Navy Woman

The wedding was lovely. Her mother made a radiant bride, Catherine mused during the plane trip on



the way back to Seattle. Norman had never looked more distinguished or handsome. The two, backed with long years of steady friendship, were the ideal couple. Catherine had heard several people say as much as she wandered through the reception, making sure everyone had what they needed. Norman had insisted the affair be catered, but Catherine had made busy work in an effort to keep herself absorbed. If she'd sat back and relaxed, there might have been time to think about the young, handsome man in the photograph that rested on her fireplace mantel. The father she'd never known.



It was ironic that Catherine would be better acquainted with her new stepfather than the man who'd given her life.



When it came time for her mother and Norman to exchange their vows, Catherine had felt a sudden rush of emotion crowd her eyes. A tear or two did manage to slip down her cheek as she stood beside her mother, clenching a floral bouquet. If anyone noticed, and Catherine prayed they didn't, she sincerely hoped they assumed it was a tear of shared happiness.



Catherine was happy for her mother and Norman.



Even more so now that she'd experienced these few days with them. It was almost comical watching the two. They were like young lovers, so involved with each other the rest of the world didn't seem to exist.



In many ways Catherine was envious. Her love for Royce was so much more complicated.



As the Boeing 737 cut a wide path through the thick layer of clouds, Catherine couldn't help wondering what kind of reception Royce would have for her upon her return. Would he be pleased she was back? Would his eyes search hers out so she'd know how much he'd missed her? Would he find an excuse to be alone with her? Or would the brick facade he so often carried be tightly locked in place? So secure he'd look right through her and reveal little of what he was thinking and none of what he was feeling.



Catherine was exhausted when the plane landed at Sea-Tac. When she walked off the jetway into the airport terminal, she found her gaze scanning the crowds, hoping that Royce would be there waiting for her.



He wasn't.



It was ridiculous to expect him. As far as she knew, he wasn't even aware of her flight schedule. Then why, she asked herself, did she experience this heavy letdown?



"You're an idiot," she whispered as she walked down the concourse to the baggage claim area.



Again she reminded herself what a fool she was when she unlocked her apartment door over an hour later, after she'd picked Sambo up from the neighbor's. To her disappointment, there wasn't anything on her answering machine from Royce, either. Kelly had left two messages. The first call was to tell Catherine that her story about the Princess and the Dragon had been chosen by her teachers for the Young Authors Program. Kelly was so excited and had been talking so fast it was difficult to understand her. The second message had been made that afternoon, Catherine decided, and the purpose was to tell her Kelly missed her and wished she'd hurry back soon.



Catherine toyed with the idea of phoning the ten-year-old, then noted the time and realized Royce's daughter was probably already asleep for the night. It was unlikely that he'd appreciate the intrusion.



Nevertheless, she couldn't give up the idea. Five minutes later, against her better judgment, she found herself reaching for the phone.



It was Royce who answered. His voice was as rich and masculine as ever, and just hearing it sent goose bumps up her spine.



"It's Catherine," she said, managing to keep any emotion out of her voice, "I'm calling for Kelly."



He hesitated, as though she'd caught him off guard. "She went to bed about half an hour ago."



The tension crackled over the telephone wire like static electricity. "Will you tell her I phoned?"



"Of course."



Catherine closed her eyes against the lack of sentiment in his voice. It was as if he were speaking to a casual acquaintance and not the woman he'd once claimed he loved. Once, only once, and then it had come as part of a jealous rage.



"I...I won't keep you then," she announced stiffly.



"You aren't keeping me from anything more than television." His control had slipped just a little, as if he were reluctant to disconnect the line. For that, at least, Catherine could be grateful.



"How was the wedding?" he asked, as though looking for ways to make polite conversation.



"Beautiful," she told him, meaning it.



"How were you?"



He didn't need to explain the question. He was asking how she'd dealt with the emotions she'd had so much trouble accepting when she'd first learned her mother intended to marry Norman.



Involuntarily, Catherine's gaze drifted to her fireplace mantel. "Fine," she whispered. She'd dealt with it splendidly, far better than she'd expected. "Mom made a beautiful bride." Once more there was a noticeable silence. He'd done his part, now it was her turn. "How did everything go at the office?"



"There weren't any problems."



"Good," she whispered. "I'll be back in the morning."



"So I understand."



Say something, Catherine pleaded silently. Let me know what you're feeling. Tell me you missed me as dreadfully as I missed you. Tell me you regret that we parted without settling our differences.



Nothing. The line went so quiet that for a moment all Catherine could hear was the sound of her own breathing.



"I'll see you in the morning," she said, when it became apparent Royce had no intention of continuing the stilted conversation.



"Right...in the morning." How clipped he sounded, how eager to be rid of her, but all changed abruptly when he said, "Good night, Catherine."



