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“I might actually be hearing it from you?”
Well, shit.
His fingers squeezed hers as his left eyebrow jumped. That damn brow. It had come to carry meaning for her, always racing her pulse race and spreading her grin. Now her system cooperated with the former—but she wouldn’t know a smile from her own reflection right now. She was too busy scoping out the nearest exits.
An abandoned plan as soon as the lift doors whooshed open.
And she stood, motionless as an impaled martyr, at the sight before her.
She’d tried keeping her expectations open about Franz’s “big plans” for their evening, but he had given her some tiny hints already in his “requests”—aka orders—for how to show up for the fun. She’d complied with everything except the one about ditching her underwear. Wasn’t exactly a sucky plan; just not applicable to a situation with a sheath that stopped several inches above her knees. One careless whisper of a breeze, and her intimate bits would be clearly on display for whoever was helping him in this scheme—
In this case, Sergeant Zeke Hayes.
Along with another man to whom he now chatted quietly, dressed in the same head-to-toe black favored by her Sir and Zeke. Like them, the color enhanced the man’s towering height, commanding posture, and prominent muscles. Also like them, he had thick hair the shade of a raven’s wing, grown to a length somewhere between John’s skull spikes and Z’s Renaissance Faire waves. Unlike them, the guy’s eyes were a thousand shades of brilliant blue, reminding her of Lake Austin on a summer morning. When the man turned with Zeke to greet John and her, his whole aura seemed lighter, as well—though once again, she had to set the impression against her experience of the last week. The only males with whom she’d had contact were her hormonal son and a gang of seasoned Special Forces professionals. She’d been all but bathing in growly testosterone for over a hundred hours.
“Gentlemen.” Franz calmly intoned it while leading the way from the elevator. Just fine by her. Even with her underthings on, the air possessed a distinct chill. The thuds of their footsteps were absorbed by the walls, instead of bounced back.
Were they underground?
She glanced up before exiting the elevator. Indeed, the overhead display glowed with a bright red B, for Basement.
Basement, she repeated inwardly. Not Dungeon.
Was she emphasizing the point out of celebration…or disappointment?
Zeke didn’t give her long for contemplation. “The man of the hour,” he greeted, holding up a hand as if to arm wrestle John. Dear God, to be a fly on the wall during that match. John accepted his clasp, and they pulled on each other for one of those “bro bump” things to the shoulder. The other man strolled forward too, but only gave John a courtesy glance—on his way to zero in more closely on Tracy.
“Meh. Who cares about him?” Mr. Lake Austin Eyes bent over, lifting her free hand in both of his. “Let’s get to the important part.” Brushed her knuckles with his lips. “It is a pleasure, darling kitten, to meet you at last.”
Darling kitten? At last? Tracy didn’t know whether to curtsy, giggle, or attempt a glib return—though the latter would be a challenge, considering the potency of this rogue’s flirtatious charm. His gaze was even more magnificent up close, and he smelled like cloves and bergamot.
Once again, not a lot of time for debate. Before her throat could fully function again, John jerked her back by the waist, rotating to loom protectively. “All right, scum chunk. Hands. Off.”
The guy spread up his hands as if those words had been “Stick ’em up”. “All right, all right. Got it loud and clear, honey. Untwist your panties.”
“Just keep your dick in yours.” Irritation all but shot out from Franz’s pores. “I mean it, man.”
Tracy glanced back to the rogue, hoping he’d have a decent zinger for that, though was immediately stabbed by guilt. John was sincerely agitated and all she could think was how much this beat old senators duking it out across shiny conference tables. But John and his fellow Dom—for that was the only certain conclusion she had about the guy so far—were only interested in battling over one thing.
Her.
Not as their vice president. Not even as Zeke’s odd, intrusive houseguest.
As the only role she was here to fulfill tonight.
A desirable woman.
It was pretty damn nice.
“Well,” Zeke butted in, laying on a layer of overly bright sarcasm. “Now that we have all the housekeeping notes taken care of, boys and girls…”
“There’s your girl.” Franz and the flirt stated it at once, trading pointing fingers. Tracy couldn’t abstain her giggle any longer. This really was better than any committee meeting on the Hill.
Oddly—or maybe not so much—her laughter incited the same from the men. As they mellowed, Franz slipped his hand down, securing her hand in his once again. “Popoki, it’s my honor to introduce you to the hugest asshole on the planet—and my dearest friend—Max Brickham.”
She actually felt her eyes widen as Max flourished a new bow, sans the finger kissing. “At your service, kitten.”
The words weren’t just lip service. They hinted at a second meaning—one the man clearly thought she knew. When her blank gaze answered his raised gaze, Max scooted a questioning glance to John, who flung back a quelling glare.
