Uncontrollable

by Susan Kearney

  A man with a secret power, a man she loathes—and a man she wants more than her next breath.

  When FBI operative Amanda Lane goes undercover to find a murderer, she makes a disturbing discovery: Hathaway Balkmandy, her main suspect, can control desire. Through some extraordinary power, he can make any woman want him. And he’s set his sights on Amanda.

  When paramilitary agent Bolt Tanner gets assigned to the case, he finds himself with a smart, gorgeous partner…who’s dangerously incapacitated. He has no choice but to come to her rescue—by satisfying her every sexual need. But they have to discover the source of Hathaway’s strange effect fast, because Amanda’s urges are becoming uncontrollable.

  And only Bolt’s exquisite—and constant—sensual attention is keeping her from succumbing to Hathaway… The man who killed her sister!

  Previously Published.

  She was shaking with need

  The surveillance video of the orgy had Amanda so turned on she was losing control. While her brain was disgusted and repelled by the sight of Hathaway with those women, her body was on fire.

  “I’m here for you,” Bolt assured her, his eyes full of questions.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening,” she whispered. She wanted to rip off her clothes and tackle Bolt like some kind of love-starved maniac.

  Bolt gestured to the monitor. “This is like watching porn, Amanda. There’s no shame in reacting—”

  She shook her head, certain other forces were in play. “Hathaway is likely responsible for my sister’s murder,” she panted, unable to hold back the shiver of desire coursing through her, “yet my hormones are going wild.”

  He placed reassuring hands on her shoulders. “Just try to—”

  At his touch, she was on her feet and flinging herself into his arms before she understood what she’d done.

  She couldn’t help herself. She needed sex. And she needed it with Bolt.

  Dear Reader,

  I’ll be the first to admit—as a writer, I have two weaknesses. I like to write about the unusual, and I like to write about the incredibly sensual. Lucky for me, Uncontrollable allowed me to satisfy both passions.

  In this story we come across a special perfume bottle, a bottle that inspires lust and first appeared in the Essence of Midnight anthology, written by Julie Kenner, Julie Elizabeth Leto and myself. The perfume bottle showed up again in Julie Elizabeth Leto’s Harlequin Blaze title Undeniable, and once again it delivered on its promise.

  Of course, I had to be different. In Uncontrollable, the villain gains control of the bottle, making my hero and heroine use their wits to counter the paranormal effects of the bottle’s powers. And they have to be creative….

  When I began to plot this story, I had no idea it would require so many love scenes. Not that it was a hardship. That’s why writing is so much fun—I rarely know where my characters are going to take me.

  I hope you enjoy the ride, too.

  Susan Kearney

  P.S. I love to hear from readers. You can contact me and read excerpts of my other books online at www.SusanKearney.com.

  Books by Susan Kearney

  HARLEQUIN BLAZE

  25—ENSLAVED

  50—DOUBLE THE THRILL

  96—BORDERING ON OBSESSION

  138—A BURNING OBSESSION

  UNCONTROLLABLE

  SUSAN KEARNEY

  For my wonderful editor Brenda Chin.

  Thanks for letting me take this story right to the edge.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  CLASSIFIED

  For Your Information.

  Read and Destroy.

  The SHEY GROUP is a private paramilitary organization headed by Logan Kincaid whose purpose is to take on high-risk, high-stakes missions in accord with U.S. government policy. All members are either former CIA, FBI or military with top-level clearances and specialized skills. Members maintain close ties to the intelligence community and conduct high-level behind-the-scenes operations for the government as well as for private individuals and corporations.

  The U.S. government will deny any connection with this group.

  Employ at your own risk.

  1

  “HATHAWAY’S SO HOT, I’ll never have to fake an orgasm again,” bragged Francis Ledan, Vogue’s August cover model, about superagent Hathaway Balkmandy.

  “He’s hot all right,” agreed another model, draped in a Versace gown beaded with delicate pearls and Parisian stitching. “Hathaway could keep the Statue of Liberty’s torch lit permanently.”

  Hathaway. Hathaway. Hathaway.

  Everywhere Amanda Lane turned in the ritzy New York ballroom, the legendary modeling agent’s name spilled from the lips of famous women. So far this crush of A-list partygoers had made it impossible for her to approach the Hugh Hefner wannabe herself. Amanda bided her time and filled her crystal champagne flute from a silver fountain flowing with Dom Perignon. Far from being a Hathaway admirer, even she had to admit the powerful modeling agent sure knew how to throw a party. From the tuxedoed, white-gloved waiters serving exotic caviar on slivers of toast and cream-filled lobster canapés, to guests sumptuously decked out in designer couture, to Marc Anthony’s live performance, the elegant ballroom was hopping beneath the Swarovski chandeliers.

  Tapping one Brazilian Pappagallo shoe to the music, Amanda bided her time, secure in the knowledge that the .22 caliber tucked into her thigh holster might be small, but it was deadly. Almost as deadly as her wrap-style dress. Form-fitting through the bodice to show off her breasts, the chiffon nipped her waist then flowed gracefully but loosely over her hips, enhancing her figure. One of Hathaway’s bodyguards speared her with a look. Amanda winked at him as if she belonged, as if she didn’t believe that Hathaway had been the mastermind behind her sister Donna’s classified formula ending up in the hands of a terrorist, as if she didn’t believe Hathaway was responsible for her sister’s murder.

