“Perfect.” Rox entered the main hall, her head turning slow and deliberate as she swept her gaze across the hall. “That leaves Green Team—check in?”
“Green Team, confirmed,” Simon Michaelson reported from his station outdoors. They couldn’t risk having any men Lightner might recognize from Leviathan, so Simon had volunteered to lead the special ops guys who were patrolling the attached gardens in the immediate vicinity.
“How’s the weather?” Rox asked.
“All clear,” Simon replied.
“Poor Cinderella, you’re missing one hell of a party in here,” Rush teased him.
“Christ, Michaelson’s the ugliest Cinderella anyone ever saw,” Talon chimed in.
“Permission to shoot my teammates, boss?” Simon retorted.
“Permission denied,” Rox replied. “Look sharp, boys,” she said as she caught Sam’s gaze from across the cavernous space. She looked perfect playing the part of dangling bait, wearing a look-at-me fire engine red dress, her gun holster carefully hidden on her inner thigh.
Rox nodded lightly, giving a visual thumbs up, and Sam inclined her head in response. Sam kept her hand looped loosely in the crook of Jack’s arm, leaning into him a little so she wouldn’t have to rely on a cane tonight. She had an earpiece to put in later that would enable her to keep abreast of everything, but while she greeted guests, she relied on Alejandro’s presence beside her to keep her apprised of anything important.
So far, nothing. And while that should have made Rox happy, it only set her a little more on edge, like waiting for the ax to fall.
The Wyatt Foundation gala was a Texas-sized event, with Texas-sized bravado. No expense had been spared. From the Beluga caviar and Krug Champagne served in Baccarat crystal glasses to the Emmy-nominated comedian acting as MC, Hannah had really outdone herself. Glorious and delicately fragrant peony blossoms adorned white linen-covered tables where gold-plated silverware gleamed in the soft white light designed to make anyone look flawless.
Rox and her teams had worked with Sam to plan the security down to a tee. They’d spent the day examining all points of entry, analyzing and discussing vulnerabilities, and setting up plans of action. They had game-planned scenarios until they felt confident enough to pull just about anything off. Even if Lightner didn’t come alone tonight, he’d be badly outnumbered—by Sam’s team, Jack’s additional Leviathan support, and the museum’s own security detail, not to mention the FBI and Houston PD support on the ground.
Rox took a deep breath and exhaled.
There was a faint switch in her ear, then Avi’s deep baritone filled the sound. “You look lovely tonight, neshama.”
“Avi—”
“I just switched channels on the comms,” he assured her. “Only you can hear me.”
“So you’re breaking protocol to flirt with me?”
“No, I’m breaking protocol to tell you everything will be fine. I know you’re worried. I know you want to catch him, but we’re ready.”
“As ready as we can be,” she muttered.
“It’s enough. Now look up and to the right.”
Her eyes tracked the camera discreetly aimed at her from the crown molding in the corner of the gallery.
“This is kind of pervy,” Rox drawled. “You’re not going to ask me to do something slutty, are you? Like flashing a tit? Because that ain’t happening.”
Avi’s answering laugh was warm. “There’s my girl.”
For some inexplicable reason, that little remark zinged right through her.
“Stop flirting and get back to work,” she chided.
“Just remember: I see you, neshama.”
And she felt all the better for it—knowing he had her back.
“Okay, creeper. Switch back the channels, please.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Rox heard a short buzz and flick and knew she was back online with the rest of the team. She began to make a slow, careful circuit around the room, so she could sweep as many faces as Avi could process for the facial recognition program.
Now there was nothing to do but wait…
*
April—Evening
Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Texas
J A C K
“Mind if I step away for a moment?” Samantha asked him, “I’d like to say hello to an old friend.”
“Certainly,” Jack replied with a nod and an easy smile, though he felt anything but. He’d been living in a hyper-tense state of high alert since he’d walked into the museum with her an hour ago, and the very thought of having someone take a shot at him or the love of his life made him want to toss her over his shoulder and take her far, far away from all this.
