Page 13 of Ready For His Rule

“Loose threads are more likely,” John finished for him. Yeah, even at a high-profile event like this. Even with a hundred pairs of eyes on the building’s exterior and a matching number on the inside. As circumstances went, the scenario wasn’t awful—and on a normal day, they might even be able to discuss a slight variation in plans—but this wasn’t a normal day. Paranoia had to be everyone’s middle name.

Maybe it was time for Tracy Rhodes to be apprised of that too. John strongly weighed the risk of coming clean with her about the anonymous phone call, especially as she glowered at the speakers, standing proxy for Sol, as if she longed to punch the damn things in. “Sol. Dammit. Are you kidding me?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Rhodes.” To the guy’s credit, he sounded like he really was. “I wish I were. You know that. I wouldn’t cut into your daily time with Luke if it wasn’t important. If you want to walk onto that stage tonight with confidence—”

“All right,” she snapped. “Fine. I get it, I get it.”

Securing the comm line back into his headpiece, John sent a quick wrap-up to Wrightman. “Confirming itinerary change. Tigress on return.”

Good thing he’d logged eleven years of disguising frustration. Intrinsically, he felt where the guy was coming from—Sol cared about his boss beyond simple security, invaluable for a political staffer at any level—but concern about what she did publicly had to start with the person she was privately. The woman needed a break, no matter how small. He observed it in the creases of exhaustion at the corners of her lips, and the heavy dip of her shoulders. Tension vibrated through every significant line of her posture. But most importantly, it drenched her gaze in raw, unguarded pain—emotion so stark, he doubted few had ever seen it.

It sliced into him, cold as a steel blade. Humbling as a lead bullet.

Making him react with equally honest instinct.

He reached out. Gathered her hand inside his now. Once more, marveled at how small she was. Even struggled with the recognition, which was bizarre. This wasn’t new. Compared to him, most women were small. He’d spent most of his youth on surfboards, either Maki or Nani balanced on his shoulders, followed by competing on the wrestling teams in high school and college. After that, boot camp. Eleven years later, he was verifiably huge. None of it explained why Tracy Rhodes felt extraordinarily tiny—or why he was suddenly consumed by the need to shelter her with more than a hand. Then maddened by the recognition that he couldn’t. Not in the way it mattered most right now. By giving her back even a fraction of that private hour with Luke.

No.

Hold the fucking phone.

He was Special Ops, dammit. Maybe not wearing MultiCams and slogging the swamp anymore, but he could still make the impossible happen. Most importantly, he wanted to make it happen. For her.

Franzen pushed forward. Smacked a determined hand against the right side of the driver’s seat. “Hey, man. Change of plans again.”

The guy tossed a smirk over his shoulder. “That so?”

“Yeah. That’s freakin’ so.” Before his spine hit the leather cushion again, he’d opened the line back to Sol. “Wrightman, this is Dragon again. Come in.”

A measured pause, in which Franz swore he could feel the man’s agitation from across the miles. Get ready, sugar pie. Here’s where you earn your paycheck.

“Wrightman here. Go ahead.”

“Minor change to route. We’re proceeding to the hotel for a brief stop.”

Another pause, undoubtedly filled with any number of cuss word combinations from the man at the other end. Franz was almost sorry to miss it. Sol struck him as an impressive cusser.

With a blast of static, the line reopened. “Negative,” Sol barked. “That is a large negative on the request.”

“Isn’t a request.” His ass would likely be torched and booted back to Seattle within the hour, but the sedition was worth it. After a hit of the gorgeous, grateful tears in Tracy Rhodes’ eyes, he was sure. Yeah. Worth it. “It’s a necessity.”

“Clarify. Now.” Not a second of down time prepped the command this time.

“The vice president has…uhhh…spilled…coffee.” The word was practically a shout but not a lie, thanks to the woman who popped the lid off her drink then dumped the contents on her luxurious skirt. “Yep,” he declared, spurred by the truth, “coffee. A lot. Everywhere. She needs to change, unless you want her rocking some weird new modern art on that stage tonight.”

“Someone can bring her new clothes,” Sol snapped.

“Uhhh, sorry. Repeat, please. Lost you on that?” He forced his gaze ahead while stammering it. No way would he pull off the charade if he even glanced at the softly giggling woman a couple of feet away.

“Franzen!”

“Still not getting anything, man. Damn, what’s wrong with this thing?”

He pulled the earpiece out. And left it out.

“Franzen.”

Sol’s bellow was drowned in the magic of Tracy Rhodes’s laughter.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com