Running With the Devil (2 page)

As a grad student working on federal land, she’d dealt with the FBI, the tribal police and the jerks from OSHA. Even other agencies steered clear of the DEA, as they did whatever the hell they wanted and reveled in their “lone wolf” approach to law enforcement.

She stared at him, wondering when her cop radar had jammed. True, the man didn’t look like a Fed, with his unruly mane of black hair, unshaven jaw and I’d-like-to-ride-you-hard-for-hours hungry stare. Add in the faded gray T-shirt stretched across a powerfully built chest, biceps that’d make a body builder weep, and she’d pegged him as serious muscle for somebody, just not for the damn government. But those cold, piercing blue eyes should’ve been a dead giveaway.

Dead. She glanced down at the mint-green paint peeling away from the metal anchors on the table, hiding her pained expression. Hard to fathom Jerry had been brutally murdered. He might’ve looked the quintessential badass biker—long hair, tats, piercings and attitude—but she hadn’t assumed he was a criminal.

These days it was difficult to tell the doctors, lawyers and stockbrokers from the real bikers. A brazen display of “colors” was usually the only clear sign. Since Jerry had been thoughtful and surprisingly shy, she hadn’t wasted brainpower contemplating whether he’d been involved in illegal activities. So…why was the DEA interested in her?

“Kenna?”

She jumped. Not only were Agent March’s good looks lethal, his sexy voice could melt bedrock. “What?”

“Tell me how you met Jerry.”

Hmm. Continue the lie? Or tell the truth? “Through a friend.”

One black brow winged up. “A pimp?”

“Wrong conclusion, bub. He was an old friend of my neighbor, Marissa Cruz. Our association was strictly business since Jerry came to Sturgis looking for a tour guide, not a mattress monkey.”

Disbelief pulled his intriguing lips into a scowl.

She knew it sounded far-fetched and as much as she didn’t want to explain, she knew she’d have to. “Remember the fat dude who offered me the moon if I’d hop on his bike?”

He nodded.

“That’s nothing. It’s common practice around these parts for men to shell out money, lots of money, to have me—or a woman like me—ride around on the back of their Harley during the Rally.”

“How much money?”

“I got paid a thousand dollars a day.”

He whistled. “What did Jerry get for a thousand bucks?”

“Me, decked out in a skimpy outfit, perched behind him on the bike. We hit the bars, rode around in the Hills, paraded down the main drag, attended private parties.” She shrugged. “If a guy is willing to drop fifty to a hundred grand on a motorcycle, another couple of thousand bucks is chump change. Besides, it’s the ultimate big dick contest to show off custom bikes with a scantily clad hot babe clinging to their back.”

His mouth opened; she held up a hand to stop his inevitable question. “Before you ask, no, I didn’t screw him. Ever.”

“But don’t people get suspicious if you’re with biker guy ‘A’ on Monday and biker guy ‘B’ on Tuesday?”

Kenna laughed. “Are you serious? With more than half a million people milling around Sturgis? I can change my look”—she snapped her fingers—“like that.” She angled forward and challenged, “Tomorrow I could be a brunette, waltz right by you on Main Street stark naked and you’d never recognize me.”

Agent March’s eyes descended to her cleavage, then homed in on her mouth before his steely blue gaze reconnected with hers. “There are some things you can’t hide or fake, Kenna.”

A punch of lust rolled through her. “Regardless. Last year Jerry wanted someone to tool around with and act like his girlfriend. I was it. End of story.”

“And the other three grand he paid you in January?”

Her gaze darted to the beer garden, away from those cool knowing eyes. “A bonus,” she lied.

“Why the guilty face, if you did nothing wrong?”

“Not because I slept with him, you perv.” No doubt he’d be suspicious if she confessed to the “errands” she’d run for Jerry in the last year for the three thousand dollar bonus. She’d been skeptical herself about the contents of those mysterious packages. But Jerry had been sweetly insistent, reminding her that he’d helped her out of a bind, offered to pay her for her trouble, and she’d felt…well,
obligated
to him. So she’d made the drops and put it out of her mind. Until now. She swallowed the bad taste in her mouth. “What does the DEA want with him anyway? Was he a snitch?”

Again those fascinating indigo eyes locked to hers.

Her stomach gave a little flip when he looked at her in an entirely different way than she was accustomed. Granted, it took considerable effort for most men to keep their lustful gazes on her face, not her bust. But this man seemed to be trying to see her soul.

Yeah right. Mr. DEA was probably trying to figure out whether or not she was high.

“Snitch is such a juvenile word,” Agent March said finally. “Jerry was an informant.”

“Always?”

He shook his head, sending a hank of hair cascading over his eye, an unconsciously sexy gesture.

But she was acutely conscious of it.

Kenna’s fingers curled into her palms against the desire to sweep back those silky black strands. Crush them in her hands and yank that pouty mouth to hers to answer the question foremost on
her
mind: Did he know how to use those yummy lips as expertly as she suspected?

And if the hot looks he’d been shooting her were any indication, he wouldn’t do a damn thing to resist.

God. What was wrong with her? Maybe she’d fastened her wig too tight and it was cutting off blood to her brain.

Or the hedonistic atmosphere around here
was
contagious.

He drained the last of his beer. “Jerry was just another lowlife thug making runs for a Florida drug dealer. Did he mention anything to you about Diablo?”

“No. What is Diablo?”

