Guarding the Coast Read online

  GUARDING THE COAST

  BY

  SAMANTHA GAIL

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Guarding the Coast

  Copyright © 2007 Samantha Gail

  ISBN: 1-55410-992-2

  Cover art and design by Angela Waters

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

  Look for us online at:

  www.extasybooks.com

  To Noelle Bachand... my good friend and muse.

  I would also like to acknowledge the following people who were so very generous with their time and stories.

  Captain Douglas J. Bucklew

  Lieutenant Greg Pierce

  Petty Officer Stacey Pardini

  Petty Officer 1st Class Daniel Pye

  Allen Rowley, Fire Control Technician, 2nd Class

  Murry Taylor, Smokejumper/Author

  Michael Coggins, Divemaster

  JoDee Strong, Poetess

  Jennifer Urrutia, RN

  Chapter 1

  MARGARITA MONDAY

  “What do you mean he has the biggest unit you’ve ever seen?”

  “What do you mean, what do I mean? What part of all men are not created equal didn‘t you understand?”

  Frankie Moriarty stared at her girlfriend in horror.

  “I can’t believe you did him.”

  “What’s not to believe?” Kristen yelled over the ruckus in the bar in order to be heard. Her bobbed auburn hair bounced while she spoke. “He had incredible stamina. I’ve done my share of younger men but he takes first prize for best sexual athlete. I came so hard I saw spots.”

  Frankie cursed under her breath.

  Petty Officer Damon McGoldrick, free-ranging source of infinite trouble, had struck again. Semper Paratis. The Coast Guard motto was a fitting description of him. Damon was Always Ready. This time, however, his womanizing activity was a lot closer to home. Frankie slugged down the rest of her frozen margarita and motioned to the bartender for another.

  The Pioneer Brewpub was hopping. Crowded with fishermen, loggers and an assemblage of locals, Frankie’s table was one reserved for a small group of ladies who met every first Monday of each month.

  The Margarita Monday Sisterhood.

  “Kristin, he’s way too young for you,” Claire interjected loudly from across the table. “Besides, most of the younger lovers I’ve taken weren’t worth breaking a sweat over. They can go and go forever but their technique needs refinement.”

  Kristen’s pale eyes glittered in the smoky bar. The more alcohol she consumed, the more pronounced her Irish accent became. She ignored Claire. “Frankie, you don’t know what you’ve been missing all these years. Now I understand why his nickname is The Swordsman. He really knows how to put the fun in dysfunctional.“

  A few seconds passed before Kristin’s meaning sunk in. Claire chuckled and even Frankie had to admit it was humorous. Fortunately or not, Damon’s polyamorous reputation was legendary. Her junior crewman was incredibly popular with the ladies. She rubbed her itching eyes and threw a twenty on the table.

  “You know what I heard from one of his old roommates?” Kristen twitched with mischief.

  “No more, please,” Frankie begged. “I can’t take it.”

  “He said that Damon masturbates before a hot date so he can last longer in bed. How’s that for dedication?”

  Claire muffled a belch, reached over and patted Frankie’s forearm reassuringly. “Drink up,” she bellowed, pouring the dregs from the pitcher into her empty glass. “With any luck, you won’t remember most of this by morning.”

  Frankie slumped in her chair.

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  The Bet.

  This had all started with a stupid bet.

  She and Damon had been heatedly discussing his latest choice of playmates. She had used the letters HIV to make him see reason, get him to understand. Frankie was a gambler in most things but promiscuity was not safe for anyone nowadays, especially for someone with Damon’s sexual appetite.

  He was not easy to scare.

  “Fine then,” he had blurted. “How about fixing me up with one of the girls in the Sisterhood if you’re so worried that I’ll get some lethal disease?”

  “I may be many things to you but pimp is not among them,” she snapped. “Besides, by the time you score with any of my girlfriends, research scientists will have found a cure for AIDS.”

  Damon had whirled on her like a cyclone. “You like to travel, right?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then how about we make a little wager,” he lured. “If you win, you’ll be able to buy a plane ticket to anywhere you want to go.”

  Frankie had Prague on the brain.

  Her European itinerary already chosen, she’d paid a small fortune for a three-pieced matched set of luggage and was ready, set to go. Before she could think rationally about the consequences of selling out her girlfriends, Damon had twisted her words into a bet between the two of them. With the exception of herself, he would seduce the three unmarried, heterosexual women in the Margarita Monday Sisterhood within two months. There were two agreed-upon conditions: Frankie would not divulge the particulars to any of the women involved and Damon was to always use a condom.

  They each had an entire paycheck hanging in the balance.

  * * * *

  Forcing her attention to the present, Frankie let her head fall to the gouged cedar table and gave it a few solid knocks. A foot of thick, corkscrew curls the color of peach parfait tumbled out of the confines of her ponytail.

  “I can’t believe you did him,” she repeated dolefully

  Claire tapped Frankie on the hand to get her attention, pointing out the window to the parking lot. Three women were getting out of a red convertible, late arrivals to their group. “Maybe one of them can talk some sense into you.”

