Page 115 of Missile Strike

Her grip slipped on the lipstick tube at the blatant appreciation in his voice. She set it down and turned to face him. “I’m ready.”

The words were meant as reassurance. As much for him as they were for her. Whatever the night brought, she’d done her part to make her father’s fundraiser a success. By tomorrow, the campaign would no longer dictate her schedule.

Maybe it was time to stop playing it safe and start reaching for what she wanted.

Like the man standing in front of her.

If they could find a way to make this work after tonight was over.

He angled his body just enough to let her pass.

She leaned in slightly, catching his scent.

Citrus, sea breeze, and driftwood.

“You smell good.”

“So do you.” His voice took on that low, rumbly quality that sent a shiver arrowing to her core. “Sweet tea and jasmine.” He gave a lazy grin. “You’ve become a true Southern girl.”

The perfume she’d used tonight matched the body wash she normally contented herself with.

He’d noticed.

Absurdly pleased, she sent him a sultry smile.

His body stilled. “If we had time…” He let the words trail off, but it was enough to make her knees soften beneath her.

After the gala.

After she knew everything had gone off without a hitch.

Then he could finish that thought.

Outside, an earlier storm had blown through, lowering the temperature several degrees but increasing the humidity. Danny had gotten his beloved Consuela back from the repair shop early in the day. She slid into the Mustang and waited for him to crank on the A/C before her hair frizzed and makeup slid off her face.

They drove in silence. Each mile closer to the venue added another layer of tension to the air in the car.

“Caleb and Tavari are already at The Waverly.” Danny checked on her briefly before returning his attention to the road. “Remember, stay inside the security perimeter.”

His tone was casual.

The warning wasn’t.

Her fingers tightened around the black clutch in her lap. “I’ll be in the ballroom making sure everything’s set up, then at the reception area greeting guests with my parents.”

She rested her other hand on his upper thigh to ground herself, the smooth weight of his black trousers gliding beneath her fingers. And beneath them, solid muscle. Strength.

After tonight, her part in her father’s career was over. The spotlight would follow him from the halls of Congress to his campaign appearances, leaving her to return to her normal life.

Olivia Flores’s poison pen would find another target.

And Omar Hassan? He was a victim of his father’s actions, too. He’d barely gotten his father back from prison before the man died. A part of her could almost feel sorry for the son. Maybe Omar’s decision to approach her had been an impulsive one, driven by grief. Until Dìleas located him, Danny would stay in Charlotte.

A traitorous part of her hoped he’d never be found.

All thoughts of Hassan fled when Danny turned the corner and The Waverly Grand Hotel’s main entrance came into view. The hotel’s polished stone exterior and expansive glass entrance projected wealth and power—a sharp contrast to the crowd gathering just beyond the interlocking metal crowd-control barricades.

Signs bobbed, chants filled the air. A twenty-something man, dressed head-to-toe in black, gripped a megaphone. His voice—louder, sharper—rose above the chorus. “No justice. No peace. No wars.”