“Getting nicked?” Frankie gave him a sidelong glance.
“Caught in the act,” Gage answered for Quinton.
Her eyes opened wide at the thought. “Are all Aussies such perverts?”
He shook his head and grinned. “Win the next hand and I’ll tell you.”
Damon spouted off some number from the Kama Sutra, claiming it was his all-time leading score. Frankie had no earthly idea what he was talking about.
Gage was last to answer. He leaned across the table and stared directly at her until she broke his bold eye contact.
He matter-of-factly replied, “Spelunking.”
“Huh?” If Damon’s answer was bizarre, Gage’s was completely out of the solar system. “Spelunking? As in cave exploration? I don’t understand. Your answer has to make sense to the winner. Those are the rules.”
“Oh, it will,” he grinned.
All three men were smiling. Quinton was actually whistling the tune from Jeopardy. Stewie, asleep on the couch, perked up at the noise and came running over to demand his rightful place on Damon’s lap.
Frankie pinched her lips into a grim line. Gage was being evasive and she didn’t like it one bit. Her quest for understanding overrode any shame over being naïve. She wanted answers, not malarkey.
“Well?” She held her hands up. “What are you talking about?”
Dark eyebrows arched. His droll gaze traveled slowly down her body, halting at the juncture of her thighs and remained there. It took a few moments before she understood why Gage was staring at her crotch. She sucked in her breath, felt the heat rise to her cheeks and gasped. “Smart ass,” she snapped, hoping no one noticed her lick the perspiration from her upper lip.
Damon’s next winning question was directed to Quinton.
“Have you ever cheated on someone you were dating?”
The big man responded by quietly removing his shoes.
That one shocked her.
“When is your date with Lauren?” Gage inquired with his next win.
Frankie sincerely wanted to lie and say “next Friday”, but shed a sock instead. When she finally won a round, things got ugly. Tired of being the focus of twisted attention, she went for the jugular —- Gage’s jugular.
“What is the significance of March? You always get so pissy around this time of year. What gives?”
He stared at her, jaw twitching, eyes darkening. He opened his mouth, closed it. His eyes bore through her as he very quietly removed a boot. Quinton and Damon exchanged a quick, worried glance. Frankie puckered her lips and pondered his bizarre reaction. She was not getting the information she wanted.
Now what?
She was contemplating her next question when Gage won the next hand. Staring intensely, he casually asked, “Have you ever had an orgasm?”
Frankie kept a blank face but the rapid pulse at her throat was a dead giveaway to everyone at the table. She reached down and pulled off her other sock.
“Never?” Damon blurted with undignified horror and muttered an expletive. She shot him a scathing look. Quinton sucked in a breath.
“You’ve never had an orgasm?” he repeated dumbfounded. “I can’t believe it. Why didn’t you tell us sooner? I’ve got some buddies who’d love a chance to fix that for you. They’re always asking me to introduce you to them.”
This time it was Gage who gave Damon the dirty look, then he gazed back at Frankie and stared as if seeing her for the first time.
“Gage, did you hear me?” Damon blurted.
“What?”
“We need to find someone to remedy this problem for her,” he stated.
Gage stared numbly at him. “Don’t you have enough on your plate?”
“Not me personally, LC. I mean, she has nice breasts and all.”
“Knock it off,” Frankie jumped in with indignation. “You could at least wait until I’m not sitting right here next to you.”
Damon rolled his eyes at her.
“It’s Quinton’s turn to deal.”
The next round that Gage won cost Frankie her pants rather than confess she had never been tied to a bed during lovemaking. She scowled and flung her shirt across the room when he won the third hand in a row and asked how many lovers she had been intimate with.
“One? Two?” Damon slowly started counting, hoping to get a reaction despite her refusal to answer. “Three? Four?”
Frankie broke into a cold sweat. Surely they knew her well enough to realize what an abysmal sex life she had. She took a deep breath and continued to play, winning a small reprieve when Quinton was victor of the following round.
“Hey mate, have you ever tied a woman to a bed during sex?”
“Yes,” Gage answered, never breaking eye contact with Frankie. She swallowed hard.
By now they had all figured out that in reality, only two people at the table were playing this game and one of them had a definite agenda.
Frankie was in deep shit and she knew it. She blinked back to the present. Someone was speaking to her.
“Question, Captain.” Gage aimed his intensity upon her. “What did you mean when you said you wanted to see spots?”
Everything happened at once. Damon spewed a mouthful of coffee. Stewie did a stunning aerial loop and took off for high ground. Quinton grunted with surprise. Frankie lost her composure.
“Whaaaa?” Like a crimson tide, the blush crept right up to her scalp.
“You heard me,” Gage replied.
“When did I say that?” Her mind raced to come up with a time she would ever say those words in the presence of him and came up empty.
The rules of naked truth poker were simple. Respond truthfully or refuse to answer the question thereby forfeiting another article of clothing she couldn’t afford to lose.
What to do? What to do?
“When did I say that?” she repeated.
“I’m the winner of this hand,” Gage smirked. “I get to ask the question.”
