One by one the senior officers came onto the bridge. Tense and subdued, they took up their posts and ran the instrument checks that were standard procedure when coming on duty. From his central command chair Captain James T. Kirk watched, his lips tightened into a thin line. Today he took none of his usual satisfaction in the well-oiled workings of ship and crew. This was no ordinary mission. He carried out his orders under protest and cared little who saw his displeasure.

With a hiss the lift doors opened again. Mister Spock made an unhurried entry and took over the science station. The bridge crew was complete. Everyone had been briefed. They were patrolling an area of Space dangerously close to the Klingon Empire. Two weeks earlier a Federation science vessel had disappeared in this same region, leaving nothing but an abrupt distress signal. The scenario was suspiciously like that of the Grissom tragedy at Genesis. Kirk could not get over the feeling that he was walking into a trap—a trap set for him by Starfleet brass.

Punching the amber button under his fingertips, he said, "Condition yellow, all decks."

The command initiated a mild burst of activity. Reports of precautionary measures streamed through the communication board. "All stations at yellow alert," Uhura confirmed.

Kirk reached for his console's intercom. "Engineering. Status report, Mister Scott."

"Everthin's fine down here, Captain," came the reply. "She's purrin' like a well-fed kitten."

Kirk barely concealed a smile. Leave it to Scotty to carry on as if nothing were out of the ordinary. "Very good, Mister Scott."

Kirk settled back in his chair. "Helmsman, initiate standard search pattern. If the Cousteau's anywhere near, we'll find her."

Uhura touched her ear receptor and looked up. "Captain, I'm picking up some unusual bursts of static…" Kirk swiveled and watched the communications officer make a rapid series of adjustments, then shrug. "It's gone," she said.

Kirk turned his attention on his first officer. Spock was concentrating on long-range scanners and sensors. An enemy approach, a disabled ship, and even infinitesimal traces of wreckage or transit—he would check for them all. The safety of the new Enterprise, the success of their mission, could well depend on the Vulcan's alertness. Kirk kept to himself any nagging doubts as to Spock's ability to handle the job.

"Captain!" Spock's dark head bend over his instruments. "Two Klingon cruisers uncloaking. Range 50,000 meters and closing fast."

Kirk experienced a surge of adrenaline. "Initiate evasive maneuvers! Uhura, broadcast our peaceful intent on all frequencies. Let them know we're on a rescue mission, not looking for a fight."

"Visual contact," Sulu said.

The disquieting shapes of Klingon battle cruisers took form on the screen.

"Have they acknowledged?" Kirk asked Uhura.

She shook her head. "No, Captain."

"They are arming weapons," Spock warned.

"Condition red!" Kirk slapped the appropriate button on his console. "Get those shields up!"

The klaxon sounded general quarters, sending the Enterprise to full combat readiness. Preparations were still underway when Spock issued a warning and a torpedo blast rocked the bridge.

"Damn," Kirk swore, holding tight to his chair. "Open a channel to those ships, Uhura!"

Uhura's fingers furiously worked the connections on her board. She frowned. "Captain, they're not responding."

"Shields at eighty percent," Spock reported.

Chekov said, "Veapons armed and ready."

"Incoming torpedoes!" Spock's voice rang out.

The second attack caught the Enterprise amidships, violently wrenching it to one side. Everyone fought to maintain his or her balance as the ship slowly righted under Sulu's expert handing. Damage reports flooded in. This time there were casualties.

"Lock on phasers!" Kirk ordered. "Fire on command!"

Chekov rapidly set the weapons. "Phasers ready, Keptin."

"Fire!" Kirk watched grimly as the volley found its mark on the enemy ships.

The intercom sounded. "Captain!" called Scott in a breathless voice. "We're loosin' power. That last strike caused more damage than we—" Static washed out the engineer's urgent report.

Kirk imagined a hellish scene below decks and jabbed the communication button. "Dammit, Scotty, hold it together down there!"

Scott's muttered reply came clear. "Aye, sir, with maybe some chewin' gum and bailin' wire…"

The Klingon warships loomed closer. Spock consulted his instruments. "Shields at fifteen percent. They cannot hold long against these assaults. Captain, I strongly advise we—"

"Lock phasers on both ships, " Kirk cut in. "Let's hope Scotty's on the job."

"Phasers locked." Chekov's hand hovered over the weapons console.

