From the corner of his eye he spotted Gage. One look at his face told him there was more bad weather brewing. Quinton could almost hear the scrape of tooth enamel.
Gage stalked across the helipad, prowled around in the cockpit for a few moments and then proceeded to pace back and forth between the supply shed and the garage.
“Hey, mate,” Quinton called to him after his third empty trip to the shed.
Gage spun around and walked over. Quinton squinted up at the brooding co-pilot. Sunlight encircled him with a halo they both knew he didn’t deserve.
“What’s on your mind?” Quinton held his hands palms-up in a gesture of openness. Gage took a tortured breath and dropped to the grass beside him.
“Frankie.” Something flickered behind his fathomless green eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Quinton listened quietly. He’d waited a long time for this particular confession.
“She’s in the garage right now, being propositioned on George Harvey’s behalf.” Gage ran a distracted hand through his short dark hair. “I know that’s not what she needs.” He centered his rabid thoughts. “He’s not right for her. She doesn’t need a young stud lover.”
“What does she need?”
Quinton had known the answer from the first morning Frankie walked brazenly into Harmony Bay. That Gage might have finally come to the same realization and be ready to discuss the fact with him, would be a real breakthrough.
“She needs someone who will accept her for the exceptional woman she is; not just sleep with her and leave,” Gage replied without hesitation. He shook his head despondently. “I don’t know what the right thing to do is anymore. Everything used to be so clear-cut. Black and white. Right and wrong. The rules have changed.”
“What rules?”
“The rules of professional behavior,” he blurted. “I can’t keep my mind off her. The curve of her waist, the shape of her legs, the dip of her shoulders and slope of her breasts. That stubborn angle of her jaw when she’s fighting strong winds.” Gage paused and stared across the helipad. “I think I’m losing it, man. She’s always been like a little sister to me. It’s different now.”
“Different, how?”
“I want her,” Gage whispered and watched a solitary white gull flap across the sky. “I want her to want me.” He took a deep breath and stared out across the horizon before continuing. “I must be going crazy. She’ll never agree to take me as a lover. Maybe I should consider that full pilot opportunity in Washington and get away from here for awhile.”
Quinton sighed. A storm of emotions raged around them both. “Life is about five percent what happens to you and ninety-five percent how you react to it. Don’t run away from this. Give her a chance. Show your hand and let her catch up.”
Gage’s head snapped around. “What do you mean?”
Quinton gave him a grin. A long moment passed between them before he spoke. His voice rumbled across the open space. “I knew someone like you once. He was afraid of getting involved with a lady he thought was untouchable, above him. So he did his best to ignore her because he was such a clumsy ass around her. He didn’t think he could ever be worthy of her.” Quinton paused for a moment, leaned back and swatted at a fly. “It turned out that the lady wanted him so much she was willing to risk everything to have him. Even her life.” He paused, blinked against the sun and considered how much more he should divulge to Gage. “Communication of her own needs was a problem for this lady,” Quinton continued. “She didn’t have much experience with raw emotion. Her life had been carefully constructed. Real intimacy wasn’t an option but she managed to find a way around it.”
Gage looked at him, perplexed. “How did it all turn out?”
“You tell me,” Quinton replied with a smile. “Personally, I think she was worth it, even if she hadn’t given me Grace and Sarah.”
“That lady was Isabelle?” Gage asked, his mouth hanging open.
Quinton nodded. “My advice is, if you want Frankie, fuck the rules. Go get her.”
“How?”
Quinton was quiet for a few lengthy moments. “Isabelle wore a pair of sexy black underwear that peeked out over the top of her low-rise jeans,” he replied. “You’re a smart man, Adams. You’ll think of some way to generate her interest.”
* * * *
Frankie was losing her voice. She rummaged around the catchall drawers in the kitchen for a throat lozenge or two. All morning, she and Damon had been at it. Bickering. Negotiating. The kid seemed to be on a one-man crusade to get her laid.