Jack understood the plan, even supported her logic, but at the present moment, standing out in the open with Samantha as a living bullseye was like getting a first-hand glimpse into the life she was used to leading. She’d become accustomed to moving from one high-wire mission to the next, and after tonight, he’d be the first to acknowledge that it wasn’t for him. If Jack had been addicted to danger and risk-taking before, then this was a hard limit. His relatively banal brushes with precarious situations in no way prepared him for the tension of knowing he and Samantha were deliberately and flagrantly courting a skilled killer, inviting him to react violently to the public display of a united front.
To top that off, Jack felt as though he and Samantha had passed through the membrane last night from lovers to something much more profound. He’d lain awake most of the night after they’d made love, his insomnia tormenting him as he sifted through what it meant for them, wondering if Samantha was really ready for where he wanted to go with this, though a very real part of him wondered if they’d survive tonight to get the chance. When she’d jerked in her sleep, plagued by a nightmare, he knew she was likely just as freaked out as he was, though she’d fallen into dreamlessness shortly afterward. By the time Jack had woken up this morning, she’d been long gone, sequestered in her office and discussing strategy with her team as he blearily searched for coffee. When he’d finally showered, dressed, and joined them, he’d had a chance to see her in action for the first time, at the helm, directing her team like the military leader and strategist she was.
Jack admired her brisk efficiency, the way she and her team worked through the plays, discussing issues and vulnerabilities with thorough precision, planning to the Nth degree. He watched the way she took charge, utterly confident, despite her own worries, dispassionately discussing herself as a target, determining the best ways and means to protect Jack, her family, and tonight’s attendees.
Rationally, Jack understood why Samantha was the best, why her team was worth every penny that people spent to be protected by them, but that didn’t stop the roiling in his gut as they stood together in the center of the gallery like a flashy lure on the end of a line, acting as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Even though Samantha stood right beside him, she was masked under the calm, ice-queen composure she assumed when she was working. Gone was the soft, pliant woman in his arms from last night—the woman who’d asked him to love her, the woman who’d finally acceded to loving him back. They hadn’t had a moment alone together since, and Jack had about a hundred different things he wanted to say to her, though he knew this wasn’t the time or place to say them.
Now, despite his anxiety, years of being in the public eye, as well as hosting and attending events like these, kept his social charisma going like a greased wheel. Nod, chat, fete, smile, shake, thank… it was a fluid dance he knew all the moves to. As he worked the event, Anand Mahto, his guard for the evening, stood nearby, silent and unobtrusive. Anand was a short, slight man with a quiet, calm aura, but Jack had seen the size of the knife the Nepali Ghurka carried. When Samantha had introduced Anand to Jack earlier, she’d explained he’d served as the former personal bodyguard to one of the British Royal Family before she’d managed to lure him away.
“You surround yourself with dangerous men,”
Jack had joked.
Samantha had smirked at him. “Is there another kind?”
After he spent a few distracting minutes gamely arguing with a couple businessmen about whether the Houston Texans had any chance against the Chicago Bears in the fall—no, the answer’s no—Jack excused himself to the men’s room. In truth, he needed a quick breather, and if he was really being honest with himself, he wanted a drink or a pill—fuck, just something to take the edge off. He settled for splashing cool water on his face as Anand stood back a respectful distance.
“Are you unwell?” Anand asked him quietly.
“How do you do it?” Jack asked in reply, looking at the man in the mirror as he rested his hands against the sink. “How do you stay calm when you know what’s coming?”
Anand’s gaze was serene.
“I’m not a soldier,” Jack answered. “I’ve never been led by anyone.”
“Of course you have. You’ve been led by your heart,” Anand replied, pointing to Jack’s chest. “Now what does it tell you?”
Trust Samantha. Trust her like you’ve asked her to trust you.
