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  Her being pregnant added a whole new layer of uncertainty to her already battered emotional state. Yes, it felt satisfying to be finally homing in on the region of El Chaco being desecrated by Scott Oil, to be finally taking measures to ensure that the pollution stopped. Yes, she felt a measure of fulfillment at ensuring that Salim and his brother hadn't sacrificed their lives for nothing. But the void left in the wake of Sam's abandonment made her wonder, at times, why she was still there.

  If she'd followed him back to the States, she might have convinced him to forgive her father and to give them a second chance. The longer they remained apart, the more the rift between them seemed to widen. Then the terrible ruminations started—thoughts that he couldn't have loved her that much if letting her go had been so easy for him.

  She recalled his declaration of love for her. The blazing fervor in his eyes and the ferocity in the kiss he'd give her had made the words seem genuine. But why had he uttered them so quietly that the wind had almost whisked them away?

  It could only be because he didn't love her as much as she had loved him. As much as I still love him, she amended.

  Emptiness throbbed in the region of her broken heart, accompanied by a faint tingle of hope. Would it change anything if she were pregnant? And if she were, should she even tell Sam when the doctor had advised her to abort? The awful poison her uncle had made her drink would have affected the embryo, increasing the likelihood of deformity. How could she accomplish her work as a global environmentalist with a special needs baby vying for her attention? She should probably take the doctor's advice and abort it.

  In that case, it wasn't likely she could use the excuse of a pregnancy to bring Sam back into her life, nor should she. Of course, he would want to give his child the legitimacy he'd never had. The possibility that had tingled in her briefly faded away.

  It was better if she said nothing, then. She wouldn't want Sam to marry her out of a sense of obligation. She shook her head, loathing the thought. No more than I want to abort a baby conceived in love, protested a voice inside her.

  With a catch in her throat she pictured the little Maddy-n-Sam embryo fighting to thrive in her womb. Suddenly, fervent love for their unborn child roared to life, prompting her to lay a protective hand over her abdomen. There was a baby in there. She was suddenly certain of it. Her tender breasts, her queasy stomach, every symptom pointed to the truth.

  I am pregnant. And my baby has every right to live.

  Resolve made her roll her shoulders back. She sat taller. She owed her baby the benefit of the doubt. Considering the DNA it had inherited from both parents, it was bound to be a tenacious little bundle, a fighter just like her and Sam.

  All she could do now was wait and see. And then she would have to make the most critical decisions of her life.

  Chapter 19

  "There you are."

  Chief Brantley Adam's voice accompanied a crash of waves on the nearby shore, making it sound like God was talking to Sam, which he wished was the case. He'd been praying a lot lately, asking for a sign, for strength, for relief from this unending misery. His despondency had driven him to seek solitude on the deck of the Shifting Sands Club, even though the Christmas party was about to kick off inside, and it was a cold, blustery night that no one in his right mind would want to be experiencing first hand.

  But Sam scarcely even noticed the cold. Compared to the desolation in his heart, it felt like nothing. More than three months had passed since he'd walked away from Maddy. He'd thought for sure he would have stopped obsessing about her day and night; stopped spying on her Facebook page, hunting for her name on the Web, following her father's political career in the hopes that the media would mention something about the Senator's daughter.

  He should have pulled himself together a long time ago.

  Startled, he glanced up to see Bronco and Bullfrog pushing out of the brightly lit door to join him. The throb of a base guitar emanated from the nightclub on the lower level, letting him know that the party had begun. Starting tomorrow, hardly any training would take place until the New Year. He should be joining his platoon members and the rest of SEAL Team 12 in celebrating the upcoming holiday. Except he didn't feel celebrating, not one bit.

  His teammates plunked down in the two chairs across from him, their backs to the ocean, drinks in hand. They were acting like this was what they wanted to do: sit and stare at Sam's long face. "Why are you here?" he demanded.

  Light shining out of the windows at Sam's back reflected in Bronco's bright blue eyes. "Sir, we need to talk," he stated, balancing his bottle on the grooved table top.

