off her feet and crush her against 
me with sudden, fierce elation.

My face is buried in her hair as I cradle her head 
in one hand.  Gently I begin to kiss the tears 
away from her cheekbones, her eyelids, her 
mouth, tasting salt as her lips part beneath mine.

Like a cool spring in a thirsty desert, like wine 
glowing in firelight . . . .  Kissing Sarah 
Mackenzie feels like the answer to every 
desperate prayer I've ever known.  Her mouth is 
so soft, yet strong underneath, and we're tasting 
each other, drinking from each other, easing 
back only for a quick breath before melding 
together deeper than before.  I'm already hard 
and she makes a sort of humming sound deep in 
her throat as I slide my hands beneath her shirt, 
over her warm satiny back, holding her, feeling 
the strong muscles flex as she curves into me.

Desperately I try to hang onto my control.  I 
haven't been with anyone in months, and I think 
it's going to be impossible to take this slowly.  
An overwhelming hunger surges through me, 
not just for a woman, but for this woman.  I 
want her so much it hurts.  

Dimly I am aware that this feels so right, so 
familiar, and I wonder how I ever waited so 
long to learn the feel of her beneath my hands, 
against my body.  The heat between us is nearly 
incandescent.  Without warning, I feel her grasp 
the waist of my jeans and pull.  The buttons pop 
one by one and then her cool, slim fingers are 
there, searching, finding, springing me free and 
stroking slowly up and down.

"Jesus, Sarah" -- I rasp out.  That's it, I'm gone.  
With both hands I grab the hem of her sweater 
and pull it over her head, and she raises her 
hands with a happy laugh like a little girl 
playing Skin the Cat.  My sweat shirt follows 
hers with a yank, her bra slides away, and then 
we're fused together in a searing line of flame, 
skin against skin, warm beneath the cool 
surface, our hands smoothing, gentling, 
touching each other with such longing, such 
need.

There will be all the time in the world for slow 
and tender.  Passion seizes me, and I grab her 
beneath the ass and lift.  She tightens her arms 
around my neck and wraps those long legs 
around my waist, and without preamble I carry 
her to the bed and ease her down, her legs 
hanging over the edge.  Then she's tugging my 
jeans down and I grab hers at the ankles and 
pull, and we're both laughing again as 
everything lands in a heap somewhere behind us 
on the braided wool rug.

Her gaze moves over me slowly.  I swear I can 
feel it on my body wherever she's looking.  
Then I'm kneeling over her, easing down to lie 
full length on top of that long, beautiful body as 
she reaches up to hold me.  I lean on my elbows 
and stare down, watching her eyes go smoky 
and her breath quicken.

I see my own desire mirrored in her face.  I have 
never wanted a woman like this, never.  

She arches her back a little beneath my weight, 
her breasts soft against my chest.  Slowly she 
begins to circle her hips in the dance as old as 
time.   I match her rhythm, savoring the slow 
thrust and drag, the pressure between us, hard 
and soft, man and woman.  Sarah . . . oh God . . 
. . 

She puts her lips to the pulse point in my neck, 
her breath jagged, and "Harm," she whispers, 
pleading.

My cock is so hard I'm dying.  I don't want to 
hurt her, but her eyes are begging me and I hear 
her gasp as I guide my tip into her and sink in 
with a single hard, aching thrust that makes us 
both groan.

The heat inside her is exquisite as she tightens 
around me, letting me set the pace.  Together we 
rise through circle after circle of light to the 
bright center of the sun . . .  White wings flash 
across my vision and I feel the ebb and flow as 
something pulls deep inside, pulling at my cock 
and she's crying out, her head turning helplessly 
on the pillow and her lashes fluttering like 
hummingbirds' wings.  

Fiercely I watch her, thrusting harder and harder 
until my own release seizes me and I gasp her 
name.  

When I collapse, I'm still buried to the hilt 
inside her.  After a moment I try to lift my 
weight off, but her arms tighten and she 
whispers, "Please -- stay inside me."  I feel 
another flush of heat, faint but unmistakable, 
and I rest against her as she cradles me with her 
body soft and sweet beneath mine.

* * *

Rain.  Plinking and plunking in the gutters, 
tapping on the windows, beating a soft tattoo on 
the roof above my head.

Vaguely I register the comforting sound as I 
float up to the surface of sleep and hover there, 
half awake.  Is there anything better than 
luxuriating in a cozy bed on a rainy Sunday 
afternoon?  I sigh with contentment and burrow 
deeper into the down pillows, smelling a faint 
sweet fragrance from the logs on the hearth.

My eyes pop open and I stare vacantly at the 
fireplace where the ashes have burned down to 
red coals, casting a faint glow that reflects on 
the polished wood floor.  There's an arm around 
my waist and a big hard body behind me, and I 
can feel gentle breathing on my neck.  I'm 
naked, and so is the man lying against me.  With 
an owlish blink, I come to my senses and 
remember.  A blush starts at my face and slides 
all the way down to my toes.

Careful not to wake him, I ease onto my back 
and place my hand lightly over the long arm 
lying across my waist.  So many men smother 
you beneath the weight of their embrace, but 
Harm is simply holding me.  I take a deep 
breath, stretching a little, and relish the faint 
stickiness, the twinge of welcome soreness 
between my thighs.  

My God.  Harm.  Even as my heart swells with 
happiness, a part of me still can't believe it -- is 
scared to believe it.  

Shadows are gathering in the corners of the high 
old ceiling, and I consult my internal clock.  
We've been asleep for hours.  It must be nearly 
1600, and it's already getting dark.  I lie quietly, 
watching the rain snake down the window 
panes.  Linear thinking seems a little beyond my 
grasp at this point.  I'm trying to ignore a faint 
voice of unease plucking at the back of my 
mind.  Part of me is sure that Harm will wake 
up, take one look, and I'll glimpse horror and 
embarrassment before he clamps down and 
doesn't say a word.

So what if he roused himself afterward and 
pulled the big puffy comforter over us, tucking 
me in and taking me in his arms?  I swore last 
summer I wouldn't keep carrying this stupid 
torch, I wouldn't keep humiliating myself with 
my pathetic, obvious crush on this man.  And 
now it will all be so awkward, and I'll have to 
try to forget how his first touch made me go up 
like a bonfire.  How I will never be able to look 
at him again without remembering, without 
wanting . . . .

I can't even sneak out of here and go home 
because the son of a bitch kidnapped me on his 
damn boat.

Somehow I manage to rein in my galloping 
anxiety, and sanity returns.  I take a deep, 
calming breath and remind myself that no one 
has ever made Harmon Rabb do something he 
didn't want to do. 

With a sleepy mumble, Harm's arm tightens as 
he rolls over and lays his head in the hollow 
beneath my breasts. He's not awake, not really, 
and I let my gaze slide over his muscular 
forearm, the strong bones of his wrist, the 
beautiful long fingers that lie against me, and 
my mouth goes dry.  Hesitantly I curl my arm 
around those wide shoulders and stroke my 
fingertips over his scalp, sifting through his 
short, soft hair, relishing the feel of his weight 
on me, his breath warm on my skin.  For this 
one moment, suspended in time, I can stare at 
the way his dark lashes lie against his cheek and 
feel his body against mine and remember it for a 
lifetime.

Harm murmurs something indistinct and nestles 
closer.

"You planned this," I whisper back.  I figure a 
good offense is my best defense.

"Didnohtlwdbeopn," he mumbles against my 
breast, and I feel my nipples tighten.

"You didn't know the hotel would be open?"  I 
try to sound a little indignant.  Is this good or 
bad?  There's something appealing about 
spontaneity, but if he planned to seduce me, it 
seems a bit cavalier.  

No, I decide, it's just Harm -- being Harm.  I'm 
sure if the hotel hadn't been open, he was 
confident he could talk them into letting us stay 
anyway.  

