by Tawny Weber
Frankie wet her lips.
It was gorgeous. The pleats, the tucks, she knew it would showcase her curves in a sassy, but not slutty way. It would look awesome with her peep-toe booties.
Visions of the earrings she’d make to go with it filled her imagination. Soft swirls of silver with tiny garnet teardrops.
She knew she could make those earrings. Knew the insidious block wouldn’t stand a chance against an image so vivid.
And they’d be perfect for the dress.
But...
It was leather.
She didn’t think Phillip was a leather kind of guy.
Desperate for an excuse to say no, she looked at the price tag.
“Oh, my God.” All those red lines through the prices. It had to be a sign from the shopping gods.
Shayla craned her neck around to look, too.
“Yeah, and my friend Margie is working. She’ll give you her discount, so you can take another twenty percent off that.”
The perfect dress and it wouldn’t max her credit card?
Frankie reached out, her fingers millimeters from touching the leather.
Phillip had gone for her in a metal dress once.
Why not push his boundaries a little and see how he felt about leather?
* * *
PHILLIP WANTED HIS life back.
He wanted the barracks, he wanted mess hall, hell, he even wanted PT. He’d give anything for a hundred push-ups and a jog in the surf wearing full gear with a fifty-pound pack on his back.
He pulled up in front of the house on Friday evening and sighed. This wasn’t his place. He was out of his element here, and he hated it.
Some men were born to teach.
They had a gift for imparting knowledge, a knack for engaging their students.
They understood learning styles, they connected with people, they made their subjects come to life.
Phillip wasn’t one of them.
God, what a week.
He left the car in the driveway since he’d be going out again in an hour, and dammit, if he had to walk from the garage to the house he’d end up a snowman. The dash across the driveway alone had him shivering as he paused at the front door to shake the snowflakes off his overcoat.
Man, it was cold here. He’d been in California long enough to thin his blood. Either that or he was just getting old.
He pushed open the front door, letting it slam on the bitter cold and his equally bitter thoughts.
“Hello, Mrs. O’Brian,” he said as the older woman stepped into the foyer. He set his briefcase on the floor to shrug off his coat.
“Welcome home, Mr. Phillip.” She set a plate on the side table so she could take his coat before it dripped on the marble floor. “I know you said you’d be having dinner out tonight, so I brought you a snack.”
A polite refusal at the ready, he glanced at the plate. And almost swallowed his tongue. Chocolate-chip pecan cookies? Homemade and fresh from the oven, if the scent was any indication. His hand was halfway to the plate when he remembered.
He had dinner plans in just over an hour.
Every day since he’d asked Frankie out to dinner, he’d told himself to cancel their date. But every time he considered it, he remembered that look in Frankie’s expressive eyes. Pride and hurt mixed with just enough heat to keep him guessing which would win out if he tried.
So while the plan was unquestionably a bad idea, he was following through with it and they were having dinner. Which meant he didn’t need a snack.
He’d had more to eat in the past few days than he usually ate in twice that amount of time. The mess hall had nothing on Mrs. O’Brian’s cooking. As it was, he’d taken to doing PT in the morning, and again after lunch, to make sure he didn’t outgrow his fatigues before he was back in California.
But the cookies smelled so good.
“I shouldn’t,” he muttered.
“You worked hard today, you deserve a little treat,” Mrs. O’Brian said with a dismissive wave as she turned to leave. Then she tossed an impish smile over her shoulder that reminded him of her granddaughter. “Just don’t ruin your appetite.”
Wondering why he couldn’t refuse the elder or younger Silvera women a damned thing, Phillip bit into his first cookie.
His taste buds went insane. He almost groaned at the combination of flavors that filled his mouth.
Delicious.
Still, he was a strong man. He could resist delicious.
Just like he would resist Frankie tonight.
After all, he was only going through with tonight’s date because it would be rude and hurtful to cancel. Dinner, conversation and maybe a polite kiss good-night, that was all he’d be enjoying.
He eyed his cookie, promising himself it was the only temptation he’d be giving in to.
Grabbing the briefcase, he headed upstairs. His foot on the second step, he grimaced and turned around.
And grabbed the plate of cookies to take with him.
Yeah.
Those Silvera women were big on irresistible.
* * *
“OH, WOW,” FRANKIE breathed as Phillip pulled up in front of the restaurant. The exterior was already decorated for the holidays. Two slender potted pines wrapped in red ribbon stood on either side of the entrance. Twinkle lights and poinsettias flanked the covered walkway.
“Is this okay?” he asked, frowning. The restaurant had come highly recommended by the three guys he’d asked. He’d made a point to ask married men, figuring anything they suggested would be wife-approved. He glanced at Frankie’s face, trying to read her expression in the dim light.
Maybe those wives had lousy taste?
“This is so not the country club.” Frankie’s words trailed off as she craned her neck to look around him at the valet heading their way.
“Would you prefer the country club?” He couldn’t imagine why. It was like eating in a fishbowl surrounded by piranhas. For all that this wasn’t a real date—they wouldn’t end the night with sex, he reminded himself—he’d still hoped for an enjoyable evening.