"Banks one and two," Kirk ordered, "fire in sequence."

Chekov's hand dropped. Phaser blasts streaked toward the oncoming cruisers. The Klingons attacked simultaneously, scoring direct hits on the Enterprise. The ship reeled under the massive assault. Sparks cascaded from control panels. Lights flickered and dimmed.

"Auxilliary power!" Spock shouted above the chaos. Then, "Shields out."

Scott's discouraged voice sounded from Engineering. "That's about it, Captain. We've been knocked royal. Warp drive, weapon systems…gone. All gone. Barely enough left for life support an' impulse power…"

A chilling silence descended over the smoky bridge. Only Uhura spoke, fielding the disheartening glut of damage reports from every deck. With a sick feeling Kirk watched the Klingon ships swing around. He was barely aware of Spock leaving his post, coming up behind him. He felt the Vulcan sink his lean fingers into the upholstery at his back. "Spock," he said quietly, "you were suggesting…?"

"Incoming!" cried Chekov.

Kirk braced himself, but an overload surged from the control arms of his chair. A strange, sharp sensation gripped his chest. His teeth clenched. Here it comes, he thought, sliding limply to the deck.

Spock stood over the fallen captain. There was a horrible stillness beneath Kirk's eyelids. Red blood seeped from his mouth, forging a sticky trail down the side of his face.

"Sickbay!" Uhura shouted into her console. "Captain Kirk's been injured!"

The urgency in her voice set Spock in motion. Dropping to his knees beside Kirk, he opened the captain's jacket and checked for a neck pulse and respiration. The captain was alive. Of course Jim was alive. He needed to calm himself. He had to think clearly. He was now in command.

"Sir," said Chekov. "Mister Spock, let me…"

With an effort Spock rose and stepped away from Kirk's body. Chekov took his place. Sulu turned around, looked at him, and said, "Your orders, Mister Spock."

Spock suppressed a stirring of panic. Moving to the science station, he signaled Engineering. "Mister Scott, we need warp drive. What is your status?"

The chief engineer spoke wearily. "It's nae good, Mister Spock. I havna even assessed all the damage. To attempt warp drive could crack a pod wide open, or shatter the dilithium crystals. That is, if I could even start the engines. The main relays—"

Spock interrupted the cheerless litany. "Scott, our situation is critical. Shut down life support to all nonessential areas of the ship. Divert all remaining power to warp drive. Perform one of your feats of engineering genius."

"Aye, sir…" Scott did not sound hopeful.

Spock turned his attention to Uhura. "Commander, if you can establish communication…"

"I'm trying!" she answered, obviously frustrated.

The lift doors burst open. Doctor McCoy rushed to Kirk's side and pulled a diagnostic scanner from his medical kit. "Klingon bastards," he muttered.

Spock inwardly agreed. He did not need his instruments to tell him that the warships were once again within firing range. The Klingons were circling the Enterprise like bloodthirsty predators.

"Alright." Scott's voice broke through the static on the intercom. "Ye've got yer warp power, Mister Spock. Ah've rigged somethin' up, but ah canna promise she'll hold for long…"

Spock drew in a deep breath, went to the command chair, and sat down. "Engage warp drive, Mister Sulu."

The Enterprise lurched forward. On the screen, the stars grew shivery and elongated into a dizzying view of warpspace. The computer attempted to impose order on the construct, and failed. It, too, was malfunctioning.

"Warp one," Sulu said, "warp two…warp three…"

An intermittent shudder spoke of serious engine imbalance. Spock dug his fingers into the arms of his chair and willed the ship—and his nerves—to steady.

"Warp four," Sulu counted. "Warp five…"

A violent explosion rocked the Enterprise. Abruptly the ship skewed and fell out of warp. Seared bits of wreckage floated across the screen as Sulu fought to regain helm control.

Spock punched the command console intercom. "Mister Scott! Mister Scott, acknowledge!" Silence answered. He had forgotten that Kirk's console was damaged.

At Communications, Uhura leaned forward and fingered her ear receptor. "Starboard pod destroyed," she said in a shaken voice. "Main engineering hull breached."

"Scotty," breathed McCoy. "Oh my God…"

Numbly Spock met the doctor's eyes. McCoy's look seemed accusing. Against his will, Spock's gaze lowered to the injured captain. The blood on Kirk's face had dried. He almost appeared dead. But his is not dead, Spock told himself. The ship is undamaged. There are no Klingons. This is only an illusion.