"You kidnapped and seduced me," I try to sound 
accusing.  He gives a satisfied little snore.  My 
stomach rumbles loudly, and Harm bursts out 
laughing, rolling onto his back.  I can't help 
joining in, giggling helplessly, my hand over my 
eyes.

After a moment his fingers close around my 
wrist and he pulls my hand away.  Warm green 
eyes gleam drowsily down at me.  "If you're 
hungry, Marine, just say so," he grins.  His 
voice is deep with sleep.  "After all, you barely 
ate last night and this morning, and we skipped 
lunch."

"I guess you just have that effect on me."

His eyebrows go up.  "Wow.  A compliment 
indeed," he teases.  Leaning on one elbow, he 
slowly runs his warm hand down my back, then 
draws the comforter up around my shoulders.  
Suddenly I feel absurdly shy.  

"Sarah."  I raise my eyes, reluctantly, and 
whatever he sees makes his gaze sharpen.  His 
fingers brush a strand of hair out of my eyes, a 
moth's touch.

"Second thoughts?"  He's trying to sound 
nonchalant.  All my doubts must be in my face, 
he knows me too well not to see it.  Well, I 
know him, too, and I am startled to recognize 
the stark vulnerability in his eyes.  I am shocked 
to realize I could devastate Harmon Rabb with 
one wrong word.  

He'll know in an instant if I am anything less 
than truthful. "No second thoughts," I whisper, 
my eyes not wavering from his.  "But I was 
afraid you might have some."

He winces a little and nods.  "That's fair."  He 
takes a deep breath and looks around helplessly.  
He is struggling to find words, and something 
twists inside me.  Finally, he looks me right in 
the eye.  "Sarah -- after everything that's 
happened, I wasn't sure you wanted to risk it 
again.  All I can say is -- I am."

The cold little knot in my heart vanishes.  
Gently I reach up and lay my hand against his 
cheek.   "Maybe we both are."

I feel his body relax, and the look in those green 
eyes steals my breath.  Quickly I slip my arm 
around his neck and pull him down to me.

And his mouth is so warm, so soft as it curves 
against mine, as we share a smile even as I lose 
myself in the sweetness of his kiss, so different 
from anything we have shared before.  Now 
there is no hurry, no bittersweet longing, no 
passion straining at the leash -- just a man 
kissing a woman as if it were the most important 
thing in his world.  I lose myself in it, opening 
everything in my heart, serene in the sensation 
of being -- cherished.

The tenderness of his touch is overwhelming.  
Two scalding tears trace a stinging line over my 
temples, and he sweeps them away as he 
smooths my hair back.  No one has ever touched 
me like this, no one.  My heart is beating like a 
caged bird, he must feel it as he moves his 
mouth over my jawline, slipping softly beneath 
my ear and along my throat where the pulse 
beats so wildly.

Harm lifts his head a fraction.  "Don't cry, 
baby," he whispers, his breath warm on my 
cheek.  "Please don't cry."

"I can't help it.  I can't hide anymore."

"Okay.  Okay, sweetheart.  It's all right."  He 
rolls onto his back, pulling me with him, 
wrapped in those strong arms that I know will 
always be there.   One big warm hand curves 
behind my head, stroking my hair, again and 
again.  And I lie against his chest, listening to 
the steady rhythm of his heart beating against 
mine.  

* * *

I open my eyes to find Mac staring at me with a 
faint little smile.   She's stretched out on top of 
me, her chin propped on her hand, and the tip of 
her nose is about an inch from mine.  I pull her a 
little closer and give her a slightly cross-eyed 
smile in return.  

"Hey," I mumble, and scrub my hand over my 
face.  "Did I doze off?"

 "Just for awhile," she says. "Harm -- do you 
think there's any way we could get something to 
eat around here?"

A laugh pops out of me before I can help it.  
Now I'm sure she's okay.  I reach out for the 
phone.  "Hi, this is Commander Rabb in Room -
- Three?  Right.  Uh, we were wondering if 
you'll be serving dinner tonight?  Really?  What 
time?  Great.  Thanks."  I fumble the phone 
back into place without looking.  "You're in 
luck, Mac.  The kitchen opens at five."  

"I'd say you're the one in luck, sailor.  You've 
got a hungry Marine here," she says with an 
arch smile and gives me a peck on the cheek.  
"I'm going to take a quick bath."  With that she 
slips out of bed and starts picking up her 
clothes.

"Hey, it's cold in here without you," I try to 
sound pitiful.

"Well, it's freezing out here!" She's clutching 
her sweater and jeans to her chest and hopping 
from rug to rug on her bare feet.  "But there's 
room for two in the tub," she calls over her 
shoulder as she hurries into the bathroom.  I 
catch a fetching glimpse of her backside as she 
disappears.

Shivering, I struggle out of bed and pause to 
toss my clothes over a chair, grinning to myself.  
It's been a long time since my stuff ended up 
strewn around a bedroom floor.  I stop to toss a 
fresh log on the fire and move the screen back to 
protect the rug.

Protection.  Oh, shit.

Standing stock still with my hands on the 
mantle, I feel my mood evaporate like a balloon 
popping.  I haven't forgotten to use a condom in 
years, and this time it didn't even occur to me.  I 
always use one. Call me a control freak, but I 
could never see taking those kinds of chances or 
giving anyone that much power over me.  It 
drove Renee and Jordan nuts.

Yet, this time, it never even crossed my mind.  I 
stare into the fire, my mind blank, until I hear 
splashing coming from the open bathroom door.  
"Hey, I need a lifeguard in here!" she calls, 
sounding happy.  

Pushing the door open wider, I stick my head in 
and am rewarded by the sight of that spectacular 
long tawny body stretched out in the water.  The 
old porcelain tub is so wide and deep her feet 
don't even reach the other end.  Mac lifts her 
head from the rim, where she was leaning back, 
and her eyes are sparkling.  When I realize 
where she's looking, I feel my ears turn pink.  
Then she sees the look on my face.

"Harm?"  she says uncertainly.  Abruptly she 
sits up and hugs her knees to her breasts.  The 
fear in her eyes pierces me like a blade.  
Sometimes I'd like to murder the person who 
first taught her to doubt herself.  Of course, I'd 
have to put myself the list.  God damn it.

I lower the lid on the commode and sit facing 
her, leaning my forearms on my knees.  "Mac, I 
owe you an apology," I tell her.

"Why?"  Now she looks really scared, and I 
curse myself again.  Quickly I reach out for her 
hand, and she lets me take it between both of 
mine.

"It's not you.  Please, sweetheart, don't look like 
that.  It's -- look, Mac, I forgot to use a condom.  
I didn't even ask."

She blinks once, her expression guarded.  
"Harm, it's okay, I'm on the pill.  I would never 
put you in that position."  She takes a breath.  
"Did you think I would?"

"Mac, when it's time for it to happen, I'd rather 
we plan it.  But I'd be thrilled, regardless."  
She's watching me intensely, and I'm startled to 
see tears well up again.  Oh Christ, what have I 
done now?

"You mean that."  She says it wonderingly.

"Of course I mean it."

"Then why are you apologizing?  Oh" -- she 
stops, and flushes.

"They tested everything they could test before 
they let me out of the hospital last spring, and 
there hasn't been anyone since.  But you couldn't 
have known that."

"Well, I had all the tests before I went to the 
Guadalcanal, and there hasn't been anyone else 
for me, either.  Is that what you're worried 
about?"

"Not in a million years.  But I was asking you to 
take a lot on faith."

"Harm."  Her gaze is level.  "You would never 
do anything to put me at risk."  

"Neither would you."  There's a little silence, as 
we both understand just how deep the trust runs 
between us.  After all the times I've hurt her, it's 
something I never anticipated and had no right 
to expect.  My eyes are stinging.  

"Okay, then.  Now get in here," she pulls on my 
hand playfully, scooting forward to make room, 
knowing that I'd rather be shot than talk about 
this anymore.  I step in behind her and gingerly 
lower myself into the steaming water, which 
rises to our shoulders, and she slides back to lie 
against me as I wrap my arms around her and 
rest my cheek against her wet hair. 

