Her stomach gave a little flip when he looked at her in an entirely different way than she was accustomed. Granted, it took considerable effort for most men to keep their lustful gazes on her face, not her bust. But this man seemed to be trying to see her soul.
Yeah right. Mr. DEA was probably trying to figure out whether or not she was high.
“Snitch is such a juvenile word,” Agent March said finally. “Jerry was an informant.”
“Always?”
He shook his head, sending a hank of hair cascading over his eye, an unconsciously sexy gesture.
But she was acutely conscious of it.
Kenna’s fingers curled into her palms against the desire to sweep back those silky black strands. Crush them in her hands and yank that pouty mouth to hers to answer the question foremost on her mind: Did he know how to use those yummy lips as expertly as she suspected?
And if the hot looks he’d been shooting her were any indication, he wouldn’t do a damn thing to resist.
God. What was wrong with her? Maybe she’d fastened her wig too tight and it was cutting off blood to her brain.
Or the hedonistic atmosphere around here was contagious.
He drained the last of his beer. “Jerry was just another lowlife thug making runs for a Florida drug dealer. Did he mention anything to you about Diablo?”
“No. What is Diablo?”
“Unconfirmed rumor it’s a group breaking away from the Miami drug cartel looking to start their own operations in the Midwest. No one knows who’s running it. Except it seems Jerry inadvertently stumbled across some information during his trip to Sturgis last year. He came to us six months ago, whining Diablo played dirty.”
“Honor among thieves?”
“Nothing that noble. Seems Diablo planned to intentionally sell deadly batches of bad meth, blaming it on the local distributors—who have loyalties to Jerry’s boss in Miami. Diablo steps in with their cheaper product and takes over distribution of all venues.” Drake’s broad chest cast the picnic table in shadow when he moved forward. “You were with Jerry last year. Which means you’ve met with some of the key players.”
“Me? I’m just arm candy, remember? I wouldn’t know a drug dealer from a car dealer.”
His slow, sexy smile sent her warning bells ringing. “Ah. But I do. And here’s where I want you come in.”
“And do what?”
“The same thing you did for Jerry last year. Act like my girlfriend.”
“No way,” she said. “I’m not getting involved.”
“You already are.”
Instead of panicking, she retorted, “Bite me.”
“Oh I’d like to, Kenna, you know I would. And I’ll even let you pick the first place I set my teeth on you.”
The air between them thickened, the chipped picnic table and the raucous crowd faded away. In twenty-nine years she’d never been more aware of a man’s absolute focus on her. Sexual heat radiated from him, and seeped into her pores like a warm, sensual fog. A fog intent on clouding her judgment.
She could almost sense his body crowding hers. Shivers from his hot breath teasing her skin. Hear the increased tempo of her own heartbeat as he whispered naughty suggestions in her ear. Feel the wicked touch of his hands on her breasts and stroking between her thighs. Taste his sinful mouth.
Kenna’s body went taut from the phantom assault.
He reached over and toyed with a strand of hair. The back of his knuckles brushed against the arch of her neck.
Tingles burst beneath her skin, zipping through her bloodstream like tiny carbonated bubbles. Of all the moves he could have made… How did he know she craved that gentle touch, right there?
Maybe he was a sexual psychic.
Maybe she was desperate.
“Bring me to the meeting place tonight,” he murmured. His husky bedroom tone fairly dripped secrets of the Kama Sutra.
Her nipples beaded to tender points under his shameless perusal. Throat dry, she croaked, “What are you doing?”
“Proving we won’t have to act to convince people we’re lovers.”
Whoosh. He shattered any pretense of her indifference.
At some point during his verbal seduction, Agent March had lifted her hand to his lips. He nibbled on her fingertips. Between his lazy kisses, Kenna closed her eyes. She savored the heady sensation, completely lost in the strange way he recognized what she needed. She suspected he’d give her what she’d always craved, but been afraid to admit she even wanted.
He’s a cop, her brain warned.
He’s a man, her horny side argued.
