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  Mr. Bommer.

  Shay Bommer.

  Tracy didn’t let them see her exhalation of relief. Better late than never. “Good enough. Lay it on me, Shay.”

  Bommer’s lips spread, exposing a boyish grin. Even he was pleased she’d remembered. All too rapidly, the look sobered into something more diplomatic. “I’ve come to apologize to you in person, Mrs. Rhodes.”

  Tracy frowned. “Apologize? What for?”

  “As you know, Mr. Wrightman and I have been working in tandem, coordinating your heightened local security needs for tonight. I was slotted to take the lead on all operations but am afraid there’s another lady who must take precedence for me.”

  Tracy tilted her head, already sensing what he’d say. “That’s all right, Shay. I get it.”

  His face crunched. “You do?”

  “Sure. Didn’t I see Arianna Grande’s back in town for a week or so down the street?”

  Bommer chuckled. “She’s sweet but not my style.”

  “Don’t say.” She tossed a defined glance down to the man’s wedding ring. The band gleamed so brightly, she could imagine him polishing it every morning. That was all the invitation the guy needed. Out came his phone, and an image of a woman with large, dark eyes and a bigger, rounder belly.

  “My wife, Zoe,” he clarified.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “She’s also in labor.” His expression sobered entirely too fast. “Two and a half months early.”

  As his face drowned under more troubled waters, Tracy instinctively reached for his hand. “And everything will be just fine.”

  His reciprocal grip was full of gratitude. “Yeah, I know. She’s barely dilated, but this is our second, and delivery on our first was—”

  “Difficult?” she filled in after a beat of tense silence.

  “It was…an adventure. Let’s say that much.”

  The word often came with a thousand nuances of meaning, especially when one spoke to ex-military operatives. Tracy didn’t know a speck of Bommer’s back story but was willing to bet he’d worn dog tags at some point in his life. “An adventure with a happy ending, I hope?”

  Bommer’s grin returned with wider emphasis. “Damn straight.” A slide of his thumb across the screen revealed a baby barely older than twelve months, with golden eyes like her father and sable curls matching her mother’s. “Her name’s Selene.”

  “She’s beautiful too.” She meant it.

  Shay gazed at the screen with soft eyes. “She is, isn’t she?”

  “And she needs her daddy right now.” She meant that even more. Though Luke had been nearly ten times Selene’s age when Ryker died, there were more times than not that it had already felt like he was gone—none of it proper preparation for when he was. “Go, Shay Bommer,” she urged. “Kiss your daughter. Be with your wife. Those are direct orders from your vice president.”

  Bommer pocketed the phone, looking tempted to follow up by full-on hugging her. He held himself back after a quick glance from Sol, though his exuberance remained palpable as he scooped up her hand again. “Thank you, Madam Vice President. Thank you.”

  Tracy returned the tight squeeze of his fingers. “Thank me by sending me a picture of your healthy new baby.”

  “Roger that,” he replied with gusto before centering himself with a long breath and continuing. “But first things first. I’m not leaving you and Sol in the dirt here.”

  Of course he wasn’t. Which was why, as soon as the words left him, nervousness tapped a delicious dance up Tracy’s spine. This was it. Time to play the part of the land’s second-in-command, when all she wanted to do was twirl hair around her finger like the swooning teen inside—

  Especially as Bommer motioned John the hulk to stand directly in front of her.

  Manna of heaven. Up close, he was even more formidable. Had she expected anything less? Perhaps she had. A slight slump. A schism of ugliness in the crinkles at his eyes’ edges. A soft spot anywhere on his body. Instead, his fierce force engulfed her harder, matching the nickname Dan had referred to him by. Dragon. She half-expected mighty wings to unfold from his back.

  “I’m honored—and damn lucky—to be presenting Captain Keoni John Franzen,” Shay declared. “Captain Franzen, the vice president.”

  “Mrs. Rhodes. It’s my pl—”

  The baritone cut short as soon as their hands clasped—and their gazes locked. As much as Tracy reveled in his voice, she secretly celebrated his hesitance. Thank God she wasn’t alone in the feeling. No. Feelings, plural. So many, colliding all at once. Feathers of fire through her hand. Radiant heat up her arm. The awareness, now coursing through her whole body, of his form. Of even more than that. For a moment, just one blissful moment, the rest of the room disappeared. The noise of the world stopped. All was a haze of golden energy…the same shade she could now glimpse, in tiny perfect flecks, at the very edges of his dark-brown irises.

