She turned back just in time to watch Glo look at the audience, grin, and say, “Aw. Now if that isn’t a country love song, I’m not sure what is.” She winked, then pulled the man up by his collar and gave him a quick kiss. Turned again to the crowd. “I think that answer is going to have to be in private.”
The man waggled his eyebrows but pocketed the ring.
Senator Jackson stepped back up to the mic, clapping, but Glo put her hand around her mother and leaned in, taking her spot. “How about if we get this party started with some real music while bussers clear our tables.”
The senator appeared a little startled but stepped back in a moment, clapping.
“Where’s Tate?” Ford asked, turning to face Scarlett.
She didn’t have to answer. Tate’s heavy breathing sparked through the earpiece.
“It’s the sound guy! I’m in the stairwell. He’s getting away!”
He’d had a choice—storm the stage or track down Plunkett.
Tate’s brain had stopped for a full second when the man came onstage because he’d glimpsed, from his vantage point, Glo standing in the wings, and…
She was so beautiful it hurt. Just clawed at his chest, like his heart might be ripping from its moorings. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and nearly ignored the sound guy.
Nearly. Might have missed him altogether had the man not turned and walked back offstage just as Glo stepped forward.
He wore a gray collared shirt with the logo of the sound company on the front, neatly buttoned all the way up. He must have tried to hide the tat with makeup, but the uniform had smudged enough off for Tate to spot bright orange lipping above the neckline.
Please let him be right.
He started to make his way to the door as Sloan stepped up to the mic. You know how it is. When you meet the right one, the one you’ve been waiting for your entire life?
Yeah, he knew.
Because he’d never loved anyone like he loved Glo. Needed anyone like he needed Glo. Yeah, her smile, her laughter, but also the way she believed in the good, the hero in him.
And right then, he’d wanted to rush the stage. Scoop up Glo and make off with her like he might be a crazed fan.
True fact.
But that would be impulsive and fanatical, and he’d not only get tackled by Rags, doing his job, but Plunkett would get clean away.
His words to Glo in Montana found him. I promise you right now—I’m not going to let anything happen to you…or me.
He was keeping at least one of those promises.
He was pushing out the door when Sloan said, In fact, what do you say I ask her right now?
No—what? The blood drained right out of him as he’d glanced at Glo.
She was smiling.
And for a long, painful second, Tate watched his hopes crash and burn onstage. I love you, and I know you love me. I think the only way to kick off this victorious campaign is one way…
He couldn’t watch this, the betrayal like a knife through his chest. Wow. Just, really, wow. How had he gotten sucked so far in that he hadn’t seen that coming?
Maybe he had. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to.
Just like Jammas, he’d wanted to believe the best.
Tate pushed out the door and into the hallway.
He ran around to the main hallway and spied a bouncer near one of the exits. “Did you see a sound guy come out of here?”
The man frowned and shook his head, and it occurred to Tate how often people never noticed the people behind the scenes.
He spied the door closing to the stairwell down the hall. He turned and sprinted to follow, slamming open the door.
Plunkett was two flights down, taking the stairs down two at a time.
“Where’s Tate?” Ford said in his ear as Tate scrambled after Plunkett.
“It’s the sound guy! I’m in the stairwell. He’s getting away!” He didn’t want to ask what Glo’s answer was. “Scarlett, grab security and tell them to lock down all the exits.”
“Do we have a bomb threat?” Scarlett’s voice was hushed, but he heard music and applause behind her words.
Perfect. It was probably a yes.
“I don’t know yet.” He hit the second landing, took the rest of the stairs down in four big steps.
The sun glared off the cement deck of the patio, and he blinked against it, adjusting his eyes as he sprinted after Plunkett, running hard for the end of the building.
“Hey!” Tate wanted to startle him, jerk him out of his escape path, maybe alert local security.
It worked. The man glanced back and leaped toward another door, fleeing back inside the building.
Tate reached it—another stairwell.
“He’s coming back up the stairs. Ford, you’d better be there.”
“On my way.”
The man’s steps pounded above him as Tate gripped the rail and launched himself, two steps at a time, up the cement steps.
A shout echoed against the walls as a door slammed open. Grunts, a curse, shouts.
Tate came up the stairs and nearly bought it when an axe sailed his direction. It bounced off the wall and skidded down the stairs. Plunkett must have pulled it off the wall.
Tate stopped, breathing hard, heard more pounding as Plunkett thundered up another flight.
He wanted to curse when he found the stairwell handle destroyed. Ford was on the other side, banging his fist on the door.
“Get to the roof!”
He scrambled up behind Plunkett, ready to duck, but the man had a two-flight gain on him.
The other man’s steps had died by the time Tate reached the third floor, and he took a guess and launched out into the fourth.
The floor was empty, a yawning conference space that led out to a balcony overlooking the pool area.
He spied a man standing at the edge of the terrace, against the white cement railing, wearing a gray shirt, his body paint swiped off. Empty tables and chairs, conversation groupings of wicker, stood between them.
“Plunkett!”