She opened her mouth to speak and nothing but air whooshed out.
“Answer the question,” he urged, “or start stripping.”
He waited.
They all waited.
“Well,” she twitched and shifted in the chair. “I think I was probably wondering about something that one of the Sisterhood mentioned last week.” She shook her head. “More than likely, I think,” she jabbered on. “At least, I seem to remember some, some mention of that.”
Seconds passed.
The overhead light fixture flickered.
The radio crackled with static.
Gage arched an eyebrow and hid his smile.
All three men stared expectantly at her, silent hostages to their own curiosity. They waited—three hovering vultures circling fresh kill.
Frankie blinked and cleared her throat. “Umm,” she continued. “One of the girls mentioned an incident and I was curious to know what she was talking about, you know. I mean, it didn’t make any sense and I’ve been wondering about it for days. It was probably some subliminal thing that slipped out while I was delirious.”
“No.” Gage shook his head. “Your exact words were, ‘I want to see spots’.” His eyes dared her to tell the truth.
Her mouth formed a perfect O.
Above the roar in her ears, Frankie could hear the little hitch in the back of Quinton’s throat that always preceded his raucous laughter. No help would be coming from his direction. Unfortunately, it was Damon who jumped to her rescue. “She’s talking about sex, LC. That was something that happened while Kristen and I were doing the wild thing.”
All heads turned his way.
“She almost passed out on me, dude. Said something about seeing spots and then her eyes rolled back in her head. I thought I’d shagged her to death.”
Frankie let out a pitiful squeaking noise. Damon kept talking.
“I was sure the neighbors were going to call the police and haul my ass off to jail.” He took a deep breath. “What a set of pipes that woman h
as. My ears were ringing for a week.”
Gage watched her every move as Frankie put her hand over her face, stood and quietly walked to her room. She heard Damon ask if the game was over and Quinton answer, “That’s affirmative, mate.”
* * * *
“My life is going to hell.”
With squared shoulders, Frankie wrapped a big terrycloth towel tightly around her torso and carefully stepped out of the misty shower stall. Billowing fog rolled out in her wake.
Some serious strangeness was afoot at Air Station Harmony Bay and the more she thought about it, the more her head pounded. Earning the respect of her three crewmen had taken months of hard work and endurance.
She paid her dues.
Now, after one reckless incident, Frankie feared she was plummeting straight back to square one. She should never have gone off swimming that night. None of this would have happened if she’d only kept her cool.
The melodic voice of the ten o’clock newscaster sifted in from behind the closed bedroom door. She heard Damon’s hearty complaint about the superficial stories thrown up as important national news. The kid was more than a pretty face, she thought, he was politically astute.
Her team. Her wonderful crew.
She had let them down.
Frankie closed her eyes and chewed on her lower lip. She was in over her head. She needed a plan.
The night was still young enough to give one of the Sisterhood a call. Her landscaping problems would be a great excuse to make contact and maybe she could work up the courage to confide what was really bothering her.
Andie Daniels would know exactly what plant would thrive in the empty planter box on the east side of her house. Andie might also have some words of wisdom to help Frankie get through this latest personnel crisis.
Frankie reminisced about the naval academy and subsequent years as she’d clawed her way to the top of the rescue-pilot ladder. She tiptoed from the bathroom, turned to the dresser in search of a comb, took two steps and walked square into a towering, hard body. Her chin shot up.
“Gage.”
He stared down in a way that totally unnerved her. Her knees almost buckled. She took a small step back.
“Do I have to tie a bell around your neck to know where you are?” she asked.
His strong arm shot out and pulled her so close she could feel him against her belly. Large. Hard. Hot. She tried to look anywhere but down there. Her body tightened in anticipation.
“What are you doing?”
His voice was a harsh caress, “Serving notice.” His long fingers slowly untied the flimsy towel and held it open while his molten gaze roamed her body possessively.
Frankie gasped. This man she trusted with her life helped himself to an eyeful. She was frozen with shock. Waiting. Her bare, goose-fleshed arms hung at her sides.
Her voice cracked. “Notice of what?”
“The last time I had a woman tied to the bed,” he whispered in a husky voice, “she saw spots.”
His blazing eyes raked her up and down for what seemed an eternity. Frankie was paralyzed. Her nipples tingled under his scrutiny and beaded into tight, hard pebbles. Her breath came fast and shallow. Little sparks of excitement shot down her spine. Moisture slid down her inner thigh.
Gage bent his dark head and brushed a gentle kiss across her trembling lips. His warm hand spanned her chest. “Spots,” he whispered against her overheated flesh. “I can make you see them too. All you need to do is ask.”
Without warning he pushed himself away, turned and left her standing there.
Naked.
Aroused.
Blown away.
Frankie’s scorched brain fired a few erratic electrical impulses.
“Holy shit.”
Chapter 5
DECISIONS, DECISIONS
“That is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Wait, finish hearing me out.”
Frankie looked around for something to throw at him. They were squared off in the middle of the garage with wrenches and hammers. Damon had taken cover on one side of a forty horsepower outboard, ready to dodge either way should she attack. Frankie angled toward a greasy rag draped atop an oil can.