"Ships sighted!" Sulu called. "Klingons at 10,000 meters." Stiffening, he peered at his instruments. "Unauthorized transporter activity. Multiple boarding parties arriving." He turned around, awaiting Spock's next command. At the jarring sound of the intruder alert, all eyes settled on the silent, unmoving Vulcan.

"Spock!" McCoy hissed in a stage whisper. "Dammit, man!"

Kirk cracked his eyes open. The pain in them was so intense that Spock swiveled his chair away. Mind racing, he thought, it is already too late. Klingons are aboard. They are working their way to the bridge. There arose a sharp, paralyzing fear of falling into Klingon hands again. And not only him, this time. Jim…McCoy…the entire crew subject to torture and degradation…

"Mister Spock," Sulu said. "Sir, your orders…"

A tight feeling in Spock's chest made it difficult to breathe. He could not think clearly. He could not perform even the simplest functions. It was over. Finished. As if of its own accord, his hand fumbled for the perscan device at his beltline. His fingers closed around it and tightened convulsively. He felt the delicate monitor crush in his grip.

The intruder alert fell silent. With a sharp hiss the turbolift doors opened, flooding the bridge with light. Ventilation fans kicked in. Admiral Morrow strode onto the simulator, his dark face somber.

Kirk blinked, then rolled to his feet scratching at the crust of stage blood on his cheek. "Admiral—" he began with anger in his voice.

"Later, Jim." Morrow's brooding eyes scanned the wreckage of the bridge and finally came to rest on Spock. The Vulcan stood. Morrow said, "Captain, you will come with me."

oooo

Kirk paced the plush anteroom outside Morrows office. With each step the thick blue carpeting sucked at his boots like quicksand. "I knew it!" he fumed. "I just knew it was all about Spock! Damn! Forty-five minutes! What the hell's going on in there?"

McCoy leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Calm down, Jim. Remember your place."

Kirk spun around and faced him. "My place?"

"You're not an admiral anymore."

"I know what I am," Kirk said hotly. "And I know Spock. He deserves better than this."

"He certainly does," drawled McCoy. "First they pat us on the back and give us a starship, then they treat us like a bunch of raw cadets. But Jim—" he leaned forward, "shoot off your mouth and you're liable to get slapped down—hard."

Kirk glared at his outspoken friend. Yes, they had given him a starship—Starfleet's Revenge might be a better name for it than Enterprise. The ship was a pile of junk, an embarrassment. But all its malfunctions were as nothing compared to the rank humiliation of today's training session. If Command was trying to provoke him, it was certainly doing a splendid job.

The inner door opened. A boyish yeoman stuck his head into the anteroom. "Admiral Morrow will see you now, Captain."

Kirk went inside and was ushered through another doorway, into Morrow's retreat. The office had been redecorated since the last time Kirk was here. More blue. Endless shades of blue, right down to the picture windows full of brilliant blue sky. It provided a sharp contrast to Morrow's dark presence behind the desk. Where the hell had Spock gone? A frosty-looking brunette in commander's insignia sat in one of two desk-side chairs.

"Harry," Kirk said, hoping to set a casual tone for the meeting. He was determined not to lose his temper.

Morrow motioned toward the empty seat. "Sit down, Jim." Kirk obediently lowered himself into the chair.

"Captain Kirk," Morrow said by way of introduction, "this is Doctor Sayda Stackhouse, Chief of Psychiatry at Starfleet Medical Center."

Kirk stiffened. He had heard of "S.S." Stackhouse. Everyone had. A referral to her psychiatric couch could mean the end of your career. He offered a restrained greeting and Stackhouse coolly returned the courtesy.

"There's no sense drawing this out," Morrow said. "Jim, I can understand why you objected to today's test. It's never been Starfleet's policy to haul seasoned officers through the simulator. Since it was the Medical Department that devised this unusual approach, I'll let Doctor Stackhouse explain."

Kirk gripped the arms of his chair as Stackhouse eyed him. She said, "Due to the…shall we say…unique circumstances surrounding Captain Spock's return to Starfleet, he was examined in depth by a team of doctors at the medical center."

Kirk nodded. "I know. Doctor McCoy said he was as healthy as a horse."