Jack closed his eyes, took a deep breath and straightened up. “Just a few more hours of this,” he muttered. Anand merely nodded, following him as he passed back through the densely packed gathering, stopping on occasion to chat with acquaintances and some high-rolling donors. Jack eventually wound his way through the clusters of attendees, finding himself in front of one of Wes’s photos. It was the first Jack was seeing of them, though he’d heard Hannah gushing about the work after the DAR luncheon.
As Jack gazed at a monochromatic photograph of a black-haired woman curled over her knees, the delicate indentation of her spine and ribs visible beneath the clever play of muscle and bone, he was taken with the stark beauty of it. When he noticed the tiny birthmark on the woman’s rib cage, he realized he who he was looking at. After all, he’d kissed that birthmark just the night before.
Jack stepped back, eyes widening as he made a slow, startled revolution around the gallery. Each and every profoundly alluring photograph was of Samantha, though her identity was cleverly hidden by the wild waves of her hair or her position or the shadow play of light and dark dimensions. Wes had clearly taken these of her when she was much younger, before she’d gone to war and bore the scars Jack knew now like the back of his own hand. Regardless, he’d recognize the muse anywhere.
“She’s stunning, isn’t she?” Wes remarked, coming to stand beside him, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a whisky tumbler.
Jack could only nod, still taking the powerful visual in. “She still is,” he murmured when he trusted himself to speak.
“The first time I saw Sammy, she walked right in front of my camera. I took her picture without really even realizing it, and then I obsessed over it until I saw her again.” Wes took a sip of his drink, his smile just this side of rueful. “Had it not been for that photo, I thought I might have dreamed her up,” he admitted.
Begrudgingly, Jack had to acknowledge the man was insanely talented. Wes had to have taken these photographs when he was just a college kid, back when he and Sam were together, but even then, his style with the lens and his understanding of lighting, dimension, and form was clear. Jack could also see how Wes must have felt about Samantha, to look at her like this, and how she must have felt about him, to pose so openly, the vulnerable curvature of her neckline in one shot, the soft line of her smooth belly in another. Each piece was like the stanza of a love poem, the white space lending significance to the structure, the line breaks purposeful, so that each angle revealed different things. But altogether, this was adoration through Wes’s eyes. This was how he’d felt when Samantha had been his.
“You loved her,” Jack acknowledged, tearing his eyes away from the images of Samantha to look at Wes. Though he had no right to it, it hurt him to look at the pieces, to get a voyeur’s fleeting glimpse at what they’d shared.
“I still do, Jack,” Wes replied, meeting his eyes, the challenge there in his direct gaze.
“No, I mean—it shows,” Jack clarified, tamping down on the ugly jealousy, that dark self-doubt that lay coiled inside him, looking for something to bite into. Jack reminded himself that Wes was her past, just as these were pictures of her past self.
I have her now, he wanted to tell Wes like some belligerent caveman, though he bit his tongue.
“Are you seriously complimenting me on nudes of your ex-girlfriend?” Wes joked, smirking.
“If you mean artwork of my future wife, then yes, I’m complimenting you,” Jack answered, noticing the barb about the wife bit hit its mark as Wes shot him a dark look.
“Then I suppose I should thank you for the compliment.” Wes smirked a little. “Though I still hate you and we’re still enemies, asshole.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you,” Jack replied as they both turned back toward the photos. “Why are you letting them go?” he asked curiously, surprised that Wes was willing to part with the pieces. If he’d been in the same position, he’d have jealously guarded anything that had to do with her. Period.
“Don’t need them anymore,” Wes responded. “Used to pull each of these out to torture myself back when I thought I’d never see her again. No sense in holding onto the memories when I have the chance to make new ones with her now.” His unusual golden eyes tracked Samantha across the gallery.