"Did I ever tell you that you look great naked?" 
I can hear the smile in her voice.

"Well, you look even better than I fantasized," I 
inform her.  "But the cotton briefs with the little 
pink flowers were a let-down."

"I didn't know I was going to need the Victoria's 
Secret this trip."  

Slowly she runs her palms down my thighs and 
rests her hands on my knees.  I put my hands 
over hers.  "I like you better without anything," 
I tell her.  "This way I can spend all my time 
just staring at your fabulous tits."

That makes her laugh, and they jiggle, sending 
little ripples across the tub.  She sits up and 
reaches for one of those tiny bottles of 
complimentary shampoo, and I watch her 
struggle to open it with wet hands.  Finally I 
take it and twist the cap off, then pour some into 
my palm.  I smear it between my hands and start 
massaging it through her hair.

"Mmmm," she leans against the pressure of my 
hands, letting her head fall back, eyes closed.  
Slowly I work up the lather, circling my fingers 
against her scalp, trailing my soapy hands down 
her long, slender neck and over the firm muscles 
of her back and arms.  She catches my wrist and 
places my hand on her breast, and I feel it 
harden against my palm.

"If I do the rest, we'll miss dinner," I whisper.  

She pouts.  "Damn, that's a tough one.  Nuts.  
Okay."  Abruptly she submerges, rinsing her 
hair and rising up through the soapy water with 
a splash.

"Hey, you still have some shampoo in there," I 
say, and scoop water over her with my cupped 
hand.  She tilts her head back again and I rinse 
her hair, carefully shielding her eyes with my 
other hand.  Her eyebrows are like wings on her 
smooth forehead above the thin closed eyelids 
and the dark curve of her lashes.  She is so 
beautiful, sitting there with the water sliding 
over.  Her smooth skin is the color of honey, 
and I feel my body start to react, unbidden.  
Quickly I lean forward and kiss her forehead, 
upside down.  "All done."

"You have great hands." She gives a theatrical 
sigh and stands up, the water drops sparkling on 
her smooth flanks.

"It's a sailor thing, Mac," I tell her, and then I 
grab her hips and hold her still.  "Whoa --wait a 
minute."  I push up a little on her left buttock, 
and sure enough, there it is.  Hot damn.  
Carefully I kiss the tiny eagle, globe and anchor 
tattoo on the lower curve. "Semper Fi, Marine."  

She giggles and steps lightly out of the tub.  "I 
told you that information is classified," she says.  
"Now I'll have to kill you."

"I think you already tried that," I grin, heaving 
myself up and reaching for a towel, which I 
wrap around her.  And for just a moment I 
simply hold her as she leans against me.  I press 
my lips to her temple, smelling the sweet 
fragrance of soap and shampoo as we stand 
there, together. 

* * *

Where does she put it?

Mac is attacking her second plate of crab cakes 
and shows no signs of slowing down.  French 
fries, tartar sauce, cole slaw, corn bread, she 
goes for the whole nine yards.  The nice old 
lady who runs the place was impressed when 
she reordered.  

I make it a point never to get between my 
Marine and her dinner, especially when she's 
hungry.  Tonight, I guess she's entitled.  I have 
never known Mac to miss three meals in a row 
unless she had the flu or something. 

"Appetite returning, Marine?"  I inquire, trying 
to keep the smugness out of my voice.

"For some things," she looks at me from 
beneath her lashes as she takes another bite.  
Something about the way her lovely mouth 
closes around that french fry is mesmerizing, 
and she knows it.  I shift a little in my chair.  

"Dessert?  Coffee?"  Mrs. Tiggywinkle is 
hovering.  There are only two other tables 
occupied this early on a Sunday evening, and no 
one seems to notice the little Tom Jones thing 
we have going on here.

"Coffee," I say, and look at Mac.  She folds her 
napkin, looks up with those huge black eyes, 
and asks demurely, "What do you have for 
dessert?"  I stifle a snicker.  

"Homemade blueberry pie, homemade 
chocolate cake.  Ice cream," the old lady tells 
her.

Mac stretches a little in anticipation.  "Oooh, 
chocolate cake, please.  With frosting?"

"Oh yes, dear."  Beaming, she bustles away.

I lift an eyebrow.  "Homemade, of course," I 
say.  

"Of course."

The dining room is dim and quiet, illuminated 
by candlelight, and I reach out and put my hand 
over hers on the corner of the table, tracing her 
slender fingers with my thumb.  Mac gives a 
little sigh and leans back in the comfortable 
chair.  Her eyes are luminous in the candlelight, 
and something swift and sweet fills my chest.  

"What?"  she asks.

"Nothing.  Everything.  I like being able to do 
this."  I squeeze her hand.  Sarah Mackenzie has 
occupied my dreams, waking and sleeping, for 
years, yet my imagination never came close to 
the fiery sweetness that sparks now, each time I 
touch her.  When her fingers curl around mine, a 
whiplash of desire cracks through me like heat 
lightning on a sultry night.

She gives a little sigh and stretches like a cat.  I 
wonder how anyone can make blue jeans and a 
heavy sweater look so good.  She says, "I feel 
like I can breathe right down to my toes."  

I know exactly what she means.  Like there's a 
fair breeze and open sky clear to the horizon in 
every direction.  And I don't need to tell her 
that, because she's looking at me and she knows.

The cake arrives, and it's about the size of a barn 
door.  She catches me staring at it in dismay. 
"Well, you sure won't be able to breathe after 
you finish that," I tease.  She just laughs.  

Absently I sip my coffee as Mac laps up her 
dessert with dainty greed.  "I'm glad you're 
keeping your strength up," I tell her.

She looks up from her plate, and her eyes are 
dancing.  Slowly she reaches out and swipes a 
big dollop of chocolate frosting, then proceeds 
to lick it off her finger. Slowly.  I swallow and 
don't take my eyes from hers.  She knows 
exactly what she's doing to me.  With her 
fingertip, she touches a tiny bit of frosting to my 
lower lip.
 
I grasp her wrist and hold it for a moment, then 
quickly kiss it and lick the frosting off before I 
release her.  Her cheeks are flushed and she 
takes a quick breath.  Mac has always carried an 
air of unconscious sensuality, as if she is 
listening to music only she can hear.  It's one of 
the things I find endlessly fascinating about her, 
the desire I sense humming just beneath her 
fiery spirit and intelligence.   I want to spend the 
rest of my life discovering it.

For now, it's enough to tease, and savor our new 
ease with each other.  Knowing we're free to 
touch and taste as much as we want.  
Anticipating what is to come.

"Speaking of strength, do you ever row 
anymore?" she asks me.

"How do you know about that?" I ask.

"Master Chief Bledsoe.  He sends his regards, 
by the way."

"Bledsoe?  My God, Mac, you mean he's still 
there, persecuting midshipmen?"

"Apparently.  He wants you to come by so he 
can put you on some machine.  Sounds kinky."

"Jesus."  I roll my eyes.  "I used to think he 
wanted to kill me -- now I know it.  I'll have to 
stop by and say hello to the old bastard."

"So was that your sport at the Academy?  I 
thought you boxed."

"As an upperclassman.  But when I got there, all 
I could do was surf and sail and swim.  I was 
too light for football, too slow for track or 
basketball.  I was this long skinny drink of 
water."

"Didn't you need a sport on your record in high 
school to get admitted to the Academy?"

"Yeah, I made the swim team, but I wasn't very 
fast.  Anyway, at the Academy you're supposed 
to go out for a team sport, and I was desperate.  
Then one day I was down by the harbor and 
started watching the crews, and I found out you 
don't need to be fast --you just have to be able to 
take pain.  That I could do."

She's listening intently.  "I have a hard time 
picturing you as a gangly kid," she says.

