by Angel Payne
“You get out for fro-yo a lot?”
“More than I used to.” The words were there, but the humor wasn’t. Wasn’t hard to connect that observation with the new shadows across the man’s face—but deciphering them wasn’t an option as soon as he reset his composure and began approaching her.
With every step he neared, her awe grew. It wasn’t just his physical majesty. It was his sheer fortitude. At the push of some internal button, the man was able to toss his personal shit into a mental basement and lock it down tight. She stood there, watching as it happened, impressed but daunted. The trick was an invaluable asset in a soldier and protector…but did he ever get a chance to pull the stuff back out of the dark? Did he have anyone to help him dust it off, look at it, process it, be okay with it? What happened when the dragon wanted to climb off his spire and be just a lazing lizard for a while?
And why the hell did she care so much about the answer?
Time to clear some room in your own basement, Tracy.
Didn’t mean she had to feel great about it.
“So.” Her shoulders straightened as she got the word out. “Sam’s with Luke.”
He’d gotten up the two small steps to her level. There, he stopped before settling into a parade rest stance. The move was probably habit—though she couldn’t say the same thing about her own body’s reaction. There were men made to look great in military mode…and then there was this man, who transformed into a damn demigod. Every bulging inch of his body, from the mounds of his shoulders and arms down to the formidable swells of his calves, was beautifully displayed even through his clothes. Dear, sweet God…
Into the thick stillness of her gawk, he finally answered, “Yes. Mackenna’s been texting me updates every thirty minutes or so. Since your boy’s head hit the pillow, he’s barely moved. That’s…not good news?”
Tracy’s head jerked up. “It’s great news. Luke’s slept like the dead his whole life, except for the three or four months after Ryker passed.”
“Your husband?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. “It happened just after Ryker came home for Luke’s eleventh birthday. I tried to shield Luke from a lot of it—the violent parts, at least—but as you’ve probably figured, the kid’s wired like his dad. Smart and sneaky. He waited until I went to bed and then waltzed into our home office and read everything for himself. Didn’t know a lot of the bigger words but pieced enough together that he realized his father, an independent contractor who’d gone overseas to help rebuild a war-torn country, was in a group mistaken as the bad guys…and got killed because of it.”
Though his posture didn’t falter, Franzen’s face darkened. His lips twisted, as if debating choice profanities. She wouldn’t have minded—hell, Ry and his team had spent so much time with the military, they could trash-talk in six different languages—but it was solacing to have a man hold back for her. For her, not his vice president. At least she hoped so. Maybe he still did see nothing but her rank, even as she stood here in just a very small tank and very teeny shorts. She couldn’t tell, even as he tactfully steered them back to the subject at hand. Thank God.
“Well, it’s good to know the shit from yesterday didn’t seem to disrupt the kid that much,” he stated. “But I’ll alert Sam about the situation, just in case.”
“Thanks.”
Her distracted tone wasn’t lost on Franzen. The bold slashes of his brows dropped over his eyes. “But there’s something else.”
She didn’t even try to deny it. “Sam’s been updating you every thirty minutes?”
The slashes didn’t budge. “Affirmative.”
“So neither of you have had any sleep.”
He chuffed. “We’ve had plenty of sleep.”
She refolded her arms. “Oh?”
“Every thirty minutes means we both get twenty in between.”
“And that’s what you’ve been using for sleep?”
His head ticked to the side. Weird excuse for a shrug, but it worked. “Some of the best sleep I’ve gotten recently, actually.”
Her attention riveted on him again—not that it’d strayed far—but the resurgence of that basement-deep darkness across his face…and the blades of pain in his gaze…and the new clench of his jaw, as if beating himself up for letting the confession out… A person had to be a damn robot to ignore it. Or to not want to hold him because of it. Or even just ask why twenty minutes of sleep was a “good” thing for him.
Reactions, one and all, that would be like cutting the man’s balls off. To him, anyway.
For that reason alone, she pretended he’d merely commented on the weather. “Okay, soldier. Since you’re so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, how about a few more personnel updates?”
Yep. Definitely the right decision. The surge of his new confidence, fortifying his posture, blasted warmth through every inch of her body. Of course, that meant a fresh kind of torment. Refraining from holding the man was tough enough. Now that he was back to looming and formidable again, she fantasized about jumping him.
“It would be my pleasure, ma’am.”
Though if he insisted on keeping up with the “ma’am,” she’d revise that desire to decking him.
First things first.
“I’m most concerned about Luke’s young lady friend. Is someone with her?” She shook her head, overcome by a moment of remorse. “Her name is Mia Hemingway, and I believe she lives in Henderson. She and Luke were in an online chat group for fantasy book fans. They’d been looking forward to meeting in person for months.” She twisted her arms tighter together. “What her parents must be going through, thinking their daughter was killed…”
Franzen nodded—one movement conveying a volume of empathy. “Understood but unavoidable at the moment. I have, however, contacted Sol about reaching out to the Hemingways via deep-cover field agents.”
She copied his nod. “And that’ll take time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She scowled. What place on his face would hurt the least to smack? When getting the answer seemed as hopeless as head-butting a brick wall—or his chest; same thing, really—she focused on easier things.
