On Your Mark

Chapter 1-2

She’d liked driving the unimaginatively named Spares. The two identical copies of the Presidential limousine played a constant shuttle game with Stagecoach so that a terrorist would never be sure which of the three Beasts carried the President and which were the decoys. Any Spare driver worth their salt dreamed of Stagecoach breaking down and the President shifting into their vehicle—which had happened only five times in the last two decades, so the chances were low.

The Secret Service had hundreds of elite drivers, from the San Francisco SWAT team to the Capitol Police of the Uniformed Division. The competition to reach the Presidential Motorcade had been fierce.

Then she’d crossed the Motorcade drivers’ “finish line.”

Stagecoach.

Just this morning she’d gotten a wake-up call from the head of the Presidential Protection Detail, Senior Special Agent Harvey Lieber.

“Bumping you to driving Stagecoach, Reese. Get your a*s in here.” With Harvey, that wasn’t some slur because she was a black woman with an a*s that she’d been complimented on far too many times. All it meant was for her to get her a*s in there. From him she’d take that, but not from any other asshole.

That call had changed the world.

A part of her was ready to do a victory dance.

Reese Carver—the first woman to drive Stagecoach. And a black woman at that. She wanted to do her dance on the heads of every male i***t who said a woman couldn’t do it. Every jerk who’d tried to put her down—even after she’d smeared them off the NASCAR track…or maybe especially then. She’d learned the hard way to keep it all inside. Men were expected to brag, but one little smile out of place and it tagged a woman as a b***h. Fine. Whatever.

But the other part of her could only stand and stare at the White House. Next time she drove onto the grounds, it wouldn’t be a matter of escorting the President. Next time he’d be riding in her car. She’d have his life in her hands.

“What am I supposed to feel about that?” She didn’t have a clue.

“First days are always like that,” a deep baritone said from close beside her.

“What?” She turned and looked up at the bright-eyed UD smiling at her. The Secret Service Uniformed Division guys always struck her as a little foolish. Didn’t they get it? United States Secret Service meant Special Agent. Secrecy. Not parading around Washington, DC, dressed like a cop. They really should be called something else. Maybe—as they were standing on the edge of the National Mall—they should rename them mall cops. She liked that. She’d didn’t come up with funny things on her own very often, but that wasn’t half bad.

“Your first day?” He nodded toward the White House in a friendly fashion. His smile said that he was completely assured of his own charm. She’d never yet met a man like that who actually charmed her.

“Not even close,” she warned him off.

“Oh,” his smile didn’t diminish. “You have the look.”

“What look?” She didn’t have a look. No one was supposed to be able to see what she was feeling. She’d learned that lesson the hard way a long time ago. “Like some lost fem in search of a big, strong, handsome man to protect her?”

He laughed. “Like you can see the White House, but it’s spooking the crap out of you worse than a mouse at a cat convention. See that a lot on Newbies.”

“Not.” Keep it short. Make him go away. Nobody saw through her shields—ever. So not allowed. She looked away and down into the big brown eyes of a smiling springer spaniel. He was standing there looking up at her with his tongue lolling out. She reached out to pet him.

And he sat abruptly.

Reese froze.

It was the signal that explosive-detection dogs used to alert their handler that they’d found something. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the backup man shift his grip on his AR-15 semi-auto rifle as he moved for a better angle. Tourists continued streaming by as if nothing was amiss.

She straightened very slowly, keeping her hands in clear view.

The handler was still smiling, though his hand was now resting casually on the butt of his taser. “Been at the range recently? Malcolm will alert to the gunpowder residue on your sleeves and hands.”

“Every day before work.” She was a driver, not a shooter, but if it came down to it, she’d be ready. “An hour workout, then five magazines at the range.”

“I do my workout after my shift.”

He definitely had a very nice workout build—powerful without being overworked. But she wasn’t real interested in yet another guy staring at her in her workout gear.

“Maybe I need to switch over to mornings. Though Malcolm here likes to start his mornings right off, then nap at the end of the day while I hit the weights.”

So, he’d identified her as Secret Service and figured they’d be using the same gym under the nearby headquarters building. Not a giant leap. Despite what some people thought, protection agents’ jobs weren’t to be undercover in their suits; it was to be so obvious that no one would think of testing their resolve.

She gave him a little credit for not looking away from her face, despite his comment. So he wasn’t a complete low-life. His accent said Oklahoma, his smile said self-proclaimed lady killer, but his light brown eyes, with hair to match, were definitely watching her slightest motion in a way that said professional.

“How about handing me your ID slow as a rattler on a winter day.”

She unbuttoned her winter coat, then eased open the lapel of her suit jacket. She reached past her FN Five-seveN 5.7mm primary weapon and slipped out her leather Secret Service ID holder. Despite it having her badge and ID, he called it in. That was good—she liked that he was being doubly careful. When he also confirmed her signing time in and out at the range this morning, she was actually impressed. It was far more than she’d expected from a “mall cop” who flashed his charming smile as if it was all the ID he needed.

“Nice to meet you, Clarice Carver. Sorry for the trouble,” he handed back her badge holder. The backup guy eased his AR-15, but not completely.