  Bullfrog did likewise, except he was drinking his own poison of choice—Macallan eighteen-year-old single malt Scotch whisky—while Sam had gone straight for tequila. Three shots later, he was finally more numb than devastated.

  He nodded his assent. This moment had been coming for some time. There was a limit to how long his top NCOs could put up with his pathetic and distracted leadership. "I know," he began, forcing himself to sit up straighter and not slouch. "I've been a lousy platoon leader."

  He'd pretty much continuously snarled at every man in his platoon for three months straight. He'd even leveled a punishment on Bamm-Bamm this morning for a violation he couldn't now recall, forgetting that the young SEAL had saved Maddy's life by identifying Elliot Koch as The Annihilator. "I've been an asshole," he admitted.

  "Right," Bronco agreed. "And Kuzinsky's starting to take note."

  Which was never a good thing.

  Sam swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. "All right. I hear you. I'll take some time over the holiday to get myself together."

  "We think you should talk about it," Bullfrog gently suggested.

  Sam stiffened. "Talk to who?" he asked with an edge to his voice.

  "To us," Bronco invited. "We're the guys who have to work with you," he added before Sam could summon a protest, "and I think we deserve an explanation."

  "Christ, you know what's eating me," Sam tossed back irritably.

  "Of course we do." Bullfrog's soothing assurance tempered Sam's black mood. "What we want to know is what you're going to do about it."

  "Because we won't put up with your crap much longer," Bronco added, far less tactfully. His crooked smile took the edge off his words but, for once, he seemed completely serious.

  Sam chuckled humorlessly. "So you're here to counsel me," he concluded. How ironic. As platoon leader, he was supposed to be the one advising them.

  "What we'd like to suggest," Bullfrog smoothly continued "is for you to forgive Maddy's father. He did apologize, remember? What more can he do?"

  It had taken Sam almost two months to even listen to Lyle's message. He'd done it at the Veteran's Day picnic at Little Creek Park, the last time all of SEAL Team 12 had gotten together for a barbeque. Lyle's apology had thrown him into such a confused state that he'd downed a six-pack in less than an hour and Bullfrog had been forced to drive him back to his apartment before he made a total fool of himself.

  "What exactly did he say in his apology?" Bronco wanted to know.

  Sam had to think to remember. In a fit of disgust, he'd deleted the voicemail before he could listen to it again, and now he regretted his haste because there was no way to tell, now, how serious Lyle really was.

  He blew out a tequila-laced breath. "He said he should never have asked me to quit the Teams. He'd been so upset about Maddy almost dying that he'd spoken in haste. Blah, blah, blah."

  "That sounds pretty sincere to me," said Bullfrog with a question in his voice.

  "Why don't you believe him?" Bronco demanded.

  "I do. It's just—" The fact that his teammates were siding with Lyle Scott ratcheted Sam's annoyance to new heights. "What he asked me to do was insulting. I'm supposed to give up my career for his daughter?" His temper reignited. "How could he even suggest such a thing?"

  Bronco cocked his head in a considering manner. "What? You've never said anything in haste that y
ou've regretted? He already apologized. What more can he do?"

  "I heard him give a speech on TV the other night," Bullfrog added. "He's united the major parties for the first time in a decade."

  "That has nothing to do with it. He's a great guy," Sam muttered, trying to ignore the guilt pinching his cheeks. He had been harsh in his condemnation of Maddy's father. "It's rich people in general."

  Bullfrog frowned, sat forward, and steepled his fingers. "Do you have a basis for this assessment? Because it sounds like you're stereotyping all rich people as SOBs, which is ridiculous."

  Sam scowled at him. The impulse to bite his NCO's head off morphed into the grudging acknowledgment that he really wasn't being fair. That suspicion had occurred to him before now, usually during the long, lonely hours when he'd lain in bed aching for the feel of Maddy's arms around him.

  Maybe he was stereotyping. Ever since Wendy's father had pegged him as the Latino sexual predator, he'd viewed the wealthy as presumptuous and manipulative, as people who viewed him as unworthy. What if the fault didn't lie with them, but with him for viewing their actions in a prejudiced light?