I shrug, remembering cold grey mornings at the 
boat house, struggling against the rowing 
machines, sweating and straining, lungs 
burning.  Finally finding a way to use all that 
adolescent anger and frustration.  "They always 
want tall guys for crew, it gives you more 
leverage," I tell her.  "And luckily I filled out 
pretty quickly.  Of course, you're always 
starving.  Keeter and I used to buy a whole ham 
and split it, sometimes."

"I can't picture it.  Well, Keeter maybe, not 
you."  God, she has a great smile.  "What about 
sailing?  You always knew how?"

"Yeah, I used to go out with my grandfather 
when we lived in Connecticut.  It was the only 
thing we ever did together that was fun.  Then 
when we moved to La Jolla, Frank bought me a 
little catamaran to try to keep me out of trouble, 
I think.  I used to race a lot.  So it wasn't any big 
deal when we had to do the sailing requirement 
our plebe summer."

"Did you ever do any racing at the Academy?"

"Hell, yes, second class year I made the offshore 
team on the 44s.  God, that was an experience.  
Fun, but incredibly hard.  And one year I talked 
Keeter into going to the Bahamas with me for 
spring break.  Only catch was, we had to crew 
on a charter yacht, and Keeter's scared to death 
of sailing.  I used to have to go after him when 
he'd freeze taking in the spinnaker." 

"How in the world did you get him?  He's so 
big!"

"It wasn't pretty, trust me."  I sign the check.  
"Ready?"

She stands and tugs on my hand.  "Let's go 
outside for a minute," she says, and we let 
ourselves out onto the deck.  It's chilly and the 
wind is still blowing, but the rain has stopped 
and the night sky is spangled with stars.  We 
walk to the railing, looking out toward the 
water, and I put my arm around her.  
   
"What time do we need to leave tomorrow?" she 
asks, leaning her head back against my 
shoulder.

"Well, we'd better shove off around four.  Hour 
to get back, give or take, be on the road by five 
thirty, that way we'll miss the worst of the 
morning rush and have time to change and get 
to the office.  At least the rain is over, it'll be a 
clear run back."

Her arm slips around my waist.  "I wish we 
could stay for awhile," she says softly. 

"I know."  We both know how difficult this will 
be.  And my new assignment will take me out of 
town a lot.  From now on, everything will be 
different. "We're going to have to make some 
tough choices, Sarah."  As soon as I say it, I 
kick myself.  Good job, Rabb, ruin what little 
time you have together as it is.

She's looking up at me, her eyes shining in the 
starlight.  "I know.  But we'll work it out, 
Harm."  She shrugs ruefully.  "Everybody has 
always wondered whether I'm sleeping with 
you, or the Admiral, or maybe both of you at the 
same time.  You've had to take a lot of crap for 
having a woman partner.  At least now, we'll 
deserve it."  

"I was always afraid" -- I stop.  

"Of what?" she asks quietly.  Somehow I know 
it's okay to tell her.

"Eventually, one of us is going to have to take 
reassignment.  I could never see how a 
relationship based on that kind of sacrifice could 
ever work.  Whichever one of us has to make 
the move, we could both end up resenting it."  
There, it's out.  Jesus, do I know how to ruin the 
mood or what?

But Sarah, as usual, surprises me.  She's 
nodding in agreement, and then she says 
thoughtfully, "You're right.  Mic always threw it 
in my face, how much he gave up.  I hated 
knowing I was supposed to feel grateful."

"So where does that leave us?"  I don't want to 
know, I don't want to be having this 
conversation.  But I promised her I'd stop 
running.

"Harm."  Her voice is warm, confident and 
serene.  She puts her hands on my shoulders, 
facing me.  "It's not a sacrifice if we work it out 
together."

I stare down at her, and I don't understand what 
I'm feeling.  Then it comes to me.  It simply 
feels right -- like snagging the three-wire in 30-
foot swells.  I put my hands on her waist and 
pull her closer.

"Why did we wait so long?" I murmur against 
her hair.  "Wait -- don't answer that.  I know it 
was my fault."

"It was just as much mine.  When I thought you 
didn't want me, I tried to push -- and then I ran.  
I'm afraid it's a habit."  She looks away.  Gently 
I put my hand against her soft cheek and turn 
her face to mine.

"I know.  Sarah, look at me."  Reluctantly she 
lifts those heartbreakingly beautiful eyes, and I 
can see the courage it takes.  Right then I fall 
even more in love with her, if that's possible.  "I 
never wanted just an affair.  That never seemed 
good enough for you -- for us."

"I guess I was afraid to believe that."

"Do you believe it now?"

"Yes."  Her gaze is steady.

I look up at the stars and take a deep, cleansing 
breath, relishing the salt sea air that seems to 
sweep through me.  "You know," I tell her, "I 
used to have all these reasons why this wouldn't 
work.  I used to take 'em out every once in 
awhile, set 'em out in a row, shine 'em up, just to 
remind myself.  And then last summer, I knew."

"Knew what?"  

"That they weren't reasons, they were excuses.  
To keep you from getting too close."  I take her 
sweet face between my hands.  "And I realized -
- you already were."

Two tears slip down her cheeks, shining silver 
in the starlight.  She slides her hands up my 
back as I kiss her.  I plunge my hands through 
her hair, our mouths caress each other until we 
can't kiss anymore and we lean against each 
other, breathing hard.  

"Take me upstairs, Harm," she whispers, her 
eyes full of wanting.

* * *

The embers glowing red on the hearth are the 
only light in the room.

Harm closes the door behind us and crosses to 
the fireplace.  It's the first moment since dinner 
that he hasn't been touching me.

I stand quietly as he puts two more logs on the 
fire and stirs it with the poker until the flames 
leap up, bright and yellow, crackling and 
snapping.  For a minute he stands staring at the 
fire, silhouetted by the flickering light.  In the 
quiet, I can hear the moisture hissing in the logs 
as they heat up.  And it seems, just in that 
moment, that I am looking through the wrong 
end of a telescope -- looking at someone who is 
small and far away, someone I have never seen 
before.  

Without turning around, his hand goes out.  
Mine slides into his without hesitation, and he 
pulls me against him.  And it's Harm, the man I 
know better than I know myself, who looks 
down at me with those extraordinary clear eyes, 
kind and quizzical and filled with the 
compassion that is so uniquely his.  Slowly he 
traces my cheek, and just that tiny touch burns 
my skin.  His eyebrow goes up.  "You okay?"

I nod.  "It's just a little scary," I tell him.  "This 
feels like the most natural thing in the world, but 
part of me doesn't seem to know you at all."

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his voice is 
very soft.  "I know.  But I'm still me.  It will be 
okay, I promise."  He looks at me curiously.  
"What?"

I shake my head in relief, and something spills 
warm inside me.  "Just you."  Somehow, against 
all the odds, Harm understands.  Better yet, he 
didn't roll his eyes or patronize me.  Maybe he 
knows how falling in love with your best friend 
can make you feel like a stranger. 

So we stand with our arms around each other, 
my head tucked beneath his chin, rocking a 
little, and he waits patiently even as I feel him 
growing hard against me, and after awhile I 
work my hands up inside his shirt, sliding over 
the warm skin, over the hard flat planes of his 
back and chest, relishing the freedom to touch 
him where I want, as much as I want.  His eyes 
close in pleasure, and I feel a surge of feminine 
power.

I slip out of my sweater and drop it somewhere, 
then bend over to fumble with my shoe laces.  
Harm takes two steps to the bed, where the 
covers are heaped in disarray, and gathers up the 
big comforter and two pillows and tosses them 
onto the rug in front of the fireplace.  

Everything seems in slow motion, silent, 
drifting, and I am aware only of him.  

Slowly I slide my jeans down over my hips, 
holding his gaze, feeling it on my body.  The 
fire is warm on the backs of my legs.  When I 
reach for the closure on my bra, he steps closer 
and lays his fingers over mine.  "Wait," he says, 
his voice low and rough.  "I want to do it."

