Christmas with a SEAL. Tawny Weber

      Phillip pressed the tips of his fingers against his closed eyes, hoping if he pushed hard enough the burning would fade. Or maybe his eyeballs would just pop on out. Whatever worked.

      The pounding didn’t stop.

      It wasn’t until he groaned that he realized it wasn’t inside his head.

      The door. Someone was knocking.

      He peeled his eyelid open, sure he could hear a layer tearing off his eyeball, and squinted.

      Hotel room?

      Damn.

      Las Vegas. Lara’s wedding. Horrible dancing, noise and...

      He flew from the bed, dragging the sheet with him.

      “Frankie?” he asked, yanking the door open.

      “Sir?”

      Phillip squinted, his teeth clenched against the pain. Instead of a cute redhead with sexy freckles, a dark cloud stood in his doorway.

      “Lane?” he muttered, pressing his fingers against his lids.

      Shit.

      Why was the petty officer here? They were still off duty, weren’t they? Hadn’t it only been one night? And if he was at the door, where had Frankie gone? Phillip turned back to the room, searching for her.

      “We were all meeting for breakfast before heading for the airport,” Lane reminded him. “You missed breakfast so I came to see if you’d changed your plans.”

      Breakfast?

      Phillip squinted across the room, realizing the heavy drapes were closed tight.

      It was morning?

      He strode over, shoved the covers aside.

      Nobody was there.

      Damn.

      He didn’t bother looking in the bathroom. He knew she was gone.

      “Hell.” He sighed, dropping to the bed.

      “Sir? You okay?”

      “I think I slept with Frankie,” he muttered.

      “Whoa.” The other man grimaced, holding up one hand in protest. “Is this the type of confession you really want to share? I’m not judging, man, but you’ve never been the bare-it-all kind of guy before. I hate to see you say something you’ll regret more than...” Lane coughed uncomfortably. “Well, more than whatever you did here already.”

      “What?” His head in his hands, Phillip pressed his fingers against the sledgehammer pounding in his temples. Lane’s words finally filtered through the pain and remnants of the vile cocktail his system had made of scotch and champagne. He groaned. “No.”

      “Beg pardon?”

      Phillip risked spilling the contents of his stomach and lifted his head. “Frankie is a woman.”

      “Yeah? Cool, I guess.” Lane shoved his hands in the front pocket of his jeans, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere but there. In perfect accord, Phillip shifted his gaze to the bedside clock.

      How long had she been gone? How had he missed her leaving? He was a military specialist, highly trained in covert ops. And he’d slept through his one-night stand’s walk of shame.

      “Sir, are you okay?”

      Lane’s calling him “sir” wasn’t a form of respect, or in deference to Phillip’s rank. Nope, he frowned. That was his call sign. He’d always been a little amused by it in the past. He didn’t mind being thought of as uptight and by the book. He was ambitious enough to want to—to plan to—climb to the rank of admiral, so just generally thought of it as his due. He’d been raised to command and expect power.

      But today, when he felt so far from commanding or powerful, the name grated.

      “You are whiter than those sheets,” Lane noted. The guy didn’t sound panicked or worried. He didn’t move from his position by the door. But Phillip knew he was on full alert.

      “Headache,” Phillip muttered, dismissing the gut-clenching migraine. He needed meds fast, or this sucker was going to put him down.

      “I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten,” he said, dismissing the petty officer without a glance. Partially because the guy was standing directly in a pool of sunshine and Phillip was pretty sure looking directly at the bright light would make his eyeballs explode. But mostly because he needed all of his focus, his entire concentration, to put one foot in front of the other.

      He made it to the bathroom, grabbed a bottle of aspirin out of his toiletry bag, and dry-swallowed two pills. A steaming shower, a hundred push-ups and three bottles of water from the minifridge later and he felt like he’d live.

      He glanced at the bed and winced.

      He didn’t do one-night stands.

      He didn’t have sex with strange women.

      And he certainly didn’t fall in love after seven hours. Hell, he didn’t even believe in love, so falling was pure impossibility.

      Wasn’t it?

      Phillip felt as though he was losing control. Everything was spinning out of bounds, even his own thoughts.

      He wanted to know what the hell was wrong with him.

      But he wasn’t going to figure it out now.

      He’d told Lane ten minutes, and he was never late.

      Well, almost never. There was the notable exception of when he’d been captured by a sadistic drug kingpin with an unhealthy interest in infiltrating the Navy SEALs through torture and intimidation.

      Shoving the memories aside along with the nagging pain still pounding at his head, Phillip grabbed his few belongings, tossed them in his bag and headed for the door.

      His hand on the knob, he glanced at the bed again.

      The image of Frankie’s body spread beneath him filled his mind. The memory of her touch, of how it had felt to lose himself in her bombarded him.

      He shook his head, hoping the pain would dislodge the thoughts. The sooner he put Las Vegas and last night behind him, the better. He wasn’t worried about the memories. He’d just shove them in that same locked part of his mind where he kept all thoughts of his days as Valdero’s guest.

      * * *

      FRANKIE SAT IN her studio, as she’d dubbed the third bedroom in her grandmother’s cute little house, and tried not to scream. In her fist, she clenched the hideously lumpy mangled silver that had started out as a necklace.

      What had happened?

      Where were all the colors, the brilliant images and all that amazing creative juju?

      She’d been sure she had it when she’d tiptoed out of Phillip’s room. She’d had trouble sitting still on the plane ride home, she was so excited to get her hands on her tools. All it would take were a few pieces, maybe a dozen, to reestablish herself. A month or so to build up an inventory, maybe prep for a show.

      By the time she’d unpacked her suitcase, she’d been able to see it all clearly. Her rise from the ashes, a celebrated return to glory. She’d have a stylish new condo by spring, be traveling around the country from gallery showings to high-end buyer meetings. Her pieces would be featured on television, in Vogue, maybe even in a movie or two.

      And then she’d walked into her studio, smiling so big her cheeks hurt, and started to create.

      Crap.

      Frankie opened her fist to glare at the dull, unevenly linked spheres.

      Every other thing she made was pure crap.

      She knew she should be grateful that it wasn’t every single thing. She was doing fine with simple pieces,