Full Throttle

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Freaky-deaky?” Dan grunted. “Wow, Steady. Spoken like a true prodigy.” But when he glanced toward Penni DePaul, the look he gave her exactly matched the one he’d given the beer only seconds ago. Two words: abject longing.

  In true BKI form, Steady called Dan on his bullshit. “It’s obvious the woman puts you in a state of forlorn yearning, hermano. Like, seriously, I’m afraid if you don’t do something about it soon, I’ll find you locked in your room upstairs listening to Air Supply’s greatest hits.” Dan sent him a look meant to curdle his balls, and Steady shook his head, clapping a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Besides, Patti wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life as a eunuch. She’d want you to be happy. She’d want—”

  “No.” Dan shook his head. “It’s too soon.”

  “That’s a pile of caca and you know it. It’s been almost two years since Patti’s accident.” Dan opened his mouth, but Steady preempted him. “And don’t give me that same old self-recriminating song and dance about it being your fault she’s gone. You know as well as I do the only person to blame for what happened to Patti was the guy who pulled the trigger on that sawgun. It’s time for you to move on. To start living again.” He let his gaze drift over to Agent DePaul. She was staring at Dan, her big brown eyes soft, concerned. Sí, she was exactly what Dan Man needed right now. Something comfortable and caring. Something sweet and willing. Something that wasn’t a memory. “And I think you should begin with pretty Agent Penni over there.”

  Dan shrugged, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “I don’t care what you say. Two years is too damn soon. Besides, the similarity of their names is just…it’s weird, man. Patti spelled with an ‘I’ and Penni spelled with an ‘I.’ I’d probably end up calling her by the wrong name in the heat of things, and how awful would that be? For both of us.” He feigned a shudder.

  There were times, like now, when Dan Man’s Michigan accent really showed, adding an “L” to the word both until it sounded more like bolth. Steady sat back, crossing his arms over his chest, sucking in the bar air, which was a combination of Red Bull, whiskey, and high-priced perfume. He tried to decide what to say next. But before he opened his mouth to recite another platitude about it being time to carpe diem and whatnot, Ozzie arrived on the scene.

  Throwing an arm around each of their shoulders and flashing that white-toothed grin guaranteed to make panties drop in two seconds flat, Ozzie leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Guess what’s in my pocket, boys?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Why, it’s the room key of a certain delectable little government agent who’ll wake up tomorrow morning completely ruined for all other men!”

  “For Chrissakes, Ozzie,” Dan grumbled, staring at the ice in his glass like he was attempting to melt it with his gaze. “You’re an ass. Like, seriously, one or two chromosomes away from a farmhouse donkey.”

  “Aw, listen to you sweet-talking me,” Ozzie quipped right back. “But don’t roofie me and call it romance. Besides, it takes one to know one.”

  Dan turned to glare. “How do you figure?”

  “Only an ass would pass on the invitation in the eyes of that tall drink of Secret Service agent over there.” Ozzie hooked a thumb toward the table where Penni had joined Julia.

  “Dan says it’s too soon,” Steady informed him.

  “Hmm,” Ozzie hummed. “Well, one of the things I’ve learned in life is that bullshit stinks. And, dude, what just came out of your mouth reeks like week-old sushi wrapped in unwashed gym socks.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying,” Steady agreed.

  “Oh, fuck off, you two,” Dan harrumphed. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here. And besides, I’m not interested in Penni DePaul.”

  Steady and Ozzie exchanged a look that called Dan a raging mentiroso—a liar. Dan caught them. “I’m not,” he insisted a little too forcefully. And then the truth of the matter came out. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have the first clue what to do. I haven’t tried to seduce a woman in more than a decade.”

  “Well, you’re lucky the role of wingman is right in my wheelhouse,” Ozzie boasted, slapping him on the back before turning toward the women. “Come dance with us, ladies!” he crowed, grabbing Dan’s arm and hauling him off the barstool. “We have grind on the mind! And we plan to make good on the impulse until you’re forced to head upstairs in an hour to make your curfew.”