No, not laid, she thought with irritation, but well laid.
Frankie’s face pinched into a scowl. If he didn’t back off soon, she could always call for an unscheduled training mission and tea-bag him until he got the message. Being repeatedly and forcefully dipped into the ocean while he dangled on the end of a rope would have a sobering effect.
And what the hell was up with Gage? After the peep-show episode, he had literally disappeared off the face of the earth. Not that she wanted him to come back and finish that blistering breach of protocol, of course. No matter how much more she wanted. “It was a fluke,” she rationalized. “He’s always on edge this time of year.”
Frankie chewed her lip. If loss of trust in her decision-making ability was not behind Gage’s bizarre behavior, what was?
She shrugged her shoulders and opened the refrigerator door. A cool mist rolled out to envelope her face. She grabbed a pitcher and poured a glass of orange juice.
In the past, her personal boudoir tales had never been on the front line for discussion. Her lack of sexual experience had never been an issue. Nobody asked. Frankie never told. Damon was doggedly determined to change that.
In the last few hours Damon had made a dozen urgent calls to various acquaintances in his pretty-boys club. He assured her he would find the right man for the job, despite her vehement protests. If she wouldn’t accept George Harvey into her bedroom, perhaps he could interest her in someone more her age.
“Trust me,” he spoke with all seriousness. “There’s got to be some guy out there who’s interested in a feisty bed-hog with tiny boobs and hairy legs.”
Frankie was ready to throttle him.
She drank her beverage, savoring the cooling effect on her sore throat.
Gage suddenly appeared on the stairwell. Frankie halted in mid-sip, lips frozen to the rim of the glass, staring hard as he sauntered down the stairs and nonchalantly strolled past her. Wearing only a tight pair of biking shorts and his running shoes, his long, powerful legs flexed with each step.
Frankie gulped in a breath. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from him.
His body was sculpted to perfection, the personification of male in its purest form. And his legs, oh those legs! They were a masterpiece of nature. Time slowed while she worked her examination upward, past a butt that rivaled Damon’s and a broad chest heavy with layers of honed muscle. Her gaze stopped at the faint scar encircling his lower neck, a grim reminder that someone had once sliced his throat open, leaving him to bleed to death. She studied the play of light and shadow molding his high cheekbones as he strolled past the open kitchen and through the laundry room. He never made eye contact or even acknowledged her presence but she knew that he knew she was watching.
And he knew that she liked what she saw.
* * * *
Frankie spent the afternoon helping Quinton give the helicopter a thorough wash and rinse and then re-checked atmospheric reports and tried to keep her mind off her tantalizing co-pilot’s body.
Predicting weather patterns was one of the most challenging aspects of her job. Not that bad weather would have prevented Harmony Bay’s crew from bouncing through insane turbulence to help others in trouble. She grabbed a thumbtack and posted projected reports on the bulletin board above the radio frequency scanner.
Damon walked up behind her and started to complain. “Disgusting losers. It’s un-cool to leave a woman not so high and very
dry.”
“It’s no big deal,” she answered, stumbling as Stewie weaved between her legs.
From across the expansive room Gage and Quinton pretended not to listen. Frankie shot them a surreptitious glance. It was obvious they were glued to their seats at the kitchen table, taking in every word while meticulously cleaning a row of flare guns. Normally they would have been conversing, joking in low, amiable tones; comparing war stories. Their uneasy silence was a waving red flag.
Frankie felt like an idiot.
“Sex is about giving,” Damon informed her with a sly grin. “European dudes figured that out a long time ago. Most American guys are too selfish to take the time to understand. You have to learn what a woman needs and then give it to her.” He took a deep breath and started up again. “You’ve gotta do your homework if you want to pass the class.”
Frankie looked at the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered.
Damon sucked in a dramatic breath, stricken with insight. “Is that why you’re all hot and bothered to spend some time in Europe? Are you hoping to find some wild Frenchman?”