He trailed hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses across the back of her hand. Darting his agile tongue between her knuckles, then just the tip of that wayward tongue in and out. “Don’t go all shy on me now. Prove that sexpot routine isn’t just an act, Kenna.”
His warm mouth slid to the pulse point on the inside of her wrist. He flicked his tongue across the vein, keeping time with the beat of her blood.
She couldn’t breathe.
His teeth scraped. Teased. He gently bit down on the fleshy part of her thumb like it was a juicy, tempting fruit.
A rush of pure pleasure exploded inside her.
Scorching summer sun, dust, the stench of sour beer, the growl of motorcycle engines intruded into her awareness as abruptly as it’d vanished.
His rough knuckles continued to lightly caress the sweat-dampened hollow of her throat.
Kenna opened her eyes, expecting to see his smug male satisfaction.
The raw hunger on his face sent her senses reeling.
Without breaking eye contact, he nuzzled her forearm and softly kissed the inside of her elbow. Then he moved her hand down his chest, placing it on his thundering heart.
The unexpectedly sweet gesture bothered her more than a smarmy comment. She jerked back.
“Too late for regrets.” The sly grin she expected finally appeared. “Back to the business at hand. Where and what time should I meet you?”
She stifled a scream. Dammit. His reverent touches and lust-filled glances had been a ploy! She’d been played.
Seething, she rummaged in her purse for a diversion from his shrewd gaze. “Sorry. I’m busy.”
“I thought we established you’ll be busy with me.”
Kenna slicked a clear coat of berry-flavored gloss over her lips, puckered and tossed the tube back inside. “You?” She laughed harshly. “Please, Agent March. You might as well tattoo your badge number on your forehead and wear a uniform. Everything about you screams cop.”
“Fooled you, didn’t I?”
“Briefly. But wearing a Harley T-shirt, jeans, boots and attaching your wallet to a dog chain won’t make you a biker.”
“That right?” His tone dropped an octave; the air temp plunged from the chill in his voice. “Got any more suggestions?”
“Yeah. Pull the stick out of your ass, Agent March. I’m just being honest.”
Lord. He pushed her buttons. She’d spewed more cuss words in the last hour than she normally did in a year. She didn’t even want to think about how one hot look from him made her want to strip them both naked and test the strength of the picnic table. In broad daylight.
She slanted forward, a little leery of the tight set to his jaw. “I’ll keep my ears open and report whatever I hear back to you. Fair enough?”
“No dice. How’s this for fair? You help me and I won’t turn you into the Sturgis PD for solicitation.”
Kenna gasped. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me. Do you have a license for this ‘escort’ business you’ve been running?”
“It’s not an escort service!”
“My point exactly.” His laid-back, sexually playful attitude was a distant memory. Now his eyes were hard and cold. “A federal informant is dead. If you aren’t gonna help me, then I’ll make damn sure you’re out of my way.”
A heavy, ugly silence weighed.
He could fuck up her life with one phone call.
She’d been desperate; take the money or forfeit her place in the doctoral program. No brainer. She’d taken the cash and hadn’t regretted it.
Until now.
If word got around the small academic community she’d been busted for prostitution she’d get kicked out. Wouldn’t matter if it weren’t true. Then it wouldn’t even matter if she had the money to pay tuition.
She’d gone to a lot of trouble to make damn sure no one besides Marissa knew her alternate identity. “Kenna Jones” was completely fictional. Not even Jerry had known her real name.
Evidently Mr. DEA didn’t either or he’d have contacted her at home, not by the decoy email account. At this point she owed him nada. She’d answered his questions. If he hadn’t arrested her by now, by all rights she could get up and walk away.
Besides, it’d be interesting to see how he liked being played. The more she thought about it, the more she decided it’d serve him right. A few quick changes and she’d disappear into the throng of bikers like a nitro vapor trail.
Despite his earlier cocky statement, Agent March would be hard pressed to ever find her again.
She smiled sheepishly and said, “All right. I’m in.”