There was such hunger in those few words, such longing. "Good night," she responded softly.



She pressed the receiver more closely to her ear when she heard him call her name.



"Yes," she said, trying hard to disguise the eagerness in her voice. She sounded like a silly schoolgirl and couldn't have cared less.



"About Mark Masterson."



"Yes?" Her eyes drifted closed, ready to savor his words of apology, ready to apologize herself, anything that would dislodge this ten-foot wall between them. This wall of pride and pain.



"He phoned for you while you were away." Royce's voice hardened until each word fell like a chip of concrete against a hammer.



"Lieutenant Commander Masterson?" Catherine had trouble believing it. She'd done everything possible to discourage the Venture's officer. Catherine couldn't understand why Mark, who had recently gone through a divorce, would turn to her.



"He left a number where you can get in touch with him."



"I have no intention of contacting him," she confirmed, in case Royce suspected she was even remotely interested in the other man.



"What you do or don't do is none of my concern." The hard note in his voice progressed to a savage undertone. "You're free to do as you wish."



"Do you honestly want me to date him?" she challenged, losing patience with Royce.



"What I want isn't a concern here. Masterson left a message for you. Why he chose to contact me to give it to you is anyone's guess. Apparently he's going to be in Bangor sometime soon. Heaven only knows how he arranged that, but he did, and he told me to let you know he'll be looking for you."



"What's that supposed to mean?" Catherine demanded.



"You can put your own connotation on it because I assure you I don't have a clue."



"I'll bet you don't," Catherine muttered.



"I beg your pardon."



"You heard me, Royce Nyland." The tension between them was stretched beyond the breaking point.



"Listen, Catherine, if you're waiting for me to tell you you're free to date Masterson, then you've got it. Feel free. There's nothing between us."



Catherine was so hurt and angry, she started to shake. "Is that a fact? Well, I must admit I find that interesting. One minute you're demanding I marry you, and in the next you're practically ordering me to date another man." She was so upset, she could feel her anger overwhelming her good sense. Sucking in a giant breath, she forced herself to stop before she said something she'd regret. "The dirt road off Byron Way," she said, as calmly as she could manage. "Meet me there in half an hour."



She didn't wait for him to confirm or deny his being there, but replaced the receiver.



She was walking toward the door when the phone started to ring. Ignoring it, she reached for her coat and purse and walked out of her apartment.



Forty minutes later, Catherine was standing outside her car, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket, searching the night for Royce's headlights. She'd just about given up hope when she saw his car come barreling down the road. At least she assumed it was Royce.



He turned off the engine and leaped out of the car and stood there. For all his rush, he didn't seem to have a thing to say.



For that matter, Catherine didn't, either. They stood staring at each other, the moonlight cascading over them like a golden waterfall, splashing light on either side of them.



He looked dreadful, as though he hadn't slept in days. His face was stern and harsh, as austere as she'd ever seen it. Her gaze slid to his. It seemed for a moment that he wanted to avoid looking at her, but apparently something compelled him to meet her gaze, but he did so reluctantly. Catherine gasped softly at the way his deep, cobalt-blue eyes plunged into hers as though he would have drowned just looking at her.



"Oh, Royce," she whispered, stepping toward him, stretching out her arms. Her heart was so full of love she would cry if he didn't hold her soon.



He met her halfway, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her off the ground. With a growl, his mouth met hers in a frenzy of need and desire. They were so starved for each other that an eternity passed before either of them stopped to breathe.



Royce buried his face in the curve of her neck. "I'm sorry, so sorry," he chanted. "I've never been so insanely jealous in my life. I don't know how to deal with it. I've behaved like a fool."



Catherine's hands framed his face. "Just be quiet and kiss me," she ordered ruggedly against his lips. She slipped her tongue forward to meet his, not giving him the opportunity to argue if that had ever been his intention.



If Royce was holding back anything in reserve, he gave it to her then. With a deep-throated moan, he tightened his arms around her, flattening her breasts to his chest. Catherine could feel every part of him, every fiber of his military issue coat, every button, every crease. The kiss was the most primitive they'd shared. The most punishing. Catherine opened to him, and his tongue met hers.



She coiled her arms around his neck and slid down his front. Apparently she became too heavy for him because he lowered her feet to the frozen ground. His hand ran down the length of her spine and then intimately over the curve of her hip. He continued to slide his hands up and down her sides as though he couldn't get enough of her, as though he couldn't believe even now that she was his.



Catherine felt as though the whole world was spinning. It didn't matter. Nothing did as long as she was in his arms.



In the middle of the sweetest, hottest, most intimate kiss of her life, Royce reluctantly tore his mouth away from her. She was gratified to note that his breathing was as labored as her own.