“The country club over one of the most romantic restaurants in the area? This place got a James Beard Award, did you know that? One of my friends dated a guy who worked here and she brought me their dessert menu. Oh, my God. The chocolate soufflé is supposed to be amazing.”
His head spinning a little, Phillip shut off the engine. He wasn’t sure when he’d picked up the ugly habit of second-guessing himself.
“Shall we start with dinner and work our way to the chocolate, then?” he suggested.
“Oh, yeah.” Her smile was bright enough to light up the interior of the car, and warm enough to do weird things to Phillip’s insides. His belly, he decided. And maybe a little south of that, he acknowledged. But not north. Definitely not north.
Baffled that he was actually thinking such crazy things, Phillip pushed open the door, handed his keys to the valet along with a tip, then rounded the car.
His frown still anchored to his face, he opened the passenger door.
“I wish you’d have let me pick you up at your place,” Phillip said for the third time, holding out a hand to help Frankie from his car.
He’d never met anyone as hardheaded as her. Instead of letting him pick her up, or even giving him her address, she’d insisted on meeting him at the Banks house. Her stubbornness had pitted his resolve against manners that were so ingrained it hurt not to have her in for a predinner drink.
But that would be too intimate, he’d decided.
This was just a polite evening out. A way of assuring her that he wasn’t a social snob. It wasn’t really a date, and definitely wouldn’t end in sex.
He was sure if he reminded himself of that last stipulation one o
r two or fifty times over dinner, everything would be fine.
Then, her slender fingers in his, Frankie swung her legs out of the car. Her satin coat slid open. And all his thoughts sputtered to a stop.
Oh, man.
His eyes locked on her feet. Were those supposed to be boots? They stopped just above her ankles to flare out like a collar, and her toes peeked out from the tips of the black leather. His gaze slowly climbed her legs. Such gorgeous legs. Long, subtly curved and deliciously bare. He wanted to press his lips against one, right there at the curve of her knee, and listen for her moan.
“My way was easier,” she said, her words husky as she straightened, her body brushing lightly against his.
Phillip damn near moaned out loud.
He’d tried her way once and it might not be easier, but damn, it had been good. Need flashed through him, hot enough to melt the snow at his feet.
Then he frowned.
Wait.
What?
He had to clear his head of his lusty thoughts and replay their conversation to figure out what she was responding to.
“‘Doing the right thing might not be the easiest choice, but it’s always the correct choice,’” he recited from rote.
Frankie arched an eyebrow, tilted her head and asked, “Is that a SEAL motto?”
“Banks motto,” he muttered, feeling stupid repeating something he wasn’t sure he even believed anymore. He’d bought into it at one time. Hell, he’d devoted most of his life to the idea. But what good had doing the right thing done him?
He escorted Frankie up the covered steps of the restaurant and nodded his thanks to the doorman, who opened the heavy oak door. The restaurant didn’t allow for walk-ins, so the cozy, plush lobby was empty. Phillip handed the coat-check girl his overcoat, but Frankie shook her head, her fingers tight on the closure of her satin one. His hand still cupping her elbow, more for an excuse to touch her than because he figured she needed to be steered toward their table, he gave his name to the maître d’.
They were led to a quiet corner, the candlelit table surrounded by potted plants and discreet screens. The banquette seating was cozy, but spacious, offering a chance for intimacy without demanding it.
“Your server is Michel and he’ll be with you in just a moment,” the man said quietly as they were seated. “Please enjoy your evening.”
“This is gorgeous,” Frankie observed, setting her small black purse on the seat next to her. Then her lips rounded in an O.
“What?” Phillip asked.
“I need to take off my coat.” The black satin fabric caught the light as she slid from the booth to stand in front of him.
“So you told me a Banks motto. What are some SEAL mottos?” she asked, her eyes locked on his as she slowly released the buttons.
They were in a public place, a restaurant. Albeit a dimly lit and subtly-arranged-to-give-the-illusion-of-privacy restaurant. Still, it was public. And Frankie was only taking off her coat. Not stripping. But with each button she released, Phillip’s heart beat a little faster. His breath tight in his chest, he couldn’t tear his gaze from her fingers’ journey down the front of her body.
Memories of those same fingers on his body added to the tension already lying heavy in his groin. They were not having sex, he reminded himself. Just because he bought her dinner didn’t mean he was putting out.
“Phillip?” she prodded, giving a tiny shrug of her shoulders so the heavy coat fabric slid down to her elbows, then off into her waiting hand.
He could only stare.
She was incredible.
A vision in black leather.
Phillip tried to wet his lips, but his mouth was too dry.
The supple material curved over her breasts, the neckline showcasing her cleavage and an intriguing necklace of twisted silver and red stones. Beneath her cleavage—and by God, there was a lot of it—the dress hugged her body to the waist before flaring out. The skirt was full enough to slide his hand under, to explore what she might possibly be wearing underneath. Frankie sat down, close enough to tempt him to satisfy his curiosity.
