Running With the Devil

by Lorelei James

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  512 Forest Lake Drive

  Warner Robins, Georgia 31093

  Running With The Devil

  Copyright © 2007 by Lorelei James

  Cover by Scott Carpenter

  ISBN: 1-59998-318-4

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: January 2007

  Running With The Devil

  Lorelei James

  Dedication

  Thanks to the thousands of men and women who descend on the little town of Sturgis, South Dakota every year in August. The wild, raunchy public exploits during the annual Sturgis Bike Rally are always an inspiration.

  Chapter One

  Assless chaps were all the rage in Sturgis.

  Drake March sauntered through the Broken Arrow Campground, taking in the sights and sounds of the world’s largest biker party.

  Through the dusty haze kicked up by thousands of motorcycles, the variety of bare butts tortured him. Skin tones ranging from milk-light to coffee-dark. Flaunted breasts played peek-a-boo beneath strands of metallic-colored plastic beads. Guys snapped photos of half-naked chicks as proof they’d actually seen some titty action at the Legendary Arrow.

  Vegas had nothing on the anything goes atmosphere. Blowjobs in broad daylight. Couples coupling next to the main performance stage while a Christian biker club sang about sin and redemption. A magnificent woman slinked by wearing a studded dog collar—her jeweled nipple rings were attached to a long, thin silver chain that disappeared into the crotch of her purple thong. Two topless babes were making out on a bucking mechanical bull while the drunken crowd egged them on.

  No wonder his concentration was lousy.

  He’d spotted another flawless ass bent over an electric blue Outlaw custom chopper when a sharp command echoed in his earpiece.

  “Target spotted. Ten yards to your left. Copy.”

  Beneath his Ray-bans, Drake’s eyes narrowed on his contact, then widened. “That’s her? The redhead with the big tits?” He inwardly winced. His supervisor would ream him when she listened to the surveillance tapes. But damn, it was hard not to show pure male adoration at the way the woman filled out the miniscule black halter-top.

  Ms. 40C leaned against the plywood wall of the beer garden, plastic cup in hand, a walking ad for juicy wet sex.

  “I thought Jerry’s files said she was blonde?”

  “Guess Miss Clairol got to her before we did,” Geo drawled.

  “You sure it’s her, Bobby?” Drake asked.

  “Yep,” Bobby said. “She’s wearing the flag.”

  Drake’s gaze zoomed over the white ribbon tied on her left arm and down, past the golden bell winking in her navel. A skintight leopard print miniskirt molded curvy hips. The ensemble ended with a pair of glossy black thigh-high boots showcasing world-class legs on par with her world-class breasts.

  He nearly stumbled over his tongue. Jerry my man, you had exquisite taste.

  “Drake, you there?”

  “Roger that, I’m on it.”

  “You mean on her, you lucky son-of-a-bitch,” Geo groused in his ear. “Next time, I get to be point man and you get to coordinate recon in the damn truck.”

  “You wish. Stay alert, Bobby. I’m switching to B-mode.” Bobby was his ground support. Drake removed the lip mic, leaving the small earpiece intact. For all intents and purposes he resembled just another security goon.

  Raking a hand though his hair, he started toward the mysterious woman, remembering at the last second to paste on a smile.

  Her demeanor didn’t change at his approach, save for the imperceptible tightening of her blood-red mouth. Dark maroon sunglasses rested on an aquiline nose, hiding her eyes. But he sensed beneath those cheap shades she studied him intently.

  “Kenna?”

  “Yes?”

  “Jerry Travis asked me to meet you here.”

  Her assessing gaze started at his Caterpillar boots and traveled up every inch of his six-foot-four-inch frame. She tilted her head back and murmured, “Seems old Jerry’s come up in the world.”

  “Can we go someplace private to talk?”

  She lifted the cup to her mouth, running the tip of her pink tongue along the rim before tossing the empty container into the garbage can. “Maybe. If I’ve got the right incentive.”

  He grinned. “Name your price.”

  “Sugar, you couldn’t afford me.” She untied the ribbon from her arm, zigzagging it up his forearm, soft as a whisper. After she’d wrapped it around his bicep, her fingers smoothed the satiny strap, lingering on his muscle flexing beneath it. “But I’ll admit you’ve piqued my interest.”

  Drake suppressed a shudder of raw pleasure. A whiskey-warmed voice and cool caress on his heated skin; this woman packed a powerful punch. The kind of visceral reaction he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in ages.

  “There’s an empty table about fifty feet to your left. I’ll join you there in a minute.”

  “Where you gonna be?”

  “Getting a beer. Want one?”

  A barrel-chested man stopped and gave Kenna a once over followed by a sharp wolf whistle. “I’ll buy you the whole damn keg or whatever else turns your crank, honey, if you’ll ride around on the back of my hog today.”

  Her sultry siren act vanished. “No thanks.”

  His beefy, hairy shoulders lifted. “Your loss.”

  She shuffled her feet, a sign she might bolt.

  Screw that. Drake had waited too damn long for this. “Maybe you should come along as I grab that beer.”

  “Maybe you should hurry the hell up before I get bored with this cryptic conversation and disappear.” She spun on her stiletto boots, ass swaying beneath her body-hugging skirt, wild red hair brushing her shoulders.

  Great. He’d hoped not to spook her, but thanks to that lowlife biker she was wound tight as a whore in church. He paid for the draft and picked his way through the trash littering the flattened grass and sinkholes to the rickety picnic table.

  He’d barely slid onto the bench seat when she demanded, “Cut the shit. Who are you?”

  Wow. She’d changed from simpering to seething pretty damn quick. “Name’s Drake,” he said, sipping his ice-cold beer.