  Blend in.

  Smile.

  Flirt.

  Amanda never forgot her mission. She was here to gain information about Hathaway’s operations, and if clearing her sister’s name and finding her murderer required her to wear sexy clothes and flirt, then she would act the siren.

  She glanced toward Hathaway and, like the Red Sea parting on command, his coterie of sycophants, models and bodyguards parted for a moment, giving her a direct view of Hathaway’s face. He didn’t look like a monster, but was one of those men whose age was difficult to guess. With his rounded face and thinning hair, he could have been thirty or fifty. Amanda’s extensive research had told her he was thirty-seven, and women adored him as much as he adored the models who milled around him. However, as Amanda and Hathaway locked gazes, she realized that her research had failed to prepare her for the searing crackle, a staggering snap of power, like the crack of a bullwhip, dangerous, deadly and oddly decadent, emanating from the man. But his disarmingly powerful stare wouldn’t prevent her from forgetting she was here for justice.

  Someone stepped between them, severing the weird connection. Amanda didn’t wish to draw attention to herself and forced her gaze away, surprised by how difficult it was to ignore Hathaway’s allure. Before she could analyze exactly what had just happened, she took a calming breath. Obviously seeing the man she believed responsible for her sister’s death was upsetting. She must have read more
into the exchanged glances than there was.

  But no one else seemed to have noticed anything unusual. Guests chatted in groups, helped themselves to hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Marc Anthony finished the song and began another tune and Amanda’s skitterish nerves settled.

  But then her wandering gaze caught that of a scrumptious man exiting the gold-and-mirrored elevator and her heart sped up all over again. Amanda wasn’t the kind of woman to judge a man by his looks, but then she wasn’t accustomed to having a man with a movie-star face act interested in her. And there could be no doubting the man’s interest. From across the ballroom, his gaze singled her out and caused heat to simmer low in her belly.

  Good. She’d attracted an admirer. While she hadn’t gotten close to Hathaway, she could hook up with someone and blend better into the party scene.

  The stranger was single-mindedly shouldering his way through the crowd with an ease that belied his size. Sporting spiked, black-black hair, a square, oh-so-kissable jaw and a friendly boy-next-door smile, he approached with provocative intensity. Clean-shaven, he wore a navy Armani suit that matched the color of his eyes, a deep lavender shirt and a diamond ear stud.

  When she lifted her chin, brazenly holding his gaze, he grinned, showing off charming dimples. Except for the slight crook of his bold nose, he was perfect. Totally yummy.

  Fascinated by the man’s apparent objective to reach her, she fortified her anticipation with a sip of champagne while keeping her gaze on him. The deepening warmth that drizzled downward from her stomach and caused a pleasant tingle between her thighs was a very physical reaction to the strong signals he radiated.

  “Good evening.” He spoke with a soft Southern accent, using a deep bass tone that would make any living, breathing women pay attention. “Did you come to the party alone?”

  “Yes.” She sipped her drink, enjoying herself and his direct approach. The singer’s voice thrummed through her system but faded with the background crowd as she focused on the delicious-looking man.

  “Then let me introduce myself. Bolt Tanner.” His hand enclosed hers in gentle warmth and rough calluses. Whatever he did for a living required physical activity. But even before she’d shaken his hand, she’d known he worked out from the fit of his suit over powerful shoulders and from the way his slacks clung to his lean stomach and hips. Chatting couples around them passed by carrying his scent to her. Soap and shampoo, maybe a breath mint. No cologne. Just pure male heat.

  She retrieved her hand, a little unnerved by her strong reaction to him. Never had she met a man quite so focused on her, and his intensity piqued her curiosity. Lately she’d barely noticed more than a guy’s general height and weight, so she wasn’t quite prepared for his stunning effect.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Tanner.” She hoped he wanted something interesting from her…like a kiss. A slow, sensual, seductive kiss. The kind that promised more. For him, she might even be willing to forgo her usual rule of getting to know a man for six months before sleeping with him and was glad she’d taken such care with her appearance tonight.

  “Please, call me Bolt.”

  He lifted her glass from her hand, his fingers grazing hers and shooting an arc of electricity across her knuckles. Then holding her gaze, he deliberately turned the glass to sip from the exact spot her lips had touched, his maneuver smooth and intimate.

  She tilted her head, eyeing him brazenly. “Bolt. You have an unusual name.”

  “Mother named me after her grandfather, a Florida fisherman who was struck by lightning three times and lived to tell the tale.”

  “You ever been struck by lightning?”

  “No, ma’am.” He chuckled. “Not until tonight when I saw you.”

  She laughed with him. “I set you up perfectly for that, didn’t I?”

  “As a matter of fact, you did.” She hadn’t expected him to agree, but his tone rang with sincerity. “But if it makes you feel better, you should know I haven’t used that line before.”

