Navy Seal Dad

Not that he blamed her, Mac conceded as he stepped outside into the chilled night air. If whatever she’d once felt for him had been replaced with resentment, he supposed he deserved it. And probably a lot more. To say he’d handled things badly two years ago when he’d left was an understatement. He’d flat-out bungled it, he admitted. The truth was he hadn’t wanted to leave her, and that fact alone had left him scared spitless.

Lost in thought, he scarcely registered that the weather, unpredictable as always, had gone from a balmy breeze to a brisk November wind. Unfazed by the sharp bite of cold air that met him when he turned the corner, Mac walked down the dimly lit street. As a SEAL, he’d been trained to master his body’s reaction to swift temperature changes, be it Arctic winds or desert heat. What he hadn’t been trained for was this sense of…uselessness.

Picking up his pace, Mac continued determinedly, striding headfirst into the cold gusts that swept through the narrow French Quarter streets. He walked faster, needing to burn up some of the restlessness churning inside him—a restlessness that had begun long before the minefield explosion that had damaged his hearing and had only worsened since he’d been placed on medical leave. But as he walked the historic streets of the city, Mac’s thoughts kept turning to the last time he’d walked these same streets. It had been hot then. Hot and humid as only New Orleans in September could be. And he’d been with Rachel.

He cringed at the memory of her face when he’d told her he was leaving and that she should forget him. As long as he lived, he’d never be able to erase the image of her brave but tremulous smile, of seeing the light go out of her eyes. He’d handled the situation with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop. The fact that he’d been in over his head and had been shaken by how important she had become to him, to where those feelings for her would lead him, didn’t excuse his actions.

Nor did it excuse the fact that he’d hurt her. Deeply, he suspected—despite the fact that there had been no tears, no accusations, no pleas for him to change his mind. But he’d known he had hurt her just the same. He’d seen the hurt in those sad gray eyes when he’d told her a clean break was best. He’d heard the hurt in her voice when she’d told him that she understood. And he’d tasted the hurt when she’d kissed him goodbye and wished him well.

And now here he was more than two years later showing up to ask her…

To ask her what, McKenna? To give you a second chance?

Hell, he didn’t know what he wanted to ask her or even how much he wanted to tell her. Maybe it was just as well that she had stood him up tonight. He would have probably made a fool of himself if she had come. His thoughts turned inward, Mac barely noticed the sidewalk musicians as he crossed the street and continued down to the next block. As a SEAL he hadn’t been able to offer Rachel any future. No way would he have asked her to commit herself to him knowing that the very nature of his job meant he might not make it back from one mission to the next. He’d learned firsthand the damage that kind of selfishness could cause. But now…

Now what, McKenna? What kind of future could he offer her now? Why should Rachel settle for a man who was damaged goods. Not even the SEALs wanted him anymore.

Anger and frustration stormed inside him as he recalled the conversation with his captain three days ago….

“Damn it, Mac, this sucks. But you know as well as I do that a SEAL’s got to be physically 100 percent. Loss of hearing, even in just one ear…” Captain Mike Rossi rammed a fist through his hair. He looked Mac square in the eye. “I’m sorry, kid. I really am. But I can’t risk the safety of the rest of the team.”

Standing at attention, his back ramrod straight, Mac felt as though he’d just been plowed down by a tank. It didn’t matter that he’d known it was coming. He’d expected to be cut loose from the team for nearly two months now, ever since the explosion in the raid on that embassy had left the hearing in his right ear diminished. Yet even anticipating the inevitable didn’t lessen the impact of the blow when it came. “I understand, Captain.”

“You’ve got a lot of leave coming. Take it, Mac. Go to New Orleans. Talk to the specialists at the base hospital there. I understand they’re doing some great things. Find out all you can about that new surgical procedure and then decide if it’s worth the risk or not.”

“I’ve already decided to have the surgery, sir.”

The captain frowned. “You should check it out first. Weigh all the risks before you make any decision. Forty percent hearing is better than none.”

“Forty percent isn’t good enough to be a SEAL, sir.”

“Being a SEAL isn’t everything.”

“It is for me, sir.” Which was the truth. For him being a SEAL wasn’t just what he was or did, it was who he was. And if he could no longer be a SEAL, he was…he was no one.