  “What do you want?”

  “To talk to you.”

  “So you said. Where is Jerry?”

  He gazed at her over the top of his sunglasses. God she was striking, not the washed-up druggie he’d expected. He floated a deliberate pause, announced, “Dead,” and waited for her response.

  No sound escaped those ruby lips, but she arched back as if making a move to leave.

  Without missing a beat, Drake wrapped his big hand around her smaller wrist and yanked her closer until those bountiful breasts were within licking distance. He smiled—all teeth.

  “Let go, you fucking psycho.”

  “Now Kenna. Is that any way to talk?”

  “How about: If you don’t let go of me right fucking now I’ll break your fucking nose. Is that more fucking polite?”

  Her tone was so chillingly
matter-of-fact he suspected she probably could. Or was it a con? And why the hell did the tough chick act make his dick hard?

  Drake grinned, slow and easy. “If I do let go, promise you won’t make me chase you down? Because I have no qualms about tackling your sweet ass right into the dirt, sweetheart.”

  “Bet you’d like that.”

  “You have no idea.” He loosened his death-grip in a show of faith. “All I want is to talk to you. Then you’re free to go.” Unless you’ll somehow prove useful to me and then you couldn’t pry me from your side with a crowbar.

  She seemed to consider it before she nodded.

  “Good.” He released her wrist and she rubbed the spot he’d touched like he’d somehow marked her soft skin.

  And her attitude got to him. Oh, he would like to mark her. Eat at that abundant mouth until it was swollen from his hard kisses. Trail his teeth across the slender column of her neck and lower to bestow slow, thorough love bites around each nipple. He’d suck a path down her smooth belly. Flick his wet tongue over that intriguing little bell in her navel. Settle his mouth on her engorged sex until she writhed and bucked beneath his punishing lips, sharp teeth and lashing tongue.

  “Get on with the damn questions then.”

  Whoa. Talk about reverting to juvenile fantasies. He kept his face impassive even when his body protested the sudden shift from boiling point to deep freeze. “When was the last time you heard from Jerry?”

  “He emailed me two days ago, asking that I meet him here instead of our normal place. Didn’t tell me why.”

  Drake removed his sunglasses hoping it’d prompt her to do the same. “Do you always do what Jerry asks?”

  She tapped her fingers on the table next to an enormous purse beaded in a rainbow pattern. “Only when I get email from a dead man. Then I get very curious.”

  That floored him. “You knew Jerry was dead?”

  “Yep.” She paused, showed her pearly whites. “I assume you sent that bogus email?”

  His answering smile was equally tight.

  She ripped off her shades and his breath snagged in his throat. Jesus. Not only were her eyes snapping fire, they were the most unusual shade of blue he’d ever seen. Almost purple.

  “Why—”

  “Why did you show up here anyway if you knew the email was a fake?” He watched her delicate nostrils flare outrage. Why his cock took particular delight in her show of feminine temper was a mystery.

  “To see what kind of freak uses a dead friend as a way to hook up with chicks. What the fuck is wrong with you? Suggesting I tie a ribbon around my goddamn arm like some kind of primitive cowbell?” She actually growled annoyance. “I came here to kick your balls up your ass. I don’t know what Jerry told you and I don’t give a flying fuck if you’ve got some weird James Bond fetish—”

  “Whoa whoa whoa. Hang on a sec. Jerry didn’t tell me anything. That’s why I had to use his email address to get a message to you.”

  Confusion pulled her lush mouth into a flat line.

  “Would you have shown up otherwise?”

  She shook her head.

  “Kenna, you’re one of his last known contacts.”

  “And you’re just getting around to talking to me now?”

  Drake sighed. “Look. I’d been working with Jerry for the last few months. He disappeared. His body was found two weeks ago.”

  “I know. What does that have to do with me?”

  “Yours was the only file I found when I hacked into his computer. He had it hidden in a subdirectory.” He paused. “Fascinating reading. I can see why he kept it.”

  Her body stayed still. Only the twitch beneath her left eye gave away her unease. “You think I had something to do with his death?”

  “It’s possible. Seems he paid you ten grand last year. Why?” He sipped his beer, locking his gaze with hers. “Were you blackmailing him?”

  She smirked and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug.

  “He funding your drug habit?”

  The smug smile died. “Piss off.”

  “Ah. So you are a pro.”

  A shadow fell across her face. Drake glanced up, glaring at the heavy-set couple in matching Bermuda shorts and Wall Drug T-shirts. They backed off and found another picnic table to eat their Indian tacos.

  He refocused on Kenna, letting his inner slimeball surface. He’d get to the bottom of her connection to Jerry Travis no matter how distasteful he found this balls-to-the-wall type of questioning. Especially with a woman who’d piqued far more of his personal curiosity than was wise. “You must be a wildcat between the sheets to earn that kind of cash.”

  “Fuck you. I don’t need this shit and I don’t have to answer any more of your asinine questions.”

  Again his hand snaked out and encircled her wrist. “I’m afraid you do have to answer my questions, Ms. Jones.” He smiled but knew it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess I neglected to fully introduce myself. Agent Drake March. DEA.”

  Fuck. It figured.

  First time she’d ever felt an immediate inexplicable attraction and the jerk turned out to be another phony.

  Hey, at least she was consistent.

  Kenna tugged hard at his enormous hand, knowing those meat hooks could easily bruise her skin. Crossing her arms on the table, she waited for him to explain himself or flash his badge, but he seemed absorbed with figuring out her bra cup size.

  He looked up. “For the record, let’s start over.”

  No kidding she’d like to start the whole day over. Minus the trip to the Broken Arrow. Minus a run-in with a DEA agent.

  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.