by Tawny Weber
“I was at the seniors’ center for a while. But with Millicent and Olivia both on another cruise, it wasn’t much fun.”
“What about Deidre?” Frankie asked, referring to the fourth woman in her grandmother’s close-knit group of friends.
“Off to her sister’s for a couple of weeks.”
Nana frowned and started to tidy the studio. Frankie had given up asking her not to. Apparently, the housekeeping urge was too deeply ingrained to ignore.
That, or she was bored. Nana was the only one of her friends not yet retired. While the others traveled and visited, she stayed faithful to her post at the Bankses’ house. Since the elder Bankses had died almost three years back, she’d started taking short trips, long weekends. A year ago, Frankie had tried to convince her to actually retire, but Nana refused, saying the estate still needed her.
It was that loyalty, her devotion and her forty-plus years of service that had netted Josephine O’Brian a place in the Bankses’ will. As long as a Banks owned the estate and Mrs. O’Brian was the housekeeper, she could live rent-free in the housekeeper’s quarters at the back of the estate.
Sometimes Frankie wondered if part of the reason Nana wouldn’t retire was because she had to look out for her flaky granddaughter.
Guilt, misery and frustration settled in Frankie’s gut. Despite the failure of her business, Nana insisted that her granddaughter continue designing. Five months ago, Frankie had started looking for a real job, something that would provide a regular income. Her grandmother had pitched a fit to end all fits, giving Frankie a solid understanding of where she’d gotten her temper.
Oh, what a lecture it had been. Nana had included everything from honoring one’s gifts to disrespecting her elders. She’d thrown in a reminder of how proud Frankie’s parents had been of her art and their hopes that she would make a living from it and wound it all up in a nice, guilty bow with a declaration of how important it was to her that Frankie revive her jewelry career.
So Frankie had done the only thing she could.
She’d moved in with her grandmother, taking advantage of the rent-free situation to pay down her debts while trying to recover her creative mojo.
To assuage some of her guilt over Nana not retiring yet, Frankie suggested, “Why don’t you follow Deidre’s lead? Go spend a few days with Aunt Isabelle and the cousins. I can take care of things here.”
“Oh, no. I can’t do that. Darling, I have work to do. The holidays are coming and the Banks house must be prepared.”
Frankie opened her mouth to point out that nobody lived at the Banks house, so the only preparation necessary was making sure the place was clean and secure.
But her grandmother loved the holidays, the muss and fuss. She saw it as her duty to ensure that the house was prepared, just in case the family wanted to celebrate. The fact that Phillip had visited maybe twice since his parents’ death and Lara only once in eight whole years didn’t matter.
Josephine O’Brian never shirked her duties.
“How about dinner instead, then?” Frankie tucked her arm through her grandmother’s to lead her out of the room. Both because she was hungry, and because if Nana tidied any more she’d never be able to find anything.
“I always loved holidays at the Banks house,” Nana said, wrapping her arm around her granddaughter’s waist and giving her an affectionate squeeze. “Nobody did fancy like Ellen Banks. Remember the year the house was written up in that style magazine? People flocked to the house for months afterward, all wanting to say they’d been there. That was the only year she allowed the decorations to remain up for the New Year’s festivities.”
“Even the tree? How did she keep it alive?” Frankie wondered, knowing had to have been well over a month old since Nana always oversaw the decorating the weekend after Thanksgiving.
“Mrs. Banks had a new tree brought in.” Nana chuckled. “Had us photograph the old one from all angles, strip it bare, then redecorate the fresh one in the wee hours of the night.”
“Did the kids realize their tree had been redecorated?” Frankie asked with a laugh. Her smile faded as she imagined Phillip in front of a Christmas tree, his hair longer then and mussed from sleep. She’d bet her best soldering iron that he’d been adorable.
“The children weren’t involved in the decorating,” Nana said. Her tone was still proper, as it always was when she referred to her employers. But Frankie could hear something underneath. Sadness or disapproval—it was so faint she couldn’t tell.
The image in Frankie’s head changed. Now instead of a mussed and adorable younger Phillip, he was sadly looking at a fancily decorated tree from behind red velvet ropes. Those poor kids.
“That was one of the last holidays Lara spent at home,” Frankie mused. “If I remember correctly, there were a lot of ugly fights leading up to that photo spread.”
“Tut, Francesca,” Nana chided as they stepped into the tidy kitchen. “Gossip is an ugly thing, and not something allowed on this estate.”
“But gossip is the best source of news there is,” Frankie countered with a teasing smile.
“You’ve always been full of sass, you have,” Nana said. “Now, read your mail while I start the pasta, then you can make a salad.”
Frankie flipped through the mail still in her hand.
Bill, bill, bill and, yes, another bill.
Frankie’s shoulders sank so low she was surprised they weren’t rubbing her hips. Looked as if she’d better call a few stores, see if they’d like to carry a display of her ornaments.
