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  “I’m not drunk, Dan,” she assured him.

  “No?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m pleasantly buzzed. But a far cry from drunk. So stop being a skootch”—Skootch?—“and keep doing exactly what you’re doing.” Fisting her hand in his hair, she guided his lips back to the junction of her shoulder and throat. Roger that. He opened his mouth to taste her gorgeous flesh.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, and because he took her at her word—and also because he knew drunk, he’d lived drunk, and one look told him Penni DePaul was not drunk—there was nothing to stop him from lifting his hand to her soft, warm breast. Nothing to stop him from running his thumb over the crest until her little nipple hardened. He started to whisper her name, but in that instant his earlier prophecy came true. He forgot what to call her. Poised on the tip of his tongue was…Patti…

  He jerked back and let his head fall against the door. It landed with a muted thud.

  I can’t do this. Regardless of what Ozzie and Steady claimed to the contrary, it was too soon. The memories of his murdered wife were still clearly written across his mind like chalk on a blackboard, and without the hooch to use as an eraser, he couldn’t escape them.

  “Dan?” Penni’s voice was husky. “Is there…are you okay?”

  Ha! Okay? No. He wasn’t okay. In fact, he’d probably never be okay again…

  He glanced down at the lovely little Secret Service agent. Her smile was soft and hesitant, yet warm…like a low winter sun rising over Lake St. Clair on the east side of Detroit. It made his stomach flip. Hell’s bells, she deserved more than this, better than him. He told her as much.

  A little crease formed between her sleek, arching eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not worth your time,” he elaborated. “I’m still too fucked up.”

  “Fucked up about what?” Her big brown eyes were curious…kind. And it was her eyes that’d been doing a number on him since the moment they met, when it was blammo! Instant connection. He’d never felt anything like it. Not even with Patti. And, yeah, that made it so much worse.

  “You don’t know?” How could she not? He thought the word widower was stamped across his forehead right beneath the word alcoholic.

  “No.” She shook her head, her eyes softening further, melting into him. Melting him.

  She really didn’t know. And it was a relief, in a way. He hated being pitied. On the other hand, it was that much more embarrassing to be standing here, a real-life walking, talking erectile dysfunction commercial.

  The thought God, I need a drink was immediately followed up by One day at a time. And that was progress, he supposed.

  “It’s just…I’ve been dealing with some personal stuff recently.” And how lame did that sound? Personal stuff? Jesus.

  “And you can’t forget about it?” The way she smashed the words together until they sounded like fuhgeddaboudit broadcasted her hometown more loudly than an NYC police siren. “Just for one night?” She nudged her hips against his, and his deflated erection took notice, twitching with renewed interest. Praise be to heaven, perhaps he wasn’t on the shortlist for Viagra after all.

  “I wanna forget about it,” he admitted, as much to himself as to her. He wanted to forget about it so he could move on, do his duty by his teammates, do right by his country. Maybe then he could begin to make up for…everything. Get over the “toxic shame,” as his sponsor called it. That feeling that he was a mistake instead of having made a mistake. “But, I—”

  “You should know I never do this,” she interrupted him. “You probably don’t believe me. I mean, we’ve only known each other for three days and here I am trying to jump your bones.” She pulled a face. “But the truth is, I’ve felt a…I guess you’d call it a connection…ever since the moment we met.” So it wasn’t just him. That was encouraging. Or terrifying. He couldn’t decide which. “All right already. That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

  He thought about telling her yeah, that’s stupid. There’s no such thing as love at first sight. But what they had going here? Lust? Well, that was a horse of a different color. And although he couldn’t help but feel disloyal to his wife, to her memory, to the love they’d shared, he also couldn’t shake the words he’d heard at his last AA meeting. It’s okay to look back. Just don’t stare…

  By God, he’d been staring for nearly two years now. So, was it finally time to peel his eyes away from the past and take a glance into the future? Were Ozzie and Steady right? Could he, should he, begin to move on? “It doesn’t sound stupid,” he finally admitted. “I felt it, too.”