“Actually, I was looking forward to all those nifty in-flight movies.” Her voice was cynical enough to cover the rising humiliation. “Not to mention the wonderful airline cuisine.”
Sudden loathing twisted Damon’s handsome face into a mean sneer. “You didn’t fake an ‘O’ just to make those dipshits feel better about their performance, did you?”
Her jaw clamped down so hard she almost chipped a tooth. The reverberation pounded through her skull. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, that’s right, sorry. How would you know how to fake what you’ve never had?” Damon squinted and studied her closely. “How long has it been since you tried?”
“Tried what?” she snapped.
“What do you mean, what? Whaddya think we’ve been discussing,” he replied testily. “Getting off. The big O. La petit mort.”
Blood roared in her ears. Frankie felt a hot flush creep up her neck. She inhaled a deep breath and buried her distress. From the kitchen table came an angry grunt. Frankie stared at the dimpled beige cork of the bulletin board and gnawed on her lower lip. She really, really did not want to discuss this any longer.
“Can we change the fucking subject?” she hissed.
“Fucking is the subject,” he announced too loudly. “It’s common knowledge that women who are unable to orgasm during sex will eventually lose their interest in it.” He paused to stare pointedly at her. “You’ve given up, haven’t you, boss?”
The kid sounded like some crazed sex therapist! Before she could attempt a reply, he launched back into the interrogation with a salvo of questions; wanting to know the whens, whys and hows of what her previous lovers had tried. He was like a moray eel, latched on, unable to let go. How was she going to pry his jaws loose? She let out an audible sigh and stood very still. The best option would be to point out the framed copy of the Uniform Code of Military Justice that hung on the wall. Then she could launch into an unofficial and very private berating.
A menacing voice interrupted her plan.
“Leave her alone!” Gage growled each word with a force bordering on sinister. Both Frankie and Damon looked over in surprise. A muscle in Gage’s angular jaw twitched. Damon gave him a crisp salute then leaned in and whispered so softly only she could hear him.
“Don’t throw in your cards yet, boss. Third time’s a charm. I’ll find the right guy for you.”
Frankie shuddered.
* * * *
By early evening, Isabelle and the girls had arrived and taken over. Stewie rubbed against every available leg. The worthless puss even granted Frankie the privilege of scratching behind his scarred ears.
A warm ocean breeze rustled a stack of papers on the operations desk. She glanced around the room. Isabelle sat so close to her husband on the couch that she might well have been straddling him. Quinton was absently braiding her jet-black hair while feigning interest in the movie that Damon rented for them to watch. Momentarily he would excuse himself and take his beautiful wife upstairs to the privacy of his room while Frankie and the others were left to baby-sit.
Sarah and Grace, more hyperactive than usual, were sliding down the stairs on a piece of cardboard Quinton had fashioned into a bobsled. The dull monologue of the movie was occasionally interrupted by their shouts of, “Daddy, look. Watch me!”
Frankie curled up in a chair by the west window, pretended that life was hunky-dory and she really wasn’t losing her marbles. At least she was partially right. Life was definitely hunky. On the floor a few feet in front of her, Gage sprawled, wearing tight synthetic running pants and nothing else. All day he paraded around the station in next to nothing, flexing his muscles. He looked so irresistible that it sent her spiraling into a cascade of vicious hot flashes. The man had scrambled her brain.
Gage stayed in good physical shape out of necessity, not vanity. Until today, she had never dwelled on what an exceptional piece of eye candy her co-pilot really was.
He dressed to the left.
She let out a tense breath through pursed lips and tried to concentrate on the movie. An impossible task when the show on the floor was so much more interesting. Gage was slurping dessert from a small plastic bowl and there was nothing subtle about the slow way his tongue was working the tip of the spoon. He savored each bite with a decadence that bordered on pornography. Was she the only person in the room who noticed he was practically having sex with a dish of strawberry sherbet? Should he be doing that with children in the house? She glanced over at Quinton and almost fell out of her chair. He was in the midst of a scorcher kiss that had Isabelle moaning softly in response.