  “It’s about time they got here,” Kristin bellowed.

  Frankie groaned. “Just shoot me and end my suffering.” The Sisterhood, all nurses except herself, knew no boundaries when it came to acquiring juicy gossip.

  Kristen puckered her ruby lips and offered up a toast.

  “Here’s to dipping your pen in the Coast Guard’s inkwell.”

  “Dipping your pen!” Claire echoed.

  Frankie made an ugly face and lifted her own glass to make a toast.

  “Here’s to lascivious girlfriends with no self control.”

  Half the heads in the pub turned their way.

  “Hear, hear!” Their glasses clinked, sloshing liquid across the table.

  * * * *

  Captain Francesca Marie Moriarty was a helicopter pilot for the United States Coast Guard. And she was damned good at it. At five feet four, barely topping one hundred pounds, Frankie was the smallest package of piloting dynamite in the Coast Guard. “TB” a few of the old salts called her, short for “Tenacious Bitch.”

  Flying helos was the love of her life.

  “Frankie?” Cla
ire switched topics. “I don’t understand it. You work with three of the best looking men in the state. Why aren’t you having sex with any of them?”

  “It’s a tough job but somebody’s got to do it,” she answered. “Or is that, not do it?”

  Claire opened her mouth to protest, Kristin interrupted.

  “Haven’t you seen her tattoo?”

  “What tattoo?”

  “The one on her right butt cheek,” Kristin blurted with secret-divulging satisfaction.

  Frankie threw her hands up in surrender.

  “I can’t say that I have,” Claire confessed.

  “Get her drunk enough tonight and she’ll probably show you.”

  Habit dictated that at the end of every Margarita Monday, the Sisterhood made the brisk, quarter mile walk to the beach house that belonged to Frankie. Ensconced in their jammies and with all vestiges of party makeup removed, they spread their sleeping bags haphazardly across the living room floor and kicked the celebration up to the next level. The most sober nurse would start IV’s on the rest of the women and prophylactic re-hydration would begin in the hopes of averting the dreaded hangover.

  The other three women sat down at the table and began pouring drinks. Sophia, normally the shy one, asked, “What does Frankie’s tattoo look like?”

  “It’s a black circle with the words ‘pretty boys’ in the center and a big red slash through it,” Kristin eagerly answered.

  “No pretty boys?”

  “Frankie, you’ve got to tell us,” Claire pleaded. “What’s the problem having a little fun with the guys working for you? You’re their commanding officer, right? Order them to perform.”

  “For the record,” Frankie stated clearly, “Damon is like a brother to me. An evil one sent by Satan to endlessly torment and bedevil; yet a brother, nonetheless.”

  “What about Voice?”

  “Married.”

  “Legs?”

  Frankie wagged a finger. “Moriarty’s rule number one. Never shag your co-workers.”

  * * * *

  Gage Adams let up on the clutch and eased his black Ford truck out of the parking lot of the hardware store. One more stop and he would be on his way home. Damned if he didn’t hate coming into town on his days off. If that backed up sewer line had only waited a few more days! Tomorrow started a continuous stretch on duty until the following Tuesday morning.

  One week on. Two weeks off.

  He swerved to miss a jaywalking pedestrian. Mid-March, the springtime tourists had nearly doubled the population of the small town of New Harbor. Unconsciously rubbing the faint scar at his throat, he pulled into traffic along the Pacific coast highway.

  He downshifted. The truck crept up an incline and Gage turned left under the massive concrete bridge. He could use a beer and some nubile female to stroke into until he forgot everything that was eating at him. It had been a long time since he sought such a welcome diversion.

  “To hell with the sewer,” he scowled.

  Cruising along the bay front, he caught sight of his favorite bar, spun the truck around and pulled into the back alley behind a rusted old camper.

  The night air nipped his face. An old man staggered past, huffing a brusque acknowledgment. Gage nodded, rammed his hands in his pockets and kept walking.

  Jukebox music and heavy smoke blasted from open doors. A few heads turned to see the tall man with the build and swagger of a warrior. His icy green eyes assessed every occupant and found each exit.

  Gage stepped inside.

  “Ahoy there, Lieutenant,” a raspy voice called to him from behind the bar. Edgar, the bar’s owner motioned to an empty chair. “Pull up a seat.”

  Gage nodded. A pretty brunette made eye contact as he brushed by. Gage fixed her with a stare that was direct and steady. He was interested.

  “How’s business, Edgar?”

  Gage kept his gaze riveted on the woman. Her push-up bra was filled to capacity.

  “Life is good. No complaints here.” Edgar shoved a frothy microbrew in front of him and flashed a crooked grin from behind heavy jowls.

  “Glad to hear it,” Gage answered.

  “You missed them by a few minutes.”

  “Missed who?”