  What would those rings of light look like from inches away? What would everything look like, smell like, feel like with the man pressed close instead of at arm’s length? And why was she tempted to use some of Dan’s four-letter words when realizing none of those fantasies were relevant, much less possible?

  And why did she want to tell Shay Bommer to shut the hell up when he spoke again, shattering the gold haze?

  “Franz is the gold standard, Madam Vice President. You’re actually getting an upgrade, but I won’t say that too loudly in front of him.” He chuffed, pointing to Franzen’s severe haircut. “His dome gets too big, we worry about the doorframes becoming sawdust.”

  “Yeah? And if yours gets too big, they turn into forests.”

  Tracy giggled before she could help it. She attempted an apologetic look at Shay. “You do have a lot of hair, bucko.” It cascaded around his face in artful negligence like a young Jared Leto or an old John Lennon, usually inspiring appreciative female glances—though not hers. The etched elegance of Franzen’s look, though? Her fingers itched from the thought of those black spikes jabbing into them.

  Who was she kidding? Her fingertips only carried the start of the itch.

  Behave.

  Focus.

  “Bucko.” Franz snort-laughed it, exposing the hint of a smile. Holy hell, the man had dazzling teeth. “Dude. You’re a bucko.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re a—” Shay interrupted himself, seeming to remember they stood in suits in a convention center, not BDUs in a jungle. “You’re a good friend, man. That’s what you are.”

  “Ohhh, boy.” Tracy mock-groused it. “There’s the pregnancy hormones talking now.” She cocked her head, encouraged by Franzen’s smirk. “Save the boo-hoo for the delivery room, Bommer—and just tell me what I need to know about this one. ‘Dragon,’ was it? Do I dare ask where that came from?”

  Like a kid waiting at Dairy Queen, she couldn’t wait for the man’s bigger smile. Instead, he started resembling the Hulk, eyes stormy and lips tense, before muttering, “It’s just a name. Doesn’t mean anything.”

  There was more to that. A lot more. Tracy read that much in the ensuing expression across Bommer’s face, debating a reaction somewhere between a fuck you and a full throat punch. He eschewed both to state, “As soon as I called with the SOS, John graciously hopped his backside onto a plane from Seattle. He’s been based there for the last eleven years—at least the few times he’s been stateside—out of Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Headed the Spec Ops team my brother was on, or at least that’s what it says on paper. What it doesn’t say is—”

  Franzen chopped him short with a grunt. “Don’t start.”

  Tracy tapped a toe. “Oh, come on. Humor me. What doesn’t it say?”

  Shay smiled.

  Captain Franzen looked ready to bust out of his clothes and turn green.

  A dozen earpiece radios squawked.

  The intrusion made Tracy start. Rarely could she actually hear her security team’s comm links since they were hooked into tiny ear pieces for each member, b
ut the blare quashed the silence after her dare, all but ensuring she’d never be answered.

  “Roger that,” Sol said into the mic beneath his shirt cuff before circling toward Tracy. “Main hall’s been checked and secured, ma’am. They’re ready to run your sound check.”

  “Of course they are.” As soon as the grumble spilled, she mentally smacked herself for it, despite feeling like she’d earned it. That just once, she could take a break and indulge some harmless interest in a hotter-than-hell man…

  No. She was more than interested. She was drawn. Like some damn molecule depicted in one of Luke’s Chem lessons, she was helpless about it too.

  And she had no idea why.

  And there was the crux of this frustration.

  Keoni John Franzen. There was something about him. Something deeper than the muscles and the confidence and the powerful grace. Something beneath all the one-liners and the smack talk with his buddies. A darkness…but not one cowering in shadows and shame. He liked his darkness. Took refuge in it. Was more than happy in it.

  Alone.

  So why was she so hot to climb his tree?

  And she was hot. More than she wanted to admit, even as the light caught the gold rings in his eyes again. As he rolled his head, cracking his neck. As he readjusted his stance, looming and large, before moving into place near the dressing room’s door.

