Christmas with a SEAL

by Tawny Weber

  “Do you have a habit of being a pest?” he asked, looking politely curious again. How did he do that? Just tuck his emotions away and pretend they weren’t there?

  Frankie wondered if that look was a product of his upbringing or his SEAL training.

  Whatever the reason, it was seriously intimidating.

  “So...you were asking how I know Lara?” she asked, her tone bright.

  “Mrs. O’Brian is your grandmother.” He gave her a nod, acknowledging the fact. Then he pulled his second piece of pie closer and dug in. “She makes the best pie in the country.”

  “Have you tried all the pie in the country to compare?”

  “Thirty-two of the fifty states.”

  “Just apple?” she asked, tapping the table next to his plate. “Or do you try every flavor, you know, in the name of comparison?”

  “Apple, cherry, pumpkin.” He forked up another bite, ate it, then nodded. “I haven’t had her pumpkin in a long time, though. There’s a café in Idaho that does amazing things with squash. Maybe you could ask her to make one this week.”

  “For comparison’s sake?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

  “Me? I think the roof would cave in.” Phillip gave a short laugh. “This is the house of restraint. Desserts were for holidays, and even then portions were minuscule. Like alcohol and other indulgences, a taste was all that was necessary.”

  What was it like to grow up that way? So used to following her emotions, to chasing sensations, Frankie barely understood the concept of moderation. Heck, her credit card bill and the snug waistband of her jeans were proof of that.

  But to Phillip, it was second nature. Frankie wanted to reach out and pull him into her arms, to hug him close.

  Bad idea.

  She looked at her fingers, twisted together on the rich mahogany table, and wet her lips.

  “So aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “What have I been doing for the past ten minutes?”

  Frankie wasn’t sure if he was joking or looking for clarification. His expression was so serious, so proper.

  Her jaw tightened, resignation settling over her like a prickly blanket. She didn’t understand him. Gone was the vulnerability, the need she’d seen in Vegas. He wasn’t the cute, smart rich boy she’d crushed on in her teen years.

  Suddenly, the differences between her fantasy Phillip and the real-life Phillip were glaringly obvious.

  She could justify doing anything with the fantasy Phillip. Risking anything. The results were always worth it. The satisfaction, the fulfillment. The supercharged creative juices. The fantasy Phillip was the answer to all her problems. He thought she was amazing; he turned to her for comfort. Her fantasy Phillip, he needed her.

  The real-life Phillip didn’t need her. He didn’t even understand her. He had total control over his emotions and was so far outside her world that they might as well have addresses on different planets.

  Both Phillips were gorgeous.

  Sexy.

  Tempting.

  But while the fantasy Phillip was one of the greatest enjoyments in her life, she didn’t understand the real-life man. He was a stranger. An uptight, proper, closed stranger who had been raised on the opposite side of very clear class distinctions.

  A wave of sadness washed over Frankie, her bottom lip trembling for a moment before she clenched her jaw. She hadn’t felt this bad since she’d had a goodbye ceremony for her imaginary friend when she was nine.

  Time to grow up again, she told herself.

  Let go of the fantasy and accept that there was nothing, nothing real, between her and Phillip.

  “Frankie?” he said, verbally nudging her back into the conversation.

  “We haven’t been talking,” she decided, meeting his eyes. “We’ve been dancing.”

  His eyes went hot.

  He gave her a long, considering look as he pushed his plate away.

  “We’ve danced before. I promise you, this doesn’t feel anything like dancing.”

  “You do remember,” she blurted out.

  His lips twitched. “Remember what?”

  Just like that, Frankie’s good intentions crumbled under her delight.

  Oh, man.

  She was so, so bad at restraint.

  And even worse at denying herself anything she wanted.

  And real life or fantasy, she definitely wanted Phillip Banks.

  6

  PHILLIP DIDN’T BELIEVE in things like divine intervention, heavenly gifts or special blessings.

  But as he watched Frankie laugh, the light dancing in her dark eyes, he was pretty sure she was an angel.

  She had to be.

  Just watching her filled him with pleasure.

  Not just sexual pleasure, although that was unquestionably there, pressing tight against his zipper.

  Not emotional. At least he didn’t think so. He didn’t understand emotions. Until they’d exploded all over his life after his capture, he’d have sworn he barely had any.

  He wasn’t sure what this was he was feeling as he looked at Frankie, as her laugh drew a smile from him.

  All he knew was it felt good.

  “Remember what, my tush,” Frankie challenged, leaning forward and giving his arm a playful swat. “You remember everything about that night. Admit it.”

  Phillip leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the table while looking her over.

  Her ponytail swept around her shoulder in a riot of curls that brushed the top of her breast. Her skin glowed, sprinkled with golden freckles. She was a vivid contrast to the cold room, the colder memories it held.

  He couldn’t resist her warmth.