"Physically, yes. Captain, information of this nature is normally confidential, but you've selected Spock as your first officer and that makes him a member of your crew. Therefore, you have a legal right to know. Captain Spock's psyche exams were inconsistent and…troubling."

Kirk's stomach flipped. "Troubling. In what way?'

"He exhibited unacceptable levels of fear and aggression when exposed to xenophobic stimuli."

"Klingons," Morrow clarified. "A marked aversion to Klingons."

"My God," Kirk breathed. Spock's experience of Klingons on the Genesis planet was bad enough, but add to that his subsequent captivity. It was no wonder Spock felt hostile after everything Torlath did to him and his daughter. However, Starfleet knew nothing of that later trauma. Even if they were told, would it make any difference? "Harry—I don't like them, either. They murdered my son. Spock was there. He saw it happen."

"Jim, of course," Morrow said kindly. "But maybe I didn't make it clear. Captain Spock's reaction goes far beyond any simple dislike. It has been diagnosed as an "obsessive, debilitating phobia".

Kirk stared at him in stunned silence.

After a moment, Stackhouse spoke. "The purpose of the simulation was to monitor Spock's reactions in a realistic but controlled setting. He was fully aware that he was being tested. We had his consent."

"And if he hadn't consented?"

Morrow had the grace to look uncomfortable. "He would have lost his flight clearance."

Kirk had no time to react before Stackhouse added, "Captain Spock assured me that he was quite capable of controlling his responses. Unfortunately, destroying his perscan monitor voided the conditions of the test. Not that he would have passed, anyway. You witnessed his performance. I'm afraid the data we accumulated only served to reinforce my diagnosis."

"Jim, I'm sorry," Morrow said.

The admiral's tone infuriated Kirk. He didn't want Harry's sympathy, he wanted answers—he wanted action. "How long until Spock can be reinstated?"

"It depends," Stackhouse said with clinical detachment. "So far he has refused psychiatric treatment. Unless he starts to cooperate…"

"But he's Vulcan!" Kirk flared. "Can't you find him a Vulcan healer?"

"Half Vulcan," corrected the doctor. "Even so, I have offered to enlist the aid of a healer. Spock refused. I don't know why. He understands the nature of his affliction. He knows there's help available. It's up to him whether or not he chooses to accept it."

Kirk bit back a sharp response. McCoy was right. No use shooting off his mouth. Deep down he had feared this day was coming. Spock had not been himself since returning from the grave. Yet through it all Kirk had kept up the pressure, never letting Spock forget the life that had once been his, the home still awaiting him in Starfleet.

"I know what Spock means to you," Morrow said. "Perhaps…if you talk to him."

Kirk nodded and stood up. His body felt stiff, as if he had been sitting a long while. As if he were getting old. "Thank you for your time," he said, and walked out of the office.

oooo

In his faculty apartment Spock dropped down on his bed and breathing hard, stared at the ceiling. One by one he pulled off his boots and tossed them to the floor. Opening his uniform jacket, he let the air penetrate the sweat-dampened shirt underneath. He felt hot, burning hot.

A Vulcan who could not control his emotions was a disgrace to himself and his entire clan. The fact that he was also part human did nothing to alleviate the sense of shame. Even a full-bloodied human could have performed better than he did today. And it had only been a simulation—a sham. What might have happened if he were thrown into a real encounter with Klingons? With a sigh Spock closed his eyes and attempted to quiet his mind. The violence of his own thoughts sickened him. It was Klingons who had wrought this change—Torlath, that filthy lying pekh, and his murdering son Kruge…

With an effort he stopped the train of thought. These days he was as full of anger as his daughter on Vulcan, and nearly as undisciplined. T'Beth had not spoken to him since the council at ShiKahr confined her as punishment for vandalism. She blamed him because he had encouraged her to confess. In truth, he had not known how severe a penalty the elders would exact. He wanted T'Beth off Vulcan, but now there was the matter of her parole as well as his own situation to deal with.

There was a rapping sound. Spock opened his eyes and listened. The knock came again. He knew of only one person who did not use the doorchime, and taking note of the hour, he was certain of the visitor's identity. After a moment's indecision, he leaned over and spoke through the bedside intercom. "Come in, Doctor. I'll be with you directly."

He was committed now. He took his time putting on his boots and making himself outwardly presentable. The inner man was more difficult to prepare. Still wrestling dark emotions, he left the privacy of his bedroom. He found Doctor Fielding standing at a window. The soft light of midday shone on her golden hair. Turning toward him she smiled, and her blue eyes touched Spock with heart-rending warmth.