Kenna was so full of shit her lavender eyeballs swam in it. The hellcat who had sworn, sneered and smoldered had gone all sweet, soft and sorry. Helpful, even.
Right. As if he’d buy that.
Yet Drake allowed her to ramble on. He nodded, appearing to swallow her heartfelt lines of apology as if they were gospel.
She’d grudgingly told him the meeting place (fat chance she’d show) and a firm time (another lie) before they said goodbye.
He admired her remarkable ass as she flitted away, an extra spring in her high-heeled step. She even stopped, turned back around, offering him a jaunty wave and a saucy grin.
Oh yeah. She was good.
But he was better.
The minute she escaped from view Drake reached into his pocket for the lip mic and reattached it to the earpiece. “Bobby? You copy?”
“I’m here.”
“Good. See the target?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Follow her.”
Chapter Two
Kenna surreptitiously pulled the top of the scarlet bustier higher. Why men went ape-shit seeing her boobs pressed beneath her chin was beyond her. Putting her private parts on display ranked right up there with a lap dance at a Chippendales show.
She stirred the glass of ginger ale, watching the fizz crawl up the red-and-white-striped straw. Bubble one burst before bubble two.
A sigh escaped. She didn’t know if she had the guts to go through with this. Showing Jerry the sights had been one thing. Having Marissa set her up with a total stranger was something else entirely. It made her feel…well, cheap.
The backroom of Pedal to the Medal Saloon was filled to capacity. Most of the patrons were men—overweight, over the age of fifty. The young, good-looking, cocky ones preferred a more dangerous venue.
Immediately, Agent March popped into her head. He embodied danger. A sexy troublemaker that could short-circuit the logic center of her brain and rev her body into overdrive in six seconds or less.
The neon green Coors Light clock over the horseshoe-shaped bar read 9:15. She smirked and wondered if Mr. DEA was having fun at the fifth annual “Big Johnson” contest at the In-N-Out Lizard Lounge. Kenna wasn’t sorry she’d sent him on a wild dick chase, but she’d loved to have satisfied her curiosity whether his “Johnson” had a chance at the finals.
A fistfight broke out between two big-assed tattooed women while the sleazy object of their affections drunkenly cheered them on. The momentary distraction didn’t alleviate the feeling she shouldn’t be here for any reason. Especially not for money.
Marissa wandered by with a Hispanic guy, blindingly white teeth set against his pockmarked skin. In his mid-thirties, the man proudly wore the colors of a motorcycle gang—and about a million tattoos. Spooky, the way his flat brown eyes raked up and down Kenna’s body like she was a particularly tasty burrito. She shook her head at Marissa, who detoured him toward the tequila bar.
Skynyrd blared. Pool balls clicked. Video lottery machines beeped. Conversations rose and fell. The masses of people were on vacation in world-famous Sturgis during Rally Week and were in the party mood.
Not her. She’d rather be flopped on her king-sized bed engrossed in the latest J.D. Robb novel.
Kenna propped her elbows on the sticky table behind her while she surveyed the room.
A gray-bearded ZZ Top look-alike swaggered by with a skinny dude sporting an orange bandana. She squinted at the table in the back where Marissa had returned and was holding court.
Whoo-yeah. Check out the guy with the killer ass.
A mountainous woman vigorously chalked her pool cue and blocked her view.
Come on baby , Kenna silently chanted to the man, let me see if the front matches the back.
As if feeling her intense gaze, the man turned.
Kenna nearly toppled off the barstool. Mr. Killer Ass was none other than Agent Drake March.
Shit.
His midnight hair fell in a sexy tangle around his angular face. He’d streaked the hair by his temples gray, making him appear older and sexier, if possible. A too-small black T-shirt clung to his defined chest and abs. Tight, tight jeans hugged his muscular thighs and yep…if the bulge beneath his button fly was real, then he definitely was a candidate for the “Big Johnson” award.
Grand prize division.