  “It’s not a curfew, Ozzie!” Julia Ledbetter called back, laughing and rising from the table. “It’s protocol. And that’s vastly different!” She rolled her eyes to signify how much she was irked by the new Secret Service code of conduct enacted in response to the group of agents who’d found themselves front-page news after they were caught boozing and carousing with some…erm…questionable female companions down in South America. Uncle Sam, never one to take kindly to that kind of international embarrassment, had tossed off the role of uncle and donned the garb of dad by implementing a new set of guidelines by which off-duty agents had to adhere. And one of them was…wait for it…a frackin’ midnight curfew.

  Not for the first time, Steady was glad that after his stint with the Army he’d chosen door number two when President Thompson—who for some odd reason had taken an interest in his career—offered him a position either within the Secret Service or as an operator for Black Knights Inc. Of course, at the time his decision had less to do with a lack of regard for the already stringent rules of the Secret Service and more to do with not wanting to run into Thompson’s youngest daughter at every turn. Or worse…get himself assigned to her security detail.

  Damn, but look at me now! Assigned to her security detail!

  And, sí, he totally appreciated the irony.

  “Steady? You coming?” Dan asked, dragging him from his thoughts. When he glanced at the guy, it was to find Dan’s expression just this side of panic.

  Ozzie slung an arm over his shoulder and murmured, “Dude, if you’ll just stop dragging your feet and cockblocking yourself, I might be able to get you some squish tonight.”

  Dan’s expression morphed from panic to consternation. “Squish?”

  Steady shook his head. “Don’t get him started,” he advised, well-versed in where this was headed next. Unfortunately, he was too late. Ozzie was already expounding.

  “You know,” Ozzie said. “Get you back in the V-saddle. Have you re-conquer the V-dragon. Put you back on top of the V-mountain. Now you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  “No.” Dan shook his head, his expression repulsed. “You were so very subtle. Maybe use sound effects next time.”

  Ozzie opened his mouth and Dan rolled his eyes, lifting a hand. “That was joke. I get it.”

  “You do?” Ozzie grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “Yeah.” Dan nodded. “I totally get that you lower the bar of evolution by at least three rungs.”

  Impervious to insults, Ozzie grinned and hauled Dan toward the cleared floor space in front of a raised dais where a five-piece band and an exotic singer in a red sequined dress were doing some pretty strange renditions of the current Top 40. When Dan glanced back in his direction, he implored, “Come on, man. Come with us.”

  “Not me, hermano.” Steady threw some colorful Malaysian ringgits atop the bar. “I’m headed up to bed.” Where I won’t lay tossing and turning, hard and aching because little Abby Thompson is just four doors down.

  Sí. Sure. Right. And if anyone believed that, he had a bridge he could sell them…

  Chapter Two

  Abby read the final words of her speech on the need to protect Malaysia’s jungles from deforestation, assuring herself she’d hit all the major points—even if she’d flubbed a line here or there when she’d given the damn thing a few hours ago. But the horticultural convention attendees hadn’t seemed to notice when she’d tripped up—a public speaker she was not—so all in all, she was chalking this one up as a success.

  And maybe it will make a difference in the way they’re managing their land here. Though she wa
sn’t holding her breath. Southeast Asia’s vast wildernesses, though rich in the biological treasures of plant life, were not nearly as profitable as the rubber tree plantations that were edging them out more and more each day.

  But at least I gave it a shot. Said my piece. And, really, that’s all she could hope to do. Folding away the speech and tucking it into the back pocket of her slacks, she leaned against the molded concrete ledge of the narrow hotel balcony, watching the golden lights of Kuala Lumpur twinkle all around her. A thunderstorm had blown through the city a couple of hours ago, cleaning most of the smog from the air and upping the humidity a few more degrees. Like it needed it. But despite the film of sweat that threatened to slick her skin if she remained outside too much longer, she couldn’t force herself to return to the air-conditioned sanctuary of her room. Because she knew the moment she did, there’d be nothing to distract her from thoughts of Carlos.

