Full Throttle(7)

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 was 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.

“I’m not drunk, Dan,” she assured him.

“No?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m pleasantly buzzed. But a far cry from drunk. So stop being a skootch”—Skootch?—“and keep doing exactly what you’re doing.” Fisting her hand in his hair, she guided his lips back to the junction of her shoulder and throat. Roger that. He opened his mouth to taste her gorgeous flesh.