“Unconfirmed rumor it’s a group breaking away from the Miami drug cartel looking to start their own operations in the Midwest. No one knows who’s running it. Except it seems Jerry inadvertently stumbled across some information during his trip to Sturgis last year. He came to us six months ago, whining Diablo played dirty.”

“Honor among thieves?”

“Nothing that noble. Seems Diablo planned to intentionally sell deadly batches of bad meth, blaming it on the local distributors—who have loyalties to Jerry’s boss in Miami. Diablo steps in with their cheaper product and takes over distribution of all venues.” Drake’s broad chest cast the picnic table in shadow when he moved forward. “You were with Jerry last year. Which means you’ve met with some of the key players.”

“Me? I’m just arm candy, remember? I wouldn’t know a drug dealer from a car dealer.”

His slow, sexy smile sent her warning bells ringing. “Ah. But
I
do. And here’s where I want you come in.”

“And do what?”

“The same thing you did for Jerry last year. Act like my girlfriend.”

“No way,” she said. “I’m not getting involved.”

“You already are.”

Instead of panicking, she retorted, “Bite me.”

“Oh I’d like to, Kenna, you know I would. And I’ll even let you pick the first place I set my teeth on you.”

The air between them thickened, the chipped picnic table and the raucous crowd faded away. In twenty-nine years she’d never been more aware of a man’s absolute focus on her. Sexual heat radiated from him, and seeped into her pores like a warm, sensual fog. A fog intent on clouding her judgment.

She could almost sense his body crowding hers. Shivers from his hot breath teasing her skin. Hear the increased tempo of her own heartbeat as he whispered naughty suggestions in her ear. Feel the wicked touch of his hands on her breasts and stroking between her thighs. Taste his sinful mouth.

Kenna’s body went taut from the phantom assault.

He reached over and toyed with a strand of hair. The back of his knuckles brushed against the arch of her neck.

Tingles burst beneath her skin, zipping through her bloodstream like tiny carbonated bubbles. Of all the moves he could have made… How did he know she craved that gentle touch, right there?

Maybe he was a sexual psychic.

Maybe she was desperate.

“Bring me to the meeting place tonight,” he murmured. His husky bedroom tone fairly dripped secrets of the
Kama Sutra.

Her nipples beaded to tender points under his shameless perusal. Throat dry, she croaked, “What are you doing?”

“Proving we won’t have to act to convince people we’re lovers.”

Whoosh.
He shattered any pretense of her indifference.

At some point during his verbal seduction, Agent March had lifted her hand to his lips. He nibbled on her fingertips. Between his lazy kisses, Kenna closed her eyes. She savored the heady sensation, completely lost in the strange way he recognized what she needed. She suspected he’d give her what she’d always craved, but been afraid to admit she even wanted.

He’s a cop,
her brain warned.

He’s a man,
her horny side argued.

He trailed hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses across the back of her hand. Darting his agile tongue between her knuckles, then just the tip of that wayward tongue in and out. “Don’t go all shy on me now. Prove that sexpot routine isn’t just an act, Kenna.”

His warm mouth slid to the pulse point on the inside of her wrist. He flicked his tongue across the vein, keeping time with the beat of her blood.

She couldn’t breathe.

His teeth scraped. Teased. He gently bit down on the fleshy part of her thumb like it was a juicy, tempting fruit.

A rush of pure pleasure exploded inside her.

Scorching summer sun, dust, the stench of sour beer, the growl of motorcycle engines intruded into her awareness as abruptly as it’d vanished.

His rough knuckles continued to lightly caress the sweat-dampened hollow of her throat.

Kenna opened her eyes, expecting to see his smug male satisfaction.

The raw hunger on his face sent her senses reeling.

Without breaking eye contact, he nuzzled her forearm and softly kissed the inside of her elbow. Then he moved her hand down his chest, placing it on his thundering heart.

The unexpectedly sweet gesture bothered her more than a smarmy comment. She jerked back.

“Too late for regrets.” The sly grin she expected finally appeared. “Back to the business at hand. Where and what time should I meet you?”

She stifled a scream. Dammit. His reverent touches and lust-filled glances had been a ploy! She’d been played.

Seething, she rummaged in her purse for a diversion from his shrewd gaze. “Sorry. I’m busy.”

“I thought we established you’ll be busy with me.”

Kenna slicked a clear coat of berry-flavored gloss over her lips, puckered and tossed the tube back inside. “You?” She laughed harshly. “Please, Agent March. You might as well tattoo your badge number on your forehead and wear a uniform. Everything about you screams
cop.
”

“Fooled you, didn’t I?”

“Briefly. But wearing a Harley T-shirt, jeans, boots and attaching your wallet to a dog chain won’t make you a biker.”

“That right?” His tone dropped an octave; the air temp plunged from the chill in his voice. “Got any more suggestions?”

“Yeah. Pull the stick out of your ass, Agent March. I’m just being honest.”

Lord. He pushed her buttons. She’d spewed more cuss words in the last hour than she normally did in a year. She didn’t even want to think about how one hot look from him made her want to strip them both naked and test the strength of the picnic table. In broad daylight.

She slanted forward, a little leery of the tight set to his jaw. “I’ll keep my ears open and report whatever I hear back to you. Fair enough?”

“No dice. How’s this for fair? You help me and I won’t turn you into the Sturgis PD for solicitation.”