  These last three days had been some of the longest of her life. Seeing him again. Being near him again. Noticing that in most ways he was still the same man she’d known back in DC. Smart. Handsome. Quick with a smile. But in others ways, he was entirely different. Harder. Edgier. Sexier…which she wouldn’t have thought possible had she not witnessed it with her own two eyes.

  Oh, Dad, why did you agree to his coming along on this assignment? Why couldn’t you have sent him to guard Caroline and given me another one of your super secret operators?

  And, yes, she knew all about Black Knights Inc., the clandestine group of men and women her father had formed a couple of years after becoming president and learning there were some things that could only be done outside regular government channels. She knew all about them because making sure Carlos was always taken care of had been part of their deal.

  Their deal… That mothersucking, whackass, crap-tastic deal…

  Which brought her back to the question of why her father had sent Carlos here. She’d been shocked as shit to see him that first day. Hadn’t her father thought about how difficult it would be for her? Hadn’t he given one second’s contemplation to how hard it would be for her to have to smile and flirt and tease like she’d done back in the good ol’ days? To have to act as if nothing had—

  She sensed a dark presence move up behind her a split second before the dainty, almost delicate bite of—was that a needle?—pierced her neck. Her heart slammed against her sternum with enough force to snap a rib. She opened her mouth to scream, but a loud, gurgling groan like that of a dying animal was the only sound to escape.

  It was a needle. And the substance shooting through her veins was powerful and fast-acting. It locked her vocal cords in place and caused her muscles to go limp. Instantly, she lost the ability to grip the hotel balcony’s rough ledge. And although she could feel the sticky sweat on the forearms of the mysterious man straightjacketing her arms to her sides while pushing the syringe’s plunger home, she could not for the life of her do one thing to fight him.

  Oh God, no! Her horrified mind screamed the words her mouth couldn’t form. And as the stuff shot through her veins like the drug it obviously was, burning, festering, polluting, it ignited her blood and sent a thousand stinging ants skittering across her nerve endings. Then, like a light switching from on to off, all her senses dulled. She knew the breeze drifting up from the dark street below was hot and moist, redolent with the burning scent of car exhaust and the more pungent odors of dried fish, cardamom, and freshly cut chili peppers. But she could no longer feel its sultry kiss on her skin or smell its uniquely Southeast Asian flare.

  She was trapped. Trapped inside a useless body. And not to go all Apocalypse Now or anything, but the horror of it! The absolute horror!

  Struggling to hang on to some semblance of coherence, she fixed her watering eyes on the Petronas Towers, off to the north. The massive skyscrapers pierced the blackened sky with their bright, silvery glow…twin beacons of hope showing the world just how far the country had come in the last twenty years.

  And where is my hope? My salvation? Where the frickin’ sticks is my security detail?

  She let her gaze slide to the balcony on her left, looking for Marcy Tucker, the Secret Service agent who’d been assigned the room next to hers for the night. But, to her utter dismay, her eyes landed not on Agent Tucker at her post, but on a tall, dark-skinned man leaning against Agent Tucker’s balcony. His smile was obscene, his teeth blazing white against the darkness when he lifted a fisted hand, pumping it once in…victory, maybe? But what kind of victory? She didn’t dare contemplate.

  Cocking her ears, she waited for the interior door adjoining her room to Agent Silver’s room on her right to burst open. She wasn’t supposed to lock it. That was part of the protocol she’d been living under for nearly nine years—and after what had happened at Georgetown, you can bet your bottom dollar she followed the letter of the law to a tee. And surely Agent Silver had heard that awful sound she’d made before her vocal cords quit working. Surely he was two seconds away from racing to her rescue. Surely…

  But instead of the adjoining door, it was the door to his balcony that skimmed open with a muted snick. And it wasn’t Agent LaVaughn Silver’s big, bald head and black goatee that materialized into the night; it was another smiling, dusky-skinned stranger. He pumped his fist in a salute similar to the other man’s, and dread wrapped its black fingers around her throat, threatening to strangle her.