The captain’s frown deepened. “This isn’t something you should make a snap decision about, Mac.”

“I know. And I’ve given it a lot of thought, Captain. I want to have the surgery.”

“Check it out first, SEAL. That’s an order. Afterward if you still want to go through with it, it’s your choice. But if I were you, I’d think long and hard before I make any decision. And while you’re thinking, it wouldn’t hurt to look up that lady friend of yours who lives there and maybe see how she feels about it.”

Mac had hoped that the captain’s failure to comment on him getting dog-faced when he’d broken things off with Rachel two years ago and his lack of interest in any woman since had gone unnoticed. He should have realized that Eagle Eye Mike Rossi never missed a thing when it came to the members of his SEAL team. “I…we ended things the last time I was in New Orleans. Things weren’t that serious between us.” Or rather Mac had decided to end things because they were getting too serious, he admitted in silence.

Rossi gave him a knowing look. “Too bad. It might make a difference in your decision if she were still in the picture.”

Rachel wasn’t in the picture anymore, Mac reminded himself. Yet, here he was anyway because he hadn’t been able to stay away from her. Just as he hadn’t been able to forget her, regardless of how many missions he went on or how many willing women he could have had in his bed since he’d left her.

And now that he’d seen her again, he was no closer to banishing Rachel from his thoughts than he had been when he’d walked out of her life two years ago. If anything, he wanted her even more.

So what are you going to do about it?

Dammit, he was still a SEAL, Mac reminded himself. A member of the U.S. military’s fiercest, bravest and smartest band of warriors. A SEAL didn’t walk away from a battle because the odds were stacked against him. A SEAL found a way to even the odds and win.

“Hey, sailor,” a sidewalk barker standing outside one of the nightclubs called out in that unmistakable drawl that marked him as a New Orleanian. Opening the door a fraction, the giant of a man offered Mac a glimpse of a long-limbed woman dancing onstage to the seductive wail of a sax. “Why don’t you come on in out of the cold, my man? Lovely Lola’s next show is about to start any minute. You have my word,” he said with a smile that glinted with gold. “Lola’s act will warm you right up and make you glad you’re a man.”

“Thanks, pal,” Mac said with an answering grin. “But there’s another lady I’ve got to see.”

Rachel didn’t see him at first—not until after she had climbed the stairs and deactivated the alarm to the house. Bone tired from a day that had started with the shock of Mac showing up at the hospital and ended with her pulling an extra stint in the E.R., she’d driven home on automatic pilot. Tomorrow she would worry about Mac, she promised herself. Tomorrow she would sort out how she felt about the things he’d said to her, and she would figure out how to break the news to him about P.J.

But right now…right now all she wanted to do was crawl into her bed and sleep. Stifling a yawn, she reached into her purse for the house key when a movement from the far end of the veranda caught her eye.

Rachel froze. The weariness of a moment ago dissolved in a heartbeat. Fear-induced adrenaline took its place. Suddenly she realized how vulnerable she was, standing alone in the darkness, illuminated by the glow of the porch lamp Chloe had left on for her. Since it was long past midnight, the street was quiet save for the wind whistling through the oaks. No lights burned in her neighbor’s homes. No cars made their way down the silent street. She was alone and even if she screamed for help, no one was likely to come to her aid in time.

Quickly she gauged her chances of getting the door unlocked and safely inside before he realized she’d spotted him. She couldn’t risk it, she decided. Not with P.J. asleep in the house. Seconds ticked by in which fear knotted like an icy fist in her stomach. She tried to recall the techniques she’d learned in that self-defense class and drew a blank.

She had to do something! Beads of perspiration dampened her brow despite the cold temperatures. Fighting back the panic that threatened, she told herself to think. Then she remembered—the mace! She had a can of mace in her purse. Her heart thundering in her ears, Rachel closed her fingers around the metal cylinder. “Who’s there?” she demanded in a voice that sounded surprisingly strong given the fact that her legs felt like jelly.

Keeping her eyes trained on the corner where she’d detected the movement, Rachel lifted the can like a gun and aimed. “I know you’re there. So you might as well come out.”

Suddenly a hand shot out from behind her, disarming her so quickly that her finger was still poised to shoot. At the same time another hand clamped over her mouth midscream, and she felt herself being pulled back against a very hard, very strong, very male body.

