Lt. Commander Jordan O'Neil surveyed the crystal-lit room with a mixture of disdain and boredom. How many of these parties had she attended over the past two years? She'd lost count. As the first female graduate of the Navy S.E.A.L.'s C.R.T Program, she was in demand. A trophy party guest trotted out to impress visiting dignitaries and senators’ wives. An object of curiosity observed from across the room and whispered about between closed bathroom stalls.

Her gaze flitted about the room, never resting on any one subject for long, having seen it all before on far too many occasions. The ostentatious chandeliers. The expensive window treatments. The even more expensive paintings. The uniformed officers laughing at the same tired jokes while standing next to their even more tired looking wives. Then there was the smell of cigars. She hated that smell. When had that happened? Probably during her training in Florida. The C.O. had smoked cigars. She felt for something in her pocket in a moment of despair as the evening loomed before her in all of its affectations and hypocrisy. She breathed a bit easier as her fingers closed around the object she sought. Yes, it was still there, reminding her that these people weren't the ones that were important.

Uniformed waiters glided silently by with trays of champagne and exquisite h'ors d'oeuvres. She stopped one and took a glass just to have something to do. God, she hated these functions. Two years ago these people couldn't do enough to get rid of her. They'd documented her every move during training, made up lies about her personal life, and tried every way possible to sabotage her attempts to make a successful career for herself in the Navy. Stuck with her, once she'd actually made it through the C.R.T. program, they'd all been just as quick to embrace her as a politically correct statement in their politically run lives, fawning over her as if she had been their pet protégé from the beginning. Really, it was enough to make you ill and lately it had been getting harder and harder to put on, what Royce used to call, her "party face."

And there he was. Commander Royce Carpenter. Standing next to Senator Richards, observing Jordan while appearing to be deep in conversation with Senator Richards' wife. For the first year after Jordan had returned from C.R.T. training, things had gone along expectedly, if not smoothly. She had managed to get herself stationed at Norfolk, which was what Royce had wanted, so that she could be close to him. They saw each other when they could, in other words, when Jordan wasn't away on an ops mission.

Jordan exulted in her job and excelled on her missions, quickly winning the promotion that had been her reason for entering the C.R.T. program to begin with. But it didn’t take long for Royce to begin complaining about the amount of time she was away. He wanted her to promise him that when her tour was up in another two years, she'd ask to be reassigned. Jordan refused. She didn't know what she'd want to do in two years, but she was damned if she was going to let Royce decide for her.

She'd avoided using her status as the only female C.R.T. graduate to ingratiate herself to her naval superiors. Royce complained she wasn't taking advantage of her position after the hell she'd gone through to get there. But something in Jordan had changed during that first year after training. She'd once told Royce that the more people wanted her to quit, the more determined she was to gut it out. But somewhere along the line, stubbornness and ambition had turned into devotion and pride. She loved her job in a way that she'd never dreamed possible. She felt as if she was doing something important for the Navy and for her country. Something she could put a name to. It was hard for her to do that behind a desk and Royce could never understand her feelings. He looked on his operational experience during Desert Storm as a low point in his Naval career, despite the fact that he had won a promotion for that service.

After a while, Jordan made a habit of socializing with her C.R.T. teammates instead of playing tennis with Commander Neville and his wife or making sure she got invited to parties like this one. Royce started to complain about the company she kept. The company that wasn't going to do a thing for her career. Finally, after a year of this, Jordan had come to terms with the fact that she had changed, but Royce hadn't. He was still climbing the promotional ladder by ingratiating himself to the very people who had tried to destroy her.

She had sat Royce down after one of these parties and explained to him that while she had truly loved him at one time, she felt they had grown apart. Their lives were going in two different directions. She wasn't what Royce needed and she'd never be able to make him happy. What she had meant was that Royce would never be able to make her happy. She wished that he had taken it better. He'd gotten angry. He'd pleaded. Then he'd cried. But Jordan knew she was doing the right thing. Royce wanted her to be the same ambitious officer she was before she'd gone to Florida and she just couldn't accommodate him. Her priorities had changed. So, she'd spent the last year reveling in her freedom and yet wishing she could find someone who would understand who this new Jordan O'Neil was.