  One last chance…

  She flicked her attention to the roof of the shopping mall across the street. Agent Bosco? Tony? Are you there? Is your weapon trained on my attackers? She waited for the loud report as hot lead left muzzle. One second. Two… Fear buzzed in her ears, sounding like the hive of honeybees she cultivated for the Botanic Garden back in DC. But three seconds…then four seconds ticked by, and the boom from the gun never came.

  Agent Bosco? Frantically, she searched the wide, flat roof for the last of the three Secret Service agents on duty tonight. But in the next instant, her eyesight faltered and narrowed, turning everything beyond a ten-foot radius into a hazy, befuddling gray.

  Then, the drug-induced paralysis that’d frozen her muscles moved to her mind. On the plus side, it meant the fear gripping her so savagely suddenly released its strangling hold, just…gone. On the downside, it meant in its place was nothing. No joy. No sorrow. No pity. No pain.

  Nothing…

  The vast emptiness should have been terrifying in and of itself. And there was a part of her—a small, nearly infinitesimal piece of her mind still valiantly fighting off the effects of the narcotic—that understood this, that realized the scope of the trouble she was in. But it wasn’t enough. And soon, the wondrously thick cloud of apathy overcame that last tiny vestige of sanity and left her calmly watching herself as if from a distance. Watching as a window-washing platform operated by a shadowy figure dropped into view on the other side of her balcony. Watching as the two thugs who’d smiled and fist-pumped ducked back into the rooms on either side of hers. Watching as the bastard supporting her boneless weight lifted her off her feet and handed her over the ledge to the waiting shadow man, her head and arms lolling as if she were a life-sized rag doll.

  In a bleary, unconcerned kind of way, she realized the online chatter picked up by the NSA about the threat of kidnapping was real. It was happening right this very minute. To her, not to Caroline, as the reports had suggested. And there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it…

  Nothing she necessarily wanted to do to stop it, come to think of it, her detachment from herself so entirely complete. Was she breathing? She couldn’t feel her lungs moving, couldn’t feel her chest cavity filling with delicious, live-giving oxygen. Was her heart still beating? There was no telltale rush of blood between her ears, no reassuring lub-dub of muscle behind her breastbone.

  Perhaps she was dying. Or…dead. Maybe she wasn’t being abducted but had been murdered. And this was an out-of-body experience. How strange… She’d never really believed in such things. But if this w
as death, then—

  “Do not worry,” the shadow man whispered in her ear, his English clipped and heavily accented. “We will not kill you. You would lose your value.”

  So…not dead, then.

  Huh. She should be happy about that. She knew she should. But the gray…it was calling to her, beckoning and enticing her to give in. And give in she would. Why shouldn’t I? She could think of no good reason. And quite honestly, giving in felt…good.

  * * *

  Dan’s heart pounded until he felt it in his fingertips…and lower. Because the delectable Agent Penni DePaul had shoved him against the door of his hotel room the second he booted it closed. And now her agile tongue was introducing itself—well, hey there—to his in the most mind-numbing fashion.

  Soft…that’s what she was. Even though she was tall and lean, she was soft in all the right places. In her lovely, flaring hips held tight between his hands. And in her small, round breasts pressed firmly against his chest.

  Fresh-smelling…she was that, too. Light and airy and altogether scrumptious, her scent made him harder, hornier than he’d been in…well…a long time. And when he kissed her neck, just below her ear, the taste of her skin was rosewater.

  Basically, she was everything he’d been denying himself for the past twenty-two months. She was…woman.

  A drunk woman? Was it possible he was taking advantage of her?

  “How many of those froufrou drinks did you have?” he whispered in her ear.

  “Just enough,” she giggled, reaching around to grab his ass in order to better rub herself against his hardened length. When he could uncross his eyes, he lifted his head, staring down at her.

  Her stance was steady. Her smile was warm. And her pupils were…dilated? He cocked his head and studied her more closely.