Fully Loaded

by Samantha Keith

  She took his hand and led him from the bathroom to the bed. They tumbled onto the bedspread, everything else forgotten.

  EPILOGUE

  Brock swung his feet over the edge of the bed and fought off the waves of dizziness. They assailed him every fucking time he stood up. But they subsided after a few seconds, which was a hell of a lot quicker than last week. He was improving daily, but it would take some time before he was one-hundred-percent.

  He grasped the nightstand for balance and then kicked aside the slippers that Dani had left by his bed—he would not turn into some slipper-wearing, unshaven bum over this. A knock sounded at the door of his bedroom and his heart rate kicked up. Instantly, the need to hug a toilet bowl hit him.

  Jesus, he’d gotten weak. That or he was about to do the scariest thing he’d ever done in his life. “Come in.”

  The door eased open and Milo stood there, a stupid grin on his face. “You’re not nude, are you? Don’t ask me to wipe your ass or help you in the shower, I swear to god, man. That exceeds the boundaries of our friendship.”

  Brock scowled. He didn’t have the patience for Milo’s bullshit. “Would you shut up and get in here? Close the door.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Milo said, but he obeyed. “Keep sweet-talking me like that and I won’t give you your present.” He swung a small white bag from the tip of his finger. Brock advanced on him. Milo chuckled, shoved the bag into his hands, and backed off with his hands in the air.

  “Thanks for picking this up.” The severe concussion from the blow to his head had caused more inconvenience than the bullet wound itself. The other day his doctor had confirmed that he was on the road to healing but stressed that he take it easy for another couple of weeks. Which meant avoiding his usual activities, including driving. At least the bullet graze on his arm had healed, although even that was still a bit sore.

  “No problem. Man, you’re easy to poke. Honestly, are you feeling all right? Do you want me to grab some pain pills or anything?” Real concern laced his voice and the playful glint in his eye fled.

  Brock dropped onto the bench at the end of the bed. Dani had brought it over from her place. Things had been moving quickly for them. They’d been inseparable the last two weeks, almost as if each feared something would happen to the other if they wandered too far.

  He opened the bag and reached for the box inside. “No. I’m fine. I haven’t taken anything for pain since they drugged me up in Paris. Just nervous.” He shrugged, but the admission fell short of the utter terror making his movements clumsy.

  Milo moved to the decorative chair in the corner of the room—another addition from Dani that made his bedroom a whole lot cozier—and lowered his elbows to his knees.

  “I get it. But this is Dani. You’ve known her for half your life.”

  Brock nodded and pried open the box. An emerald-cut diamond stared back at him. The anxiety in his belly sent a searing shot of pain to his chest. It wasn’t cold feet. No. Everything with Dani felt right. Sleeping with her every night, waking up to her every morning, complaining about her cosmetics on the bathroom counter and the long strands of hair dangling from his hairbrush. She belonged with him.

  But did she know that?

  “She said to tell you she’d bring lunch up in a few minutes, so I won’t stay.”

  He rolled his eyes and scoffed. “I wish she’d stop waiting on me. I’m not an invalid.” He hated being catered to. He should be the one serving her breakfast in bed.

  Milo stood and clapped Brock on the back. “Relax, dude. She’ll love it almost as much as she loves you.”

  He gave his friend a half smirk. “Thanks. How’s Serena feeling?”

  “Not bad. The nausea is subsiding. She’s actually happy she’s only puking a few times a week.” Milo chuckled and shook his head. “I’d be on my ass if I puked once. It’s a good thing humanity doesn’t rely on us to birth children.”

  “No shit. You wouldn’t last the first week.”

  “Nope. And I’m damn proud of that.” He went to the door and turned around. “Call me if you need anything. Really though, you look a lot better. Glad to see you’re getting your strength back.”

  Knock, knock, knock

  Brock leaped to his feet, the box still in his hand. The door opened and Dani walked in. He shoved his hand behind his back and warmth spread from his head to his toes. The last time he’d blushed with embarrassment was probably the first time they had sex—ten years ago.