  “Mmm.” She let the comment slide. He knew exactly what to say and how to say it to put a woman at ease. “So are you one of Hathaway’s models?”

  “Now, why would you think that?” He pretended to be insulted, but clearly was not.

  She cocked her head and assessed him frankly, letting him see her admiration of his handsome face, the high cheekbones, the predatory nose that contrasted with his easygoing smile. “You fit the part.”

  “So do you.”

  “Thanks.” She’d expected him to angle for a compliment; instead he’d turned the tables. Obviously he had a quick mind behind those gorgeous blue eyes. And while a clever man always made her feel sexy, the chemistry between them sizzled. It was like an intoxicant bubbling through her veins.

  As much as Amanda wanted to go with the flow, she didn’t trust the over-the-top sparks. Something wasn’t right. Something she couldn’t define—not when her every female instinct urged her to see how far she could go.

  Not about to ignore her well-honed instincts, yet not counting herself out just yet, either, she continued to play the game. “We both know I’m not tall or thin enough to work for Hathaway.”

  He glanced from her face and boldly dropped his scrutiny to her mouth, then lower. “You have plenty of…engaging features.” At his appreciative glance, she could have sworn her breasts swelled. Her nipples most certainly tightened. He raised his eyes, clearly enticed by her response, and lowered his tone to a husky whisper. “I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve always preferred a real woman. I don’t know what Hathaway sees in these collagen-lipped models besides dollar signs.”

  “You know him?” she asked. Remembering she was here to scope out Hathaway was difficult while she conversed with such a striking specimen of masculinity. But she tried to focus on her goal and ignored the pulsing heat that beat like a go-get-him tattoo in her mind. She missed her sister too much to let lust sidetrack her.

  “I only know Hathaway’s reputation. While I admire his business acumen, his wretched taste in women has left the best one for me.”

  “Your name suits you,” she teased. “You’re as quick to strike as lightning.”

  “Quick?” Bolt glanced at the dance floor and shook his head. “I don’t know about that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why am I standing here talking to you when I could have my arms around you? Would you like to dance?”

  She licked her bottom lip, adoring the way his gaze followed her every little move. “I’d love to dance as long as you promise one thing.”

  “Not to step on your feet?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not to kiss you in front of all these people?”

  Again she shook her head.

  “What then?”

  “Promise me that you won’t keep your hands to yourself.” Now, where had that comment come from? It wasn’t something she would normally say. She might flirt. Yes. But she wasn’t a tease and no damn way was she going to make love to this man tonight. But from what she’d just said, he had every reason to think otherwise. She hadn’t drunk enough champagne to make such a mistake. What in seven blazes was wrong with her?

  “Now, darling.” His sexy grin widened. “You must be reading my mind.”

  “Is that so?” After he’d set her champagne flute on the tray of a passing waiter, she placed one hand on his shoulder and slipped the other into his. He swung her into his arms, and following his footwork came as easily as looking at him. In fact, when his hand settled on the bare small of her back, making her skin tingle, she didn’t notice anyone else in the room.

  Before she knew exactly who closed in on whom, her hips were snugly pressed to his, her breasts caressing his chest, as they danced. Every nerve in her body screamed to life, demanding she lure him away, then rip off his clothes. To distract herself from the incredibly hot sensations, she tilted back her head and looked at him. Up this close he was just as handsome.

  Distract yourself.

 
“So what else is on your mind?” she asked, pleased she kept her tone breezy.

  “Kissing you,” he admitted and then his lips brushed hers.

  Before she could think to pull away, pure molten heat singed her. Her lips parted in amazement. Sure she liked kissing, but this brushfire couldn’t possibly be normal. When their mouths parted, she eyed him warily, wondering if he’d used some kind of sleight of hand to drug her drink. “Is this wise?”

  “I don’t want to be wise.”

  “Neither do I,” she found herself admitting, speculating over when her objective had changed from blending into the crowd to satisfying her growing lust. She was ready to tackle the man on the dance floor.

  What was wrong with her? She was acting just like those idiot models who couldn’t seem to keep their hands off Hathaway. As they’d danced past the agent, she’d seen at least half a dozen women fawning over him, groping him. It was almost as if the air were saturated with an aphrodisiac.

  Now that she considered it, the attraction between her and Bolt was way too strong, unusual, not just rare but downright weird. From the moment that elevator door had opened, he’d focused on her. He hadn’t casually picked her out of the crowd, almost as if he’d intended for them to meet, but if that were the case, he hadn’t been the least bit subtle, hadn’t tried to hide his intentions.

  The hair on her neck prickled. Was Bolt one of Hathaway’s men sent to check her out?

  Regardless of her raging lust, Amanda wasn’t into one-night stands. She didn’t pick up men. Not in bars. Not in ballrooms. Certainly not when she was undercover and wearing a gun that would give her away. And most certainly, she didn’t sleep with the enemy.

  She didn’t care if every feminine and needy cell in her body wept and called her a traitor. Or if she had to take an ice-cold bath to soothe her burning flesh. After this one dance, she was out of here.

  * * *