Irritating that he’d pulled off the biker garb. But he’d never be able to hide the cop attitude. Could he? When his gaze swept the crowded room she resisted the urge to duck.
Chances were slim he’d recognize her in a short black wig and brown contacts. She’d better not risk it.
She twisted her creaky stool around, feigning interest in the maraschino cherry sinking to the bottom of her ginger ale.
Less than thirty seconds later, hot breath seared the back of her neck. A sexual shudder ran the length of her body.
“I liked you better as a redhead, Kenna,” he drawled.
Damn if her nipples didn’t tighten. She pasted on a smile and faced him. “Well, if it isn’t A—”
He covered her mouth with his. His big palm cupped her jaw, his thumb pulled her chin down, forcing her mouth open wider to meet his delicious onslaught. Sucking, stroking, licking, the kiss grew wetter, hotter and deeper with every arc of his talented tongue. Insistent kisses continually brushed seductively over her tingling lips and she couldn’t break free.
After several dizzying seconds of destroying her composure, he drew back a little and murmured, “I’m not ‘Agent’ anything right now, so watch your smart mouth or you’ll blow my cover. Call me Drake.”
“Mmm,” she purred, darting the tip of her tongue out for a quick taste of his full bottom lip. “How did you know I wasn’t gonna say asshole?”
“Damn, you are a pain.” He dropped his lips over hers hard, and the punishing follow-up kiss damn near scorched her tongue.
With her body a quivering mass, nothing mattered but the way this man made her feel: like an obsession.
Minutes, hours, days later, out of breath and out of her mind from such unrestrained passion, Kenna retreated. She pressed her forehead to his. “Stop kissing me.”
“Stop letting me.”
Drake’s hands slid up the sides of her head, tipping her face back to meet his. “Jesus. One taste of you and I forgot how fucking mad you made me today.”
“How did you find me? Maybe the question should be why did you find me?”
Those mesmerizing eyes changed from indigo to steel. “You know why.”
“Uh-huh. You said I was free
to leave after I answered all your questions.”
His grip dropped to her shoulders. “I lied. And don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight again. I’m still pissed off at you.”
“Strange. Didn’t seem like you were so mad a minute ago. I certainly wouldn’t have pegged you for the kiss-and-make-up type, March.”
She twisted away from him and saw Marissa headed straight toward them wearing a sour look.
Crap. Had she seen Agent March kissing her? She was supposed to be here checking out potential clients, not sucking face with a cop who wanted to ruin her life.
She was so screwed.
“Let. Me. Go.”
“No. And not a word about who I am. I mean it, Kenna. You’ve pushed me far enough today. My cover name is Drake Mayhaven.” He sidled in behind her, keeping his hands nearly around her neck, hard, hot and possessive.
Kenna gritted her teeth. Marissa had an uncanny ability to read situations and people. She wouldn’t fall for his handsome face and lame attempts at charm.
Or would she?
Marissa, a striking brunette, turned heads as she crossed the room. She and Kenna lived in the same apartment complex. They’d been friendly, but not friends until last summer when Kenna’s loose tongue had spilled the details of her financial woes over a six-pack of Corona at the community swimming pool. Off the cuff, Marissa had suggested Kenna tour her old friend Jerry Travis around Sturgis. Marissa claimed she knew women who made a killing acting as sort of an escort during the Rally.
Kenna had assumed Marissa had been joking.
She hadn’t been.
In a moment of drunken logic, Kenna decided she had nothing to lose. Marissa worked in real estate and had convinced Kenna there wasn’t any difference in renting rooms or renting people. Once Kenna sobered up, she’d tried to back out. But after she’d actually met shy Jerry Travis she’d almost felt sorry for him. Which is probably why she’d agreed to the bizarre situation and the chance to stay in school.
“Kenna. You going to introduce me to your friend?” Marissa asked sweetly.
Drake’s left hand slipped down Kenna’s bare arm. He threaded their fingers together while he reached his right hand toward Marissa. “I’m Drake Mayhaven.”
Running With the Devil Page 2