So I wait, and catch my lower lip in my teeth as 
his fingers expertly release the catch and sweep 
the wisp of nylon over my breasts, off my 
shoulders.  I stand very straight and still and let 
his gaze move over my body, his eyes deep in 
shadow and heavy with desire.  Between my 
legs the pulse starts to beat, clear and strong.  
Slowly it spreads, and I feel the blood in my 
lips, in the tips of my breasts.

At last, at last, his hands come up and begin to 
trace a line down my neck, across my shoulders, 
to the hollow at the base of my throat, his 
fingertips moving lightly on my skin, barely 
grazing it, as if he were a blind man, learning 
me by touch alone.

My breath is all anyhow, shallow and quick. I 
start to say something, I don't know what.  
"Shhhh," he murmurs.  And I hush, waiting, 
longing for the touch of his mouth, his body.  
The pulse is beating in Harm's throat, too, I can 
see its shadow beating steadily.  

Quickly he pulls off his clothes, tossing them 
carelessly, and my breath is thick in my throat 
as I let my eyes run over his body.  Now I can 
look, look as much as I want, drinking in the 
strength and size of him, the beauty of his wide 
shoulders and lean, long-limbed body. 

Naked, he stands before me, nearly touching me 
but not quite.  And then those marvelous hands 
are on me, gliding slowly down my arms, barely 
grazing the sides of my breasts, following the 
dip and curve at my waist, sliding down my 
thighs.  My eyes start to droop, and I grasp his 
shoulders to steady myself while I keep looking, 
keep watching what he's doing to me.  He is 
frowning, intent, and his eyes are brilliant in the 
flicker of the flames.  As I watch, his fierce 
expression softens, blurs, becomes blunt with 
arousal.  I can smell the clean male scent rising 
from his pores, making me a little dizzy.

I reach for him, brushing my fingers down his 
body, but he catches my hand, holding it.  
"Wait," he murmurs.  "Let this be for you, just 
you."

Then he's kneeling in front of me, tracing the 
backs of my thighs with his large calloused 
hands, caressing the backs of my knees, sliding 
my panties down.  He moves his hands up the 
soft skin inside my legs, gently pressing them 
apart, and then cups his palms against my 
bottom and pulls me toward him.  His breath is 
warm on me, and then he's there, nuzzling me, 
probing with his tongue, finding the spot that 
makes me gasp and my knees tremble.  

Golden wine seems to pool between my legs, 
flowing down through my thighs to my feet.  I 
sway, vaguely aware that Harm is holding me 
up, and abandon myself to the sensation of his 
lips and tongue stroking me, over and over.

Suddenly it's too much, and I pull back gently, 
holding onto his shoulders as I sink to kneel 
facing him.  His arms go around me and slowly 
he lowers me to lie on the soft comforter, a 
pillow beneath my head.  He is so gentle with 
me, yet his hands know me and take control and 
I let him, arching my back and sighing as he 
lays his warm palm flat against my breast, 
pressing gently, testing its weight.  

He is so perfectly unhurried.  Kneeling above 
me, he strokes his warm dry hands slowly up 
my body, from the soft flat belly to my waist 
and ribs, tracing a line of fire beneath each 
breast.  Over and over he strokes me, letting me 
luxuriate in a long, slow arousal.  Deep inside, 
where the blood is pounding like a drum, I feel 
my opening stretch and lengthen, then lengthen 
still more with a delicious twinge.

When I don't think I can stand it any longer, 
Harm cups my breast in one big hand, lowers 
his head, and slowly begins to circle one nipple 
with his tongue, over and over.  At last he drags 
the flat of his tongue lightly over the swollen, 
sensitive tip before taking the whole thing into 
his mouth and sucking gently, holding my breast 
while the deep pull shoots all the way down 
between my legs.

My breath is coming in shallow pants at the 
back of my throat, and restlessly I spread my 
knees, begging, pleading for more.  He lifts his 
head and watches my face, then lays his whole 
hand lightly over me, cupping my mound.  
Breathlessly I follow each feather light touch as 
he gently caresses the outer lips, then presses 
deeper.  He strokes the tender folds, gliding on 
the slick wetness, and I make a tiny sound even 
as I spread my thighs wider, shamelessly 
begging.  And then, for the first time, he puts his 
fingers in me and I cry out.  Slowly and steadily 
he presses inward, deeper, gently stroking in 
and out as he presses against me and it's so 
good, God it's like nothing I have ever felt 
before.  

Somehow I reach down blindly and grasp his 
wrist, stilling his movements.  "I want you 
inside me," I whisper, my hands on his arms, 
pulling him down on top of me, guiding him, 
and with one strong thrust he sinks all the way 
in.

He stops and lies still, staring fiercely down into 
my face as he lies propped on his forearms 
above me.  I give a tiny whimper, rocking my 
hips, and again he hushes me and holds me, and 
then I feel it, our connection, his big cock hard 
inside me.  I squeeze deliciously around him, 
and Harm lowers his face to my shoulder and 
begins to kiss my neck.  

"I want to move," I gasp, begging.  

"Shhhhh," he gentles me again, settling himself 
more comfortably.  And I begin to focus on our 
joining, seeing it, feeling my body stretch 
around him, unfurling like a rose in bloom.  At 
last he slips a hand behind my knee and lifts, 
just a little, as he presses with his hips, and 
somehow I feel his hard length penetrate even 
deeper.  The tip of his cock is licking at the 
mouth of my womb, setting off bright sparks of 
pleasure that seem to arrow right through my 
body, each one making me tremble for the next 
and open wider, wider.  His skin is hot and 
moist with sweat as he rocks slowly against me.  
Deep inside I meet each stroke, feeling myself 
floating on a slow river, where the sunlight 
sparkles on the water in tiny spangles and the 
current is swift and violent beneath the surface, 
and I surrender to its force as it carries me 
along, flowing faster, faster.  The thought comes 
that someday this man will make me pregnant, 
and as I feel him gasp and tremble, it shatters 
me into a million stars.

After a long while I feel him shift and roll to the 
side, and the fire warms me where he was.  My 
body feels replete -- heavy, relaxed and a little 
drowsy, but I open my eyes and look at him 
with something like awe.

"What, Sarah?" he says softly.

"Thank you," I whisper.  I don't have to say 
more.  The tenderness shining in his eyes tells 
me he needs no explanation.  For some stupid 
reason my eyes tear up again, and he brushes 
them away.  This wasn't just sex, it was utterly 
beyond anything I have ever imagined.  This 
was lovemaking -- and it has altered me forever.  

* * *

God, she's beautiful.

She's sleeping now, her long slender arms and 
legs tangled gracefully in the covers and the 
firelight sliding over her, burnishing her skin 
with gold, highlighting that exquisite profile, 
clear as a cameo.  I'm getting sleepy too, but not 
yet.  For just awhile longer, I want to watch over 
her.

Beautiful, brilliant, and brave.  The words rise 
to the still surface of my mind with the clarity of 
truth.  Her astonished joy as we made love told 
me everything I need to know about the 
handling she has received in the past.  "Clumsy 
jerk" is the kindest thought I can spare for any 
of her previous lovers.  

Sex has always been easy for me -- too easy, 
some would say.  Fun, an exchange of pleasure, 
a way to relax.  I enjoy women and their bodies.  
But not since Diane has it seemed important, or 
significant in any deeper way.  Where every 
touch expresses emotions that have no words.  I 
guess I had pretty much given up on that.

But with Sarah -- maybe I always suspected the 
depth of feeling between us, like hot coals 
beneath a coating of white ash, was waiting only 
for a breath of wind to fan into flame.  Now, the 
intensity of my emotions makes the blood 
pound in my body.  When I touch her, I half 
expect to see sparks crackle beneath my hand.  

No wonder I was afraid.  This woman is more 
important to me than life.

In her soft sweet sleep she turns her head in the 
hollow of my shoulder.  Lightly I lay my hand 
between her legs, gently pressing her closed, 
sealing my seed within her.

