“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 blinked. He used to think he was. Now? He had no idea.
“I’m Frankie.” She thrust out her hand, her smile widening. “It’s great to see you.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Phillip said automatically, taking her hand. He was surprised at how small and delicate it was.
Her lips pursed, the move making him uncomfortably aware of how full her mouth was.
“You don’t know me, do you?” she stated, her brown eyes dancing with mirth.
“Should I?” Yes, his tone was stiff. He didn’t like people laughing at him, and he was sure that was exactly what the redheaded sprite was doing.
“I’m a friend of Lara’s.”
Of course she was.
Phillip was sure the room could be divided into two camps.
The wild, gyrating, tattooed camp his sister belonged to.
And the protocol-loving, rule-living camp of the Navy that he thrived in.
Why, oh, why, did the two have to converge?
The pretty redhead shifted a little closer. Her dress showed off her golden shoulders and deep cleavage, and the table didn’t block the length of her long, silky legs beneath her short skirt.
Sexual awareness hit hard and fast and very unwelcome.
In defense against it, Phillip looked away. His gaze landed on the stage, where his sister and Castillo were wrapped around each other like vines. It was Lara’s hand on her husband’s ass this time.
“Good God.” A waiter approached the table and Phillip gratefully exchanged his empty glass for a full one, giving the guy a smile and a signal to keep them coming. If this kept up, he was going to need a few more.
He fought the desire to simply get up and leave. To get the hell out of here. But he was trapped. Trapped by his emotions, by the sudden demands of family, by his memories.
Desperate for distraction, a part of him screaming for reprieve, Phillip focused all of his considerable attention on Frankie. The name chimed faintly in his memory, but the sound was easily drowned out by his third scotch.
“C’mon,” Frankie said, getting to her feet and reaching out to grab his hand.
“Where?” Phillip didn’t get up, but he didn’t shake off her hand either. There was something oddly compelling about her touch. That, and seeing her standing there, her short dress glistening and her hair swirling around her face, was a serious turn-on.
“The dance floor, of course,” she said, laughing. “You can’t tell me you’re Lara’s brother and you don’t dance.”
The waltz, a foxtrot if forced and—although he’d only admit it at gunpoint—the tango, all thanks to lessons mandated by his mother, the queen of high society. Phillip glanced at the dancers and shook his head. Not one lesson at Madame Lenore’s had included a bump or a grind. He’d be lost out there.
“C’mon,” Frankie said again, tugging.
Curious, and just a little bit fascinated, Phillip let her drag him to his feet. Her tiny hand wrapped around his, she pulled him through the dancers. She was so small he felt as though he should be the one in front, protecting her. But she moved like a friendly bulldozer, her smile parting the crowd all the way to the sliding glass door that led to the patio. And, he knew from his initial inspection, a private elevator.
Escape.
“I’m staying until cake.” He grimaced, remembering Landon’s orders.
She grabbed a bottle of champagne from a passing waiter and handed it to him before taking two empty glasses with a murmured thanks.
“Cake isn’t for another half hour,” she said with a wink, pushing the door open and leading him through. It silently slid shut behind them and then—blessed quiet.
Phillip closed his eyes for a second, letting the lack of wailing guitars wash over him. It wasn’t until his ears stopped ringing that he realized there actually was music out here, too. Softer music. A medley of strings.
“Dance?” Frankie asked, setting the glasses on an empty table.
Phillip hesitated.
Not because he didn’t want to dance with her.
But because he did.
This was the wrong time to be attracted to a woman.
His head was all kinds of messed up. He was on a personal mission for vengeance.
He didn’t do relationships. And despite her party-girl appearance, there was something about her freckles that told him Frankie was a relationship girl at heart.
Which made her off-limits.
Relationships and a career as a Navy SEAL? Despite the celebrating going on in the other room, Phillip knew relationships were a bad idea. He didn’t believe in splitting his focus, and had long ago vowed that his only commitment would be to his career.
He’d be better off making his excuses and returning to the noisy assault and painful visuals. Ready to do just that, he gave Frankie a polite smile.
And wished those huge brown eyes weren’t so appealing. Or that body so temptingly hot.
But those huge brown eyes were so appealing, and that body was temptingly hot. Her personality was so damned engaging that, for the first time since he’d been taken captive, he didn’t feel lost. The vicious fury that had become his constant companion, and that no therapy could erase, was shoved aside.
Instead, lust took over.
FRANKIE HELD HER BREATH, her heart beating so hard she was surprised her dress wasn’t shaking. Eyes wide, she waited to see what he’d do. After a second he glanced at the door leading back to the party. She tried not to pout, sure he was about to refuse.
Then, with a small frown, he set down the champagne bottle and held out a hand.
Look at how he made that look as if it was his idea. She grinned as she placed her hand in his and let him lead her out of view of the door. Of course, Phillip Banks of the Maryland Bankses was high society through and through.
Kinda like a prince.
Which, given her status in that same state, made her a pauper.
She wiggled her toes in her beribboned Lucite heels, figuring she could rock the role of Cinderella for just one night.
They reached the far side of the patio, a bronze fire pit casting a magical glow over them as Phillip faced her, his hand curling around her waist.
Amusement fled.
So did thought.
All Frankie could