  Her eyes rounded. “Really? I thought it was just me. Because recently I decided I’m too career-oriented, that I’ve been letting the job become my life. And I can’t help but wonder if some of my best years are behind me. I mean, I’m thirty-three.” The way she said it, it might as well have been one-hundred-and-three. And what was with thirty-three and personal epiphanies, anyway? First Steady. Now Penni? “Which makes me afraid that if I don’t start taking advantage of opportunities for real human connection, I’ll have blown any chance I have at a future with someone.

  “Not that I’m saying I have a future with you,” she quickly added, a look of panic flitting across her pretty face. “But I figured it was because I recently decided to start taking chances that I felt this instant, uh, attraction, or connection, or…whatever you want to call it. I figured it was because I’d finally opened myself up to—”

  He pressed a finger against her lips. “First of all,” he said, smiling down at her, “take a breath. And secondly, has anyone ever told you your accent comes out when you get worked up?” She’d started leaving the r sounds off the ends of her words until wonder sounded more like wondah, and years sounded more like yee-ahs. And miracle of miracles, his discomfort seemed to drift away in the face of hers. Maybe because he realized he wasn’t the only one toting around a heaping helping of emotional baggage. Or maybe because, in that moment, he felt certain of something. Like, the universe or Patti’s spirit—although he really didn’t believe in any of that—was telling him it was okay to let go. To finally, finally let go. A lightness unlike anything he’d experienced in a very long time lifted away a piece, just one tiny piece, but a piece all the same, of the heavy burden he’d been carrying around inside his heart, inside his soul.

  “They have,” Penni burbled around his finger. “To my eternal dismay.”

  Okay, and she was adorable. Simply adorable. With her too-expressive eyes and that little bump on the bridge of her nose…

  Everything inside Dan softened at the same time something on the outside of him, something decidedly south, hardened. “The Bronx?” he asked, removing his finger.

  “Brooklyn.” She nodded.

  Grinning down at her, delighting in how good he suddenly felt, in how good she felt against him, another AA adage drifted through his mind. A man can’t be content with simply getting by. And truthfully? That’s all he’d been doing since rehab. Getting by.

  Ozzie and Steady were right. His gentle, loving wife wouldn’t want him wasting away. She’d want him to move on, to find some semblance of happiness. Some semblance of a life. And on his initial attempt to do that, he needed someone kind and understanding. Someone who wouldn’t laugh at him if—heaven forbid—he burst into tears in the middle of it. Someone who would hold him, comfort him, be patient with him. And Penni DePaul, bless her sweet heart, seemed to fit the bill perfectly.

  “That’s what I’m gonna call you,” he whispered, gently cupping her face in his hands, lowering his lips to hers. “Brooklyn…”

  Chapter Three

  Abby’s world came back to her slowly and in pieces…

  First there was smell. Too much smell. The dank, salty aroma of dried fish competed with the bloodier scent of freshly butchered meat and the wet, decaying odor of the popular durian fruit. Then there was garlic, pepper, cinnamon…ugh. All of it together triggered her gag reflex.

  Which
made her realize her ears were back online, too. She could hear herself hacking, gasping above the noisy chatter of raised voices and the steady droning of…what was that? The sound was vaguely familiar, reminding her of the time she’d been snowed in during a family ski trip to Colorado.

  Generators, maybe? Which would explain the hint of exhaust adding to the bouquet of stomach-churning scents.

  Blech! Smells like Chewbacca’s burned butt hair. Where the hell am I?

  When she opened her eyes, it was to find a world of chaos and color. She appeared to be floating like a lost balloon through an alley that backed up to one of Kuala Lumpur’s many night markets. The back sides of multi-hued, tightly spaced booths—which she knew were overloaded with everything from produce, meat, and spices to trinkets and textiles—drifted by on her left. On her right was a labyrinth of alcoves and alleyways filled with the empty carts of the night market’s hawkers. And when she glanced up, it was to see the hardened jaws of two men. Tendons and veins bulged in their necks as they struggled under her weight. Okay, so she wasn’t floating, she was being carried.

