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other returning tourist, he’d known at a glance that she was the one he was there to meet.
    They’d fallen into step in perfect harmony and flown that way ever since. He hadn’t spoken a single word to her until they were back behind the gates of Fort Lewis because, for the first time in his life, he’d had no idea what to say to a beautiful woman.
    He’d had to be careful. If he didn’t want to be court-martialed and thrown out of the Army, he could never let her know how he felt. So he’d decided, as they walked side by side that first time, that in her presence he would always be pure military, pure regulation.
    He wouldn’t even compliment her, in case it was taken wrong. That had turned out to be a fantastic way to motivate her to excel, but it was merely a side benefit of his attempts to remain sane in her presence.
    And she’d ruined him. He could work up some anger over that. Not at her, but at the circumstances that made their life. He couldn’t have her. And, when he’d tried to lose himself between the generous breasts of a particularly willing Tuscan damsel on leave last month, he’d failed miserably at forgetting the slip of a blonde who could outfly every pilot in SOAR.
    He stood there, in the soft breeze of the aircraft carrier’s forward motion, finally admitting it.
    She definitely ranked as the best pilot he’d ever flown with.
    And when Captain Emily Beale flew ten tons of armored attack helicopter into battle, it was absolutely the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

Chapter 8
     
    “Personal chef to who?” You’re going mad, Emily. There’s no other explanation. You aren’t here sitting in a cozy armchair in the captain’s office aboard the nation’s newest aircraft carrier. You are locked in a rubber room in a cozy white jacket with very long sleeves.
    “The First Lady saw that CNN clip yesterday,” Admiral James Parker explained. “Katherine Matthews was quite taken with you and insists that you are the only person she’ll have.”
    “But I’m a combat pilot.” The words choked out of her no matter how she tried to keep her voice steady. Her awful croak dragged the captain’s attention back from his pile of papers.
    “Here now, James.” Captain Tully shoved his paperwork into a folder, sealed it, and tossed it into the carved oak outbox on his desk. “You never said anything about taking one of Henderson’s best and turning her into that, that woman’s nursemaid.”
    Listen to the captain. “One of Henderson’s best.” That gave her a bit of heart. Surprised her actually, but Emily restricted herself to a brief raising of eyebrows before regaining control. Major Henderson specialized in making her life a living hell. Never good enough. In two months and over forty sorties, he’d never acknowledged a job well done but the once. He’d merely assigned her a harder mission the next time. She’d have to be surprised later, after she’d passed out from sitting at attention in a flight suit with a firm choke hold on her trachea.
    Admiral Parker cleared his throat and didn’t comment on Captain Tully’s opinion of the First Lady. The military liked the President well enough; he’d done spectacularly well in cleaning up the Myanmar mess, very few troops required, no lives lost. That earned him a lot of credit with the Armed Forces. Much nicer to go home alive and in one piece; not a man or woman in the Army who wouldn’t agree with that. Of course, the high mountains of Northern Afghanistan were causing him a severe headache as they had three presidents before him.
    But while they might like him, they didn’t much trust such a young president, and especially not his equally young and very showy wife. The latter sentiment Emily agreed with wholeheartedly, though for rather different reasons than your average soldier.
    She’d never liked the First Lady, not even before they’d met.
    Model at fifteen, Vogue cover one year later. At twenty-one, a psychology and marketing