1217 ZULU
JAG HQ
Falls Church, VA
"Hold the elevator!" I holler, hustling as fast as my heels can carry me loaded down with briefcase, laptop, cover, and umbrella.
A familiar masculine hand reaches out, and forces the closing doors open again.
"Thanks," I breathe, smiling at Harm.
"Your welcome, Mac," he returns pleasantly. He punches the button for our floor, and leans against the back of the elevator, crossing his arms over his chest. It's then I notice that he's without briefcase, laptop, cover, and overcoat.
"How long have you been in the office?" I ask incredulously, making sure I put just enough astonishment in my voice to annoy him.
He refuses to be baited, however.
"Since 0645," he replies easily, watching me. I swear--he's up to something. I mean, Harmon Rabb, present and accounted for before the motor pool lanes open? Present and accounted for before me?
I drop everything but my cover and laptop, and reach up to press a hand against his forehead. Since I'm touching him anyway, I let my hand trail down the side of his face, across the smooth, freshly-shaven curve of his cheek before finally pulling away. Harm scowls, but makes no effort on his end to pull away from my touch.
"No, no fever," I murmur. Another idea hits me, and I reach forward again to pinch his other cheek (the facial one, thank you), tugging gently on the flesh.
"Ow!"
Big baby. "And it appears to be really you," I continue. He rubs his red cheek petulantly. I don't bother to hide my amusement.
"Of course it's me!"
"Well, I had to check. For all I know, Palmer could have abducted you and took your place. You can't say it hasn't happened before."
He doesn't reply as he continues to rub his cheek. Really. I didn't pinch it that hard. Squids.
"Since you don't appear to be physically sick, nor does it appear that a psychotic DSD agent has assumed your identity, I can only conclude that you have fallen grievously ill in your mental faculties—there can be no other explanation," I announce with finality.
"Maybe I just wanted an early start to the day."
"Okay, who are you and what have you done with my partner?"
"Cute."
"He's about your height, has your slightly muscular build, jet black hair, same green eyes, killer—" I break off suddenly, as I realize my rambling has only served to inflate the already enormous pilot ego he has. Instead of the scowl, I have the full-blown killer flyboy smile. He raises his eyebrows politely, waiting for me to finish my sentence.
He can just wait a little longer.
"Anyway, I don't know why you think coming in early will help our case—we spent half the night on it and didn't come up with anything."
"Why, Colonel MacKenzie is that doubt I hear? Misgivings? Little confidence in the legal abilities of the Great Sarah MacKenzie, US Marine Corp attorney?" He sounds like he's quoting something.
"I'm just trying to be realistic."
"Ha." He snorts. "I said that the other day, and I believe you attacked me for insulting your 'legal prowess'."
"You didn't say anything of the kind," I reply, recollecting the conversation in my office.
"Yes I did."
"No, you didn't."
"Yes, I--hmm. Well, I must've been thinking it." He states, as if that proves his point. Which is?
"What else were you thinking that you failed to tell me?"
He grins mischievously. "I don't think you want to know, Mac."
I get the impression that I probably don't. However…
"Try me." I'm curious as to the types of thoughts that circulate in Harm's mind at any given moment—or at least any given moment with me.
"Well…" he replies, a decidedly cocky smile on his face. The elevator dings and we both look at it. I quickly punch a button—I think to the floor below us, or the basement, I'm not sure.
"You were saying?" I prompt as the doors close with a muffled clunk.
He looks from the doors to me and shrugs.
"What was I saying?" he asks innocently.
"Harm…"
"Yes, Mac?"
"You were saying about your thoughts?"
"My thoughts? Oh, my thoughts. Yes, the mind of an aviator-turned-lawyer is an—"
"Yes, yes, you were probably thinking of g-forces, catapults, high altitudes, some leggy blond bimbo hanging off your gold wings, and maybe an actual case or two in that receptacle you call a brain."
"Actually she was brunette—and quite brilliant."