“Rach, it’s me.”

With the metallic taste of fear in her mouth and her heart beating frantically, his words failed to register. She kicked at his legs. She jabbed her elbow into his midsection. Panicked, she wished for a pair of killer stilettos as she lifted her foot and did a karate-style back kick to his shin. She barely heard her captor’s grunt as stars exploded in front of her eyes and pain ricocheted up her leg.

“Rach, cut it out! It’s me,” he repeated. “It’s Mac.”

Rachel stilled. “Mac?” she mumbled the name against the hand covering her mouth.

“Yeah,” he told her as he removed his hand from over her mouth.

Suddenly weak with relief, Rachel whooshed out a breath. It was Mac. Not a mugger. Not a burglar. It was Mac. And, she realized in the next breath, it was Mac who had just scared her silly.

Slowly he loosened the arm anchored around her waist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Relief swiftly gave way to anger, and Rachel whirled around to face him. “Frighten me? You scared me half to death,” she accused, her voice shaking with fury. “What are you doing here slinking around in the dark? And how did you find out where I live?”

“I wasn’t slinking around. I was waiting for you. Since you never made it to the restaurant, I came by hoping we could talk. And as for finding out where you live, I’m a SEAL, Rach,” he said crisply. “Finding you wasn’t hard.”

Her breath was still coming fast, but already the edge of her anger was cooling. “I-I’m sorry about dinner. But you still should have said something. You should have at least let me know you were there.”

“I started to, but when I saw how tired you looked, I decided tonight wasn’t a good time. I was waiting to make sure you got inside safely before I left. Then I was going to call you in the morning and see about rescheduling our date.”

“It wasn’t a date,” Rachel corrected. “It was dinner between…between acquaintances.”

Mac snorted. “We were a bit more than acquaintances.”

Deciding it best to ignore that remark, Rachel explained, “I got tied up at the hospital. That’s why I didn’t meet you at the restaurant. There was an accident. A bus filled with high school kids on their way to a football game was rear-ended by an eighteen-wheeler.”

“I heard. Was it bad?”

“Not really. Mostly bumps and bruises. A few stitches, a couple of sprains and one broken ankle.” Suddenly, standing alone in the dim porch light with Mac felt too intimate. It reminded Rachel of other nights when they had stood in the moonlight and she’d recounted the events of her day for him. Slamming the door shut on her memories, she tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat. “Anyway, by the time I got a break and was able to call the restaurant, you’d already left. I didn’t know how else to contact you.”

“It’s all right,” Mac told her, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He ran his thumb along her jaw in a gesture that was tender, loving…like the look in his eyes.

No, she wouldn’t do that to herself again, Rachel vowed, and turned her face away from his touch. But not before she caught the flare of emotion in his eyes. For a second she almost believed that she had hurt Mac. Just as quickly, Rachel dismissed the notion. More likely she’d been right earlier today, and she had simply dashed Mac’s hopes for a quick reunion while he was in town. Swallowing hard, she reminded herself of what a mistake their relationship had been the first time. It was a mistake she had no intention of repeating. “All the same I’m sorry about standing you up.”

“Quit apologizing, Rachel. Your roommate already explained about the flu hitting the hospital’s staff and how you had to pull an extra shift in the E.R.”

“My roommate?”

“Chloe.”

Rachel sucked in a breath. “You talked to Chloe?”

“Yeah. When I came over to find out why you didn’t show up at the restaurant, she answered the door and told me what happened.”

“I see,” Rachel murmured. She had called Chloe to let her know she’d be even later than she’d first thought tonight. And then she had called the restaurant for Mac.

“I liked her. She seems really nice.”

“She is,” Rachel informed him. Chloe Chancellor was nice. And she was so much more than a roommate. She was also Rachel’s friend. It had been Chloe who had comforted her during those first lonely weeks after Mac had left. It had been Chloe who had bullied her into taking care of herself when she’d first discovered she was pregnant. It had been Chloe who had insisted she hated living in the big, old house alone and had convinced her to get out of her tiny apartment and move in with her so that P.J. would have a real home.