Frankie shifted one restless leg under her other and then back again. She shot Gage a wily glance just in time to catch a glimpse of his long, pink tongue dart out to languorously circle and sweep the spoon. All the oxygen was abruptly sucked out of the room. First she was icy cold, then feverish with heat. Frankie closed her eyes and tried to slow her pulse.
No joy.
Her overactive imagination kicked into high gear. How would that tongue feel as it roved across her skin? Would he tease her the way he tortured the tip of that godforsaken spoon? Would he tie her to the bed and make her see spots? She shifted in the chair again and switched her weight to the other hip. She couldn’t stop squirming, couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t get the naughty thoughts out of her mind. Gage pulled a small dollop of ice cream into his inviting mouth and turned to catch her ogling.
He winked.
Frankie bit down hard on her lip and tasted blood. The static squelch of the VHF radio fractured the strained moment. Seaman George Harvey’s distinct voice hailed them.
“Harmony Bay, this is New Harbor. Do you copy?” Startled out of a semiconscious slumber, Damon leaped to his feet and rushed to answer, painfully goring himself on the edge of the couch in the process. He clumsily keyed the microphone while grabbing a pen and paper to take notes.
“New Harbor, this is Harmony Bay, go ahead.”
Seaman Harvey cleared his throat with the microphone still keyed and began speaking, “This is notification of a training mission at zero eight hundred hours. New Harbor Station Commander is requesting your participation.”
“Copy that,” Damon replied and repeated, “Training mission at zero eight hundred hours.”
“Expect winds twenty five to thirty knots and seas to twelve feet,” Seaman Harvey continued. “Anticipate four victims in water. Full briefing by fax and land-line at zero six hundred.”
Frankie glanced over at Gage. The spoon hung loosely between his fingers. He was staring into space, face pinched with what? Worry? Frankie shivered. As if in sync with Gage, she felt her own queasy flicker of intuition.
Chapter 6
AN ‘OH SHIT’ MOMENT
From the relative comfort of his bed Gage counted stars, gazing out the window at their cold perfection; envying their detachment. A muscle jumped at
the corner of his mouth. He rubbed the scar encircling his neck and flinched. He had been trying to fall asleep for hours. Instead, he relived grueling memories of pain and betrayal and a Persian Gulf assignment gone horribly wrong. Brutally awake, his mind was ablaze with images of the murderous high altitude, low opening parachute jump and savage hours afterward as a POW.
Their intelligence sources were false. He and his team had dropped right into the jaws of the enemy. Gage shook his head to dispel the ghastly images. He wasn’t ready to go there again.
Not now.
Not yet.
Not ever.
The week had passed quickly since the ill-fated training mission that had set a brutal barrage of flashbacks into motion. Gage knuckled his eyes. If only daylight would come soon. A new crew would be there in a few hours to replace them.
Meredith Bishop, tall, quiet and eternally wary, would relieve him of his duties. Maybe then he could go home, take a tranq and get some decent sleep. Gage sighed. No other relief was in sight. At least not the kind he really wanted, definitely not what Frankie needed.
She fought the attraction between them. He shouldn’t have expected anything less from her, although there was no doubt he had her attention. At work, he was always there, in her face, by her side at every turn.
Gage rolled to his side and put a pillow over his head. He smiled in the darkness. It wouldn’t be long before she was hot and ready to straddle him. He could almost feel her thighs and legs wrapped around his hips as he pounded into her.
God, he was going to love fucking her!
He wanted to kiss her again, a long and deep exploration that left her pliant. He wanted to leisurely chart the inside of her sassy mouth, run his tongue along her neck, her shoulders and down to those sweet breasts that plagued his every waking moment. His lips twitched.
He wanted to make her come in his mouth.
Guarding the Coast Page 7
