And then, no. He’d dropped his voice and said, “They already think we’re together. We get married, people start realizing if they mess with you, they mess with me.”
Oh.
And while that had sat inside her, he’d given her a crazy, too-charming smile. “It makes tactical sense,” he’d added, and she’d almost been able to see the logic working behind his eyes. Tactical. Professional. Not romantic at all. “We’re already traveling together. If we tell Bonnie we’re newlyweds, we can share a room without questions, stay close without the tour-group gossip.”
There was gossip?
Then he’d leaned close. “And no more sleepless nights in an adjoining room, wondering if you’re okay.”
That’s when she’d raised a brow and said, “Um, just to be clear?—”
“I know. The Wall of Fiji.” He’d winked.
And that’s when she’d nodded. “Yes, Dakota, I’ll marry you.”
It hadn’t helped that the memory of dancing with him had still swirled inside her.
Dance with me.
Not a question. Not quite a command. Something in between that had made her pulse stutter.
That’s when she should have said no, probably. Instead, she’d taken his hand.
And for three and a half minutes, the world had narrowed to the press of his palm on her waist, the warmth of his shoulder under her cheek, the steady beat of his heart against hers. The guitarist had played a ballad, and Dakota had held her like she was someone precious. Worth protecting.
And, oh, she was in big, big trouble.
She could still smell the scent of soap on him, cedar and citrus. Could still feel the way his thumb had traced circles on her hip, probably unconsciously, definitely devastating. Could still hear his voice, low and rough—You scared me today—against her hair, like her well-being mattered more than the music or the mission or anything else in the world.
Then her phone had rung with London on the other end, and suddenly . . .
Well, Lynx was back, wasn’t she?
So when Dakota had pulled her into the elevator and popped the question, she might not have been completely on her game.
And here they were, “playing married.” He’d even purchased a ring for her in the hotel gift shop, a pink pearl in gold, and given it to her with a smile.
As if it were real.
Now they stood in the hotel lobby with the other tour-group members, bags packed, waiting for the shuttle to the airport. Morning light filtered through the glass entrance across the lobby.
And of course, all she could think about was London’s call, the intel that made everything worse.
Nimue picked up communication between the Orphans and a contract killer known as Spectre.
The Orphans. A deep-web, black-ops organization that acted as a broker between buyer and contractor. And she’d heard the name Spectre before. Professional. Expensive. A ghost who left no witnesses.
“Spectre goes by multiple aliases—Sasha Dragunov, Reese Calloway, Quinn O’Shea,” London had continued. “Could be male or female. The aliases are all gender-neutral. We believe Spectre may have joined your tour group—it would be an easy way to enter Australia without the usual visa scrutiny.”
And that’s when she’d gone cold. On the tour group?
“Look for someone with a gender-neutral name.”
Dakota.
The name had hit her like a punch to the chest.
Dakota was gender-neutral. Dakota had Opera House blueprints in his bag.