  “Hey . . .” she said to Milo, but her eyes narrowed on Brock suspiciously. “Uh, I didn’t know you were still here. I can come back.”

  “No, no,” they said in unison.

  Her scowl deepened.

  “I was just leaving.” Milo snuck past Dani and winked at him over her shoulder.

  Dani set the tray of food on the bench at the end of the bed and he turned as she approached, keeping the box behind his back. She folded her hands on her hips and shifted her weight.

  “You’re acting strange.” A flash of concern darkened her eyes and she jumped toward him. “Are you feeling okay? Is it your head?”

  He caught her hands in one of his and lowered them from his face. She searched his eyes and took a step back. “Brock Wyler, tell me what’s going on right now. Oh my god, do you want me to leave? Are you trying to break up with me?” She ran a nervous hand through her hair and the weight on his tongue lifted.

  “Of course not. I just—I don’t want you to feel you have to do all this,” he said, waving at the food.

  Her eyebrows fell into a hard line. “Make food? It’s not like it’s hard. And this won’t last forever, you know.”

  He sat on the bed and nodded. “Yeah, I know. I just feel . . . emasculated.”

  She chuckled and knelt down in front of him. She hadn’t had time to dye her dark locks, and as much as he liked the look on her, part of him ached to see the old, familiar Dani who’d stolen his heart. She rubbed her palm over his knee. “The sooner you just suck it up and take it easy, the sooner you’ll heal. Stop pushing yourself.”

  “It was a fucking graze, Dani. Not brain surgery.”

  “A graze to your skull that almost put you in a coma.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “You’ve already improved so much. All you need to work on is balance and stamina now. Let’s have lunch in the backyard. The fresh air will do you good.” She scooped her arm under his elbow but he didn’t budge.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Her eyes blazed green fire. “I knew it. Why couldn’t you be honest to begin with?”

  Ignoring the seethe in her temper he caught her wrist and yanked her to the mattress. “Because you make me crazy, all right? From the moment I met you when we were kids, I’ve never been the same.”

  She arched one eyebrow. “This better be going somewhere good.”

  “It is, dammit. Just listen.” He huffed. Forcing the pent-up breath from his lungs, he traced the lines of her face—lines he’d memorized long ago—then smoothed his thumb under her bottom lip. “I love you, Dani. I know we’ve had issues in the past, but all that’s over with now. I want to start a fresh life with you. An honest one. I want to work every day and come home to you every night. I want to lie in bed on weekends and stay up late watching that stupid Netflix series you got us hooked on.”

  Tears shone in her eyes and a hiccup of laughter burst through her lips.

  He brought his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. “When Lafontaine had me strapped on that damn hospital bed and I thought they were going to inject me with that virus, all I could think about was that I’d let you down. It’s a feeling I’ve had more than once over the years and—”

  “Let me down? You’ve rescued me twice now.”

  He waved that away. “What I’m saying is I want to be by your side. Forever. If you’ll have me.”

  Realization laced with uncertainty widened her eyes.

  He pulled his hand out from behind his back and popped th
e lid of the box open with his thumb. “Dani, will you marry me?”

  She inhaled sharply and tented her hands over her mouth. Her eyes grew huge, locked on the ring, and tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes, twisting his heart.

  The pain in his chest intensified. “Babe, you need to answer me.”

  She snapped her attention to his face. “Yes! Oh my god, yes!” She threw her arms around his neck, sending him barrelling backward on the bed. His head spun and he closed his eyes against the kaleidoscope the ceiling had become.

  “Oh shoot, I’m sorry.” She shifted her weight, but he caught her waist in his hands and lifted her up so he could stare at her.

  “I’m fine.” He dipped his chin skeptically. “You’re sure you want to marry me? Do you like the ring?” He plucked it out of the box and held the band in his fingertips. She propped her forearm on his chest and held out her left hand.

  “It’s incredible!”