She checked her watch. It would be at least another hour or two before she could tactfully slip away. She replaced her champagne glass on the tray of a passing waiter and scanned the room looking for someone who would at least make the evening tolerable. That's when she saw him. It couldn't possibly be him! But it was. Standing just inside the doorway, looking even more uncomfortable than she was, if that was possible, was Command Master Chief John James Urgayle. What in God's name was he doing here?

*****************************************

Jack Urgayle was still trying to figure out how he'd gotten here. Despite the dress uniform, he felt out of place. He was out of place. That had been made clear to him the moment he'd presented his invitation to the stunned junior officer welcoming guests in the front hall of this rather overwhelming mansion. Guess non-commissioned officers were a rare breed in these parts unless they were pouring drinks. Jack's cool gaze had frozen the man as he'd asked, "Is there a problem, sir?"

"N-n-o. No problem at all, Master Chief. Please, come right in. May I take your hat?"

"Thank you, ensign."

Jack turned over his hat, retrieved the invitation that was still clutched in the ensign's incredulous hand, and walked briskly through the large entrance into a huge room with a high ceiling and even higher snob appeal. Jack was no stranger to wealthy homes. In his almost twenty years with the Navy, he'd traveled all over the world. Seen a lot of places fancier than this one. He was just used to paying to get in, that's all.

He stopped just inside the door, moving to one side to be out of the way of the other arriving guests and the ensign's flabbergasted stare. "Now what?" he thought frustratedly. It was one thing to get in the door, but quite another to look like you belonged here. He was sure that hanging around by the entrance wasn't the way to do it, though. He'd have to move. But where to go? "Back the way you came," was the first thought to cross his mind. He hadn't wanted to come here tonight to begin with. Where the hell was Captain Salem, anyway? This was his brilliant idea. Jack would have to find him somehow. Maybe he could ask one of the waiters he saw scurrying by. They might know where Salem was or at least point him in a likely direction.

"Remember…there are no bad party guests. Only bad hosts."

Jack slowly turned his head to find the voice that had just spoken and looked down into the deepest brown eyes he'd ever seen in his life. He remembered those eyes. He remembered that voice. He remembered a few other items that could get him into a whole lot of trouble if she'd ever told anyone that he'd noticed. But, of course, she hadn't. By the time she'd graduated, he knew her well enough to know she never would.

The soft grin spoke. "How are you Master Chief?"

"I'm good, Lieutenant. How are you doing?"

It’s Lt. Commander now.

"Excuse me. How are you doing Lieutenant Commander?"

How could she possibly have forgotten how mesmerizing his eyes were? "I'm fine, Master Chief. Little out of your neighborhood, aren't you?"

Jack cleared his throat. "Well, ahhh, yes, a little. I don't suppose you've seen Captain Salem by any chance?"

"No, can't say as I have. But, I can certainly help you find him."

Jack looked at her for a moment, unsure of what to do. If he accepted her help, she would be witness to the idiot he was in all probability going to make of himself at this party. If he didn't accept her help, he was going to spend half the night wandering around, looking like an idiot. Tough call.

"Lieutenant, I don't want to take you away from your party."

"Lt. Commander.”

"Sorry, I forgot."

"It might make things a lot easier if you'd just call me Jordan."

Jack got one of his ‘looks’. "No, I don't think so. Against regulations," he added as an afterthought.

"Oh come on, Jack.” He flinched at the use of his given name. “It's not like you've never broken a regulation in your career. Besides, who here is going to care?"

"Me."

Jordan laughed. Why hadn't he ever noticed how beautiful she was when she laughed? Probably because he'd never given her much reason to, he thought regretfully. Well, that wasn't his job. His job had been to train her and he'd done that. Done it well, too. She'd proven that in Libya.

"Come on, Jack. Live dangerously."

Obviously, she hadn't changed one damn bit. Still as stubborn as ever.

"Look, Lieutenant…"

“Uh…”

"O'kay! O'kay!! Jordan!" Shit. She was as big of a pain in the ass as ever, too.