“Ms. Vann and Mrs. Gallo haven’t left her side,” Franzen assured then. “Currently, all three are out cold on the pull-out futon in Z’s office.”
Her frown deepened. “Z?”
“Zeke Hayes,” he supplied, going on when she returned just a blank stare. “The big, semi-scary dude you met last night?”
The description helped. “Ohhh. Right. Nicked right temple. Tortured superhero stare. Grizzly bear voice.” In short, she added silently, could pass as your brother.
He smirked. “Pretty good, considering you passed out so hard in the helo, I had to practically carry you in here.”
“That I would’ve remembered.”
And there was her foot. The one she wouldn’t miss, now that it was solidly shoved down her throat. Franzen, trying to help, quirked a glance to the side as if she’d spilled a tampon from her purse. If only things were that easy and she could just scoop the damn thing back up—but she’d dropped something much worse. Words. Telling ones. Cheek-reddening, air-thickening, blood-heating ones.
“Yeah, well. I wouldn’t have forgotten it either.”
Nope. Wrong. There was the line transforming the air to soup. Delicious, smoky, sensual puddles of the stuff…
He swung his gaze back to her face. His irises were like chocolate decadence, perfectly complimenting the smooth coffee of his skin, which stretched over the incredible swells of his muscles. Damn, how he made her mouth water…and her blood heat…
She had to get back under control.
Now.
Okay, so they had chemistry—but after the fireworks were just smoke trails again, she was just another assignment to the man. Sure, a temporary gig that had ballooned into way more, but in the end, she was just another body for him to guard. Another target to deliver. Get your head together and focus on the fundamentals, girl. Like
he is.
“Okay.” She spoke it as confirmation to the pep talk but also as a kick-start to the conversation. “So this Zeke guy…”
“Can be implicitly trusted,” Franz filled in. “And his wife, Rayna, too.”
“Rayna.” She nodded as more memories pierced her haze. “Yes. Right. The gorgeous brunette who gave me the sleepwear.”
“Affirmative.”
She frowned. Why was his stare beating feet for the floor again? “It was a lovely gesture.”
“It was.”
“I’ll have to thank her.” She peered at him harder. “Though I’ll probably be doing it alone, won’t I?”
He tossed back a swift glance—before noticeably shifting his weight for the first time. “Oh, I’m thankful to those two for a great many things,” he rumbled. “But those pajamas sure as hell aren’t one of them.”
“Huh?” She bent forward in the name of giving herself a thorough once-over. When the exam yielded nothing too horridly out of place, she rose back up—only to freeze when her gaze reached the level of his crotch.
She sure as hell wasn’t confused anymore—or doubtful about his attraction matching hers. The ridge between the man’s thighs answered both quandaries with clarity she hadn’t imagined.
He was beautiful. Long but thick, filling the black nylon until it gleamed from the strain, nearly making her wonder what he’d look like if freed from the fabric. And damn it, the bastard didn’t even try to hide the evidence—clarified by his next response.
“Now that we’re clear about my…issues…with the pajamas…”
“Right.” Tracy straightened, taking her own turn at the skittering gaze game. She took the chance to move everything else away too, retracing the path she’d just taken…
Back toward the…bed.
Detour. Now.
A large window took up the center position on the other side of the U-shaped landing. Vertical blinds led her to believe it was a full slider, perhaps to a balcony or backyard. Fresh air sounded damn good right now.
As she walked over, Franzen supplied, “We’re safe here—for now. Zeke’s been one of my go-to guys for years. He’s had my back in some hairy three-ring circuses, even when the pucker factor was off the charts. Plenty of times, we thought we’d be shipped home in matching boxes.”
Well, that got her to stop. With arms tucked tight to her sides again, she squeezed her eyes against the vision he induced. Instantly castigated herself as a child for it. It was normal for guys in his line of work to turn death into circus metaphors—it was necessary for getting the job done—but with all the tears in her armor already, it was all too easy to let him reach in and jab at the wounds beneath. The spots which never truly healed…nor would again.
“Fuck.” His terse mutter, slicing through the air as her shoulders slumped, betrayed his come-to-Jesus moment about the point too. “Way to go with my moron social skills. May as well have tossed a dagger into your back while I was at it, yeah?”
She pushed up a hand. “It’s all right, soldier. Don’t break out the cello and pathos.”
To her astonishment, he complied. As he followed her route, his steps were defined and sure. For long seconds, she didn’t know what to do. Between days of politicians with endless agendas and nights of a fifteen-year-old with layers of angst, she wasn’t used to having a sentence simply mean what she said. He came from a world of the polar opposite, with concepts squeezed into acronyms and hand signals communicating whole novels.
She liked it. And now, she took advantage of it to get this subject changed for good.
“What time is it?”
There. Perfect. No way to maneuver that one back around to her pajamas, his crotch bulge, or matching coffins with his SOF bestie.
“Somewhere near midnight. Don’t open those.”