  He slipped it on and she tilted it so the three-carat diamond caught the light streaming through the window. Rainbow prisms danced on the wall and she watched, her lips parted in wonderment. He toyed with the roots of her hair and emotion clogged his throat. He’d waited years for this moment, and the stupid thing was he hadn’t even realized until now how badly he needed her.

  She turned and pressed her lips to his. “I love you so much, Brock. You’ve made me so happy.”

  He let his hand wander down her back to the delicious landscape of her ass. As he dipped his hand into the waistband of her pants, she wriggled out of reach.

  “Uh-uh. Not until you eat.”

  He bobbed his eyebrows. “Good, I’ve been craving the taste of you.” He nipped the side of her neck and she laughed and rolled off the bed.

  “I mean it.” She scooped up the tray and dropped it on his legs with intent. “Eat fast.”

  He groaned, sat up, and dug into the club sandwich and soup she’d laid out.

  “Oh, and maybe we can forget that whole honeymoon in Paris thing.”

  He laughed between bites. “Yeah, let’s hit the Bahamas or something.”

  “There’s nothing I want more than to be naked on a beach with you.” A salacious grin touched her pretty, kissable mouth. Brock pushed aside the tray and pressed his lips to hers.

  No matter what they did, they’d always be together. He’d never let anything screw them up again.

  Turn the page for an excerpt from STRAIGHT SHOOTER . . .

  CHAPTER 1

  Peyton wove through the supermodel-like women near the bar. Her knife, nestled in its holster, brushed against the inside of her thigh. If it weren’t for the tight-fitting black dress she’d worn to fit in, she might have been able to sneak her gun past the guards. Beneath her feet, the yacht belonging to Florida Senator Donatello Moretti, swayed on the dock off Key West. She picked up a second glass of champagne—she’d taken only one sip of the first glass before dumping the rest overboard—and continued through the crowd.

  Thank goodness for Vicky, the stripper who’d been hired as an escort for the party, Peyton probably wouldn’t have made it on the boat in the first place. Vicky had snuck a wet suit and snorkeling gear into her handbag and hidden the items in the janitor’s closet behind the furnace. Once Peyton had what she needed, she’d suit up and swim off. No one would be any the wiser.

  She moved near the rear of the yacht and watched a man in a dark suit and blue shirt step on board. His rigid stride set him apart from the carefree guests.

  Cop. Definitely the cop on Moretti’s payroll.

  “Jeremiah. I’m so glad you could make it.” The Florida senator’s jovial voice boomed over the party. Jeremiah extended his hand as Moretti approached, and their palms clapped together in a firm handshake. “Come sit. As you can see, I’ve got world-class entertainment.” He gestured to the women seated on the sofa he’d just vacated.

  Peyton inched her way closer. There were a ton of other women to hold Moretti’s attention. The last thing she needed was to get on his radar and have him think he could buy her. That’d really fuck things up.

  Jeremiah beamed, accepted a flute of champagne from one of the servers, and motioned Moretti to the railing. The yacht pulled away from the dock and sailed toward the dusky sky. Peyton dropped into the black leather coach and pretended to engage in conversation with the three escorts and another filthy politician.

  If she didn’t get what she needed and get off the damn boat soon, she might just have to use the knife. Keeping one eye on the two men at the railing, she dug her hand into a bowl of trail mix and popped the salty snack in her mouth.

  Jeremiah took a swig from his glass. The cop appeared to be no older than she was—thirty, tops. His light-brown hair fell away from his face in sun-kissed waves. Almost too pretty to be a cop. But Max alerted her that the cop would be delivering the top-secret information tonight. This had to be him.

  Sure enough, Jeremiah fished inside his suit-jacket pocket and passed a stiff white envelope to Moretti.

  She straightened in her seat. Yes!

  Moretti’s stance became rigid. He took the envelope and slipped it in his pocket, keeping his hand tucked into the material. Then he nodded to Jeremiah, crossed the deck, and disappeared down the stairs. God, if only she could follow him and just take the envelope. That would sure as hell make her job a lot easier. Instead, she’d have to figure out where he’d hidden it before she could get off the ship.

