The Captain's Baby Bargain

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Yet she’d flash on the memory of those few hours in Gabe’s arms at the craziest moments. In the middle of a boring staff meeting. Or in her office, while staring sightlessly at some report. More than once she got all mopey, even teary-eyed.

She had to remind herself that she’d lived through separations and a final bust-up before. She’d live through this one, too.

* * *

An unexpected visit from Dingo in early June raised her spirits. He was passing through Phoenix on his way to Tuscon. Some kind of business meeting, she gathered, although Dingo tended to be as vague about his life after the military as he’d been while wearing a uniform. They agreed to meet at one of her favorite Mexican restaurants just a few miles from Luke’s main gate.

A call from the Staff Judge Advocate working the spill claims delayed Swish, so she got to the restaurant fifteen minutes late. She waved off the hostess with the explanation that she was meeting someone, took a half-dozen steps into the popular eatery and stopped dead.

Good grief! Was that Dingo in a charcoal-gray worsted suit and red power tie? The military cop whose lethal security forces had protected Swish and her team five or six years back, when they’d been ferried into a highly classified location to lay down a runway for the air assault to follow? He’d been Captain Andrews, then. Captain Blake Andrews. His face smeared with camo paint, his weapon at the ready, he’d looked as tough and scary as they came.

He still looked tough. And, yes, a little scary, but so damned handsome. Swish could certainly understand why Chelsea Howard had latched onto him. She was no slouch herself in the looks department. The two of them, Swish mused, made a striking couple.

Returning his wave, she wove her way through the tables. Her sand-colored BDUs caught more than a few glances. They also generated a good number of smiling nods. Americans in general—and the folks in the various communities surrounding Luke AFB, in particular—took pride in their military, which only added to the pride Swish herself took in the uniform she wore. And that led to the question she posed to Dingo when he commented on the ripple her appearance had stirred.

“Do you miss it?” she asked curiously.

“The uniform? Or knowing you’re a small part of something big and really important?”

“Either. Both.”

“Sometimes. But there are other ways to serve the public.”

He didn’t mention Gabe. Or the fact that his buddy was now mayor of Small Town, America. He didn’t have to. But she was half relieved, half disappointed when he aimed the conversation toward another mutual acquaintance.

“I stopped by to see Cowboy and Alex last week.”

Swish accepted the menu the waiter handed her and waved off anything but water. As much as she would’ve loved an icy margarita, she didn’t drink while on duty. “I haven’t talked to either of them since the Bash. How’re they doing?”

“Good. Alex’s stomach is in the overripe watermelon range now.” He paused, gave her an assessing stare. “Cowboy said he’d talked to Gabe.”

And there it was.

“Supposedly,” Dingo said, “Gabe’s deep-sixed his half-formed plan to get married again.”

Her reaction was instant and visceral. A brief flicker of sadness for her ex. A surge of guilty relief. And stupid, irrational, completely selfish joy. She wallowed its incandescent glow for several moments before guilt pushed front and center again.

“Did Cowboy say why he called it off?”

“No.”

Dingo knew, though. Or guessed. She saw the speculation in the look he leveled at her. To deflect it, she waited until the server took their order, then turned the tables.

“What about you and your oh-so-delectable Vegas showgirl? Last I heard, you and Ms. Chelsea were heading right for hot and heavy.”

“We’re there. Or we were.”

The slow tide of red that darkened his cheeks surprised Swish. In all the years she’d known Blake Andrews, she’d never seen him flustered or fidgety. Until now. He shifted in his seat. Crossed his knee. Uncrossed it again. Returned her gaze with a scowl.

“That woman has me wrapped six ways to Sunday. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on her, she goes off in a totally different direction. Like the last time I flew into Vegas to see her.”

His tone vectored toward petulant. Fascinated, Swish watched his facial expressions follow the same downward trajectory.

“I bought a ticket for the show at the Wynn. Paid top dollar for a VIP seat, right up front. I was going to surprise her with dinner and...well...whatever afterward.”

“From the sound of it, I’m guessing ‘whatever’ didn’t happen.”

“The show didn’t happen! Or Chelsea’s part in it, anyway. Took me three calls and a face-to-face with the production supervisor before I found out she damned near drowned in her last appearance. He fired her. So what does she do?” he demanded fiercely.

“I can’t even begin to imagine.”

Swish couldn’t. She really couldn’t. She’d met the flamboyant, long-legged dancer for the first time at this year’s Badger Bash, a mere three weeks ago.

Three weeks since she’d driven home in the early dawn. Three weeks since she’d spotted Ole Blue across a deserted intersection. Three weeks since she’d come to the bitter realization that she still loved her husband. Ex-husband, dammit. Ex!

“She goes to work at Treasure Island, that’s what happened!”

“I hear they have a great magic show,” she commented, scrambling to catch up.

