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Chapter Six
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“Holy. Shit.”
The gritted syllables of Ethan Archer’s reaction were nearly as brutal as the watery afternoon sun, sneaking past the blinds of Z’s kitchen. What the hell? It was October, and this was Seattle. Sunshine was supposed to be outlawed.
Normally Franz would be happy about the breach, but right now, his sleep-deprived system craved some old-fashioned Northwest gloom. In the meantime, his dragging blood begged for coffee, while his throbbing head urged him to give in to Zeke’s offer of a Pike Stout in a frosty bottle.
Fuck, was he tempted—but the beer would help his headache and little else.
Least of all, the painful quandary he now had about Tracy Rhodes.
The woman he’d given his word to protect.
The new president he had to keep alive.
The spitfire with the breasts of an angel.
Fuck.
And he knew breasts. He was, when all was said and done, an island boy. He’d grown up appreciating women in all their glorious curves and angles, on an island where coconuts, bathing suit tops, and the all-natural look were interchanged often and freely. By default, he’d become a connoisseur of everything from swell to areola to nipple—and his expert’s eye savored the paradise of Tracy Rhodes’ offering to the trove.
There was only one hitch to that joy.
Hashed yet again by the two guys on the barstools opposite him.
“Tracy Rhodes is still alive.” Archer still looked like he didn’t believe it.
“So we’ve been saying,” Z supplied.
“And right in the next room.”
“Ding-ding-double-ding,” Franz filled in.
“I’ll be a monkey’s bastard uncle.”
Z huffed and took another pull of his beer. Archer tapped a couple of agitated fingers over the top lip of his. Not the way to enjoy a good stout, but Franz was far past dictating to the guy. Ethan was almost out of the service himself, having put in for early discharge months ago, to no one’s surprise. As Ava, his wife, ascended through the elite ranks of Hollywood power stylists, Ethan attended a load of TV and film premieres—and eight months ago, one of those events had resulted in a lucrative modeling gig. Since then, Archer had been juggling the modeling assignments between missions, but now his agent was sending him movie scripts too. Archer was a perfect pick for global film stardom, since he fluently spoke eight languages and could get by in half a dozen more. Between the demands of his new career and the requirements of his old, dude spent most of his life on airplanes these days—and frankly, Franz had been shocked to find him stateside when he’d called. Nevertheless, the pretty boy hadn’t hesitated to cash in some flight miles and get himself here in a matter of hours—and Franz was damn glad of it. He was gathering the perfect team to help him keep Tracy safe—and technically, dead—until things calmed down and she could take her rightful seat as the nation’s leader.
Ifthings calmed the hell down.
He had to believe they would. Had to fight the frustration of not being on the front lines of figuring out what the hell had gone so horribly wrong, spurring a global act of violence on a scale nobody had ever seen before. His nerves turned into new minefields every time he contemplated the audacious move, as well as what terrorist group had that kind of reach and those kinds of resources…
Okay, maybe it wasn’t just terrorists who’d gotten to his nervous system lately.
Maybe, goddammit, he still couldn’t dismiss that woman’s brass, as well.
More accurately, what she’d done to his brass.
Leaving him with one giant muck-fest of a dilemma.
How the hell was he supposed to safeguard her, when all he could think of was fucking her? After tying her down, of course. And blindfolding her. Yeah, that would definitely be part of it. Maybe clamping those gorgeous strawberry nipples of hers too. She’d moan as he sucked them to stiff peaks, then scream for mercy as he closed the clamps around each stiff bud…
“Franz? Dude?”
He jerked his head up, refocusing on Z and Runway, before snapping, “What?”
Archer’s stare, too lush a blue for a guy, focused on him. “You all right?”
