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Fucking wing nut.
One this gorgeous woman with eyes like the Milky Way did not need to know about. She was already skittish as—well, a kitten—about having to give that presentation with Colton tonight. Sound check had wrapped over an hour ago, and tension still tangibly crackled over her. He only wished it didn’t make her even more mesmerizing to study. To desire.
To fantasize about.
You’re tense, kitten.
I know.
Perhaps I can help take that edge off.
Perhaps you can.
Lay back. Spread your legs. And let me feast on you.
Ohyes, Sir.
“Well.” Her repeat of the word, even more businesslike, gashed through his erotic haze. Idiot. His ass was sitting here, rather than in the lead car where it belonged, because a tangible threat had been logged toward her—and all he could think with was the wrong head?
Focus, dipshit.
He started by echoing, as nonchalantly as possible, “Well?”
“You tell me, Captain.” She dropped her head to the side, dropping the doll face for the incisive perception that’d surely played a big part in catapulting her to the VP’s office. “I like surprises as much as the next girl, but only when it has to do with flowers, chocolate, or a foot massage. Or all three at once. I’m not picky.”
He nodded toward her feet. “You mean those pointy things aren’t the height of comfort?”
“Hey.” She lifted a leg by a few inches. He didn’t miss the action’s effect on her skirt, hiking up her thigh a good inch. “Don’t diss. I refused grandma flats and secretary pumps, though the stylists have confiscated my platforms until I’m out of office.”
“Not the platforms.”
“Hey,” she mock-rebuked. “No dissin’ on the platforms.”
He noticeably smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I joke about a lot of stuff. Shoes aren’t one of them.” She scrutinized her lifted foot. “I’m still in platform DTs…but at least they allowed me kitten heels as the compromise.”
“Kitten heels?” He hoped his gulp looked casual. “That’s really what they’re called?”
Her response, a snorty giggle, gave him all the answer he needed. Of course they were.
“Back to the surprise.” She lowered the leg. A good thing, because she had damn distracting legs. Her love of bicycling was public knowledge, and that fitness showed in the well-defined quadricep he’d glimpsed—and instantly yearned to see more of. “What are we looking at here? Fully verified threat? Terrorist radio chatter? Run-of-the-mill crackpot with an ax to grind against the establishment? Maybe a posse of Luke’s groupies, just to make things interesting?”
His forehead creased. “Luke has groupies? Don’t answer that.” Only took him another second to do it for himself. “Of course Luke has groupies.”
She glowered. It was fucking adorable. “Mama Tiger did not want to hear that.”
He chuckled. “But she probably needs to.”
“Yeah, yeah. Add it to the list.” Her gaze turned watery as she redirected it out the tinted window. “He’s fifteen on the outside and an old man on the inside.”
For a long moment, as she propped her chin on curled fingers, nothing filled the air but the rush of the tires on the asphalt. John didn’t change that, sensing she needed the quiet.
“So much upheaval in his life,” she finally went on. “He’s rolled with it better than a trained SEAL. First when his dad was…taken…from us, and now experiencing a lot of life from the road, or DC…” The moisture evaporated from her gaze. A firmer look replaced it, though her chin remained planted against her hand. “All of it would’ve turned me into a basket case at that age.”
“You originally from Texas?”
“Yeah. Corpus Christi. I moved to Austin for college and just stayed.”