And it had been Chloe who had insisted she was wasting her time by dating Alex. According to Chloe, who had known Alex Jenkins since they were kids, the good doctor had grown up to be a major stuffed shirt who wanted what he perceived to be a perfect wife. A position that, according to Chloe again, Rachel appeared to fit perfectly. But ever the romantic, Chloe believed marriages should be entered into for one reason only—love. And, of course, Chloe had been enthralled by the tale of her affair with Mac and had long since made up her mind that Mac was the only man Rachel would ever love. She certainly prayed her friend was wrong, Rachel thought.

“She’s a very gifted artist.”

Rachel jerked her attention back to Mac. “Chloe invited you inside?”

“She practically insisted when I told her who I was. Anyway, I happened to notice the artwork. She seemed a little surprised that I thought they were good. Then she admitted they were hers and I got her to point out a few of the others she’d done. Like I said, she’s very talented.”

“I know she is.” It was Chloe, who for all her bravado, doubted her own talent.

“She’s agreed to sell me one of the small oils for my mother.”

“Sounds like you two hit it off,” Rachel said with dismay.

Mac grinned at that. “My guess is the uniform had something to do with it. That, and the fact that she apparently knew who I was. I take it you told her about us.”

“I may have mentioned your name to her in passing,” Rachel replied, knowing as she said the words what a whopper she was telling. Chloe had listened to her sob her heart out far more times that she cared to remember after Mac had left. And she had been the one in the delivery room with her when she’d borne Mac’s son. Thoughts of their son had her nerves—already wound tight as a spring—growing even more strained. Rachel held her breath and waited for Mac to mention P.J.

The smile disappeared from his lips. “Then I guess I’m lucky she didn’t slam the door in my face.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Come on, Rach. I can’t imagine you would have many nice things to say about me, considering how badly I handled things before I left.”

Rachel met his somber gaze. “Then you’d be wrong, Mac.” No matter how things had ended between them or how deeply he had hurt her, she would always be grateful to him for giving her P.J.

“Rach,” Mac said her name like a prayer as he moved in, cupped her shoulders. “If only you knew how many times I—”

The lights flickered on inside and after a quick snick of locks, the door opened to reveal a sleepy-eyed Chloe clutching her big fluffy robe around her. “Are you guys deliberately trying to catch pneumonia? It’s freezing out there.”

“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Mac told her.

“You didn’t. The little monster did.”

Rachel stiffened at her friend’s words, and the frown on Mac’s face set her nerves to racing again. “I’d better go,” she told him, hoping to hurry him along. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

Ignoring her dismissal, Mac kept his focus on Chloe. “Little monster?” he repeated, a determined expression on his face.

“P.J.,” Chloe offered with a yawn.

“P.J.?”

As if on cue, P.J. let out a squeal guaranteed to wake the dead. And just as she knew he would, he came waddling over to the door on his little chubby legs, his arms outstretched. “Mama,” he said, one of the few words in his limited baby vocabulary that anyone could understand.

“You have a son?” Mac asked Chloe.

Seeing no hope for postponing the truth, Rachel reached for her son. Holding him in her arms, she turned back to face Mac. “He’s not Chloe’s son, Mac. He’s mine.”

Two

“Yours?” Mac repeated, feeling as though he’d been sucker punched.

Rachel hiked up her chin. “That’s right,” she told him. “Mine.”

Still reeling from the shock of discovering Rachel had a child, Mac looked from her to the dark-haired boy in her arms and back again. Rachel’s son and his, Mac realized as he stared into eyes identical to his own.

He had a son. A son!

A son he’d known nothing about.

Suddenly shock gave way to temper as the reality of the situation hit him. He kept his eyes trained on Rachel’s face. And even though he already suspected he knew the answer he asked her, anyway, “How old is he?”

When Rachel remained silent, he asked again. “How old is he, Rachel?”

“He’s eighteen months,” Chloe offered, and earned a scowl from Rachel.

He didn’t have to be a math wizard to figure out that Rachel had been about four weeks pregnant when he had left New Orleans. Had she known about the baby and chosen not to tell him? Or had she found out later and decided he didn’t deserve to know that he was going to be a father?

Either situation left a foul taste in his mouth and did nothing to ease his anger with Rachel or with himself. Doing his best to control the emotions slamming through him, Mac said, “Which means I’m his father.”