  “Your captain and her crazy nurse friends.” Edgar made a clucking sound like a hen. “Them gals have been coming here for years. Don’t think I’ve ever seen them so drunk. They kept calling for one round after another. I tried to cut them off until they threatened to tie me up and do things to a part of my anatomy that ain’t never seen sunshine and don’t suspect ever will.”

  “Nothing is sacred when you get that wild bunch together,” Gage agreed and took a hearty slug of his beer.

  The brunette watched his mouth with open interest.

  Invitation sent and accepted.

  “Nurses.” Edgar shook his head. “They all staggered off towards the beach about five minutes ago,” he said with a twinge of conspiracy. “Might not be a bad idea for somebody to make sure they made it to Frankie’s place safely.”

  Gage’s dark eyebrows shot upward. “I suppose that somebody ought to be me.”

  “You’re the local hero around this town,” Edgar answered. “I’d do it myself but those gals scare me.”

  The hint of a smile creased Gage’s mouth. He upended the pint of ale and set it down on the bar with a thud.

  * * * *

  “Holy shit!”

  Frankie stopped dancing at the sound of Claire’s exclamation. She twirled to the source and her mouth fell open in surprise. Lieutenant Commander Gage Adams was leaning against the doorway looking magnificent in a tight pair of jeans that hugged his lean hips. He was dessert for the eyes. Booted feet were crossed casually at the ankles and his black shirt delineated every muscle across a very broad chest.

  It was a crying shame. Her co-pilot had the sexiest smile she had ever seen in her life — lazy, knowing and totally off limits.

  What was he doing at her house?

  “Legs!” Frankie stumbled over a casualty passed out in the middle of the floor.

  Gage took a step inside and surveyed the carnage.

  “Ith everything okaaay?” Frankie lisped.

  Not many people knew her parents had provided expensive speech therapy lessons. The only time Frankie lapsed into lisping was when she was overly tired or intoxicated. Her glassy eyes crossed for a moment.

  “Everything is fine,” he reassured. “Edgar sent me to do a welfare check.”

  Her cottage beach house was warm and cozy. The white shutters were wide open and every light was on. The Gypsy Kings blared from surround-sound speakers. He had watched from the door while four half-naked women twirled in an awkward tango and was surprised that none of them lost their dinner.

  “Did everybody make it here without a problem?” he asked.

  The girls stared dumbly at him. Gage took a head count. Andie and Lauren were down, unconscious but still breathing amidst layers of sleeping bags. The other four women were still on their feet, barely.

  “Ladies, ladies.” He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “It’s only ten o‘clock at night. What time did you start drinking?”

  “The usual,” Kristen answered. She edged a little closer to him. Frankie reached out, grabbed her roughly by the back of her pink satin teddy and hauled her in like a fish. She let out a little yip of surprise.

  “Which is?” Gage prompted.

  “Cocktail hour,” Frankie answered. “Wanna beer?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got to get home.”

  “What’s your rush?” Claire had crept up to join them, staring hungrily. Gorgeous and tanned, her long blonde hair set off sparkling eyes the color of moss. Frankie grabbed an elbow and pulled her in alongside Kristen.

  “I’ve got a backed up sewer line that needs attention,” he said.

  Claire wrinkled her nose.

  Gage grinned. “So, unless someone needs to be tucked into bed, I’ll see you in the morning, Captain,”
he replied, staring at Claire a little too long.

  “I need to be tucked in,” Claire piped up.

  Frankie gave her arm a yank and a “behave yourself” look.

  “I’ll see you at work,” Frankie addressed him.

  “On time?”

  “You bet.”

  Sophia, watching quietly from a few feet away, feigned a cockeyed salute and promptly fell over sideways. Her face collided with a throw pillow on the sofa. She exhaled a small grunt and in a remarkable spurt of effort, crawled blindly onto the couch.

  Chapter 2

  TROUBLESOME TUESDAY

  “Mayday! Mayday!”

  Frankie heard the frantic call within the earphone of her helmet. The situation had gone from bad to worse. She gave a gentle forward nudge to the cyclic and changed the angle of the rotor blades to bite more air. She glanced at the airspeed indicator and coaxed a few extra knots of momentum. They would be on scene in less than a minute. The cutter from Station New Harbor was also en route. In the background, via her headset, came the calm response of her co-pilot to the mayday request.

  No reply.

  The distressed vessel’s Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon began transmitting its location. Whether the activation was manual or by immersion in water was unknown. Gage tried the vessel again and then hailed the Coast Guard cutter.

  Frankie’s attention was concentrated elsewhere.

  Helicopters.

  They did not naturally want to fly. A delicate balance of forces and controls working in opposition to each other kept them in the air. The Dauphine was no exception. A thirty-nine foot rotor carried it through the air at a cruising speed well over a hundred knots. The shrouded tail rotor, built right into the fin, gave it a very distinctive appearance. Even the whining noise it made was different from the traditional helicopter blade sounds. It was an amazing piece of equipment with state-of-the-art technology.