  Hot butter on a damn biscuit.

  Her heartbeat doubled. Her libido flared. Everything between her thighs thumped in time to her escalated pulse rate.

  She wanted him to stride back over to her.

  As she lay on a massive bed, waiting for him.

  Her body totally naked.

  Her legs completely spread.

  “Tigress is en route to the stage. I repeat, Tigress is en route to the stage.”

  Nothing like Sol barking her code name into the comm link at his wrist, along with a mention of the damn stage, to land her pussy back on ice. Even if it was a kick-ass code name.

  Shay eased the sting a little, letting her pull him into a maternal hug on her way to the door. “Off with you, Daddy Bommer,” she ordered. “And no fainting in the delivery room either.”

  As he pulled away, a laugh lightened his lips but weariness darkened his gaze. Sol had said Bommer had “covert ops” experience. Not special ops. Suddenly, the difference hit her between the eyes—a difference she was all too aware of as vice president. The man had been black ops, likely some of the blackest.

  Still didn’t prepare a guy for the birth of his own child. Even the second one.

  She spent one last second to clasp his hand, using the contact to zing him with the energy of the prayer in her heart, before turning toward the door with fresh resolve.

  She could do this. It was just a sound check.

  She could do this.

  As soon as she could move again.

  As soon as she accepted—somehow—that John Franzen now waited, his stare missing nothing and his power filling the air, to become the back end of her security sandwich all the way to the stage.

  As soon as she remembered—somehow—that the man was focused on her physical safety, not how huge her ass looked in this clunky skirt suit.

  As soon as she acknowledged—somehow—that his arrival might even be a blessing in disguise.

  For the next twelve hours, she suddenly had something to be more nervous about than being onstage in front of ten thousand people.

  Thank God, after it was all over, she’d be boarding a plane back to Washington.

  Chapter Two

  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 and 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’s 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, damn it. 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…

  Had sacrificed.

  Way to let that thought go sideways, asshole.

  “Captain Franzen? Is something wrong?”

  And way to let it tromp across his features too. Shoving both into the mental shredder, he turned and forced himself to confront those wide doll eyes staring at him from the other side of the Escalade’s back seat—in which, through a bizarre string of circumstances, he’d landed with her.

  Alone with her.

  Hell.

  “No.” He clamped his teeth harder, jogging the edges of his lips higher. “Everything’s fine, Madam Vice P
resident. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried.” Her auburn brows crunched, as if weathering an internal chastisement. “All right. That’s a lie. I’m a little worried. This isn’t protocol. Is Luke going to be okay?”

  “He’s in the car right behind us. I’m sure he’s doing great. His usual detail is being backed up by Sam Mackenna. He’s a good man.”

  “The red-haired Goliath? Looks like he should be hacking and slashing his way across a moor in a kilt and nothing else?”

  Soft chuckle. “He actually owns a few of those. Nellis has him on loan from the RAF for a while. Has a day job training the jet jocks out there.”

  She smiled. “Luke’ll be in heaven about that.”

  “But you’re still worried.”

  Her pensive gaze out the window confirmed what he’d heard in her voice. “This isn’t the way we normally do things.”

  “Vegas isn’t a normal city.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “Which is why you can’t stop stressing.”

  “I’m a mother, Captain. Stress is my middle name.”

  “I could just order you to stop.”

  Had he really gone there? Referencing her and “orders” in the same sentence—and then letting his libido fill in the rest of that erotic scenario? She went to work in the White House. He spent his days in the gym—and before that, made his living in swamps, forests, and third-world ghettoes.

  But damn it, something about her called to every Dominant bone in his body—which was just about every bone in his body. No. She just…pulled at him, period. Brought instincts to the surface of his blood, primal and feral and needing, especially with her new reference. I’m a mother. Like that was the most important burden on her shoulders, not being second-in-command of the free world. She didn’t mean it, of course. She couldn’t. But for the few moments he let himself believe it, he was entranced. Captivated. Ensnared by the Tigress…

  Her gaze flared—as if she’d been able to read his mind. Or maybe she was just as enticed? And if so, how deeply? Did her imagination burst to life with the same dream as his? The same whispered words between them?