“Reese.” She heard the soft click as the backup reset the safety on his weapon. She’d missed it coming off.

“To your friends?” and that smile was back. Asshole apparently thought it was beneath him to introduce himself.

“And my enemies.”

“Good to know. You headed in or planning to stand and gawk a while longer?”

“Headed in,” she hated that she’d been caught in a moment of weakness and just wanted to get away from him.

“Well, that’s fine then. Me and Malcolm, we’re at the end of our hour on the fence. we’ll go in with you.” And he nodded toward the gate another hundred meters down the sidewalk.

Reese tried to figure out how to shed the guy, but couldn’t come up with anything.

He tossed a treat to his dog, then scrubbed his fingers into the dog’s fur as it crunched happily. “Gute Hund. Sehr gut!” He said it in a squeaky high voice that the dog clearly enjoyed, but it made the man sound totally ridiculous—and actually a little charming.

Then he spoke to his dog softly. “Such.”

And the dog changed; they both changed.

The dog rose to his feet and began sniffing his way forward through the crowd. The UD officer stepped out smoothly and the two of them were suddenly all business. His eyes scanned the crowd ahead of his animal, both of them on watch.

The change was almost shocking.

He was still the same guy. Even though she was looking at his back, she could tell by the way the crowd reacted to him and his dog that he was projecting the same easy-going demeanor ahead like a radar sweep. But by the way he moved—just enough on his toes to be ready for a quick reaction, scanning not where his dog was, but looking out and ahead—spoke of a highly trained professional. Even the positioning of his non-leash hand; it swung close beside the taser on his hip with every stride.

“I’m Claremont, by the way,” the backup man was on the move as well and was now passing by her.

She fell in beside him.

“Reese Carver,” she offered in return, but he just tapped his earpiece. Right. He would have been listening in on the same frequency that the dog handler had used. “Is he as good as he looks?” Reese nodded to the team ahead of them.

“Better. Three years on the fence line. Jim and Malcolm have the highest identify-and-capture ratio of any team by a factor of three times.” Claremont smiled at her as if he was answering a very different question about just what kind of quarry the handler identified and captured.

Ladies’ man. Didn’t matter as it had nothing to do with her. It was his three years patrolling the fence that surprised her. If he and his dog were such hot s**t, why were they still doing the beat cop routine out in the weather?

Jim wondered at just how stupid he’d been. He’d never even introduced himself—as if his mama hadn’t raised him right. And now Claremont chatted up the hot Special Agent Reese like they were old pals. He couldn’t quite hear what they were saying, but there was no mistaking Claremont’s smooth Southern accent that slayed so many of the ladies.

That’s when he identified Reese’s accent. It was well masked, like she’d worked on it hard, but she was from the Carolinas just like Claremont.

Redneck trucker from Oklahoma didn’t stand a chance.

Too bad. Special Agent meant she was good. But there’d also been a small code on her ID that said she was a member of the Presidential Protection Detail. He almost hadn’t called in to confirm her identity because it was so unlikely for that to be forged. He finally had, just to see if he could learn anything else about her. No joy. The main desk had merely confirmed she was USSS and even pushing through to the range officer only confirmed that she had indeed logged five twenty-round magazines that morning. But that little code on her ID said that she was beyond exceptional in more than her looks.

Just two inches shy of his own six feet. Pitch black hair that fell straight to scatter over strong shoulders. Her deeply brown skin was smooth and creamy. It was her dark-dark eyes that had been so hard to look away from. There was something about them that both hid and revealed the woman at the same time.

And when she’d pulled back her jacket, he saw her trim waist with enough of a figure to not make the big Five-seveN handgun look ridiculous in her shoulder holster. The weapon said even more about her. What he could see of the handle had the shine that only came from being held for thousands of rounds.

As he’d returned her ID, he’d spotted the shooter’s calluses thickening the web between her thumb and forefinger. She looked like everything a man could want and he’d messed it up something awful.

Sadly, it wasn’t the first time. Maybe he was losing his touch. When Linda and her dog Thor had joined the White House team last month, he’d done nothing much about it. At least not right off. That had seemed like a good idea.

She’d been cute as hell, and he’d entertained a few thoughts. But while he’d been taking his time, she and her dog had gone on to save over sixty lives, including the President’s. It was a Secret Service agent’s wet dream—making that once-in-a-career save. Then, while he wasn’t watching, she’d gone and fallen in love with the chocolate chef, which seemed a little unfair. It was like the Big Guy upstairs was smacking him in the face and shouting, “Wake up, dude.”

The last girl to make him even think about wanting the long-haul had been Margarite of the sleek body, long red hair, and a laugh like Christmas sleigh bells. Though she’d hung with him for almost a year, she’d made no secret that her aim was always set higher. “You’ve walked that fence so long, there’s a rut there with your name on it.” Margarite had finally latched onto a Congressional aide who—with her street smarts at his side—was now in the running as a Virginia state senator.

He’d had a lot of time to think about it while walking the fence line. The s*x had been good and the companionship great. But they’d been on such different tracks. He’d always been content to be who he was and she’d…never been. In the end he’d wished her well, though what he’d really wished was that she was still there beside him when he woke up in the mornings.