Page 124 of Tate
Boyfriend.
She tried not to remember the way his hands tangled in her hair when he’d kissed her.
White-gloved bouncers stood at the door, and Ford handed them a couple invitations.
The place rivaled any of the Vegas glamour she remembered from her childhood—gold carpet, brocade wallpaper. White table linens at fifty or more round tables were set with gold plates and long-stemmed glasses, each centered with a spray of red, white, and blue roses. And at the end of the room, a row of American flags crossed a long platform. Covered wings blocked the back doors and served as entrances to the platform.
Already, conversation filled the room, bedecked guests at high-top cocktail tables. She shot a look around the room and spied Tate. He wore an unobtrusive black suit jacket, a matching vest and pants, and a blue shirt, accented with a dark blue tie.
Yes, the Marshall men knew how to clean up, in and out of flannel.
He nodded to them, then grabbed a flute of champagne from one of the waiters and started searching the room.
It made sense, maybe, this idea of having a man undercover. Plunkett might veer around regular security, but he wouldn’t know Tate and especially Ford and Scarlett were watching. They all looked like upscale millennials paying attention to politics.
Ford handed her a flute of champagne, and Scarlett held it but didn’t drink.
Rules. She had them for a reason.
And especially on nights like this that could cajole her into believing she might be someone else.What do you want, Red?
Ford’s question came back to her as they wandered the room. As more than a few sultry blondes cast an appreciative eye on her “date.”
She couldn’t deny a weirdly possessive pride.
They conversed with a couple from San Francisco. A man from Arizona, and a cowboy from Wyoming with whom Ford talked big cattle.
In this world, she forgot that he had cowboy in his blood.
By the time dinner was served—prime rib and asparagus—she had tried to put her eyes on every attendee, even excusing herself after dinner to go to the restroom and scan the crowd.
“Sorry, Tate,” she said, standing at the edge of the room. “I don’t have anything.”
“Me either.” Tate bore the tiniest edge of frustration in his tone.
She was winding around the tables, dodging servers clearing plates, when a man came up to the mic and tapped it on. Tall, handsome, with dark brown hair and a warm smile.
“Hey, everyone. Welcome to tonight’s private event. I hope you enjoyed dinner. We have a lot going on tonight, but I wantedto kick off this evening’s fun by inviting our host and hostess, Senators Isaac White and Reba Jackson, to the stage.”
He backed away, clapping, and the crowd rose to the entrance of the two candidates. Which seemed a little weird since, weren’t they running against each other?
Isaac welcomed everyone first. A handsome man—dark hair, graying at the sides, and a body of a thirty-year-old. She’d seen him on television a few times. Military hero, a former SEAL, rancher, and political conservative. According to rumors, he ran tough mudders and still broke his own horses.
No wonder Ford liked him.
Senator White offered a few words of welcome, then tossed it off to Senator Jackson. A beautiful woman with her blondish red hair, she wore it up, tidy but casual, and a high-necked black, sequined dress that fell all the way to the floor and outlined her model-curved body.
She gripped the podium in both hands. “Hello, California! Are you ready for victory?”
A searing high-pitched whine split the room. She clamped her hand over the mic, cutting off the noise. The sound died.
A bus boy came in and retrieved their plates as a technician slipped onstage, carrying another mic, and replaced it.
“Sorry about that,” Senator Jackson said as she spoke into the new mic. She indicated the lavalier mic pinned to the collar of her dress. “I guess Ireallywant to be heard.”
The crowd laughed. “We have a fantastic evening planned for you…with some excellent speakers, including my daughter…”
The crowd offered more applause.
