Free Running With the Devil by Lorelei James Page A

her lipstick and the sharper taste of her desire.
    They stared at one another. A smart retort was slow in coming.
    Drake scanned the vicinity. No sign of Geo or Bobby. Trying to park a van near the main drag in Sturgis was worse than cruising in on a bike.
    Much as he hated it, he’d have to leave Kenna alone. He couldn’t risk blowing the cover of the local DEA agent waiting for him inside the bar.
    “Look. You hang around out here for half an hour or so and get something to eat. Let me do my business inside and then we’ll wander Main Street for awhile.” He fished a crumpled fifty from his left pocket and pressed it in her palm.
    Those pink lips flattened into a grim line. “Why did you drag me along if you planned on ditching me?”
    “I’m not ditching you. Bobby and Geo are supposed to be here but they must’ve gotten stuck in traffic.” When several beats passed and she didn’t make a smart-ass remark, he said, “What?”
    “You are an asshole. And I don’t need your money.” She let the bill flutter to the ground.
    Talk about touchy. Drake bent to pick it up. When he straightened, Kenna had vanished into the sea of black.
    “Fuck.” Out of options and out of time, he headed inside the dark smoky bar. He’d deal with her later.

    Kenna leaned against the side of the building, trying to control her temper. The man was infuriating. Not only didn’t he need her there, he didn’t want her there. Why the big hustle to get ready?
    If she asked questions he’d evade. Made her want to scream. Did he just expect her to follow along with everything like an obedient little lapdog?
    Yes. So far she had.
    Scents of cigarette smoke, meat fried in onions and the sugary scents of mini-donuts wafted over her. Didn’t make her hungry. The greasy blend of odors made her stomach roil.
    Or was her naivety causing her to feel sick?
    Doubts rushed in. How much did she know about Drake March? If he was DEA, why hadn’t he shown her a badge? Wouldn’t the real DEA knock down her apartment door with a battering ram instead of arranging a fake meeting via a decoy email account?
    Even Geo and Bobby’s presence could be easily explained. Hired men. Private security companies had access to the same gadgets as the government. Odd, that they called him “boss”, not Agent March.
    What if none of them were DEA? What if they were members of a Miami drug cartel trying to find out how much Jerry Travis had told her about Diablo?
    God. What if they’d cut her off from everyone because they intended to kill her when she no longer proved useful? What if his deliberate attempts at seduction had been the easiest way to ensure her compliance?
    Despite the midday heat rising from the asphalt, her blood ran cold.
    Kenna inhaled a couple of calming breaths. Deep enough to dig her shoulder blades into the cement blocks of the building that held her up.
    Okay. All she had to do was get to a pay phone and call Shawnee. Shit. Shawnee wasn’t around.
    She’d call Marissa. With her real estate contacts, she’d have access to a place to hide her until this blew over. Or she could help her contact the local authorities and see if Drake March or Drake Mayhaven, or whatever the hell he was calling himself, really worked for the DEA.
    She cut through the mob, ignoring the vendors shouting enticements. Grilled rattlesnake? Eww. Twenty percent off “intimate” body part piercing? Double eww.
    It was harder to ignore the stunning young women wearing flesh-colored pasties and thongs, posing with any man who’d pony up a cool ten bucks. How could they sell themselves…she skidded to a stop.
    Omigod. She’d taken money from a strange man for the pleasure of her company. How was that different?
    It wasn’t.
    Before Kenna submerged herself into more self-recrimination, she caught a glimpse of a curtain of long hair, thick and shiny as a slab of black onyx. Only one person in the world had hair like that.
    Shawnee.
    When the woman flipped her mane