I am not going to show how pleased I am by that. I am not going to show how pleased I am—wait a second. He's not actually thinking I would hang off his gold wings? Knowing Harm's brain, he probably was. Is.
"Not your usual M.O. Anyone I know?"
"Maybe."
"Really? Where'd you meet this mystery woman?"
"In a rose garden—or actually, at the curb next to the path leading to the rose garden."
Leave it to Harm to suck the romance out of our first meeting. I'm not about to critique his thoughts of me, though.
"So, what were you and this brilliant brunette doing—besides swooning all over you and your gold wings?"
"Marines don't swoon."
I didn't think it was possible for one's heart to beat so wildly in a non life-threatening situation. Mine is beating so loudly I almost don't hear Harm's next few words.
"But, she was doing a brilliant imitation of it."
I swat him on the arm.
"More abuse? Now I know why I make it a habit of coming in later than you—you're mean in the morning."
"I haven't had my coffee yet. So, dream girl is a marine?" I say, getting back to the matter at hand, and relishing every word of that question. My spirits soar even higher when I see Harm flush a little as he looks away. The elevator dings again and I furiously press a button without ever tearing my gaze from my partner.
"And a brunette. And brilliant. Hmm…it does sound like someone I know. All except that swoon—or near swoon—part. I mean it would have to take one hell of a sailor to illicit that sort of a response."
Harm gives me a mock-wounded expression. "You don't think I can?"
"Honestly?" I quip.
"Even if I was, oh, apologizing profusely for misleading you about those Superbowl seats, let's say. And I wanted to make it up to you," he says moving closer.
"Mm-hmm," I reply skeptically, not willing to be sucked into the Rabb charm too quickly.
"But you were making it difficult for me"—I flash him a stern look—"and rightfully so," he concedes. "I might have to take to more…inventive methods…" His mouth is hovering right near mine, and I'm barely aware of the umbrella I step on in an effort to get even closer.
"Such as?"
Touchdown. Harm's lips descend on mine, as my laptop thuds to the floor. Dimly, I hope it's all right, but I have to say most of my attention is occupied by the sensations Harm's evoking.
We pull away quickly—much too quickly—neither of us wanting to be caught engaging in an indiscretion in the office elevator. Harm gives me a sheepish, but unapologetic, grin.
"What do you say, Mac? You agree to live and let live about those Superbowl seats?"
"Well, I might agree to dinner. Just to give you the chance to do better. We'll see about the seats."
He smiles, pleased. "I look forward to it, marine. I know just the place." He gives me a quick peck on the lips.
I smile, thinking this morning is shaping up nicely.
This time I barely even register the sound of the elevator doors opening, so engrossed am I in my partner and my thoughts.
"Colonel. Commander," a deep voice greets us gruffly, shoving us back into the present. Swiftly, I reach down to snatch my briefcase off the floor. Harm picks up my umbrella and laptop and hands them to me.
"Morning, sir," he replies, leaning against the back of the elevator, very nearly the picture of nonchalance.
"You're here awfully early, Mr. Rabb. Can I safely assume that isn't a sign of the apocalypse?"
"No, sir. Yes, sir. Uh—"
"I trust you and the colonel are prepared to present your case today." The admiral eyes us both suspiciously. Damn. I almost managed to forget about that. Well, today was shaping up be an enjoyable day.
"As a matter of fact, I was wanting to go over something I discovered in the information that Webb sent with the colonel. Possibly the break we need." I glance curiously at him, and he gives me a sort of half shrug that says, "there wasn't time this morning." No, given the fifteen minutes we spent flirting in the elevator, I suppose there wasn't.
"Mm-hmm," the admiral says. He proceeds to launch into a diatribe about our client, the secnav, media influence, and related JAG topics. Harm nods or says "Yes, sir" about every eighth word, and I manage a few acknowledgements myself, but my mind is turning only with one thing.
I have a date with Harmon Rabb.