Page 123 of Tate
Which meant when he’d asked her for help catching, uh, aterrorist,of course she said yes.
Because she was on his team too.
Hooyah!
“Can you guys hear me?”
Tate’s voice came through the mic from somewhere inside the Hilton San Diego Bayfront.
They’d scoped out the place yesterday as tourists, walking down the boardwalk, then into the grand arching gold-and-teak lobby, taking the escalators to the second floor where tonight’s private event would be held in the Indigo Ballroom. They peeked into the meeting rooms across from the ballroom, then wandered out to the terrace, two stories high and overlooking the pool.
Scarlett had stood staring out at the ocean, smelling the breezes, acutely attuned to Ford and Tate chatting behind her, and had to remind herself that she was here to catch a bomber.
Not dance the night away.
Not eat shrimp cocktail and monk fish.
And definitely not to fall for tall and handsome Ford Marshall, who would be dressed to the nines in a tailored tuxedo.
Tate had shown up three days ago with a crazy story about a bomber and Glo, whom he was no longer protecting—well, officially, because the guy had Personal Security written all over his face. Scarlett believed every word of his crazy story when he outlined the plans, complete with blueprints and contingencies, on her kitchen table.
They’d go in undercover, as guests via tickets Tate had procured for them, and keep their eyes out for Graham Plunkett, aka, the man with the fire tattoo.
She could see it in Ford’s eyes—he wasn’t entirely sure that Tate wasn’t a little off his rocker. But brothers stuck together, and Ford had the night off, and she had a sneaking suspicion that he had something else on his mind too.
Because she couldn’t deny the tiny spark that still simmered between them. And why not—she’d spent the week with her arm around his amazing chest, towing him to safety, his body tight against hers.
His big, muscled body that possessed nearly no buoyancy. He hadn’t even helped her once by kicking—had made it worse by letting out all his breath, becoming dead weight in the water.
As if he really wanted her to blow her instructors away.
More than once when they reached shore, she’d wanted to keep hanging on. Wanted to take him up on the offers to have breakfast together or maybe go for a run.
She was already having a hard time keeping herself afloat around him.
And then he had to show up on her doorstep in her imagined tux. Only in real life, he wore a gray suitcoat, a pair of dress pants, and a gray tie. The man should wear that kind of uniform every day—the guy could sell calendars.
And that’s when the entire thing turned into a fairy tale.
She blamed the dress too.
The amazing, black tulle dress with an embroidered corset and sheer top and okay, Scarlett had never felt invincible before in a dress, but this conjured up emotions that her Navy uniform didn’t have a hope of eliciting. To think she hated wearing dresses. She’d only donned the last one because it had been Reuben Marshall’s wedding, and even that had been a ten-year-old black thrift store affair.
But this dress…
Ford let her hand go, opened the door for her, then she slid her hand over his arm, like it might be a real date, and headedinto the hotel lobby. The chamber music of a string ensemble drifted into the space as they took the escalator to the second floor.
“I hear you, Tate,” Ford said, turning to her as though he might be saying something. They were using a tiny earpiece, and Tate had wired the transmitter and her microphone into her beaded necklace and connected it all via Bluetooth to the phone in her purse.
No screaming tonight.
“Where are you?” Scarlett said, glancing at Ford. He had found her eyes, was smiling.
Clearly, he was enjoying himself too.
“I’m inside the ballroom. I checked in with Sly and the guys, and they’re with Reba and the others in the greenroom across from the Indigo. Mingle, and keep your eyes peeled.”
Ford took her hand again as they reached the top of the escalator, assuming the role he’d taken at her mother’s place.