Or she could create a couple of stunningly awesome pieces of jewelry just in time for the holidays and rescue her career.
She gave a scoffing laugh under her breath.
She’d had her magical night; it was supposed to have fixed everything.
She bit her lip, fanning her thumb over the envelopes.
It had been a magical night. One she’d give anything to repeat. A few thousand times, even. Sooner or later, that kind of incredible sex had to break this block. Not just poke a few holes in it, but destroy it.
Frankie tapped the envelopes against her mouth, wondering what the chances were of getting her hands on that sexy SEAL again. Slim or none, most likely.
It was just as well. She remembered the depth of emotions that night had tapped. She’d never felt so much, so fast. Worry and lust had tangled together with a need to heal whatever had put that tortured look in Phillip’s eyes, and something else.
Something crazy.
If it had been anyone else, she’d have said it was infatuation. The kind that led to even crazier things.
Like love.
A few more of those thousand times she’d been fantasizing about? She might do something seriously stupid and start thinking she was in love with the guy. She might believe there was a chance that they could have something that went beyond hot sex.
Decorated Navy SEAL, scion of the Banks family, the properest of the proper...and her?
As if.
Frankie almost snorted, and then she remembered how perfectly their bodies had fit together.
“Francesca? Start the salad, please.”
Frankie startled, and the mail she’d been holding hit the floor. Her cheeks warmed. She had to stop thinking about that night. From now on, all thoughts of Phillip and sex were off-limits. Especially around her grandmother.
“Yes, Nana,” she said, getting to work on the only part of the meal Nana deemed her skilled enough to prepare. The salad.
As she tore pieces of lettuce, she tried to find her optimism.
Sure, her career was a mess. But she’d get her creative mojo back, one way or another. She’d tried focusing on Phillip, on the sexual energy of her fantasies and then on her memories, but that hadn’t worked, so she had to put him completely out of her
head. Stop wasting energy on fantasies and funnel it all into her art.
She’d rebuild her career.
She’d get her artistic mojo back.
And she’d recover financially, so her grandmother could retire and enjoy her time with her friends.
Frankie started imagining what it would be like to be back on top.
On top of Phillip, perhaps.
His body hard and ready beneath hers. His eyes watching as she rode them both to screaming ecstasy.
Melting a little inside, Frankie gave up.
He was her fantasy guy.
She’d never get rid of him.
* * *
“LIEUTENANT BANKS.”
Phillip stood at attention, waiting for the admiral to take the seat behind his desk.
It had been two weeks since Phillip’s return to base, and he’d spent every one of those fourteen days waiting for this moment. Just as he’d spent every day of the previous two months hoping for it.
The retaliation mission.
It was time.
A chance to prove himself.
After this mission, he’d be back to normal.
Life would be back on track, his reputation as a top-notch SEAL restored. And the headaches, the crazy surges of emotion, the bizarre self-doubt, they’d all be gone.
About damned time.
Phillip hadn’t expected the assignment to be handed down from the admiral himself. Nor would he expect to be the one getting the initial briefing. That should fall to Landon as the team leader. But who was he to question protocol? That he was the one standing here could mean good things.
For his career.
For the mission.
For revenge.
Phillip stiffened, shoving that last thought as deep into the far recesses of his brain as possible. He knew the admiral couldn’t read his thoughts. He also knew most men, even some he served with, would consider the thought of taking vengeance on a man like Valdero fully justifiable.
But not the admiral.
He ground his teeth together, as if through pressure alone he could convince himself that it was.
Then the admiral cleared his throat, commanding Phillip’s complete attention.
“The Navy doesn’t take lightly to one of their own being detained, Lieutenant,” Admiral Donovan said, folding his hands together precisely in the center of his desk blotter and giving Phillip an intense look.
“No, sir.”
“Intelligence has determined the leak that led to your capture and taken care of it.”
Phillip clenched his teeth, but didn’t ask where the leak had been, if it was internal or external. That information was classified, and well above his security clearance. He had his own suspicions, and had reported them during debriefing. But he hadn’t mentioned them again. He’d had plenty of time to think about it, to obsess over every second of that mission, to analyze every word Valdero had uttered.
Yeah. He had his suspicions. And he’d confirm them personally as soon as he returned to Guatemala.
And when he did, he’d deal with it his way.
“Normally this order would come down from your commanding officer, but in light of everything, I am choosing to issue it personally.”
The admiral had been one of Phillip’s instructors at Annapolis years ago. He’d known his grandfather and had taken a personal interest in Phillip’s career.
Phillip didn’t believe in favors, especially those that touched on nepotism. He’d earned his stars.
Anticipation, the kind he felt just before a mission, surged through his system. Phillip’s chin came up a fraction, triumph settling in his belly.
This was it.
The order to lead the mission that would take down that sadistic son of a bitch, Valdero, code name Candy Man.
The admiral stood, cleared his throat and stared directly at Phillip.