“Of course you’re his father,” Chloe told him as she moved beside Rachel and placed a protective hand on her shoulder. She looked him up and down, narrowed her eyes. “All you have to do is look at him to see that. Or do you need proof?”

Rachel groaned.

“No, ma’am. I don’t need proof. He’s my son,” Mac announced, daring Rachel to deny it.

She didn’t. She simply hugged the squirming tike to her.

“Down,” the little boy insisted.

“No, P.J. It’s time—”

“May I?” Mac asked. Taking a step forward, he held out his arms. When Rachel hesitated, he added, “You don’t have to worry that I’ll drop him. I have a couple of nieces and nephews. I’ll be careful.”

Rachel said nothing. She simply handed him the baby.

“Hey, big guy,” Mac managed to say past the lump in his throat. He stared at this miniature version of himself, recognizing the strong McKenna chin, the eyes so like his own. The nose was Rachel’s, though, he thought. So was the mouth. But there was no question that he was a McKenna. His son. His son, Mac repeated silently, rocked again by the realization that he and Rachel had created a child. When the boy reached for the hat Mac had forgotten was clutched in his fist, Mac laughed and gave it to him. “Hey, you’re a strong fellow, aren’t you?”

“He’s also stubborn,” Rachel offered. “No, no, P.J.,” she told him, and rescued the hat before the little guy could chomp down on it.

“What’s P.J. stand for?” he asked.

“Peter James.”

Surprised, Mac met Rachel’s gaze. “You gave him my name?”

“Actually I gave him our father’s names. I remembered you saying you were named after your father. And my dad’s name is James. I hadn’t planned to give him a nickname, but somehow, the initials seemed to fit him.”

Sort of the way the name Mac had always fitted him better than the names Peter or junior, Mac thought. “It happens that way sometimes,” Mac offered and noted the way P.J. was eyeing his medals. “It’s all right, P.J. You can touch them,” Mac encouraged, and earned a grin that warmed him down to his toes.

“That might not be such a good idea. I’m afraid that he’s at that stage where everything goes into his mouth,” Rachel began, but P.J. was already trying to sample one of the medals. “No, no, P.J. No eat,” Rachel corrected.

“Your mom’s right, buddy. Trust me. They look a lot better than they taste.” Reluctantly he started to hand him off to Rachel. P.J. had other ideas. Clinging to the medal, he began to wail in protest.

“Come on, sweetie,” Rachel cooed.

Those big, fat tears nearly did him in. “Hey, it’s okay,” Mac said, and gave serious consideration to ripping off his shirt and giving it to the little fellow. “Why don’t I just—”

Rachel leveled him with a look, and he fell silent as she pried the chubby little fingers free from his shirtfront. “There, there now. It’s all right, angel,” she murmured.

“Why don’t I take him inside and give him a snack?” Chloe offered. “I’m sure you guys have things to discuss.”

“Thanks, Chlo,” Rachel said, and relinquished the sniffling P.J. to the other woman.

“Come on, handsome. What do you say? Aunt Chloe is in the mood for cookies. Want to help me find some?”

“Tookie?” the tear-eyed tike repeated.

“That’s right,” Chloe told him, and disappeared inside the house.

Mac’s heart was still trying to recover from the impact of those tears rolling down P.J.’s cheeks when Rachel said, “He’ll be fine, Mac. He’s a baby, and babies cry.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just that he was crying so hard.”

“That’s because the tears work all too well. He has a very strong will and doesn’t like being told no. Unfortunately, I don’t use the word often enough. And neither does Chloe.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s easy to see why. He’s a cute kid.”

“I certainly think so.”

And he’s my son.

His son and Rachel’s. The reality of that fact hit him again.

The realization excited him.

It scared the hell out of him.

And it infuriated him to realize that he had missed the first year and a half of his son’s life. He shifted his gaze from the doorway, where P.J. had disappeared with Chloe, back to Rachel. She was tired. Even in the dim light on the veranda, he could see the shadows beneath her eyes. Strands of honey-colored hair had worked free of the braid she wore and now framed her face. A face that was far too pale. Yet seeing her exhausted like this only added to his frustration because he realized that not only had she had to support herself, but their son as well, without any help from him. “Why didn’t you tell me about him, Rachel? Didn’t you think I deserved to know?”