The man turned, sweaty and desperate.
Yeah, Tate remembered him now. And not just by his picture, but three months ago, in the bar in San Antonio where he’d bellied up next to Kelsey, Glo’s bandmate. Stalking the Belles even then.
Remembered the tattoo, sure, but also the way he’d looked at Kelsey, eying her up, cocky, as if he knew something.
He wore the same look now, and it raised the fine hairs on the back of Tate’s neck. “What are you doing here?”
Plunkett lifted a shoulder, glanced over his own, then back to Tate. “Can’t you read?” He pointed to the emblem on his pocket. Event Sound and Lighting, with a little lightning bolt on the logo.
Tate shook his head. “Then why the sprint?”
Plunkett shrugged. “I know you secret service types. Tough guys, trying to show off. But I’m not running now.”
He was leaning against the half wall of the terrace, with a four-story drop behind him. Although with the high ceilings of the hotel, it felt more like eight.
And that felt…odd. Why run up here? Maybe they weren’t in any bomb danger.
Although, he had been leaving. Tate walked out onto the terrace. “Listen. This doesn’t have to end with anyone getting hurt. Just tell me what’s going on, and we all walk away. You got to terrorize the senator a little, but in the end, no one dies, right?”
“Everyone will die if Jackson is elected.” He looked away. “She’s behind it all.”
Tate kept his voice cool. “Behind what?”
Plunkett met his eyes then. “You know they fight until they die, right? They don’t surrender. Ever.”
He frowned. “Who?”
“The Russians.”
“We’re not in a war with Russia!”
“We will be if Jackson wins.”
And then he got it. “It’s because Jackson is on the National Security Council?”
“No. It’s because she only wants
power. And she’ll do anything to get it—including start a war with Russia. Nothing puts a president in power more than a war.”
Right. The man had survived a war—and come home angry. Even delusional. Tate held up his hands. “Listen, pal, I’m sure she’ll be glad to listen to your side of things. Just…how about you tell me what you’re doing here.”
Plunkett shook his head. “It’s too late, man. The lies have already started.”
Tate frowned just as Plunkett turned, grabbing the edge and hoisting himself up—
“No!” Tate rushed him, grabbed him, and that’s when he realized it might have been a trick. Plunkett rounded on him.
Tate just barely deflected his punch.
Plunkett got a knee into his gut, but Tate grabbed him around the neck and spun him around.
Tate took him down, landing hard against a table. A couple chairs skidded away.
Plunkett’s breath whooshed out of him, and Tate managed to get a shot in.
The man got a leg under him and tossed him, but Tate landed on his feet.
His ribs burned, old wounds surfacing, but he ducked as Plunkett’s fist arrowed toward him.
And that was just it. Tate wrapped his arms around the man’s girth and pedaled him back against the wall. He sent a couple jabs into his gut, then punched his hand into his jaw. “Stop. It’s over.”
Below, a few people spotted them, and screams lifted.
“It’s just started,” Plunkett snarled, burying his fist into Tate’s side, but Tate grabbed his hand, trapping it to the wall.
“You think I’m the only one?” Plunkett spit out.
“We know about your brother. He’s next, big man.”
Plunkett brought his knee up. Tate dodged it, but the movement unbalanced him.
Plunkett roared to the advantage, rolled, and in a second had Tate pressed against the wall, pushing him over.
Tate’s feet lifted off the ground.
No way, pal. Because he’d made promises to Glo.
He sent his palm into Plunkett’s jaw, and the man’s head jerked back. Then Tate jerked his knee into Plunkett’s abdomen and dropped.
Plunkett rebounded. Lunged, and his own momentum sent him over the edge.
But not before he hooked Tate around the shoulder.
Tate followed Plunkett over the edge.
Ford made it to the roof just in time to see Tate go over.
“Tate!”
He plowed over a chair, ran across an outdoor sofa, and reached the edge of the terrace.
Tate dangled by one arm.
Ford wanted to weep.
He leaned over the edge and grabbed Tate’s belt. Hauled him up and over the edge. Instead, “You okay?”
Tate dropped in a heap, breathing hard, and Ford slid down beside him. “Now I am.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure if he wanted to jump or not, but—” Tate lifted a hand as if to say, Survey the handiwork. He leaned his head back against the edge. “I can’t look. Is he—?”
“He missed the pool and landed on the concrete. There’s some screaming going on.”
Tate ran his hand—shaking, Ford noticed—across his head and pushed to his feet.
“Sorry, bro. I should have been here sooner. They locked all the stairwell doors when Scarlett alerted security to the threat. I had to get them to open one. Did he say anything? Is there a threat?”
Tate headed toward the door. “I don’t know. Said something crazy about Jackson’s involvement in Russia, but I’m guessing it’s part of their conspiracy agenda—”
“And the bomb?” Ford ran after him.
“He said it was too late. The lies already starting—”
“The microphone. He changed out the mic!”
Tate wore horror in his eyes.
Ford directed him toward the other stairwell.