She does not yet know, he realized and found himself wishing against all logic that they would stay locked in this one moment forever, and she would never learn of his failure. But inevitably the moment passed. Lauren's smile faded into a look of mild concern. She was a very perceptive woman.

Before she could say anything, Spock went to the computer and sat down. Out of habit he checked first for any message from his daughter. There was none. He called up his current work display and said, "Doctor, so far I have had little success in reconstructing the project's third phase. My memory is uncertain. However, I am sure this formula is accurate."

Lauren came over. Her left hand touched the back of his chair as she leaned forward, concentrating on the screen. A pleasing scent of gardenias enveloped him. "Yes," she said excitedly, "that's it! I remember now."

Spock could have told her that her mind contained every detail of the lost data, that had he been willing he could retrieve it in a series of melds. Instead, he directed the computer to integrate the recovered formula with the slowly growing body of research.

"It fits perfectly," she said with satisfaction. "A few more like that and we'll really be back in business."

Spock's eyebrow quirked in puzzlement and he looked up at her. "Back in business?"

She smiled. "A figure of speech. It means…our project will be up and running."

"Oh." Yet another figure of speech, but one that he understood well enough. He thought for a moment. "But Doctor, it is your project, not ours."

Lauren straightened. "From the very beginning you were a part of it. An essential part."

"I was merely your patient," Spock said. "It was you who made the study of my illness, and you who cured me. It was you alone who went on to seek a similar cure for full-blooded Vulcans."

"Wait a minute. You helped."

"A few minor suggestions."

"I'd hardly call them that," Lauren said. "I opened the whole project to you. And now, if it weren't for your input—" She stopped, drew a deep breath. Her voice grew very persuasive. "Spock, if it weren't for you, there would be no plakir-fee project. I insist that you share fully in the credit."

Spock turned aside. Struggling with himself, he arose and walked over to a window.

"It's only logical," she said from across the room.

Logical? Gazing upon the academy green, he shook his head. This project had very little to do with logic. However interesting and useful the medical research, it was only an excuse for them to come together. They both knew it. Through all the weeks of "scientific" meetings, he had sensed a pain much like his own twisting in her heart. He could not give her what she wanted. Yet Lauren continued to smile, to hope, to make plans that included him.

"What is it?" she asked gently. "What's wrong?"

He made no reply.

"You're shutting me out again. Why?"

Spock forced himself to turn and meet the hurting in her eyes. "Lauren," his voice strained, "I am not right for you."

Her face fell. "I don't think so. You didn't used to think so, either."

"I have changed."

"I know. I accept that."

"No," Spock said emphatically. "You do not the hell know anything about me."

Lauren stared at him. Tears sprang into her eyes and her jaw firmed with anger. "Oh, really? Well, I have news, Captain. I've seen just about every side of you there is to see. Have you completely forgotten our stay on Gamma Vertas IV? Or what drugs did to you afterward? You weren't always nice then, either. I know you're not perfect—you never were."

Spock's temper flared. "I never claimed to be anything…anything but—"

"Human?" Lauren stepped up to him, clearly furious. "Oh, that dirty word. Go ahead, hold tight to your Vulcan dignity. Kiss it and take it to bed with you, and see if it kisses you back."

Anger surging, Spock clenched his fists and said, "We are finished!"

Lauren turned on her heel and stormed from the apartment. The door partially closed behind her, then made a strange laboring sound and snapped open again. Kirk appeared in the doorway. His hazel eyes sought out Spock, silently requesting permission to enter. There was no graceful way to refuse him.

Working to compose himself, Spock said, "Captain."

Kirk stepped inside and gestured back over his shoulder. "What's up with Lauren? You two feuding again?"

"We are…collaborating," Spock replied levelly, "on a medical research project."

"I see," Kirk said and fell silent. For a moment he just looked at Spock. Then his hands came together and he began to twist the Enterprise signet ring that he had received from Spock one Christmas. It meant he was nervous.

Spock returned to the computer and pretended to take as interest in the display. "It is Doctor Fielding's study of plakir-fee. She still hopes to adapt the technique used in my healing so that it will benefit full-blooded Vulcans."

"She's a dedicated woman."

Spock stared at the screen. "Yes."

