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 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,”