His warning was two seconds too late. Tracy already parted the vertical blinds, peeking outside. Sure enough, it seemed like midnight—though they were definitely on a higher floor of the building, so it was hard to tell. She let the slats fall again, smacking against each other and giving her intermittent glances at the cute balcony with a view to the bay. The area had a little arrangement of plush patio furniture, walls of hanging plants, and even a fully stocked wine cooler. It was all so inviting. So normal. A normal she longed for, now more than ever. When was the last time she’d just sat and relaxed with a glass of wine? Enjoyed a social event without worrying about entertaining a snooty dignitary to her left and a windy politician to her right?
You mean the politician you are now?
And technically, the snooty dignitary too?
No.
Not yet.
Right here, right now, she was still officially dead.
And God, it was nice.
Nicer than she’d anticipated.
Much, much nicer.
Especially when she turned from the window to damn near run into the granite slab of Franzen’s chest. He’d stepped even closer now, bringing his size and heat right along too. She could smell him now, like exotic spices, adding even more incredible heat to the sensual slam of his presence. She reached for him, using the inner crooks of his elbows to steady herself, even as she doubted the wisdom of it.
Ohhhh, God.
This was…
Good.
This was…
Hot.
This beat the hell out of being dead.
So much so, she sagged, giving him all her weight…maybe even the first edges of her self-control. She was again conscious of him…all of him, even the swollen and pulsing parts…a recognition re-sparking the air between them. Well, what was left of the air between them. Not that she minded that either. As he countered her hold by bracing her waist with both huge hands, she dug her nails into the sinew of his biceps and let the spice of his scent invade her senses. She dragged her gaze up, only to get lost in the hot, hooded concentration of his.
The centers of their bodies throbbed as one. New arousal flared, promising bigger flames. Their attraction sparked like the beginning of a bonfire. It was beautiful. So damn beautiful.
But so damn dangerous.
Because right now, in the anonymity of this moment, the fire looked so pretty.
But when the night was gone and the world became real again, there’d be scorched fields.
“Okay. Got it. No windows. I’m terribly sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.”
Yet the thing was…
She’d been burned before.
Making it all too easy to curl more smoke than regret through her syllables.
All too simple to let him grip her tighter…to press himself closer.
All too addicting to let the flames in his gaze sear straight through her.
“You’re…sorry?”
All too wonderful to smile at the heated growl of his retort.
“Doesn’t it sound like I am?”
Holy hell, his skin was warm. And taut. Her fingertips traced the veins standing out as he coiled his arms.
“You really want me to answer that?”
As his voice dipped lower, so did his gaze. He raked it over her whole face, finally fixating on the center of her lips…igniting even more heat in the most illicit parts of her. Tracy raised her hands, splaying fingers against the massive mounds of his coiled arms, reveling in every damn second of his smoldering attention.
“Probably not,” she finally murmured.
A breath left him, taut but sensual. As he pulled air back in, he dragged her closer too—half an inch that carried a world of meaning. The new proximity meant she had to tilt her head back to keep gazing at him. It implied deeper surrender…greater trust. Every plane of Franzen’s face conveyed the pleasure he found in that.
Nevertheless, he uttered, “Well then…what do you want me to do?”
“Hmmm.” She cocked her head, attempting to channel mystery and mirth at once. Chita Rivera ala Kiss of the Spiderwoman, maybe even Catherine Zeta-Jones in Chicago. Yes. He’d probably like
that one more. “That depends.”
His gaze intensified. “On what?”
“On whether you want me to answer as ‘ma’am’ or ‘kitten.’”
Take that, Catherine Zeta-Jones. For a moment, basking in the new intensity of his stare, she was no longer a dork in borrowed pajamas. She was a temptress in a slinky black dress, garter stockings, and a hot ass. The imagery helped with her shock. Had she really just said that out loud? This wasn’t her—yet he made her feel beautiful enough to believe it.
Especially when his fingers found their way under her shirt and a rough, low sound emanated from the depths of his chest. “You like kitten, do you?”
She tightened her own grip. Traced the veins standing out against his muscles. “A hell of a lot better than ma’am.”
“Hmmm.”
How come his version of that sounded so much sexier than hers? And how come, as he worked his hands to the small of her back and fitted their bodies tighter together, all she could think of was a train picking up speed? One of those modern electrical versions, speeding on polished steel rails, silent but mighty, into the station of her personal space…
“I want you to repeat something for me…kitten.”
She heard the words—as well as the command beneath them. Trouble was, she could barely manage a sigh in response, let alone words. At least it vibrated with meaning, high but heavy, telling him all too clearly what she thought of him slotting his crotch directly into hers…notching the heated length of himself against all the most illicit parts of her…
“Oh,” she was finally able to rasp. “Okay.”
His grip twisted, bordering on admonishment. “Why don’t you try ‘yes, Sir’?”
More shock, as a sultry laugh rolled out. “Like that, do you?”
“I like it a lot,” he murmured. “Especially when you say it.”
“Oh.” For a moment, it was all she could reply to his openly sensual snarl. “All right.” Then only that, as she tried out the rest of the words in her head. The syllables were delicious and salacious, unfurling tingling tendrils through her bloodstream. She accepted the awareness of how vulnerable they’d make her…and yet, how desirable. “Yes. Of course. Yes, Sir.”