by Honey Jans
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Whiskey Creek Press
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright ©2008 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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DANGEROUS LIASONS BOOK 1:
BOUND TO SERVE
by
Honey Jans
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Published by
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
Whiskey Creek Press
PO Box 51052
Casper, WY 82605-1052
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright © 2007 by Honey Jans
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-60313-165-0
Credits
Cover Artist: Molly Courtright
Editor: Sue Vetter
Printed in the United States of America
Other Books by Author Available at Whiskey Creek Press:
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
The Gift
Penelope Hart is a lonely librarian. One day, Penny finds a gift from a secret admirer on her desk. The scandalous package contains a red paddle. The attached note hints at sweet submission. Drawn into a world of heady sensuality, Penny learns that submissiveness can be deliciously powerful.
April Love
April Brooks decides that Will Shepard, the man of her teenage erotic dreams is the perfect candidate to deflower her. When she asks him if he'd like to take her to bed Will can't believe his luck. But when they get between the sheets, he quickly realizes April isn't all she seems.
The Commander's Club
Courtney Fox is a journalist on a mission—to save her protégé. Ty Dragon, an FBI agent, teaches feisty Courtney the power of submission while trying to save her life; and she shows him that the perfect submissive mate might be right under his nose.
Double Fantasy
Surrender yourself to a double fantasy. Come along on a joyride that proves the road to romance, though wild and kinky, can be sweet. Join Penelope and Vlad, then Courtney and Ty on their erotic journey to bliss.
A Wolf's Tale
Gina Sinclair is trying to look after her grandma's best interests. Mitchell Wolf is a creature with only a few weeks to live unless he finds the key to his survival. Find out if Little Red can turn the tables and tame that Wolf by reading A Wolf's Tale.
Monica's Manhunt
Monica Landers’ biological clock is ticking. Matt Shepard is bummed that he has to escort Modest Monica on a duty date. When they meet at Spice, Monica literally falls into his arms and Matt decides his date is heaven in three inch heels. Has Monica finally found the man to fulfill her fantasies?
Dare To Be Wilder Honey
A collection of stories from authors Honey Jans, Debi Wilder, and Shari Dare!
Dedication
I'd like to dedicate this book to my critique partner
Pam Marshall.
Chapter 1
Bridget Jamison's heart raced as she hurried down the hall to Bran Frost's office inside Delta Star Headquarters. Her high-heeled pumps clicked on the gleaming marble floors as she ran. Maybe this would be the end of her quest. Increased chatter said that international terrorist Simon Perez was on the move. All her instincts as an agent told her something was going to break soon, and, for her ex-fiancé's sake, she hungered to be in on the kill.
James Clayton was killed in a terrorist bombing orchestrated by Perez three years ago. His death happened only hours after their breakup, and his body had never been recovered. Until the end of time, she'd feel responsible; thinking their breakup might have distracted him, leading to his death. It prompted her subsequent career move from systems analyst to field agent.
At any rate, a summons from the director wasn't something she could afford to ignore, especially since disobeying his direct orders in Homburg last month. Her instincts had proven right, a fact that secretly gave her pride. She'd apprehended the arms dealer, Hans Booker, after her superiors ordered her to pull out, thinking he'd fled the scene.
Intel, combined with her intuition and computer savvy, worked every time, but Director Frost didn't like having his commands countermanded, or ignored. She'd have to watch her step for a while to get back in his good graces.
Skidding to a halt in the director's anteroom, she breathlessly waited for Thelma, his personal assistant, to buzz her in. The stylish older woman remained focused on her task, her fingers flying over her keyboard as she typed. Bridget looked fondly at her mentor. The woman was a model of efficiency, while maintaining her fierce technical capabilities. Thelma could outshoot most of the agents on the gun range. The woman had befriended her when she'd changed career paths. Back then, she'd been a feisty trainee with a huge chip on her shoulder, resenting the establishment's contention that James had been careless, or worse. She'd had to work twice as hard to make her way up the agency's ladder, but she didn't mind. It made her stronger and sharper than most of her male counterparts.
She took in Thelma's dark hair, swept up in a sleek twist, her chic tailored suit, elegantly understated. She flicked a glance over the modern chrome and glass desk, topped as usual with a single red rose in a bud vase, and felt a bit more grounded. All was as it should be, no hint of disaster loomed.
Bridget admired Thelma's style and tried to emulate her. Unfortunately, her own long red hair had ways of escaping from the bun she put it into each morning, and she took pains to make sure that her drab business suits concealed her too curvy figure. She couldn't afford to let her sexuality detract from her efficiency. Cocky, immature agents, who thought they were God's gift to women, pissed her off.
Fraternization was frowned on, if not downright banned in the secret government agency, and she liked it that way. It kept her from getting her heart broken. It also kept her sexless. She'd learned the hard way that it was far better to keep her love life separate from her work, not that she was having much sex lately. Working nonstop could leave a woman unfulfilled. But on the plus side, being sexually hungry heightened her senses, made her sharper.