  Peyton excused herself from the conversation, got to her feet, and moved toward the staircase Moretti had just disappeared down. A guard stood at the top of the stairs. He crossed one hand over the other in front of his body and stared at her as she approached. He wore a black tux, and a cord dangled behind his ear.

  She smiled. “Is the restroom this way?”

  Hard brown eyes settled into crinkled, overly tanned skin. “Down the hall. Don’t go past the sign.”

  She shrugged. “Of course.” Which told her that was exactly where she needed to go—Moretti’s cabin. She deposited her glass on a nearby table and made her way toward the hallway he’d gestured toward. The watchful guard’s hot stare burned her back—maybe it was the backless dress having that effect on him and not the fact that he suspected she was about to steal something valuable from his boss.

  As she rounded the corner, she pulled her phone from her purse and checked the time: 8:02 p.m. In a few hours, the yacht would return to port to drop off the guests. Then it would continue on a cruise of the coast.

  Her high heels clicked on the polished wood floors. The breeze off the ocean tickled her skin, cooling it, and the scent of rain touched her nostrils. She scanned the horizon’s red and orange hues. Dark clouds hovered in the east—if a storm came, the party would be shut down early. Her stare focused on the long, dimly lit hallway. A single-standing sign read “No guests beyond this point.” She slipped into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack, and opened the text from Max.

  You need to find a small piece of paper with the name Jenny Carter and the location she’s being kept at written on it. They’re really breathing down my neck on this. They want the location ASAP or my ass is on the line. Keep me posted.

  This job was outside her usual scope of work, especially given the pressure. What was so urgent about Jenny’s location? But she had to help Max. Back when he lived in San Diego, he’d helped her numerous times on short notice, filling in for people who’d dropped out last minute or whenever she needed his expertise. He always pulled through for her. And he never put pressure on her unless it was warranted. Whoever was hanging this over his head had to be dangerous. But the less she knew, the better. Besides, the pay was good and her pockets were getting tight.

  Since her best friend, Dani Metcalf, had started her event-planning business, Peyton had been forced to find jobs on her own. Swiping diamonds, gold, and cash from San Diego’s criminals kept her in the lap of luxury, but getting jobs the last few months had been rough. So when Max, an old colleague who’d moved f
rom San Diego to Key West last year, had asked her to work a job for a hundred grand, she’d jumped at the opportunity.

  “Moretti only allows female escorts and strippers on his yacht, along with men he’s very close to,” Max had explained. “So I need you to do it.” He’d put her in touch with Vicky, one of Moretti’s regular strippers, who’d promised to escort Peyton on board.

  Peyton rubbed her fingers together and typed a reply to Max.

  On board. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.

  The scuff of dress shoes over the hardwood floor made her blood pressure spike. She tucked her phone back into her purse and hovered at the door. Keeping one hand on the handle, she brought her eye to the crack. Moretti breezed by the restroom and out of view. His footsteps echoed on the floor as he returned to the main area. The crowd boomed louder as he rejoined the party, and another champagne bottle popped. The bass rattled the floor beneath her feet as she pushed open the door. Walking on the balls of her high heels, Peyton rounded the wall and skirted past the sign. The hallway opened up into another large seating area. Out of sight from the party, she swung her gaze around room. Her heart beat erratically against her breastbone as she turned into a small inlet that held double doors—the master suite. The scent of cigars hung in the air. She tried the handle: locked. It had to be Moretti’s cabin.

  She dropped to her knee, opened her purse, and pulled out her lockpick tools. God, please grant me the speed to be swift. If she didn’t get back to the party soon, the guard might come looking for her.

  Then she’d be screwed.

  She inserted the metal pick and worked the second one into the hole. Earth, Wind & Fire’s bumping tune “September” blocked out the sound of blood pumping through her head. She flicked the tools, but the lock resisted. She growled, took a breath, and retried. She had to calm down and—

  “Freeze!”