Kirk came up to the desk and cleared his throat. "Spock," he said softly, "I've just come from Admiral Morrow's office." The pretense was over. Spock sat back and let his breath out slowly. "Maybe," Kirk added, "if you told them everything. About what you went through, about T'Beth…"

Spock experienced a fresh influx of anger. It was becoming more and more difficult to maintain even a semblance of control. Kirk of all people should understand something of a Vulcan's need for privacy. "Captain," he said. "Please…"

Kirk did not seem to hear him. Caught up in his own emotions, the captain put his hands on the desk and leaned closer. "Spock. Do you think this is easy for me? The Klingons killed my son. They murdered David. It hurts like hell, but at least I can say it. It's no good keeping things all bottled up inside."

Once more, Spock's hands clenched. Yes. Losing David had hurt Kirk. But it was not the same. It was not Jim's back that had suffered the Klingon's lash. It was not his ears that had endured their insults, their lies, and had almost grown to accept them. It was not he who had played the dutiful slave while Torlath laughed and did as he pleased with his young daughter—a daughter who would no longer even speak to him. No. It was not the same. And it was not something Spock could talk about—with Kirk, with McCoy, and certainly not with a psychiatrist.

Wordlessly he rose, went into his bedroom, and the door slid shut behind him.

oooo

Lauren usually spent her weekends at the beach house. Saturday morning was a lazy time. Though she was not one to sleep late, she did enjoy the luxury of staying in bed until she felt good and ready to start the day.

This morning she lay listening to the rhythmic pounding of the surf. Why hurry? Spock probably wouldn't be out to work on their project, not after the way she unloaded on him at his apartment. We are finished, he had said. Had he meant permanently finished? Either way, things might never be the same between them—as if there ever had been anything between her and this Spock but memories. Considering his mental state, she had not been surprised to hear that he was grounded. What surprised her was how deeply she still cared.

Sighing, Lauren threw back the covers. No use nursing old wounds. She showered and ate breakfast, then sat out on the porch with a pad of paper. The day was brilliant and unseasonably warm, the pleasant sort of weather her grandmother would have called "Indian summer". For a time she lost herself in the restless motion of wind and wave, pausing only to take down an occasional note. Fine inspirations sometimes came to her in this receptive state. Time passed quickly.

At noon she stood up and stretched. Spock was late—very late. Clearly he wasn't coming, and there was not a thing she could do about it. God knows, she had already spent enough time fretting over him and his strange ways. But how to stop fretting? Every time she tried to forget him, a distant whispering of his pain beckoned to her heart. Some days the feeling made her feel used and angry. At other times she clung to it like a life preserver.

After lunch, Lauren sat down again and began to doodle. A taut, intricate pattern of curlicues half-filled the page before she looked up again—and saw Spock standing at the base of the walk in dark civilian clothes. Startled, she dropped her pencil. There was no sign of a skimmer anywhere. Had be beamed in?

"I thought you weren't coming," she said loudly enough to be heard above the surf.

His eyes traveled over the windows and the screen door and then back to her. He asked, "Are you alone?"

"Just me and sea gulls."

He came up the walk and stopped at the porch steps, his face unreadable as he said, "I...spoke to you discourteously."

Lauren's heart warmed and her lips stirred into a hint of a smile. "Well…I wasn't exactly polite, either." Her smile faded. "I heard about your setback with Starfleet. Are you going to resume teaching?"

Turning his face aside, he gazed at the ocean. "I have not yet been assigned other duties. If, in fact, I am deemed capable of performing any other duties."

The defeat in his voice made her want to take him into her arms. Here was the man who had entered a reactor room and hooked up the mains with his bare hands. Brilliant and disciplined, resourceful and confident in the face of any difficulty. But that, she reminded herself, was before. Spock was right. He had changed. And if Lauren sometimes found that change painful and frustrating, how must he feel? But she refused to let her feelings for him degenerate into pity.

Lauren made herself say, "I hope you don't expect me to feel sorry for you. I hope you're only trying to tell me that you have some time on your hands, because Captain, you are one of the most capable people I have ever known, and I could use some of that extra time of yours on my—on our project."

His head came around and he looked her full in the eyes. The salt breeze riffled his hair as he took measure of her. Don't walk away, her heart pleaded. Can't you see that I really mean it?

To her relief he nodded and followed her into the house. They would not quarrel today.