After their second tour, they stopped keeping track of how many times they had had each other’s backs. “Mrs. Benson is the one you’re trusting,” quipped Tatum.
“Mrs. Benson?”
“My seventh-grade Spanish teacher and ballroom dance instructor.” He was still embarrassed about dancing with Alexis Taylor all semester. She was six inches taller than him, and that didn’t leave a lot of appropriate places for his eyes to focus while they danced.
“Man! Wyoming has the best public school system ever.”
“You’d better believe it.” Tatum pulled into the line of cars outside the fancy hotel. The welcome ball for the Zimradian representative was not the hottest ticket in town, but there were plenty of politicians who were happy to make an appearance. Word on the street was that the hotel had opened the event to reporters—social … political … whatever. If you’d print an article about the night, you could get in.
A man yelled in the background of their conversation, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. “Gotta go,” said Nelson. “Duty calls.”
Something was going down a half a world away and there was nothing Tatum could do about it from a hotel ballroom. His social skills had better pay off, or he’d let his partner down.
Tatum wanted to tell Nelson to be safe, to watch his back, and to keep one in the chamber. Instead he said, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Yep. I’m out.”
“Out,” Tatum responded out of habit. He adjusted his tie, hating the way the suit jacket restricted his movements.
Now that he was off the phone with Nelson, his nerves really started up. He was a man of action, not a suave player who could schmooze a queen into giving his company a chance. Nelson was the one who was good at this stuff. But, because Tatum wasn’t cleared for the field yet, Nelson had taken his spot on the front lines and Tatum was forced into a situation that made him want to head for the hills.
He pulled ahead, the parking attendant opening his door. “Welcome to the Fairmont, sir.”
Tatum’s grip tightened on the wheel.
“Sir?”
Holding in his depreciating laugh, Tatum forced his legs to move. He hadn’t hesitated this much when there was live ammunition flying his direction. With three quick breaths and one slow one, he managed to exit the vehicle and head towards the front doors. The night air had a chill and he buttoned his long dress coat over his tux. He managed to walk into the lobby with the air of a man who knew where he was going.
The ballroom doors were thrown open, something he would have protested had he been in charge of the queen’s security. Open doors meant anyone could walk in uninvited. Anyone like him. He let his grin out. Not only would he be able to get into the ball, he’d have a concrete example of how his company could improve the current security situation.
There was one guard at the door—a bear of a man with hands the size of bowling balls. A doe-eyed coat check girl stood near but not next to him. Her glossy black hair was pulled up at the sides, leaving the rest dancing down her back in soft waves. She had dark skin and full lips. Her basic black gown fit nicely, and Tatum couldn’t help but admire the view. He didn’t see many women of her caliber in his line of work. She had a matchless quality about her—a combination of innocence and adventure that had his pulse speeding through his wrist on a high-speed chase.
Slipping off his coat, he held it out to the woman. Their eyes met and his temperature rose as if he were caught in the crosshairs of a gun. There was danger in those eyes because of what they could do to him. He was a man of control, a man who planned, a man who knew the escape route before ever entering a building. Her deep, lovely eyes had him thinking of a whole new type of strategy.
From inside the ballroom came the sounds of chatter, glasses tinkling together, low conversation, and a string quartet playing “Are You Lonesome Tonight.” Tatum was unexpectedly lonely for this woman. He wanted to take her into his arms and see if Mrs. Benson’s dance lessons had stuck; to whisper sweet nothings, his lips on her tempting neck.
She slowly wrapped her delicate fingers around the fabric of the coat. “You are giving this to me?” The words cascaded with an accent sweetened by an island melody. Her perfume, a coconut and flower concoction, tugged him closer.
With a shake of his self-discipline, he refocused on the mission. He wasn’t here to meet the coat check girl—he was here to meet a queen. “To hang up, yes.” He dropped his gaze, tugging his white shirt sleeves down inside his jacket.
Her mouth dropped open for a moment, and then she brightened. “Of course, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?” Her round cheeks lifted with an intriguing smile as her eyes dropped to his tie.
“No thanks.”
“Are you sure?” One dark eyebrow rose as she looped his jacket over her arm and let it hang there.
“Yes?” The way she looked at him made him wonder if meeting a queen could be any more intimidating.
Stepping forward, she reached towards his neck. He snatched her wrist, holding just tight enough that she couldn’t pull away, nor could she advance on him. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
Her eyes widened as she stared at their hands. The big guy by the door took a step their way, but she shook her head at him and he stepped back, scowling.
“I was going to fix your tie.” Her gaze went from his hand to his tie and then to his eyes. “You have a four-in-hand knot. The guests tonight have adopted the Pratt knot in honor of the king of Zimrada, who wears his no other way.” She lightly tugged on
