“That was a good thing you did, giving the bride away.”
Swirling the ice melting in his second scotch that night, Phillip could only shrug. A year ago—hell, six months ago—he’d been in what he considered peak form for a military officer. He’d trained hard, he was at the top of his game physically and mentally and he’d been completely unencumbered. He’d had no family to answer to, and his relationships with his fellow SEALs had been distant enough for him to do his job without any emotional baggage. And he’d been absolutely positive that he was on the right track.
And now?
He was reluctantly attending a tacky Las Vegas wedding with half of the SEAL platoon, his entire team and a sister he’d spent most of his life comfortably estranged from. And his right track? That had taken a sharp turn left.
“Sir?” he said, leaning forward, knowing his words would be easily drowned out by the loud music if anyone else were listening. “Any word on Candy Man?”
Landon’s easy look faded at the mention of Valdero’s code name. His eyes went military hard and his demeanor shifted automatically.
“This isn’t the time or the place,” Landon said. “And you haven’t been cleared for the mission. So until we’re back on base, why don’t you relax and enjoy your sister’s happiness?”
Phillip clenched his teeth to keep his argument at bay, baffled at the unfamiliar fury surging through him. Apparently the extra therapy he’d gotten after the clear psych evaluation hadn’t helped much. Before, he’d never gotten angry, never questioned orders. Yet here he was, ready to leap across the table, grab a superior officer and demand that he be allowed revenge.
Phillip tossed back the last of his scotch, wishing the alcohol would dull the hold those strange emotions had over him. He’d been called uptight most of his life, and he’d embraced that label. Reckless emotions were something he’d never indulged in.
Landon glanced over his shoulder, where the bride and groom were now slow dancing, in spite of the heavy bass ricocheting off the walls. “Give yourself a pat on the back for your part in bringing them together.”
“That’s all on them,” Phillip said, wincing as the groom’s hands slipped down to cup the bride’s ass.
“Blake?”
Both men looked over and smiled. Phillip donned the polite society smile he’d been trained from birth to offer. Landon’s smile was much sappier, the kind that said the guy was seriously crazy over his wife.
“Dance?” Alexia Landon asked, trailing her fingers over her husband’s shoulder.
Landon nodded, and then gave Phillip a long look.
“Whether you want credit or not, from what I hear, the bride and groom are giving it to you,” he told Phillip as he got to his feet. With that and a grin, he followed the leggy redhead onto the dance floor.
“Don’t forget you have to stay until they cut the cake,” the lieutenant commander threw over his shoulder.
Seriously?
Phillip eyed the clearly-not-ready-for-cake couple dancing on the stage, looked at his watch and raised his hand.
“Bartender?”
Thirty minutes and one scotch on the rocks over his two-drink limit later, his headache had spread to both eyes and was eking its way down the back of his neck. As he did with anything that didn’t suit him, Phillip ignored it.
All he had to do was focus on his goal and push everything else from his mind. In this case, his goal was to get out of here. Less than a minute later, as he was plotting his escape, a woman dropped onto the banquette next to him.
Phillip blinked. Not in surprise, but in defense of his corneas. Was her dress made of mirrors? He squinted, realizing the tiny round tiles glittering their way over her curves were metal, not glass.
Did everything glitter in Las Vegas?
“Wow, this is wild,” she said, waving her hand in front of her face to cool off. “Can you believe this place? I’ve never been in a penthouse before. Talk about doing it right.”
She glanced over his shoulder as she said the words, her gaze taking in the neon landscape. Then, with a soft whistle, she gave him a wide-eyed look as if to say, Wow. Then she shifted, narrowing her gaze to focus on his face.
“You don’t look like you’re having fun,” she observed, leaning closer. Close enough that her scent wrapped around him like a spicy hug.
“You look like you’re having enough fun for both of us,” he countered. He might be hating everything, but that was his problem. And there was something about this woman that made him want to smile, although he didn’t know why.
“And guys like you don’t like to have fun, is that it?” she asked, looking saucy.
“Guys like me?” Phillip dismissed with a laugh. “You don’t know me, do you?”
“Sure, I do.” She leaned close enough that he could count the freckles sprinkled across her nose and blink at how lush the lashes surrounding her deep brown eyes were.
“I hear you’re Cupid.”
Phillip grimaced.
“Not quite. Phillip Banks,” he corrected automatically. As soon as the words were out he regretted them. Introductions led to conversation. Conversation led to connection, something he was anxious to eliminate.
“Hi, Phillip,” she greeted with a laugh.
Phillip offered a distant nod, hoping she’d get the hint.
“This really is a great party, isn’t it?” she said, not waiting for a response as she turned to check out the crowd. As she did, she twisted her riot of cinnamon curls around her fist and lifted her hair to cool the back of her neck.
Was that a tattoo on her neck? Not sure why he had to know, Phillip leaned forward to get a better look.
“Is that a bird?” he asked, squinting at the pale gray image.
“Hmm?” she murmured, turning back with a smile. She hadn’t released her hair, so he could see the open-door cage, just a shade darker than the bird, tucked in the curve of her neck and shoulder. “It’s freedom.”
“What’s freedom?”
“My bird,” she explained. “It symbolizes flying free. You know, just like some of these guys probably have a bald eagle or something to symbolize freedom, I have a sparrow.”
“They don’t,” he said without thinking.
She tilted her head to the side so her curls slid along her shoulders again, hiding her bird. “Don’t what?”
“Most of them don’t have tattoos,” he explained reluctantly. He didn’t like discussing the military with anyone who wasn’t in it. But he’d brought it up, and it would be rude to ignore her question. “Most of the guys here are SEALs. Identifying marks can be detrimental to their careers.”
“They’re against the rules?”
“No. Just not smart.” Phillip knew there were plenty of tattooed SEALs. He’d served with a few. But every member of the team went on a mission with no ID, no tags, no personal effects for a reason. Phillip had seen what a mission gone wrong could do. Hell, the memory still played out in Technicolor every night when he closed his eyes.
“I’ll bet you are,” the redhead said, pulling his attention out of the past. When she leaned forward on her elbows to give him a thorough look, the move sent her mirrored tiles swinging.
“You bet I’m what?”
“Smart.”
Phillip