  “Hmm, remember,” he mused, drawing out the words. “I’ll admit I might have a vague recollection of dancing with a sexy redhead.”

  Her smile widened, and this time when she tapped her fingers against his arm it felt more like a caress. A simple touch, lasting only a second through the fabric of his shirt, and his body reacted instantly, desire strong and intense.

  All of the fury, tension and frustration that had been dogging him shrank back into the shadows.

  “Mmm, was it a good dance?” she asked, her fingers now tracing circular designs on the table next to his hand. She didn’t touch. Just teased, hinted. Exciting him.

  “Best dance I’ve ever had in Monaco,” he said.

  It wasn’t easy to keep a straight face when Frankie gave a fake gasp, then shook her head at him.

  “Las Vegas,” she corrected primly.

  “We drank brandy,” he offered, moving his hand a little closer to hers.

  “Champagne.”

  “Then we took the stairs down twenty flights.”

  “Elevator,” she corrected, her fingers tracing the edge of his. Heat shot through him like an electric charge.

  Phillip tried to focus on the game. But it was difficult. He was—or had been before Valdero—a master at focusing. He had become gifted in the art of tunnel vision. He could perform perfectly under any distraction.

  But he wasn’t used to playing.

  And he was surprised to find he liked it.

  “Twenty flights?” he asked quietly, concentrating on her face in order to block out the distractions.

  “Um, I don’t actually remember that,” she admitted with a husky laugh, her fingers now skimming the back of his hand. Phillip didn’t have a lot of experience in strip clubs—the closest he’d ever come was dragging a wounded ensign out of one after a brawl. But he was pretty sure he couldn’t be more turned on if she’d climbed on top of him and offered him a lap dance.

  Phillip’s gaze shifted to her breasts, full and
tempting under the flowing white cotton of her blouse.

  Wrong. She could turn him on a whole lot more.

  But that didn’t negate how sexually charged he was already.

  “Three flights,” he said huskily. He cleared his throat and met the question in her eyes. “We kissed all the way down those three flights in the elevator.”

  “We did,” she agreed, wetting her lips.

  He wondered if she could taste him still.

  Some nights he’d awake from a dead sleep with the taste of her on his tongue and his body hard and yearning.

  “Then what happened?” she asked.

  “We went to my room.” He could see everything that happened after that. He vividly remembered every touch, every sound. Every taste. But he couldn’t recap it. Not out loud.

  He tore his gaze from Frankie’s, glancing around the room. Stuffy and elegant, the family dining room was warmer than the formal dining room, but not by much.

  He could just hear his mother lamenting her children’s poor manners and improper behavior. Her chiding was easily drowned out by his father’s lectures on success at all costs.

  Phillip all but cringed.

  This was definitely not the place he wanted to discuss sex, cravings or unforgettable nights.

  Somewhere else, then?

  He took a mental tour of the house in search of someplace he could take Frankie.

  And came up blank.

  He couldn’t think of a single room in this damned house that would be suitable.

  Which was telling, since he wasn’t even sure what he’d do with her if he found the right place.

  All he knew was that he wanted her. Wanted the peace, the mindlessness that night in Vegas had offered. He’d been dreaming of that night ever since it happened. It had become his talisman against the migraines, his hope for a decent night’s sleep—sexy dreams notwithstanding.

  He’d been satisfied with the memories. They worked.

  But to do it again?

  It wasn’t often that life offered second chances.

  Most people would say he was a fool if he didn’t take this one.

  Phillip frowned.

  The house was a reflection of the Banks family. Of their priorities, their sensibilities, their values.

  And he was a product of the same.

  What was he doing lusting after a woman he barely knew?

  Certain behaviors were understandable under certain circumstances. But this wasn’t tawdry Las Vegas. It was the Banks house.

  Phillip pressed one finger against his nose, right next to his right eye, where the headache was starting to take hold.

  “You’re disappearing,” Frankie said.

  He dropped his hand to his lap and frowned.

  Her expression hadn’t changed. But he could hear the disappointed resignation in her voice.

  As if she’d expected him to do just that.

  “I’m right here.”

  “Your body is, sure. But as fine as that body is, and as much as I’m enjoying the view, you’re still not here. You drifted off somewhere,” she observed with a little shrug that did amazing things with the fabric of her blouse. Slippery, sliding things.

  Phillip had been in war. He’d successfully fought many battles, had distinguished himself on the field.

  But he’d never felt a war such as the one going on inside him right now.

  His gut clenched as he wondered if this was just more proof that he was struggling with his life. The Navy, his admiral, probably his own team doubted his abilities.

  Maybe they were right.

  “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” he asked Frankie, needing to avoid that ridiculous line of thinking.

  “I did tell you,” she said, fire lighting in those dark eyes, assuring him that she had a temper to match her hair. “I am Frankie Silvera. And I am a friend of your sister’s.”

  “You omitted a few details, though. Why didn’t you mention Mrs. O’Brian? Or that you lived in Annapolis? I thought you were a friend of Lara’s from Reno.”