  If Lyle Scott were destitute, would he have made a similar request of Sam? Probably. It wasn't that he viewed Sam's career as unimportant. It was simply that he was overwrought with concern for his daughter's safety. Sam's stepfather had been the same way back when Sam was in jail. He'd knocked on doors and thrown himself into raising the funds needed for a top-notch lawyer. Wealthy or poor, it was a father's job to protect his off spring.

  Sam swiped a hand over his eyes, "Shit," he muttered, wondering if it was too late to make amends.

  A comfortable silence fell over the table, filled with the roar of the ocean and the lulling throb of the base guitar.

  "So, you're going to call him?" Bronco urged.

  "You should call him tonight. See how Maddy's doing," Bullfrog seconded.

  Sam dropped his hand and sent his teammates a wry smile. "I'm going to call." He felt immediately better having made that decision. "Thanks, guys," he added.

  Bullfrog flashed him an evil grin. "Any time you need a kick in the ass, I'm here for you," he sniggered, reaching for his empty bottle and pushing his chair back.

  Bullfrog rose up after him, his scotch glass still full. The two went back inside leaving Sam stewing in a whole new cauldron of emotions.

  If he called Lyle Scott after all these months, would the man even answer? What if Maddy had given up on waiting for him and gotten on with her life? By now she ought to have finished taking samples in El Chaco. Was she busy analyzing them or already hard at work on another assignment? Assuming Sam even secured her father's blessing, would she be open to forgiving him after he'd behaved like a moronic idiot?

  He drew a steadying breath. The bite of damp, winter air chased the fog of tequila out of his brain. He'd better do this while he still had the courage. Teasing his cell phone out of his pocket, he accessed his contact list and dialed Lyle Scott directly.

  A bolt of lightning, unusual at this time of year, jagged out over the ocean, forking into half a dozen branches that sizzled across the sky.

  He shouldn't have let the past dictate the present. Life without Maddy was meaningless. He hadn't needed any lectures or another sleepless night to know that that was true. Nothing had tasted, smelled, or felt like it did when she was with him. He'd never find another woman like her—didn't even want to try.

  A chill breeze dried the sweat on his palm as the phone rang and rang in his ear. He was just about to hang up when Lyle Scott answered.

  "Sam?" he said. The friendly tenor and the hopeful quality in his voice was all it took to banish Sam's apprehension. "Is that you, son?"

  Son. The word warmed him. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry it took so long for me to call you back."

  "Oh, don't worry about that. Can't blame you for not wanting to talk to me."

  "No, it's my fault. I took your offer completely wrong. I overreacted, and I ruined the best thing that's ever happened to me. How's it going on your end?" he asked before Lyle could comment. "What's the latest with Van Slyke?"

  "Well, Maddy's idea to get him on the poisoning worked, thank God. That's exactly how Elliot Koch died—he'd been poisoned, same as Maddy. Paul was charged, extradited from Switzerland, and taken into custody. His trial is set at the end of this month. I'm hoping you can testify."

  Sam thought about the next op, which wasn't until the end of March. "I'd be happy to, sir. How's, uh, how's Maddy doing?"

  "Oh, well enough."

  The hesitation in Lyle's voice filled Sam with dread. "Where is she these days?" he dared to ask.

  "She's right here in McLean," the Senator said unexpectedly, "taking some time off before her next assignment."

  Sam's spirits rose and then plummeted. She was already headed on a new assignment. "How much time do I have?"

  "Hmm, well, it's hard to say. I wouldn't dawdle if you'd like to see her," Lyle suggested.

  Sam's mouth went dry. "You think she's open to seeing me again?"

  "It might take some persuasion on your part, but you're not the type to walk away from a challenge now, are you, Sam?"

  Maddy was going to take some convincing, then. "No, sir," he agreed. "I'd like to show up tomorrow morning." The next day was a Thursday, with Christmas Eve on Friday. "Is that too soon? Will she be there?"

  "I'll make sure of it," Lyle countered. "By the way, did I get your vote on election day?"