“Effective immediately, you’re being transferred to the United States Naval Academy, Annapolis.”
There was a buzzing in his ears, that now-familiar-but-once-unheard-of fury pounding at his temples.
“Transferred?” Phillip repeated, certain the man had misspoken.
“Temporarily.” The admiral flipped open a file, but didn’t take his eyes away from Phillip’s. “You’re one of the foremost experts on security measures. We’d like you to head a new security program being launched at the training center in Annapolis. Monday at oh-eight-hundred, you’ll report to the Naval Academy for further instructions.”
He was off the mission?
Off the mission, and the base?
To talk about security to a bunch of college kids?
Bracing against the avalanche of rage pouring through him, Phillip tried to rein it in. Tried to grab hold of his emotions. It was as if the serene flow that had been his carefully planned life had been rerouted to a freaking waterfall. Totally out of control and impossible to navigate.
“For how long, sir?” he asked between tightly clenched teeth.
“First of the year.”
Until the training and the mission were over, Phillip realized. They wanted him out of the way. And apparently off the team wasn’t enough; they were sending him to the other side of the country.
He clenched his fists, channeling all of the anger, all the frustration into his fingers and holding it there, tight.
He didn’t say a word until he was sure he was in command again.
“With all due respect, sir, I’m the best person to lead that mission.” Dammit, he was. He’d been held captive inside that compound for three days. He’d looked Valdero in the eyes while the sick bastard had used his body as a pincushion, trying to extract naval intelligence. He’d survived, dammit. He deserved this mission.
“Negative.”
Phillip had spent his entire life respecting the chain of authority. His father was a man who demanded it. His career with the Navy required it. His personality insisted upon it.
He wasn’t an emotional man. Emotions led to drama, and drama was a waste of energy and a loss of control. Two things he’d always refused to allow.
But that refusal didn’t mean jack when faced with the waves of anger—righteous anger, dammit—pounding through his system. The rage that had been bubbling and churning since Guatemala bubbled and boiled, ready to spew.
Thankfully, before it overtook his tenuous control, there was a knock on the door.
At the admiral’s command, another officer entered.
Phillip automatically saluted.
“Lieutenant, this is Lieutenant Commander Donovan.”
Lieutenant Commander Mitch Donovan, a legend among legends.
A man who, until this moment, Phillip had admired. Whose career he’d wanted to emulate.
Phillip’s hands, clasped behind his back, clenched into fists.
Jaw tight, he eyed the man there to take his place. The admiral’s grandson, no less. He didn’t need to hear the rest of the admiral’s words to know Donovan had been brought in to lead the mission to capture Valdero.
If they’d brought Donovan in, the mission was bigger than before.
“Sir, I request permission to serve with my team,” Phillip tried again.
“Negative.” The admiral came around his desk, stopping a foot in front of Phillip and giving him a penetrating stare. “Unless you’d like to add something else to your debriefing that’d be useful to your team, you can stand down.”
Phillip’s jaw worked as he struggled to rein in his anger until he was sure he wouldn’t explode.
His gaze cut to Donovan, expecting to see the same rigid dismissal in his eyes as the admiral’s. Instead, he saw understanding. A hint of sympathy. And a promise. The job would be done. And it would be done right.
<
br /> Rather than reassuring him, however, it made Phillip all the angrier.
He had to get out of there.
“Lieutenant, you have your orders,” the admiral said. “Dismissed.”
It wasn’t the dismissal that made Phillip do an about-face and walk out.
It was the uncontrollable fury pounding in his temples.
And the barrage of unfamiliar doubts.
About his abilities.
About his career.
About his entire life.
5
PHILLIP PARKED HIS rental vehicle in the wide circular driveway of his childhood home and looked around.
Not out of nostalgia. He didn’t have any happy memories of growing up here. It was simply the responsible thing to do, he thought, as he inspected the large fountain in the center of the driveway and the emerald expanse of lawn. Not visible from the driveway, but surely in just as pristine condition, were the tennis courts, swimming pool and servants’ quarters behind the rose hedge at the far end of the lawn.
It looked the same.
Phillip frowned.
It looked exactly the same.
He didn’t know why that surprised him.
Change was a dirty word in the Banks family.
Something he’d accepted without question his entire life.
So why did it grate like fingernails on a chalkboard right now?
He eyed the steps leading to the ornate oak door, their curved angles flanked by two huge marble pillars. Each pillar stood in a sea of pale pink roses. Not red, not dark pink. Ellen Banks hadn’t believed in strong statements. It didn’t matter that she’d been gone two years and eight months; her preferences still ruled all.
Leaving the car in the driveway, he headed for the steps. Then stopped in his tracks and glanced over his shoulder. The driveway was for guests. Family cars belonged in the garage.
Unlike Lara, he’d never wanted to buck tradition or thumb his nose at the rules. Leaving the car there was simply practical.