Thelma looked up at that moment, and frowned, her gaze cautious. Bridget tensed, detecting the worry in her mentor's gray eyes. No friendly chitchat this morning.
Shit ... I really am screwed.
"He's waiting,” Thelma said, pressing one of the buttons on her desk. The director's door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges.
Bridget swallowed the lump in her throat and walked inside, her head held high, to take her medicine.
Director Frost was seated on his throne-like leather desk chair, behind a huge antique mahogany desk.
The burnished top glowed with a rich patina that only time could create. His desktop was cluttered with papers and two executive desk toys he liked to fidget with. Listening to Frost's crisp tone as he gave orders into the phone, she decided the director's last name fit him to a “T". His prematurely white hair belonged on an older man, but somehow fit him, and, coupled with his ice-blue eyes, gave him an air of authority. He gave the circular toy a spin as he offered a pithy reply to the person on the other end of the phone.
Even with Bran Frost's leashed energy, he still reminded her of the hard-charging field agent he'd once been, a protégé of her father's. He'd been close to her father, succeeding him when he retired. But that didn't mean he cut her any slack, quite the contrary. He seemed to hold her to a higher standard, and she was glad of it. There was no way she wanted others to think she'd climbed up the ranks based on favoritism.
Frost kept talking, while casting an inscrutable glance her way. He motioned her toward a chair with a curt wave of his hand, and she rushed to comply. She perched on the stiff wing chair, meeting his ice-blue eyes with a relaxed look, determined not to show any anxiety. The first lesson a would-be field agent learned was never to show weakness. He could have summoned her to tell her good news about Perez. Yeah, and pigs will fly some day soon.
Waiting patiently wasn't her forte, but she endeavored to appear serene just the same, feeling much like a kid called to the principal's office. Taking a calming yoga breath, she smoothed her drab gray wool skirt down her toned legs, and sat up straight, checking to make sure the top button of her matching gray jacket was secure. Not that Frost was the type swayed by womanly wiles.
A tingling sensation broke though her tension, making her nerve endings sizzle in response. Someone was watching her, their gaze palpable—like it was caressing her back—making her skin tickle. She turned in that direction, glancing casually toward a dimly lit corner of the room, and all her hormones went haywire. Condor. His code name beat like a drum in her mind, as her eyes locked with the disreputable ghost agent's compelling brown ones. Lounged in an armchair in the corner, he watched her closely, tracking her like the predator he was. His thick dark hair curled over the collar of his black leather motorcycle jacket. His square jaw covered with stubble, on his harshly compelling face. Dressed in biker leathers, the ruggedly handsome stud looked like he'd just come off the road. A notorious loner, he seemed immune to Delta Star rules, or the agency dress code, for that matter.
Her fascinated gaze roamed over him, despite her disapproval. He carried the cool self-confidence of a gunslinger, and the adventurous part of her personality was foolishly drawn to him. Hot chocolate brown eyes drew her in, and seemed to strip her bare of her defenses, making her want to learn all his secrets. Sprawled nonchalantly, his scuffed boots stacked atop each other, and she noticed that even his pants were leather. Her gaze swept up his long powerful legs, to the distinct bulge at his crotch. Blushing, she tore her gaze off his overgenerous manly package in time to see his hunky mouth kick into a slow grin that said, Who's your daddy?
Her whole body tingled in response, her nipples beading. Not you, honey, the rational part of her lust-addled mind screamed as she told herself to get a grip. The few times she'd seen him, she'd had the same fierce primal reaction, but she hadn't been stupid enough to get this close, within his striking distance.
Bridget scowled back at him, her lips tingling as she stared at his sensual mouth. Suspicion fizzled the rest of her inappropriate arousal. She put her aberrant sexual response down to stress. Something was very wrong. Frost didn't have visitors in his office unless it was business related. Condor swooped in when other agents failed. It all added up to one career-shattering explanation.
Damn it all, she hadn't failed. The worst she was guilty of was insubordination over the Booker incident. Frost wouldn't take away one of her cases for that, would he? She bit her lip. The man did run a tight ship. She'd learned that the hard way when she ran up against a brick wall insisting he delve deeper, work harder, to investigate James’ death. The man had even sent her for a psych evaluation, much to her embarrassment. She wasn't crazy, but knew a cover up when she saw one. James had died under a cloud of controversy.
The only case still open on her desk was James'—the Perez case. It'd been open for three years. Why bring in Condor now? Her spine went rigid at the very idea. No damned way would she give it up! Her tech squad had recently managed to ferret out information as to his possible whereabouts. She was too close to closure to kiss it goodbye. And she so badly needed to bring down the terrorist responsible for so much carnage.