  Memories assaulted her…

  The pinch of the needle. The body that refused to respond to her commands. Her security detail’s perplexing absence and the presence of a handful of strange men. The apathy that soon followed…

  Well, she could only wish for a drop of that apathy now. Because the stark terror was back in full effect, causing her heart to race so fast she was dizzy. Or maybe that was thanks to the remnants of the drug in her system.

  “Help me,” she croaked, reaching out to a wide-eyed Malaysian woman standing next to an empty cart. Or at least she tried to reach out. Her stupid arm weighed in at a cool thousand pounds and didn’t do much more than twitch as it dangled from her shoulder socket. And her voice? Heaven help her, it was nothing but an airy whisper.

  Still, she’d moved enough, made enough noise, that one of the men glanced down at her. His dark, close-set eyes were fierce, and even in her narco-hazy state she had no trouble reading the cold calculation in them. He looked away to say something to her second abductor. She couldn’t understand his words but noted they picked up the pace, breaking into a bumpy, bone-jostling jog. Her head bounced around so much she thought it was a wonder it didn’t snap off the end of her neck. Just crack! And there it’d go, rolling down the alley.

  Although, come to think of it, that particular scenario didn’t sound all that bad. At least then she’d be free of this terrible paralysis and the mind-numbing terror it evoked.

  A few more agonizing seconds passed before they reached their destination—the back of a faded red stall. Her kidnappers parted a slit in the fabric and ducked inside, unceremoniously dumping her into a molded plastic chair. Her arms fell listlessly to the sides, her legs crookedly stretched out in front of her. She couldn’t raise her head—like everything else, the muscles in her neck refused to work—but from the corner of her eye, she saw one of the men pull a handful of silk scarves over the front opening of the booth, effectively shutting the three of them inside.

  Good God! What now?

  And then she wished she hadn’t asked. Because one of her kidnappers bent to quickly undo the buttons on her blouse while the other squatted at her feet to attack the laces on the kitten-heel boots she’d purchased specifically for the New Frontiers in Horticulture Convention.

  And how ridiculous that all seemed now, her desire to look just so—professional yet stylish—while she gave her speech. How stupid to have worried about her appearance, about how the president of the United States’ daughter would be perceived in this predominantly Muslim country, when there were so many real concerns that should’ve occupied her mind.

  Real concerns like abduction. Like something terrible happening to the tough, loyal people in her protection detail. Like Carlos Soto suddenly reappearing in her life all big and dark and rough, everything she’d ever wanted in a man but couldn’t have. Like…rape…

  The ugly word whispered through her head, causing her heart to crash against her breastbone. It made it hard to breath, hard to hear anything above the whooshing roar of blood between her ears.

  “No,” she managed to murmur, though her tongue felt like it had swollen to fill her mouth. She wanted to punch. She wanted to kick. She wanted to bite and scratch and scream. But she could do none of that. She could do nothing but sit there, a prisoner inside her own useless body, while these vile men defiled her.

  A sob of fear and fury built inside her chest as a thousand horrific images flipped through her mind.

  Urgent, ungentle hands…flip!

  Sweaty, thrusting male bodies…flip!

  Greedy, wet mouths…flip!

  The depravity and obscenity of it all caused saliva to pool at the back of her tongue. When she swallowed, it was thick and sticky. But, amazingly, the action enabled her to put some volume behind her next words. “Ssstop it! You b-bastards!” she slurred.

  The thrill of succeeding in that one small rebellion was short lived, because the man pulling her blouse from her shoulders slapped her face. Hard. White-hot pain burned over the expanse of her cheek and detonated like an atom bomb behind her right eye. Her head whipped to the side where it remained, lolling against her left shoulder.

  “Quiet!” he hissed, staring at her with such…hatred. She had never seen such hatred on the face of a man. Burning tears seeped from the corners of her eyes to trickle across the bridge of her nose and run over her temple.