* * *

2400 Zulu (7 p.m. EST)
North of Union Station
Three days later

Somehow I manage to unlock Harm's door 
without dropping anything.  My triumph is brief 
-- as I nudge it open with my hip, the dry 
cleaning bags start to slither from my grasp.  
"Oh, crap," I mutter as I try to clamp them with 
my elbow while juggling my briefcase, purse, 
and a bag of groceries.  Everything thumps and 
bangs and tumbles onto the floor, of course.  
Glorious.  It's been pouring all day, my feet are 
wet, and I'm cold, tired, and hungry.  

"Hey, are you okay?  You should have called 
from the car, Mac, I'd have come down."  Harm 
sticks his head around the door, but his smile 
disappears when he sees my bedraggled state.  
"Here, let me take that," he says diplomatically, 
relieving me of my dripping trench coat and 
cover.  

"The damn elevator gate stuck again," I gripe as 
I swipe ineffectually at my wet hair.  "I knew I 
shouldn't have tried to carry it all at one time, 
especially the stuff for dinner."  Harm is 
dispersing my things -- briefcase to the desk, 
clothes to the closet, food to the kitchen.  He 
returns with a clean dry towel, which he wraps 
around my shoulders.  Amusement is simmering 
behind his studiously grave expression, and I 
can't help it -- I start giggling.  His answering 
smile makes me feel like the sun just came out.

"So what are you treating us to?" he asks in that 
soft, low voice that makes my knees weak.  
Somehow he makes it sound like the sexiest 
come-on I've ever heard.

"Manicotti Florentine.  Grilled veggies.  Garlic 
bread," I answer in the same tone, placing my 
cold hands against his chest.  He wraps one big 
warm hand around them and an eyebrow goes 
up.

"No meat in yours?  You mean I'm actually 
having a positive effect on you after all this 
time?"  

"You're having an effect on me, all right," I 
tease, and my voice comes out husky and deep.  
Those gorgeous eyes darken and he pulls me 
close.  When we come up for air, I snuggle my 
face against his neck, relishing the faint smell of 
soap and clean cotton and the warmth of his big 
hard body.  I mumble into his shirt, "Harriet 
actually asked me why I was looking so cheerful 
lately."

Harm's laugh is a low rumble in his chest.  "I 
know.  I'm just waiting for the Secretary to tell 
me to wipe the goofy smile off my face."  
Harm's been at the Pentagon most of this week, 
working out of the office of the Secretary of 
Defense.

"Is it that different from your normal goofy 
expression?" 

"Very funny, Marine.  Come on, why don't you 
get a hot shower while I finish up here?"  I look 
over at the table, where he has books and papers 
stacked in orderly piles around his laptop.  

"Jeez, looks like a Con Law final," I say.  
Reluctantly I extricate myself from his arms and 
head for the bedroom, unbuttoning my uniform 
as I go.  "Join me?" I toss over my shoulder, 
with what I hope is a come-hither sultry tone.

Harm waves his hand.  "Don't tempt me.  I gotta 
finish this tonight, Mac." 

"So much for romance," I sigh theatrically and 
disappear behind the glass louvers.  I hear him 
snort and grin to myself.  In spite of our 
incredibly busy schedules, we're finding time 
for the important things.  Time to laugh and 
touch and taste, time to sleep and wake and 
make love, time to discover each other as if all 
this were new to both of us.  I guess in some 
ways, it is.  I don't know about Harm, but I have 
been walking around in a sort of daze ever since 
the weekend.

We have spent every night together, trading 
between my place and Harm's loft.   I have 
always loved it here -- the open space and the 
way the way it's so serene and quiet.  And he 
has a great shower.

I turn on the hot water as far as it will go, letting 
the hard spray hit me between the shoulders.  
My mind floats free, wishing Harm were 
washing my back . . .   and then . . .  I catch 
myself with my own goofy expression.  Beyond 
every other wonderful thing about him, who 
would have guessed Harmon Rabb is such a 
piece of work in the sack?

So few men have a clue what really pleases a 
woman.  They're so focused on their own 
performance, their own pleasure.  

But with Harm -- oh, with Harm it is something 
else entirely.  He is that rarest of all male 
creatures, a man who honestly likes women and 
enjoys giving pleasure as well as receiving.  It 
makes me cringe, now, to remember that long-
ago gossip session at McMurphys, when we 
were all pushing poor Jordan to talk about him.  
As I remember her smug smile, her arch hints, I 
discover that you don't like someone any better 
just because they're dead.

I lean against the cool grey tiles and hug my 
arms around my breasts, letting the water pour 
over me.  It blends with the sudden, unexpected 
tears on my face.  Men have wanted me, one 
way or another, since I was fourteen, but I never 
knew it could be like this.  Maybe because he 
wants  Sarah -- not for how I look but for 
who I am.  Sometimes, especially when I'm 
tired, it all seems too good to be true -- to good 
to last for long.  Impatiently I shake off the grey 
thoughts and turn beneath the hot spray.

After a long while I decide I'm thawed out 
sufficiently.  Besides, I'm starving.  I wrap 
myself in one of Harm's fluffy bath sheets and 
wander back into the bedroom, where my duffel 
bag waits, neatly packed.  As I rummage around 
in it, I wonder absently why Harm looked so 
startled the first time I came out of the shower.  
He was leaning against the headboard, the sheet 
pulled up over his lap, and when I came out 
wrapped in a towel like this, his eyes got big as 
saucers.  Something else did too, I recall with a 
private grin.

It seems like too much trouble to get dressed 
again, so I slip into a short satin nightie that 
barely covers the essentials, then cover it with a 
soft fleece robe, loosely belted.  I top off my 
ensemble with a glamorous pair of thick woolen 
socks.  This place is hard to heat.  Checking on 
my things for tomorrow, I put shoe trees in my 
damp pumps and straighten my uniform on the 
hanger, squaring it away for tomorrow.

Wandering out to the kitchen, I put the pasta and 
veggies into the oven to heat up and toss a salad.  
I don't worry about bothering Harm -- when he's 
working his concentration is total.  I think the 
stove could blow up and he wouldn't turn a hair.  

My hands reach automatically for the pots and 
pans.  I've eaten here many times over the years, 
but always as a guest.  Strange how quickly it 
has come to feel like home.  I run my fingertips 
over the shining faucets, the potted herbs on the 
windowsill, enjoying the smooth butcher block 
counter and the heavy, sharp knives.  A fleeting 
smile crosses my face as I muse indulgently on 
boys and their toys.  Harm's place is so much 
like him -- simple, not showy, but everything of 
the finest quality.  I take a very private pleasure 
in handling his possessions, discovering little 
things I never knew about this man I have 
known so long and so well.

I lean my chin on my hand and simply watch 
him, loving the way the lamp light falls on his 
hair.  Okay, no denying it, I am utterly, 
shamelessly besotted.  Harmon Rabb -- at once 
so familiar and such an intriguing puzzle.  My 
eyes trace the long jaw, the deep set eyes, the 
wide shoulders.  He is older now than when we 
first met, of course -- still incredibly good 
looking, but there are a few lines around his 
eyes now, his hairline is a little higher, and his 
face and body have filled out.  I let my gaze 
travel over him, taking in all the force and 
strength and humor of the man's face, and 
reflect that maturity sits well on him.  

I watch as he taps a few more lines into his 
laptop and frowns, referring to a document on 
top of the stack.  Beneath the charming façade 
of the devil-may-care aviator lurks a formidable 
intelligence that can focus like a laser beam.  
And nothing gets Harm so completely jazzed as 
a challenging assignment that would intimidate 
mere mortals -- unless it's a combat sortie in the 
front seat of an F-14.  I smile to myself as I 
remember how I made the mistake of 
underestimating him, the first time we worked 
together.  For the first five minutes or so.  

He scowls at the computer screen for another 
minute, then hits save with a flourish.  "That's 
got it," he announces, and begins gathering 
papers into his briefcase.  I wander around 
behind his chair and start massaging his 
shoulders as he leans back against me with a 
happy groan.  Slowly I slide my hands under his 
shirt, down over the hard, flat planes of his 
chest, and kiss the side of his neck.

