“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.”

“Yes. And very single-minded.”

“That’s part of what makes her exceptional.” Max smiled.

“We’re in agreement on that.” He gestured to Shelley Carpenter, who rushed to his side. He murmured something, and she hurried away again. “You won’t be bothered with inappropriate questions in the future. And I’m sure you’ll handle the press with your usual skill.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Secretary.”

“Ms. Carpenter will provide you with the details. Good night, Commander.”

Harriman turned back to his companions just as Shelley appeared with another drink and handed it to him. That duty done, she turned to Max with her eager smile.

“If you’ll allow me, I’ll escort you around, Commander.”

“That would be fine. Thank you, Ms. Carpenter.”

She blushed and Max wondered how often anyone thanked her.

She followed Shelley dutifully in a circuit through the crowd, nodding at introductions, offering the standard line every time someone told her how remarkable the rescue in Somalia had been. They’d almost reached the bar again when Rachel materialized out of the crowd. One instant she wasn’t there, the next she was. Max stopped walking. She needed all her energy just to keep her legs under her.

Rachel wore an emerald-green dress that hugged her torso and flared at the hips in soft flowing folds. Her hair fell about her shoulders, glowing red-gold in the light from the chandeliers that seemed focused on only her. She was thinner than when Max had last seen her, and her smile appeared strained. A blonde stood by her side, laughing as she sipped from a champagne flute. Her ivory gown accentuated a willowy figure, and her sculpted nails, painted a darker shade of red than her lipstick, gleamed where one hand rested on Rachel’s forearm.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Max said to Shelley without looking away from Rachel.

“What? Do you need somethi—”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Max didn’t wait for a response, cutting through the crowd as individual faces blurred and faded. Rachel was all she could see. Well before she reached her, Rachel saw her coming and her mouth curved into a soft smile that was hard to interpret. Welcome? Polite greeting? When Max was a few feet away, the blonde seemed to notice Rachel wasn’t paying her any attention and looked around. Her playful expression hardened when she saw Max drawing near.

Max’s heart hammered as she took Rachel’s hand, leaned close, and kissed her on the cheek. “Hello, Ms. Winslow.”

“Commander.” Rachel’s hand was warm in hers, her fingers fitting perfectly into hers. “You look”—her gaze drifted down and then back to Max’s face—“good.”

“And you look beautiful as always.”

The blonde made a soft coughing sound and inched closer to Rachel. “Do introduce us, Rachel darling.”