  She loathed the fact that she was crying, detested herself for showing these cowards…these beasts one ounce of weakness. But she couldn’t stop. Despite her best efforts, the tears kept on coming, soaking the hair at her temple and dripping onto her bare shoulder and chest.

  When he reached between her breasts to flick open the front closure of her bra—No! No, no, no!—she squeezed her eyes closed and readied herself for the feel of his despicable hands on her flesh, readied herself for the ultimate degradation. But to her utter confusion and relief, it never came.

  Instead, an article of clothing was forced over her head, her useless arms manipulated into the long sleeves. She opened her eyes to see the men were dressing her in a black baju kurung, a type of conservative, knee-length shirt worn by many of Malaysia’s women.

  Huh? Why?

  But then she forgot to seek the answer to her question when, with a yank and a tug, her trousers slipped from her legs. Hard, hot hands traveled up her bare thighs.

  “No!” she managed to yell, only to have a wide, damp palm clamp over her mouth. Sweat seeped between her lips, its bitter, salty taste turning her stomach. She gagged and tried to shake loose the hand. But her feeble movement just resulted in the man digging his fingers and thumb into her face, smashing her cheeks against the rough edges of her teeth until she cried out. No, don’t let them see your pain, she admonished herself. It’ll only encourage them.

  Of course, on a list of things that were easier said than done, that ranked right near the top. Her nostrils flared wide and her terror ratcheted up another notch when searching fingers curled around the waistband of her panties and tugged. She could smell her abductors, smell the spices they enjoyed in their meals coming through the sweat on their skin, smell the harsh detergent they washed their clothes in. Again, she closed her eyes, determined to block out what was coming next. Poised to disassociate herself from her physical form so that no matter what they did to her body, they wouldn’t touch her mind.

  But her eyes flew open, and she blinked her confusion when her panties slipped over her heels only to be replaced by the feel of another garment. She looked down and recognized the straight cut of a traditional Malay skirt as it was pulled over her calves and knees.

  Not taking his hand from her mouth, the man standing beside her hooked his free arm around her shoulders and lifted her so that his companion could tug the skirt up and over her naked hips and bottom. Next, a pair of soft-soled shoes—much like the ballet flats she liked to wear around the house
—were slipped over her feet.

  “I will take my hand from your mouth,” Shadow Man said. Now that he’d spoken more words, she remembered his voice from the balcony. “But I warn you, do not scream.” He leaned in close, malice shining in his black eyes, his long, thin nose barely an inch from hers. “If you scream, I will have to hurt you again.” He gave her cheeks a painful squeeze for emphasis. “Do you understand?”

  She was so grateful he wasn’t about to rape her—the relief flooding her system so overwhelming it increased her dizziness ten-fold—that she didn’t think twice about grunting her acquiescence, blinking rapidly in case he didn’t understand.

  “Good.” He nodded before yanking a scarf from the booth’s back wall, deftly wrapping the length of silk around her head. Oh, how she wished she could rub her abused cheeks, but she satisfied herself with watching the second man gather her belongings.

  Uh-huh. Just go ahead and hold on to all of that, you son of a motherless goat, she thought with devilish delight. Lamentably, that delight was fleeting, because Henchman Number Two ducked out of the stall with her clothes in hand.

  Well, for the love of…

  Now how was her Secret Service detail supposed to find her? And then she remembered the three on-duty agents’ ominous absences. Did she have a Secret Service detail left? These men…these dark, dangerous men seemed to know too much. They’d known which balcony was hers. They’d known where to find and how to take out her protection detail; she prayed they’d only succeeded in incapacitating the agents, because even though she’d only been living and working with this current group for about six months—it was protocol for the agents to remain on a rotation to keep them from becoming too personally attached to their protectee—the thought of anything happening to them was…well…simply unacceptable. And these dark, dangerous men obviously knew about her clothes…

  But how?

  She didn’t have much time to ponder that before the second man reappeared. Empty handed. Shit on a biscuit! And even though she’d expected as much, the sight still made her want to cry. Again. Of course, she’d be damned if she gave these bastards that satisfaction. Again.