Phillip grabbed his glass instead.
“Mottos,” he remembered, after swallowing the cold water. Imagining the ice working its way past his throat and down to his crotch, he finally cooled off enough to focus. “The SEALs have a few mottos.”
“For instance?”
“‘The only easy day was yesterday.’” Unlike how he felt about his father’s oft-repeated belief, this one resonated.
“That doesn’t sound comfortable,” she observed, watching him intently.
“It isn’t supposed to be. Comfortable is a half step away from careless. And careless gets people killed.”
“I’m sure you’re never careless.”
His automatic never died on his lips, so Phillip took another drink of water. A year ago, he’d have unequivocally offered that “never.” He couldn’t say that anymore.
Now his history said otherwise.
Whether it had been his carelessness or someone else’s machinations—and damn the Navy for giving him no information on which it was—didn’t matter. All that mattered were the facts.
“Are there more mottos?” Frankie asked, her tone upbeat and her smile easy. But he could see the concern in her eyes.
Phillip didn’t want pity—not even from himself.
So he shoved those self-indulgent thoughts aside and did what any intelligent man would do.
He leaned forward and focused all of his thoughts, all of his energy, on the gorgeous woman sitting next to him.
“One of my favorites is ‘failure is not an option,’” he offered.
“Never?” She frowned, shaking her head so one red strand slid over her chest to lie in a tempting curl against her breast. “How is that possible? I mean, you can’t control everything, right? Sometimes life—I mean, a mission—it just goes wrong. You’re not a failure if it doesn’t turn out the way you planned.”
Refusing to travel down that road again, at least not over dinner, Phillip focused on Frankie instead. He could tell from the furrow of her brow and the disquiet in her eyes that she wasn’t talking about his career. Before he could ask what she thought she’d failed at, their server arrived.
Phillip went through the motions, ordering wine and dinner, but as soon as Michel left, he returned to the subject.
“Failure isn’t something not turning out a specific way,” he said, wanting to reassure her. “Despite extensive planning, a stellar team of specially trained SEALs and state-of-the-art resources, a mission rarely goes as planned. That’s why we always train for contingencies.”
“Contingencies?” she echoed, looking as if she couldn’t think of a single one for whatever she thought she’d failed at.
“Contingencies,” he told her, unable to resist lifting her hand to his lips and brushing a reassuring kiss over her knuckles. “For instance, I haven’t been able to get the taste of you out of my head. My objective for the evening was to taste you again. To do so, I’d planned to walk you to your front door after our dinner, where I’d kiss you good-night. A simple plan, perhaps, but one I was looking forward to.”
Especially as it was all he’d planned to allow himself to enjoy.
Desire clear in her eyes, Frankie shifted her hand so that she could rub her thumb over his bottom lip.
“But I ruined your plan?” Her words were quiet, breathy. As if she needed to save up all of her oxygen for other things.
“The night isn’t over yet,” he assured her, drawing her thumb into his mouth before turning her hand to press a kiss to her palm. “And like I said, I’m trained in strategy. There’s always more than one way to obtain any objective.”
“So you have a backup plan?” she asked, the last word a whimper. Her pul
se raced against his fingers. Her smile was a sultry invitation, her eyes filled with desire.
“I always have a backup plan.”
“Do tell,” she prompted, her free hand sliding over his thigh. His reaction was hard and fast.
Phillip had never talked dirty in public before.
He’d actually never talked dirty before.
But if her hand slid any higher, he’d seriously consider actually doing something dirty. Right there at the table.
Blood pounding, he leaned forward to take her mouth.
“Dinner, sir. Madam.”
Damn it all to hell. Phillip released Frankie’s hand, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Several deep breaths later he was still pissed, but he was able to open his eyes and thank the waiter.
“This looks delicious,” Frankie said.
She looked so chipper, he’d have thought her unaffected. Just as insult started to take hold, he saw her staring blankly at her salad, as if she didn’t know what to do with it.
His lips twitched. He was glad to know he wasn’t alone. Ready to try sublimating one hunger for another, Phillip made a show of picking up his salad fork. Frankie’s lips pursed, then she smiled, lifted her fork and started eating.
“So you always have a backup plan?” Frankie said brightly as soon as the waiter left. “Is that another SEAL motto?”
“‘Ready to lead, ready to follow, never quit,’” he said automatically, the words echoing faintly in his head through a fog of desire.
Frankie wet her lips, the glossy red glinting in the candlelight as she leaned forward.
“You know, I always think of you as a Banks. The scion of one of the oldest families in the area. Class president, valedictorian, prom king.”
Phillip grimaced, pushing his salad plate away. Well, there went his appetite and all of his lusty thoughts, drowned in a wave of discomfiture.
“And you’re still out with me?”
“Of course.” She laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with those things.”
Sure, there wasn’t. If a guy wanted to sound like an uptight snob with an overachiever complex.
Then again, if the shoe fits...