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Chapter Two
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Thank fuck she’d soon be back on a plane to Washington.
It was brutal but it was the truth. Best way to face this kind of shit. To remember that no matter how stunning the package, there was still a politician under the ribbon.
Politicians made policies.
Policies dictated a lot of bullshit.
John Franzen had learned that one the hard way.
Trouble was, he wasn’t supposed to be alive after learning that lesson. That one should’ve killed him. Wasted him in a blaze of glory thousands of miles away, then shipped him home in a box—if there were any of him left for that. Not that it mattered. His soul would’ve managed fine, surfing on clouds and flirting with the angels…
Instead here he was, looking at thirty-three next month, his ashes nowhere near a blissful resting place beneath the swaying palms of Kaua’i. He was alive and too fucking well, sweating in a monkey suit and blasted by dusty air conditioning, losing one of the nastiest skirmishes of his life.
A fight with his own dick.
What the hell?
Rhetorical question. His brain already had the answer—another truth gained the not-so-easy way. Living through a lot of crap that should’ve killed him by now.
Fate was a fickle little shit.
And took a lot of delight in being so.
Example? Twenty-four hours ago, he’d been bench-pressing through bitterness and boredom. One phone call and a few hours later, he was on a plane for Vegas, texting suit measurements to the buddy calling in a panic, begging for his help in guarding the vice president. Not the worst distraction he could think of, even with the whole politician aspect of the thing—
Except Bommer had left out one key detail.
The shithead never said anything about that VP being hotter than hell.
Okay, so he’d noticed the…finer points…of Tracy Rhodes’ beauty when he and the guys watched the newsfeed of her being sworn in last year. Who hadn’t? She was gorgeous, making a guy steal second and third looks because the physical shit was just the start of it all. Not that the outer stuff wasn’t worth the effort. Her classic doll features, complete with a button nose and a kittenish mouth, were covered in skin the color of the morning sunrise over the sands of Waimea, peach and gold blended too perfectly for an actual name. Her dark gray eyes widened whenever she laughed or smiled, fringed by lashes a shade darker than the waves of her hair. At least it looked wavy. He could only guess by the little parts breaking free from her meticulous twist of a hairstyle.
Oh, he hadn’t stopped looking there.
He’d tried, dammit. He might not officially be on the US government’s payroll anymore but she was still due his respect, and they’d dressed her in that boxy outfit for a reason. She was the treasure to guard. The asset to protect. The high value asset.
That shit, he could do—and had been doing—until he’d shaken her hand.
Until she’d matched the clamp of his grip with the soft surety of her own. Pressed the warmth of her presence into his very pores. Met his gaze with the brilliance and awareness of hers.
Awareness.
Yeah. That shit.
Changing everything.
When she looked at him…and saw into him. Beheld him as no woman ever had. Not just as a soldier, bodyguard, or conduit for her safety. Not just as Dominant or lover, an avenue to her orgasm. Sure as hell not as a son, brother, or cousin, unless she had some long-lost genetic tie to Samoa he didn’t know about. Her stare was none of those things—but strangely, wonderfully, all of them. As if he could be all of it and more for her…
No.
He’d been tired. Really tired. And fuck, she had to be too. It was the only explanation. He didn’t do melodrama like “being everything” for someone. That was the shit he gave to his country. His essence sacrificed for the good of the many…
Hadsacrificed.
Way to letthat thought go sideways, asshole.
