“No, and I don’t think you want to.” Max let herself imagine a life with Rachel in it. The possibility was almost as terrifying as the idea of endless days without her. “You know where I live. There’s no one in my life. There won’t be.”

Rachel studied her, a small frown line appearing between her brows. “Is that what you think? That I want to stop in from time to time, between trips?”

“I don’t think anything. I think I want to see you again.”

“Our relationship won’t be completely private,” Rachel warned.

“Because the Benedicts of the world are always looking for a story?”

“Worse, I’m afraid. Tommy is a serious journalist who was willing to put his life in danger to tell the truth. I respect him for that.”

“Yes, so do I.”

“There are reporters, a lot of them, who would rather sell copy that’s a little more popular, and celebrity sells.”

“Listen,” Max said, “there’s nothing reporters can do or say that would mean anything to me after the places I’ve been and the things I’ve seen. The things I’ve done.”

“You’re sure?”

“Totally.”

Rachel smiled. “Then how do you feel about a trip to DC? My father mentioned he wants to meet you, and I’d like the rest of my family to meet you too.”

Max stared. “Is that because of Somalia? Or something else?”

Rachel’s smile faded. “Everyone loves good press—including the State Department. I can’t promise there won’t be a reporter or two around.”

Max swung out of bed and crossed to the kitchen to give herself time to regroup. Everything was coming at her so fast. Rachel couldn’t know what she was getting into. “I’m not relationship material, Rachel—not the meet-the-family kind.”

“Oh?” Rachel said from close behind her. “What kind of relationship material are you, then? Just good for sex now and then?”

“I’m not…I’m not what you’re looking for.”

“You were perfectly willing to keep seeing me a few minutes ago.”

“I thought—”

“You thought we’d just bump into each other now and then and fuck?” Rachel’s voice was calm. “I understand.”

Max spun around. Rachel was searching on the floor for her clothes. “Where are you going?”

“You must have things to do.”

“Damn it.” Max had fucked up.

Chapter Thirty

Rachel picked up her suitcase from where Max had left it just inside the door and let herself out, being careful not to slam the door. She wasn’t angry, at least not at Max. None of this was Max’s fault. She’d shown up with no warning, had made assumptions, or maybe just wishes, that Max felt what she felt. Max had every right to want nothing more than an as-long-as-we’re-having-fun relationship. She’d had more than a few of those herself.

But not this time. She knew how she felt about Max, and for the first time in her life, she knew what she wanted with a woman, what she wanted for herself beyond her job and obligations. She couldn’t have the kind of affair with Max she’d had with every other woman she’d been with. She couldn’t pretend that being with Max didn’t touch her on every level, that she didn’t want Max in every part of her life. In every part of her. If Max didn’t feel the same, at least she was honest enough to say so.

The pain would come later, she knew, but for now, she needed distance. She couldn’t be in the same room with Max and not want her. And if she stayed too long, she might let herself believe she could do with less. She pulled her suitcase to the curb and stepped out into the street, searching for a cab.

A window creaked up behind her.

“Rachel, we should talk,” Max called down.

Rachel turned and shielded her eyes as she looked up. Max leaned out the window, her hands curled around the stone sill. She’d pulled on a T-shirt and it stretched across her chest the way Rachel remembered her camo shirt doing when Max had taken off her jacket in the jungle to dig in the dry, hard earth. She couldn’t look at her without remembering so many moments, every one of them leading her here. “It’s all right, Max.”

“No, it isn’t.” Even from three stories up, Max’s eyes burned fiercely. “I don’t want this.”

“What do you want, Max?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never let myself think about it.” Max leaned out farther, looking as if she might jump down. “I never imagined you.”

“You need to think about it now,” Rachel said. “I’m not going to settle. I can’t, not where you’re concerned.”

Max’s smile was crooked. “You shouldn’t settle for anything with anyone.”

“So. I’ll be waiting.” Rachel had to turn away. Max was so beautiful it hurt to look at her.

A cab slid to the curb and Rachel picked up her suitcase. She slid into the back and gave him the address. He pulled away, and she closed her eyes. Walking away from what she wanted with every breath was worse than a nightmare. She’d feared losing Max so many times as they’d fought enemies who attacked with guns and power, but she’d never imagined letting her go.

Chapter Thirty-one

With the same care that she usually reserved for inspecting her equipment before a mission, Max fastened the last stud on her pleated white shirt and checked to see that her black tie was straight. Details mattered, and tonight more than ever.

She’d thought at first there’d been a mistake. The invitation—really, more like an order couched in fancy language embossed on pretty stationery—had arrived just hours before the phone call from the CO of her naval reserve unit. She was to appear at a State Department function to meet with members of the press, DOS officials, and other dignitaries to honor her service in the remarkable rescue of Rachel Winslow Harriman and other members of the Red Cross team.

“Did you get the message?” Captain Yoon said when he called.

“Am I to take this as official?” Max wasn’t ready to see Rachel yet. She knew what Rachel wanted—what Rachel deserved, and couldn’t imagine herself being enough. She’d never been enough for anyone she’d wanted to care about her. She’d only been enough in the ER or in the field of fire, and even then she’d failed so many. Rachel’s world was so much larger than hers. And Rachel was so much braver.