Music spooled out from the ballroom, something country. Scarlett spotted them from where she stood outside the doors, her heels off, and ran over. “Did you get him?”
“Tate did. Sorta.” Ford liked how she was grabbing his jacket, like she might be worried for him. “He’s dead.”
Tate was charging toward the door. Ford grabbed his arm. “Stop. Listen. We need to evacuate everyone without a panic. And we don’t even know that there is anything wrong with the mic—”
“What’s with the mic?” Scarlett said.
Tate rounded on her. “What did she say?” He looked at Ford. “Did Sloan propose?”
Scarlett nodded.
“Did she say yes?”
Ford blinked at him, then understanding dawned. “She said…she didn’t say anything.”
“No yes?”
“And no, well, no.”
“No yes is a no,” Tate said and turned back to the door. Took a breath.
“She got Sloan offstage, then returned to the mic and said something about how this country needs to have a little faith. To take a risk on a team of people who were ready to put their pasts behind them. Then she announced that her mother was going to be Isaac White’s VP.”
But Tate didn’t seem to be listening. He pressed his hand on the door.
Ford frowned at Scarlett, who shrugged. “The senator said a few words, and then Glo got back up and she said she was going to sing a song.”
“It’s our song,” Tate said quietly, his voice a little broken. “She hasn’t sung it since Vegas.”
She was singing a cappella.
* * *
She…don’t wanna cry,
But she ain’t gonna fall for another guy.
It’s too hard to be apart
Not after she’s waited for…one true heart…one true heart…
* * *
He turned to Ford and pressed his hand on his shoulder, his eyes shining. “One true heart.”
Ford had nothing, watching his brother unravel. Then Tate opened the door, stepped inside, and the rest of the song wound out into the hallway.
* * *
He said I’m leaving, baby don’t cry.
No, Stay with me, please don’t die.
* * *
The door closed behind his brother.
* * *
Always, forever, together, with me
She lay in his grass, clutching eternity.
* * *
“It’s sort of romantic,” Scarlett said. She offered a tiny smile.
Ford wanted to reach up and trace his finger down the groove in her face, run it over her lips.
Wanted to curl his hand around her neck and pull her to himself.
Always, forever, together, with me.
He didn’t know what the words meant, but he liked them.
After this was over, they were going to have a serious talk about complications and happy endings. “We need to evacuate the ballroom. And if there’s a bomb, we need EOD here.”
“I’ll call Commander Hawkins.”
He couldn’t stop himself from squeezing her hand before he stepped into the room behind Tate.
Who was standing next to Sly, Tate’s old boss. Ford had met the big man yesterday, found him to be the kind of guy Ford could take orders from.
Sly fielded Tate’s words and nodded.
And now all eyes turned to Tate as suddenly Glo—onstage—smiled, her gaze on her former bodyguard.
* * *
She…don’t wanna try,
It’s too hard to fall for another guy.
But you don’t know if you don’t start
So wait…for one true heart…one true heart…
* * *
Tate had managed to work his way toward the front and stood at the side of the stage as Glo’s last tones died.
Wow, the woman had a voice. But more, she had heart. The kind that Tate deserved—brave, strong, and even a little feisty. Ford remembered how she’d deflected the other man’s proposal with both grace and wit.
Ford caught up to Tate as he stepped onto the stage.
T
he look on Glo’s face suggested she might kiss his brother in front of the entire audience.
Instead, Tate covered the microphone with his hand, leaned down, and spoke into her ear.
She drew in a breath and looked past him to Ford.
“Right now?”
Tate nodded, and she turned to the crowd, took a breath. Smiled.
Tate removed his hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen. We’ll now adjourn to the courtyard outside where dessert is being served,” Glo said, clearly wanting to keep panic from ensuing.
Ford raised an eyebrow and glanced offstage, behind him to where Sly had cornered Senator Jackson. Senator White had vanished, but he wasn’t Ford’s responsibility.
Getting everyone else out alive—yeah, that was on him. And Scarlett.
The guests began to leave.
“You there, Red?” Ford said into his mic.
“I called Nez and the team. They’re calling in the EOD guys. Nez is on his way.”
“Stay out in the lobby until we know what we’re dealing with.”
Silence, and he knew she wasn’t happy with his words. But he needed her safe. And yes, in his ear, helping him sort this out.
Tate had reached for the mic, but Glo was already inspecting it. She turned it over and flicked the Off switch.
The sound died, but the light remained on.
“That’s weird.” She started unscrewing it.
“Glo—” Tate said.
She edged him away with her shoulder. “I know how mics work. This one is too lightweight to have a bomb in it—”
“What do you know about bombs?” Tate reached over her shoulder and pulled it away from her.
“Hey!”
He handed the mic to Ford, who examined it while Tate rounded on Glo. “You need to leave too.”
“I’m not leaving.”
Sloan came onto the stage then, and Ford stepped back, watching out of his periphery in case this turned ugly.
“Glo, you’re leaving with the rest of us.” Sloan reached out and took her arm.
Ford had the bottom open and examined the contents. “She’s right. There’s no explosive in here.”
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