Page 43 of Tate (The Montana Marshalls #2)
P lease don’t let her be the weak link here.
“You look amazing, by the way,” Ford said as he held out his hand, completing their operational disguise. Scarlett took it, and he wove his fingers between hers, like they might be an actual couple.
Scarlett still wasn’t sure how she’d gone from her runners and a T-shirt to being mic’d up and wearing a glamorous dress that could have been worn by a movie star during some red-carpet event.
When Ford had brought it over, along with his brother and their crazy idea, she’d been stretching out after her mile swim along the coast.
Feeling pretty invincible.
She was going to nail the PRT. Not just the swimming, pull-ups, and push-ups, but the buddy tow too.
All because of Ford. Because he’d flipped a switch and decided to play on her team.
Not only had he helped her get her car running, but he’d shown up every morning for the past week for buddy tow training, instructing her on technique, giving her tips, and cheering her on until today she swam all two hundred yards towing him, his face above water the entire time.
She could even take him in the freestyle swim—his combat crawl was too bulky for him to keep up with her.
Which meant when he’d asked her for help catching, uh, a terrorist, 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 headed into 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.
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 wanted to 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 I really want 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.
“Would you like to meet her?”
Scarlett reached her seat and sat down as Senator Jackson turned and gestured offstage.
Glo Jackson owned the room. To be able to sashay onto a stage with that much poise, that much confidence…
“You okay there, bro?” Ford said, and she looked around to spot Tate.
Poor man was standing to the side, near the doors, his eyes glued to the stage, nearly white. Of course he knew she’d be here—that wasn’t a surprise.