"Damn, you smell good," he murmurs, and 
clasps my wrists. 

"Mmm, so do you," I nibble at his ear.  "Can we 
eat now?"

He laughs.  "God, have I been keeping you from 
your dinner?  Sorry, Mac, I lost track of time."

"What's so urgent?"  Using potholders, I lift the 
baking dishes out of the oven.  "And by the 
way, whatever happened to those red lobster 
things?"

Harm rolls his eyes.  "They succumbed to a 
regrettable accident involving the trash 
compactor."  He snaps his briefcase shut, packs 
his laptop into its travel case, and zips it closed.  
"Anyway, I had to finish my report before I 
leave."  He catches my inquiring look.  "Oh-five 
hundred flight to Gitmo."

"Nuts.  How long?"  

"Should be back on the red eye Sunday 
morning.  Gets into Andrews around 0200."

"Would you mind if I come here when I get 
back from the Academy on Saturday?"

His grin lights up his tired face.  "I was hoping.  
But take a cab from your place, okay?   I don't 
like the idea of you driving that car alone in this 
neighborhood at night, never mind parking 
here."  He puts a couple of place mats on the big 
glass table and takes the warm plates I hand 
across the island.  I gather up silverware and 
napkins and slide into my chair.  

Life in the military.  I know better than to ask 
him what he has to do in Cuba, which 
undoubtedly has to do with the prisoners from 
Afghanistan.  And I know better than to 
complain about the sudden departure.  I'm just 
glad it's only a quick trip this time.  

"Where did you get this?" Harm asks, digging 
into the manicotti.  "It looks great."  He takes a 
bite.  "It is great."

"I stopped at that natural foods supermarket in 
Alexandria," I tell him.  "Gee, I had no idea you 
could buy incense and get a massage right there 
in the store.  I may have to go back, even if they 
don't sell meat."

"Just don't tell me you've signed up for 
acupuncture or holistic healing," he kids me.  "I 
don't know, Mac.  I'm not sure it's legal for 
Marines to shop there.  All that mellow karma 
might interfere with your fighting edge."

"My fighting edge is just fine, thank you.  You 
should have seen the bill."

I catch a glint of mischief in his eyes.  "One of 
these days when I have time to cook again, I'll 
make it up to you, I promise.  Meanwhile, thank 
you."  He reaches out and puts his hand over 
mine for a minute.  

I squeeze his fingers and rise, lifting our empty 
plates and stacking them in the sink.  "I got 
fresh pineapple for dessert.  Want some?"

"Thanks, I'll have it for breakfast.  How about 
some coffee?"

"No coffee for you, mister.  You have to get up 
at 0300 again."  I stand beside his chair and 
smooth his hair.  "You're not getting enough 
sleep, Harm.  You look tired."

He grabs my hand and kisses it.  "Plenty of 
sleep in the grave, baby.  C'mere."  And with 
that he pulls me into his lap and his arms go 
around me.  "Were you wearing this the whole 
time?" his tone is aggrieved as he pulls my robe 
open to expose my abbreviated garment.  
"Damn, I'm slipping.  I must be tired."

"What you need, sailor, is a nice back rub."

"What I need is" -- His hand slides up my thigh 
and beneath the satin, curving over my waist 
and coming to rest beneath my breast.  
"Colonel, I am shocked.  Shocked."  His eyes 
are dancing.  "No panties?"

"Only for you, flyboy."  

His thumb rubs lightly over my nipple, and I 
catch my breath.  His hand is warm on my body 
as he caresses me, and his eyes are brilliant as 
he watches my face.  I can feel myself flushing.

"What's this scar?"  His voice is barely a 
whisper as he slips his hand from beneath my 
clothes and traces the fine line at the base of my 
throat.  

For some reason I hesitate.  Harm knows about 
my family, my father -- but as often as I tell 
myself I have put all that to rest, it is still an 
ugly part of me.  I'm not sure I want to bring it 
back into the light of day.  But whatever peace I 
have found with the past is thanks to this man, 
who is holding me and looking at me with a 
trace of concern.

"Sarah, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," 
he says now.

"No, it's okay.  I forget it's there most of the 
time, that's all."  I slip my hand into his.  "When 
I was about five, I started having trouble 
sleeping.  I'd wake up in the middle of the night 
and I'd be so scared, I'd go down the hall and get 
into bed with my mother.  I still remember how 
safe that made me feel.  And it must have been 
bad, because I had to go past the archway into 
the dining room of our apartment, and it was so 
dark in there I was sure there were monsters.  
But I did it, night after night.  She didn't say 
anything, but she always made sure to carry me 
back to my own room before morning.

"Then one time, she fell asleep and forgot.  I 
guess I wiggled around or something, and woke 
up my father.  He was so angry, he" -- my hand 
tightens convulsively around Harm's.  "He 
threw me across the room.  I hit the corner of 
the dresser, and it broke my collarbone, right at 
the base of my throat.  I don't really remember 
much about it -- just my mother screaming, and 
the ambulance coming.  They had to operate, 
apparently it chipped the bone and they were 
afraid it would cut one of the blood vessels in 
my neck.  Anyway, I was fine."

"Fine."  His eyes are boring into mine.  And 
then he pulls me close and holds me, his hand 
stroking my hair.  "God, Sarah, I'm so sorry.  
Sweetheart, I never meant to make you 
remember all that."

"It's okay, Harm.  It's a long time ago.  And he 
didn't touch me again until after my mother 
left."

He lets his breath out in a long sigh, and I can 
hear the anger in it.  "Harm," I tell him now, 
"Let it go.  I have.  Thanks to you."

His eyes are troubled, but he nods.  "Yeah, I 
think you have," he says.  Slowly his hand 
strokes my face.  "But you still have trouble 
sleeping."   

"Sometimes.  But I sleep fine with you," I smile 
at him.

"Yeah, you do.  So, you still offering that back 
rub?"

"As soon as I clean up the kitchen."  

"Here, I'll help."

"Thanks, but there's nothing to it.  Go pack."  
He returns my smile and gives me a quick kiss.

I slide off his lap and start loading the 
dishwasher.  Harm heads for the bedroom, and I 
run the hot water in the sink.  

Shit, shit, shit, I think.  Nothing like hitting him 
with more of your sob stories.  God, he must be 
sick of hearing all that crap.  But as I snap the 
lid on the Tupperware, I think, no.  It's part of 
who I am.  He asked, and he deserved an 
answer.  Thank God, he didn't sympathize.  It's 
just part of trusting each other.  It's okay.

With a lighter heart, I toss the dish towel on the 
rack, flip off the lights, and follow him.  

Harm's sea bag is standing ready at the top of 
the stairs.  He has stripped to his boxers and is 
sitting propped up against the headboard with 
his guitar, noodling softly on the steel strings.  
All the lights are off in the apartment except the 
small lamp on his bedside table, and he gives 
me a quick smile as I stretch out across my side 
of the bed, my head propped on my hand.

For a long time he just plays, picking out bits of 
melody and odd riffs, looking thoughtful.  Harm 
has played for me before, of course, but like 
everything else since we became lovers, it is 
special now.  I watch his long, strong fingers 
moving over the frets and let my eyes run over 
his powerful throat and the dark line of his 
eyelashes against his cheekbone as he 
concentrates.  There is a living connection 
between Harm and the music, and I let myself 
flow with it, let it draw me in.  

After a while he starts singing, very quietly, as 
if to himself.  As I listen to his clear, true 
baritone I feel an ache fill my throat, knowing 
that this is one of the sweet times, a memory I 
will always carry in my heart.  His eyes flick up 
suddenly, clear green in the lamp light, and the 
shock makes the blood pound in my throat.

His hands come to rest on the guitar strings.  "I 
love you, Sarah," he says quietly.

I can't find my voice.  It is so hard for Harm to 
speak of his feelings.  I never expected this, not 
in so many words, not yet.