“They do, except Chelsea’s not in it. She’s one of the outdoor pirates who swarm the English warship. She swings across the lagoon on a damned rope. Every hour on the hour.”

“Not a great gig for a dancer,” Swish agreed weakly.

“Ya think?” He leaned forward, his gray eyes shooting ice chips. “The fool woman can’t swim.”

“So why do they keep hiring her for these aquatic gigs?”

“She’s got friends. Lots of friends.”

“Well...”

“Well nothing. She’s an idiot, as I tried to point out last time we were together.”

“Uh-oh.”

Last, Swish bet, being the operative word. Dingo confirmed that with a frustrated slap of his menu on the colorful tile table.

“Uh-oh is right. She axed me, just like Gabe axed his almost-fiancée.”

And me, Swish wanted to add. He axed me, too. She couldn’t put all the blame for their last split on him. Still...

“Enough about Chelsea and me,” Dingo said, recovering his customary cool. “What’s going on with you?”

“Not much, aside from a massive fuel spill, an around-the-clock recovery effort and feeling totally wiped most of the time.”

“Wiped? Captain Superwoman? What happened to the inexhaustible energy that made the rest of us groan and beg for relief while you were just getting wound up?”

“Guess I just don’t wind as tight as I used to.”

He sat back, studying her with the beginning of a frown. “You look a little wiped, too. Still gorgeous, of course, but tired. Maybe you should see a doc.”

“Nah.” She forced a smile. “It’s just the spill. It had me going day and night there for a while. I’ll be fine now that we’ve got a handle on it.”

* * *

Except she couldn’t seem to reclaim her usual levels of energy and enthusiasm. Even Mike Gentry commented on it when he and Swish drove out to check on the removal of the last of the booms the following week. May had melted into a June that was as hot as only Arizona could bake it. The lake surface was diamond-bright, the fumes that had formerly hovered above it gone, thank God.

“Breathing through a respirator would’ve been torture in this heat,” she remarked, leaning a hip against Mike’s vehicle.

“It’s pretty well torture anytime.” The bio-environmental engineer slanted her a quick look. “You okay, Captain? You look tired.”

“You’re the second person who’s told me that.” She made a face and tucked a loose strand of hair back into the bun at the nape of her neck. “I’d better start taking vitamins or gulping down some Power Red.”

“You might want to have the doc run a few tests,” Mike commented. “You may have sucked in some fumes.”

She hadn’t exhibited any of the classic symptoms, like irritation of the eyes or nose, coughing or blood in her sputum. But she couldn’t deny feeling a little out of breath at times. Especially in this heat. And she was too smart to brush off the possibility that she had sucked in some toxic fumes. Back at the office, she made an appointment with her primary care manager at the base hospital.

* * *

When she walked up to the entrance of 56th Medical Group’s sand-colored two-story facility the following morning, the sun burned in another blistering blue sky. The fat, prickly pear cactus that stood sentinel beside the hospital’s front door was taking the heat better than Swish was.

“I don’t understand it,” she told Dr. Bhutti. “I pulled two deployments to Iraq, one to Afghanistan. The heat didn’t bother me half as much at either place.”

The dark-eyed physician looped her stethoscope around her neck. She and Swish had formed a tight bond at their first meeting, having both served in combat zones.

“Are you hydrating adequately?”

“Forty-eight to sixty-four ounces every day, although lately I seem to be more thirsty than usual.”

“Alcohol intake?”

“Minimal. I haven’t even felt like a beer after work.”

“How much time do you spend in the sun?”

“Three or four hours a day when we have construction or environmental projects underway. Other times, not so much.”

“Any chance you could be pregnant? A woman’s basal temperature elevates during pregnancy, which makes her more prone to dehydration, heat exhaustion and heat cramps.”

“No, I...”

Swish stopped, her breath blocking her throat. An image of Gabe digging a crumpled foil package out of his wallet leaped into her head. How long did he say he’d been carrying the damned thing around? A year? And she’d been so tickled by the fact he hadn’t used it with Miss Priss.

“I guess I could be.”

The doc rolled back her stool. “Well, we’ll know soon enough. I’ll write an order for a lab test. You may want to cut back on your exposure to the heat until we get the results. And keep drinking plenty of water.”

Shock eddied into the first wavelets of panic. “Can’t I pee on a stick or something? Find out now?”

“Hang loose. I’ll get a kit.”

Swish edged off the exam table, her boots thudding on the floor. Too agitated to sit, she paced the tiny room. She couldn’t be pregnant. The odds couldn’t be that stacked against her and Gabe!

A chance meeting at a traffic light. One hot and heavy session between the sheets. Okay, two. Three? No, just two. She’d climaxed first. She was sure she had. Then she’d straddled Gabe’s hips and pumped him for all she was worth.