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Ross Longtree, code named Condor, leaned back in his chair. A flash of heat hit him where he lived as he watched the feisty, buttoned up, redhead react to his presence. Oh yeah, her reputation as a ball-buster was true; he could read it in her defiant green eyes. He noticed the ample swell of her breasts straining her blazer as she took a deep breath. More than a handful for him, and he had big hands. Her budding arousal damned near matched his, making his cock twitch and swell behind his fly. He was very good at reading people; it was what kept him safe. The lady ought to wear danger signs, he decided, focusing on her full curves obscured by the god-awful gray suit she wore.
He leaned closer; his heart beating faster as he caught her scent, cherry bark and almond, and his mouth watered. He so wanted a bite of her. He'd never eat cherries again without fantasizing about tasting her. The slave bracelet in his pocket seemed to heat up at the erotic thought. She'd probably taste like cherries all over. She's not for you stupid. His hand closed over the antique gold band, but he fingered the emblem of his dominance just the same.
What if he put his slave bracelet on her, carried her off, and took her on this mission as his submissive? Just the thought was enough to jump-start him into a throbbing hard-on. The discomfort brought him back to Earth. Delightful as the thought of taming her was, it wasn't an option. Besides, a buttoned up siren like her would probably freak before he taught her how to let down her hair and purr. He'd be going after Simon Perez all right, but with a junior agent of Frost's choosing playing his submissive. Sweet and obedient window dressing that would allow him to get on with the job.
Anyway, he'd already studied the Perez file as well as Bridget's personal one, noting Frost's comments about her outbursts. He'd then hacked deep into her personnel file. He knew all about her special link to the case—her secret engagement to reckless young agent, James Clayton. And the fact her old man was the former director, giving her a little edge in the agency whether she wanted to admit it or not. Brilliant but headstrong, Agent Bridget Jamison had rapidly climbed the ranks after she made the move from computers to field agent. Now she was about to get her pet case ripped out of her pretty little hands. She sure as hell wouldn't take this lying down. He looked forward to the fireworks.
He was usually called in to do dirty work and clean-up. It was one reason he was a pariah at Delta Star. Agents tended to be very territorial; they also didn't like admitting that they fucked up. Ordinarily he didn't care, but something about the woman—now openly glaring at him—brought out his protective instincts.
Damn Frost, for dragging him off his long deserved vacation!
Condor watched the quick intelligence in Bridget's eyes, as she put two and two together. Her fierce glare told him she wouldn't go away without a fight. It almost made it worthwhile that he'd cut his road trip short. Sparring with the hellcat might actually make him feel alive before he turned back into a ghost.
He was dimly aware of Bran hanging up the phone, his speculative icy gaze lingering on the two of them. The man was a born manipulator, making him an effective director of the underground secret agency. It didn't draw his focus, even when he noticed the twinkle in his old friend's eyes. Bran was getting a kick out of them squaring off. He made a mental note to kick his boss’ ass at racquetball on their next match.
"Agent Jamison,” Director Frost said, impatiently.
&n
bsp; Bridget tore her incensed gaze off Condor and spun to look at the director. His irritated tone told her he'd been trying to get her attention for a while. Embarrassed to be caught staring, she felt her cheeks flame, but held her head high. Taking a calming breath, she nodded serenely, folding her damp hands in her lap. Hardening herself to Condor's distracting presence, she said, “Yes, sir."
Frost eased back in his chair, playing with one of his desk toys. He swung a small ball that smacked into another, starting a never-ending pendulum motion. “As I was saying, you're to be commended, Agent Jamison. Your tech squad has managed to ferret out a discernable pattern for Simon Perez."
Bridget's stiff shoulders softened with relief, as she listened to the mesmerizing click, click, click of the balls. All that worrying about losing her case for nothing; it taught her the folly of jumping to conclusions. Of course, the director appreciated her creative field techniques. “Thank you, sir. It's wonderful news.” Lord, there was so much to do ... put together a team ... work up a plan of attack. There'd be time to celebrate after she brought down Perez.
She even turned to flash Condor a friendly smile that was met by his enigmatic gaze. He didn't have friends, at least not around here. Well, no one could win them all. Refocusing, she turned back to Frost, filled with new purpose. “Give me his location, sir, and I'll put together my team."
The director's puckered brow, coupled with the stiff set of his broad shoulders, broke through her elation. He was cutting her; she read it in his unyielding gaze, and her heart sank.
Frost reached out to stop the swinging toy, eyeing her closely. “I'm reassigning this to Longtree, and Agent Harrison. You can fill him in before he goes."
The breath left her lungs in a gasp, as the reason for Condor's infuriating presence was made abundantly clear. Damned poacher! She slanted a glare his way and watched his hard mouth kick up in a half smile. The bastard had expected her reaction, and he was getting off on it. No, she cried inside, incensed, struggling not to show it.