He drove in silence until they’d left the military complex and headed through Norfolk toward the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, Pacino figuring that a transit up the eastern shore would be faster than battling I-64 traffic toward D.C.
“You’re awfully quiet, Pacino,” Rachel said.
“Yeah,” he said dejectedly. “I’m sad. All the loss just sort of hit me all at once. I think I was in shock until now.”
“Pull over here at the diner,” she told him.
“You already changed out of your uniform,” he said. “Did you want me to change?”
“That’s not why I asked,” she said. “Park way over there, where the parking lot is deserted. Underneath the tree.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Pacino said, wheeling the Corvette where she’d pointed.
“Cut the engine and stay there.” She got out of the car and walked around to his side and opened his door. Carefully, she climbed on top of him, straddling him in the close confines of the cockpit, then shut the door.
“What are you doing?” Pacino asked.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, came close, and kissed him, the kiss starting slow but building in passion. He could feel one of her soft hands stroking his face, the other’s fingers going through his hair and he got an electric charge from it, and in spite of his mood, he could feel himself getting aroused. Finally, as Rachel was starting to disconnect from the kiss, the Corvette’s horn honked, loud and long.
“Oh my God,” she said, blushing in embarrassment. “Did my fat ass just honk your horn?”
Pacino laughed. “No, your slender, shapely, feminine ass just honked my horn. And I think you honked my horn metaphorically as well.”
“Good,” she smiled. “Now we can go.”
“You’re just going to start my engine and leave me hot and bothered?”
“Yup,” she said, smirking. “Why don’t you go inside the diner and change? I’ll wait here.” She climbed out of the car, got back in the passenger side, pulled her tablet computer from her bag, and switched it on.
Pacino could feel a bounce in his step as he walked toward the diner with his go-bag. Somehow, Rachel had managed to change his mood in just minutes. There was no doubt. She was definitely a keeper.
Unlike the last time Pacino approached his father’s Annapolis house, there was a security fence erected at the entrance to the long driveway, the part of the yard both inside and outside the fence acting as parking lots. A small metal security building had been placed to the left of the new gate, the roof of it sprouting multiple dish antennae. A man in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, wearing dark shades, came up to the car. He wore a comm unit in his ear, the coiled wire from it snaking into his shirt collar. He looked like a caricature of a Secret Service agent.
“May I help you, sir?” he said formally.
“I’m Lieutenant Pacino,” Pacino said, handing the agent his military ID, then passing him Rachel’s. “That’s Lieutenant Commander Romanov. We’re here to see Admiral Pacino. My dad.”
The agent scowled at the identifications, then went into the security building. He was still frowning as he came out, then handed Pacino the military IDs.
“Have a nice visit, Lieutenant,” he said. “You can drive up to the front door, but leave your keys with an agent there. He’ll park your car and another one will go through your things before you enter the house.”
Pacino wheeled the car to the house, left the engine running, got his bags and walked to the front door with Rachel. A Secret Service agent got in the Corvette and drove it back to the security building. A second asked him to turn over his bags for a search, then patted Pacino down. A female agent did the same to Rachel. Finally the unsmiling agents waved them into the house, where yet another agent waited inside.
Pacino could see into the great room on the main floor, where what seemed like thirty people in suits were gathered around Admiral Pacino, a spirited debate going on there.
“You can wait in the admiral’s office,” the inside door agent said.
Pacino took Rachel to his father’s office, a large space with heavy wood furniture and leather seating gathered around a huge stone fireplace. The walls were covered with painted scenes of the older Pacino’s submarine commands, a painting of the old man as a youth standing by his father in front of the submarine
“This is the ultimate man-cave,” Rachel said. “It’s like a shrine to the submarine force. And to you. Not a single photo of a woman in here.”