He reaches out and traces my cheekbone with 
his fingertips, a line of fire beneath his touch.  
His voice was barely a whisper, but I have no 
doubt.  I take his fingers in mine.

"I love you, too.  For so long, I can't remember 
when I didn't.  Even when I was trying to 
persuade myself otherwise."

He nods in agreement, then looks at me very 
directly.  "You need to know -- it's never been 
like this for me before."  He hesitates.  "Can you 
believe that, Sarah?  I'm not very good at this."

"I believe you."  We look at each other, and I 
can see my wistful smile mirrored in his eyes.  
Harm sets his guitar onto its stand and holds out 
his arms, and I slide into them, holding on for 
all I'm worth.  I need to feel him around me, and 
the amazing thing is, I know he needs me just as 
much.  Harmon Rabb.  A living, breathing 
miracle.

He lets his breath out in a lingering sigh.  
"We've been friends so long.  Did you ever 
think we'd get here?  Like this?"

"Never stopped hoping, I guess.  The funny 
thing is, it feels so right.  Even though we spent 
so long trying to keep out of each other's way."

"I kept telling myself I didn't want you to get 
hurt," he says.  "I think I'd give anything to keep 
that from happening."  He holds me quietly, and 
I rest my head over his heart.  After a long 
while, I stir a little.  Soft as a sigh, he murmurs, 
"Don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere, Harm," I whisper, 
somehow knowing what he really means.  
"That's a promise."  I sit up and brush his hair 
back.  "Now, how about that back rub?"

"Will you keep that little satin thing on?" He 
shoots me a mischievous look and rolls over on 
top of the sheets, face down.  My heart is 
floating somewhere up around the ceiling, and 
something warm and sweet thickens my throat 
as I laugh and dig the baby oil out of my duffel, 
setting it on the night stand.  "Yes, sir," I tell 
him, and drop my robe.

Carefully I climb onto the mattress, one knee on 
either side of him, and sit on his ass.  He 
wiggles a little with a contented sigh, adjusting, 
and then relaxes with his face buried in a pillow.  
I squirt a little oil into my hand and rub my 
palms together, warming it, before I reach 
forward and begin kneading out the kinks in his 
powerful shoulders.  

God, he has such fine skin.  Warm and smooth 
and taut over the wide flat muscles of his back.  
I work my way down his spine, circling each 
vertebra with my fingertips, enjoying the way it 
makes him groan.  

I shift back to sit on his thighs and slide my 
hands over his kidneys, his lower back, his 
waist.  My fingers slide beneath his shorts and I 
ease them down a little as I press slow circles 
with my thumbs at the base of his spine, and 
then I stop.

My fingers felt something strange, a thin, hard 
line running down over his hip.  I lean forward 
to look, but it's hard to see in the dim light.  
"Harm?" I whisper.  I think he's asleep.  "What's 
this?"

He gives a little snore and turns his face to the 
side.  "What's what?"

"This scar.  My god, I never saw this.  When did 
you get it?"

He is still for a moment, and suddenly I know.  
"Oh Harm, I'm sorry.  I didn't think" –

"It's okay.  That's where they had to put a 
temporary pin in my hip, after my ramp strike."

"You couldn't walk?"  Somehow that seems like 
the worst thing, maybe because I didn't know.  
It's so alien to the vitality that I always associate 
with Harm.

"I was in traction.  I wasn't paralyzed or 
anything.  It just took some rehab, and I was 
fine."  Or as fine as he could be, with his RIO 
dead and his career taken away.  The respect I 
have always had for the way he was able to get 
his life back together after all that just went up 
another notch.  

I start rubbing slow circles over his waist again, 
easing the tension from the small of his back.  
"Everybody has scars, I guess," I say.  

"It's just a question of what you do about them," 
he agrees, his voice sleepy and content.  After 
awhile he rolls over and I sit on him, leaning 
forward as he runs his hands over my gown.  In 
the dim light, I watch his face as he caresses my 
breasts, cupping his palms over them, skimming 
his hold to my waist to pull me down for a slow, 
soft kiss.  

I can tell he's getting sleepy.  I click off the 
lamp and slip lightly down to lie against him, 
one leg thrown over his hip, my head on his 
shoulder.  Slowly I stroke his chest, and after a 
few minutes I hear his breathing slow and even 
out.

My own eyes are getting heavy.  On the verge 
of sleep, I hear him murmur, "Sleep tight, 
sweetheart."  

* * *

I awake to the sound of the shower running.  
Pulling on my robe, I drag myself out of our 
warm bed to make coffee.

When I return to the bedroom with two 
steaming mugs, I glimpse Harm through the 
wall of glass blocks.  So I amble around the 
corner to find him standing at the sink in boxers, 
shaving.

"Hey, thanks," he mumbles around the lather 
and slips his arm around my waist for a minute.  
"You didn't have to get up."

"Sure I did.  I wanted a real goodbye kiss, not a 
peck when I'm half asleep."  I run the flat of my 
hand slowly up the smooth skin of his back.

He rinses his razor beneath the tap and goes to 
work on his neck.  "Just have the motor running 
when I get home, baby.  Sorry I was so tired last 
night."

"It's not a contest, you know.  We get a night off 
now and then."  I lean on the edge of the 
counter, watching him.  In my experience, men 
are not sexy when they shave.  How does he do 
it?

Harm is moving fast, and I stay out of the way, 
sipping coffee and watching as he pulls on his 
dress blues and knots his tie.  When he picks up 
his sea bag, I follow him to the door.  His 
briefcase and computer are there, lined up, 
ready to go.  He opens the door, letting in the 
weak yellow light from the hall.  Harm rings for 
the elevator, puts down his cover and his bags 
and takes me in his arms.  

As goodbye kisses go, it's pretty spectacular.  
We pull back, and then for some reason I pull 
him close for one last, fierce hug.  "I love you," 
I whisper.  It seems important to say it first, not 
just because he said it to me but because I mean 
it.

He doesn't let me go.  His hands come up to 
cradle my face, and there is possession in his 
touch.  Those incredible green eyes look into 
mine intently.  Then, "I love you, Sarah," he 
whispers, and kisses me lightly once more.  

I stand there as he dons his cover, grabs his 
bags, pulls the elevator doors closed with a 
quick smile, and is gone.

* * *

0830 Zulu (3:30 a.m. EST)
Sunday

I unlock the door, trying hard to be quiet.  If 
Mac is asleep, and I hope she is, I don't want to 
wake her.  I'm so tired my eyelids feel like 
sandpaper, and all I can think about is climbing 
into bed with a beautiful Marine and curling up 
around her sleeping warmth.

It's dark inside and I don't flip on the light.  But 
as I put my bags down inside the door, the light 
from the hall shines across the room and catches 
something white on the island.  An envelope.

It's very quiet and still in the apartment -- 
empty.  Instinctively I know there's no one 
there.  A cold little knot forms in my chest.  

I turn on the desk lamp and go to the island, 
where the big white envelope is leaning against 
the coffee grinder.  I don't want to pick it up, but 
I do.  After a brief hesitation, I rip it open.

"Dearest Harm,

"The Marines have pulled me out of JAG and 
reassigned me to the 121st MEU.  I have six 
hours to dispose of my caseload and be on a 
transport from Andrews.  Whatever it is, it's so 
classified they won't tell me anything else until I 
get there.  I couldn't email you, or call.

"I can't believe this is happening now.  But it's 
what we signed up for.  I'll do the job, whatever 
it is, and then I'll be home.  I'll call as soon as I 
can.  

"As usual, there is so much I want to say to you, 
and I can't find the words.  Except to tell you 
that I love you, with my whole heart.  --Sarah."

* * *

The sky outside the windows is turning grey 
with dawn before I realize I'm sitting on the 
sofa, her letter crushed in my hand.  Slowly I 
open my fingers and spread the paper on the 
table, carefully smoothing out the creases as 
best I can.