“You’re to take it as a request from command.” Yoon’s tone told her the Navy couldn’t order her to attend unless she was an official representative of the corps. Then whatever she said would be the Navy’s responsibility. But they were making it clear she was to go unofficially—and if she found herself in a tight place, the Navy could and probably would cut her loose. Just like they’d done with Carmody.

“I got it,” Max said.

“So what the hell’s going on?” Yoon’s curiosity rang down the line.

She couldn’t very well tell him what she didn’t know herself. The invitation might be exactly what it appeared to be—the press wanting more of a story and the State Department wanting to capitalize on a situation that made them look good for a change. Maybe Carmody and his ilk had nothing to do with it. Maybe no one was watching her. Or Rachel. Questions she couldn’t answer and even if she could, it wouldn’t matter. She owed it to Rachel to appear.

“I’ll be there. What about Grif and the others?”

“Griffin just arrived at Bethesda for rehab. The others are all still deployed. You’re the poster girl for this op.”

“Great.”

Yoon laughed. “Good luck. And remember, the Navy never questions our mission, and we never make mistakes.”

“Ooh-rah,” she murmured and disconnected.

Now, three days later, she stood in front of the mirror in a hotel in Foggy Bottom a few blocks from the Harry S. Truman Building where the function was to kick off with a reception at 1900 hours. She wasn’t nervous about talking to the press or rubbing shoulders with statesmen and other political types. They meant nothing to her. But Rachel would be there. And when she thought of her, her hands shook.

She’d passed the Red Cross building in the cab on the way to the hotel and wondered if Rachel had settled back into her life by now. Returned to work, reconnected with friends and family and…other relationships. Max had resumed her life as much as she ever could, working twenty-four on and thirty-six off. But she hadn’t quite been able to return to the insular world she’d inhabited before Rachel. Work still consumed her in the moment, but as soon as a crisis was past, other thoughts crept in. Memories, fragments of conversations, glimpses of Rachel. The ache in her chest never went away. She’d been on the verge of tracking down Rachel’s phone number a dozen times, but nothing she wanted to say to her could have been said over the phone even if she had known what to say. And now she’d be seeing her for the first time since she’d watched her drive away in a cab almost two weeks before.

She snapped the cuffs of the dress blue jacket, took the elevator down to the street, and walked to the Harry S. Truman Building. She told the guard at the door why she was there; he ID’d her and directed her through security to the elevators. She stepped off onto a massive, brightly lit two-story lobby with stone colonnades, marble floors, and rows of crystal chandeliers. A wall of sound slapped at her, reverberating like the hum of a dozen birds with rotors churning getting ready to lift off. The noise—distinguishable as voices now—grew louder the farther she walked until she found herself in the midst of a crowd of men and women in black tie, evening dresses, and uniforms from every branch of the armed forces. A bar was set up along one side with rows of white-linen-covered tables and a dozen bartenders in white jackets, white shirts, and black bow ties pouring drinks. She made her way over and asked for a soda water. Wineglass in hand, she turned and surveyed the room, ice cubes clinking as she sipped. She didn’t know anyone and hadn’t expected to. She hadn’t taken a second sip before a brunette who didn’t look more than twenty, in a deep burgundy dress and low functional heels, pushed through the crowd and gave her a bright smile. “Commander de Milles?”

“That’s right,” Max said.

“I’m Shelley Carpenter, one of Secretary Harriman’s interns. If you’d come with me, please.”

“Sure.”

She followed the young woman through the crowd to an archway where a small group of men and women stood conversing, drinks in hand. The intern rushed over—double time seeming to be her normal speed—and spoke to a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man who turned in Max’s direction and gave her a steady look of appraisal. She looked back. Rachel had his strong features, but her eyes were warm where his were cool, even at a distance.

Max stepped forward and squared her shoulders.

Rachel’s father held out his hand. “Commander, Christopher Harriman.”

“Sir,” she said as she returned his firm grip, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I want to thank you for taking care of my daughter out there. And the others, of course.”

“No thanks are needed, sir.”

“I won’t argue the point, but the thanks stand.” He smiled wryly, and his gaze swept the gathering. “Now for the other matters. The Post wants to do a series of articles on the impact of the ongoing unrest in Somalia and elsewhere on civilians caught up in all of this, and this story is right up their alley.”

“I’m sure Ms. Winslow and her team can shed much more light on that than I.”

“The press are always looking for a story to grab the public’s attention, and this one has all the right angles—humanitarian workers at risk, the daughter of a cabinet member under attack, a daring rescue by America’s finest. We need the public to know the military’s mission is to secure civilian liberties and aid in rebuilding these nations.”

“I was just one—”

“Tom Benedict made you the face of the Navy in all of this. I’m afraid you’ll have to play the part.”

“I understand.” Max did. This was payback time for getting Carmody off her back. “Of course I’ll be happy to do whatever is necessary.”

“I’m sure you will. I’ve read the statements you gave Tom Benedict. Well done, considering.”

“Sir?”

He regarded her a moment longer in silence.

Max waited. She had no agenda, and if he did, he’d have to spell it out. She had plenty of practice waiting.

“I’m afraid events unfolded rather too rapidly for us to contain, and you suffered some of the fallout. Despite some regrettable avenues of investigation, you demonstrated remarkable restraint with the press.”

“I was just doing my job, sir.”

“Yes. Well, we all have a job to do.” Harriman set his rocks glass on the silver tray of a passing waiter. “My daughter speaks very highly of you.”

Max held his gaze. “Your daughter is quite exceptional.”