  “Does it matter?” She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. One slender denim-clad leg crossed over the other had her foot tapping the air in time with her fingers drumming on her shoulder.

  Phillip’s lips twitched.

  For a woman who apparently kept secrets, she was damned good at sending messages.

  “If it doesn’t matter, why wouldn’t you tell me?”

  She opened her mouth, looking as though she was going to breathe fire. Phillip leaned forward, excitement stirring inside him. Had he ever met anyone so alive? So passionate?

  What would she do next?

  Yell? Throw her arms in the air and curse? His body stirred. Maybe throw a plate? He’d never broken a dish in his life. That had to be why imagining her tossing one across the room was getting him hard.

  Then she let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping, lips sinking into a pout.

  “I didn’t want you to know who I really was in case you remembered me,” she said quietly.

  His eyes were still on that full bottom lip, wondering what it would taste like if he leaned forward for a nibble. It took a second for what she’d said to sink in.

  He shifted his gaze to her eyes, searching for the reason behind the shame there.

  “Why would that matter?” he asked, truly baffled.

  “I’m the housekeeper’s granddaughter,” she said, drawing the words out in an unspoken “duh.” “You’re, well, you. If you knew who I was, there’s no way that night would have happened.”

  So she thought he was a snob. Insult surged through his system. He wasn’t oblivious to his family’s prejudices, but that didn’t mean he shared them.

  “That’s not true.” His brow creased as honesty forced him to admit, “I don’t know that our choices that night were the best ones. But I do know that knowing who your grandmother was, who you really are, wouldn’t have impacted my decision in the least.”

  “Right.” Her smile stiff, Frankie stood, leaning across the table to take his dessert plate and fork.

  Phillip’s libido came to attention.

  But she didn’t throw the plate. She tidily set the fork on top of it and moved to leave.

  His libido shrank in disappointment.

  So did his stomach at the look on her face.

  She was hurt.

  Damn.

  He couldn’t stand it.

  He could ignore his own wants, the clawing need he had to touch her. He could hide behind propriety and decorum, list the many reasons why a man dedicated to a military career shouldn’t be fooling around with a woman who clearly deserved more.

  He could even try to tell himself it was for their own good to ignore the passion sparking between them like an exposed electrical wire.

  But he couldn’t let her think he didn’t want her—not because of something as antiquated as social standing.

  “Frankie,” he said, automatically using the same tone he would to order troops to halt.

  She didn’t halt, though.

  She did slow down long enough to give him an eye roll over her shoulder.

  He hurried forward, grabbing her arm just as she reached the doorway.

  “Wait,” he said, more softly this time. Turning her around, he trapped her between his body and the wall so she couldn’t escape.

  Her hiss sounded like water tossed on flames. Her eyes sparked as she fisted the plate and fork in her fingers like a weapon.

  She was so damned sexy.

  “It wouldn’t have impacted my decision in the least,” Phillip repeated adamantly.

  Then he took her mouth.

  For a brief moment, she froze.


  Then he felt her deep inhalation against his mouth and she exploded, her mouth racing against his. He felt a dull thunk as the plate hit his back when she wrapped her arms around him.

  She tasted so good.

  He leaned into her body, her curves molding to his hard length.

  She felt even better.

  Filled with a level of desperation he hadn’t felt since Las Vegas when he’d last seen Frankie naked, Phillip lost himself in the kiss.

  Her lips opened beneath his, her mouth welcoming his tongue. Passion stirred in him, rising hotter and higher with every sweep of his tongue. He wanted to drag her upstairs, kick open the door of his childhood bedroom, toss her on the rock-hard mattress and strip her bare.

  He wanted to taste more than her mouth.

  Frankie made that little sound, a mewling sort of sigh. The last time he’d heard her make that sound, he’d been inside her body watching her buck with pleasure.

  His body clenched, need pounding through him with an intensity he’d never felt before.

  It was all Phillip could do not to take her right there against his mother’s silk-papered wall.

  Frantically grasping for control before it slipped out of reach, he tore his mouth from hers and stepped away.

  A kiss.

  A simple kiss had his hands shaking.

  This was crazy.

  Completely inappropriate.

  It took a deep breath, then another one, before Phillip was sure he wasn’t going to reach for Frankie again.

  Eyes huge, she watched him as if in a daze.

  When she wet her swollen lips, he almost said to hell with it all and kissed her again.

  If they’d been in Vegas, or anywhere else, he would have.

  But as compelling as second chances, cravings and throbbing desire were, he was still a Banks.

  This was Maryland, and the family estate.

  Not Las Vegas.

  At the very least, he had to buy her dinner first.

  “What are you doing Friday evening?” he asked, mentally cringing at how lame the question sounded.

  Frankie’s lips moved as if she was silently repeating his words in order to understand them. The glaze of passion faded from her eyes as she frowned.