“Before you decide to dabble under the covers with Lauren, I think you should give the XY chromosome one more chance.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You can’t hold the entire male population responsible for your non-orgasmic experiences with two useless dudes.”
“Wanna bet?” she answered. “For the record, they weren’t useless. One of them was a fireman and Brian is a successful investment banker.”
“An investment banker, huh? Now there’s a life-saving public servant for you,” he scoffed.
Frankie took a step closer to the rag.
“I don’t care how successful they are during the day. If they can’t get their women off at night, what good are they?”
For a moment her vision blurred to near blindness. “The answer is still no.”
“Give it one more chance. Please? I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find a guy you’ll like. Give him a chance.” He peeked around the outboard motor.
“Maybe in my next life.” She was only an arm’s reach away from the rag. She talked, hoping to distract, goad him into making a fatal directional error. “You know, Damon, I was thinking about reincarnation the other day and the possibility of coming back as someone like you. I would want a much larger set of jewels, of course.”
“It isn’t right.” Damon took a step backward, cleverly keeping himself out of striking distance. “Who knows, he might even be able to get you off.”
There.
She snatched the rag into her hand and then realized what it was — a ratty pair of old jockey shorts covered in motor oil and God only knew what else. She dropped them with a curse.
“My getting off is not a topic for conversation,” Frankie snapped.
Damon continued, undaunted. “But boss, he is seriously attracted to you. He’s a pleaser. He’ll do his best to give you a good time. I’ll even provide a few insider tips beforehand. Prime him, so to speak.”
“No way,” Frankie insisted.
“Haven’t you noticed how he disappears to rub one out whenever you’re around? He wants you.”
“That is way too much info.”
Frankie faked right and went left. Damon compensated.
“He’s a straight-up dude, boss.”
“Seaman George at New Harbor? He’s just a baby.”
She stomped her foot dramatically.
“Then you would be interested in doing him if he wasn’t so young? Is that it? The age difference is a problem for you?”
Damon almost hopped up and down with glee.
Frankie gave him the evil eye. Maybe pitch that little bowl of rusty bolts and spark plugs that sat on the edge of the workbench. Not a bad idea after all. If nothing else, it might shut him up.
“My ‘doing him’ would be tantamount to statutory rape.”
“So the age thing is the problem.” Damon swerved to grab the bowl before she could reach it.
“What if I told you he’s much older than you think he is?”
“What if I told you that you’re wasting your time?” She tried to edge closer. A few more feet and she could tackle him to the ground and tickle-pinch him till he screamed uncle. Damon took a cautious step toward the side door.
“Great sex is never a waste of time,” he warily replied.
Frankie closed her eyes, held her hand high in the air, touching her temple. “Wait a minute. I think I might be having an epiphany.” She paused and sucked in a dramatic breath. “How much did you bet your perverted psycho buddies that you could get George and I together?”
“What makes you think that?”
“You’re not denying it?”
Damon was up on his toes, ready to spring in any direction.
“It’s just a small bet.”
“How much?”
“One Ben Franklin, two
if he gets in your pants on the first date.”
“No way,” she snarled.
“I’ll give you half.”
“Does your mother know what a monster she created?”
“Come on, boss,” he begged. “Take one for the team.”
* * * *
From his seat at the kitchen table, Gage heard every word. His broad shoulders were rigid. One more comment about Frankie having sex with that pimple-faced, dumb-ass kid at New Harbor and he was going to blow a head gasket. Thankfully she had more sense than to get mixed up in that kind of no-win situation.
Reality jolted his senses.
He was jealous! Gage wanted Frankie for himself.
Gage launched himself to his feet and stormed off toward the helipad. Stewie caught sight of him and padded across the floor on an intercept course. At the last moment the cat sensed his foul mood and sidestepped to avoid a fatal collision.
George Harvey was a threat.
In painful fact, George was a highly intelligent, clean cut, all-around nice guy in his late twenties. He would go far within the ranks of the Coast Guard. Right now, however, he was the newbie, low on the food chain and object of scorn. A woman’s compassion, her pity, was a powerful tool in a man’s seduction arsenal. Gage knew that Frankie would sympathize with his plight. He wrinkled his face into a scathing grimace. The odds were slim that she might succumb to sleeping with him out of kindness.
Slim wasn’t good enough.
* * * *
Quinton Herriman was enjoying the spectacular sunny morning. In the distance, impressive banks of cumulus clouds were spreading east. According to NOAA predictions, an atmospheric low-pressure system was heading their way. The promise of stormy weather did nothing to dampen his high spirits, however. Sprawled out on an orange plastic deck chair, he was clad solely in white boxers and a wide grin.
His wife was coming for a visit.
Isabelle was going to bundle up the girls and make the long drive to spend a few hours hanging out at the station with her husband and his coworkers.
His daughters would crawl all over the helicopter, bombard him with a million questions. Sarah, the eldest, would be seven next month, and was determined to become another Frankie when she grew up.
Guarding the Coast Page 6