The callous, Neanderthal brute in Jack thought about clubbing Wes in the head with the unadorned truth. It would feel distractingly good to crush Wes with the truth that Samantha had chosen him—that it had been his arms she’d writhed in last night, but he didn’t… but only by a narrow margin. First, because he’d never been the type to kiss and tell, and second, because he knew Samantha wouldn’t want him to do it. Her history with Wes was her own, and she’d never want her private life and personal feelings discussed and argued over cocktails at a social function. Hell, Anand would have to protect him from a fate worse than Lightner if it came to that.
“So you’re her date tonight,” Wes remarked.
“I am.” Jack turned to meet his eye.
“Then what are you doing standing here talking to me, when she’s over there, talking to him?”
Jack followed the direction of Wes’s pointed look, seeing Samantha smiling at a good-looking guy standing far too close for his liking.
“Who is that guy?”
Wes knocked back the rest of his whisky. “Another asshole. Not too different from you actually. He’s been after Sammy since we were together at A&M.”
Jack watched with narrowed eyes as the man leaned too close, whispering something in her ear, his hand at her elbow. Alejo stood to the right and behind her, his gaze sweeping the perimeter. Whatever the guy said, he made her laugh—the first genuine look of pleasure she’d had on her face all evening, and Jack felt a bolt of possessive envy rear its ugly head.
Jack glanced at Anand. “Who’s talking to Samantha?”
Anand touched his earpiece, asking the question in low tones. Jack watched across the gallery as Alejandro touched his earpiece, answering.
“Travis Brandt,” Anand told him. “Non-threat.”
Jack scowled. “We’ll see about that.”
Wes glanced from Jack to Anand to Travis, then back again, amused. “That’s a nice trick. Why do you have a bodyguard?”
A part of him was surprised Wes didn’t know what was going on here tonight, but then, why would he? Samantha hadn’t exactly broadcasted that she was hoping to draw out a known terrorist with access to a nuclear warhead.
“Standard operating procedure,” he replied nonchalantly instead. “Samantha thought I might need some protection from unwanted attention from the more aggressive divorcees at the party tonight.”
Wes smiled at that, though it was obvious he wasn’t buying it. “Well, if anyone needs protection—it’s her from him,” he said, glancing back at Travis. “That sonofabitch is slick.”
That’s j
ust what Jack needed. More goddamn competition. “I haven’t even met him yet, and I already can’t stand him,” he muttered.
“Get in line,” Wes drawled, placing his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “Travis was her rebound guy.”
Jack stepped forward, glad for the distraction of protecting his turf. “Not anymore he’s not,” he said, getting back in the game.
Chapter 28
April—Evening
Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Texas
S A M A N T H A
She watched out of the corner of her eye as Jack sauntered toward her with the swagger of a gunslinger from a John Wayne western. Gone was the urbane, distant man who’d been standing beside her most of the evening. Heedless of her conversation with Travis Brandt, Jack slid an arm around her waist, pulling her into his side before dropping a hot, open kiss on her neck. The gesture was so daringly possessive and sexy, she’d felt a blush rise to her cheeks as Travis watched with a sort of bemused expression.
Though Jack was perfectly affable when she’d introduced them, she watched him take one look at Travis and turn glacial. Sensing the barely concealed hostility, Travis excused himself from the conversation, promising to call her soon to catch up.
“If that man calls you, I’ll break his hands,” Jack said as he watched Travis mingle into the crowd.
“He’s an old friend.”
“Tesoro, I think I should warn you I’m going to automatically dislike anyone you’ve been in a relationship with—no matter how brief.”
She studied him a moment, looking at him closely for the first time since they’d arrived. “You were wound tighter than a bow before Travis came to talk to me. Are you okay?”
“I’m at an event with two of your exes—both of whom are still in love with you, by the way,” Jack pointed out gruffly. “We’re trapped in a building surrounded by tactical teams carrying enough artillery to make the Alamo look like a Sunday school lesson, and we’re waiting for a madman who may or may not try to assassinate us by detonating a nuclear warhead. I could really use something to take the fucking edge off, tesoro. Stressed out doesn’t begin to cover it,” he admitted in low tones.
Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three Page 46