  "No, sir. I'm a resident of Florida, not Texas."

  Lyle laughed. "I'm just joshing you, Sam. Doesn't matter to me if you're a Democrat or a Republican, Communist or Libertarian. You saved my life and you're the man my daughter loves. I'll make sure Maddy's here tomorrow. 'Bout what time do you plan to show up?"

  "Say ten hundred hours?"

  "I'll expect you at 10 A.M. sharp, then. And Sam?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Next time I overstep my bounds, you just tell me to back off, you hear?"

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  Nice guy, Sam thought, putting his phone away. Jumping to his feet, he resisted the urge to pump his fists into the sky and holler, "Yeah!" Instead, he bounded down the steps at the side of the building and hurried toward his parked car.

  Maddy was back in the states, within driving distance. He knew an urge to drive straight to her house, only first he needed to rehearse the words required to win her back and to keep her there, safe in his heart, where she belonged.

  * * *

  "Where've you been?"

  Looking harried, Maddy's father greeted Maddy at the front door. It was quarter to ten in the morning. Her appointment hadn't lasted any longer than she'd expected.

  "What do you mean? I had the follow-up on the amniocentesis, remember? You wanted to come, but you had a video conference?"

  "Oh, that's right." His confusion cleared, giving way to immediate concern. "What's the news, sweetheart?" he asked, drawing her into the foyer and holding both her hands. "How's the baby?"

  She managed to drum up a smile for him. "So far, everything looks great."

  "Really? No genetic disorders, no spina bifida? Nothing?"

  "Nope. The baby looks healthy."

  "Thank God!" Relief shone in her father's damp eyes, filling her with shame for not being overcome with joy herself. Of course, she'd been relieved to find out that Dr. Troost's concerns hadn't manifested. She didn't have to make the awful choice to abort her baby, which was all she had left of Sam and the hope of a life together. But an equally big decision now loomed over her.

  Her father engulfed her in a hug that enveloped her in smells of ironing starch and aftershave. After a silent moment, he set her at arm's length and frowned down at her. "Why aren't you smiling? Something else is bothering you," he guessed. But then he answered his own question. "You're thinking it's time to tell Sam, aren't you?"

  Just the sound of Sam's name had her squirming out of her father's hold and heading for the hall closet. "It's not a
n easy decision," she mumbled, hanging her purse on a hook and tackling the buttons on her wool coat. "Maybe if he'd shown some interest in me these last few months," she added with anguish.

  She felt a sudden need for fresh air. Changing her mind, she buttoned her coat back up. "You know what? I'll be in the back yard. I need some time to think."

  Turning away from her father's torn expression, she hurried through the great room at the rear of the house and out the French doors that led to the veranda.

  The flagstone path, edged with flowerbeds of purple and white cabbage, conveyed her toward the tree line and the little bridge she hadn't visited since the night Elliot Koch had targeted her father. Thoughts of Uncle Paul's upcoming trial flitted into her head, but she pushed them aside. Justice would prevail. The path ended at a fountain, drained for the winter. She crossed a bit of bristle lawn to enter the woods. Pine needles crackled underfoot. The crisp December air of winter seared her nostrils.

  Sam. The memory of the last time she'd been here assailed her without warning. She could still recall the thrill of holding his hand, of guiding him toward the bridge arching over the creek ahead. She'd wanted so badly for him to admit she had as much right to pursue her calling as he had to pursue his, to realize that they were more alike than different.

  She'd wanted him to kiss her and have that kiss transform his life. And it almost had.

  He'd finally admitted—not then, but many weeks later on the night that the Cessna had crashed—that they were like a tag team. A dynamic duo working to make the world a better place. A sentimental smile touched the edges of her cold lips.

  But then he'd left her because of what her father had offered. Because her father had ground his pride beneath the heel of his polished, patent leather shoes.

  She didn't blame Sam for that. She didn't even blame him for not loving her enough to forgive her father, for not loving her the way that she loved him. You couldn't chose whom you gave your heart to or how much you loved someone. She'd learned that the hard way. She knew he'd felt something for her but, in the end, it wasn't enough.