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Captain Franzen looked ready to bust out of his clothes and turn green.
A dozen earpiece radios squawked.
The intrusion made Tracy start. Rarely could she actually hear her security team’s comm links since they were hooked into tiny ear pieces for each member, but the blare quashed the silence after her dare, all but ensuring she’d never be answered.
“Roger that,” Sol said into the mic beneath his shirt cuff, before circling toward Tracy. “Main hall’s been checked and secured, ma’am. They’re ready to run your sound check.”
“Of course they are.” As soon as the grumble spilled, she mentally smacked herself for it, despite feeling like she’d earned it. That just once, she could take a break and indulge some harmless interest in a hotter-than-hell man…
No. She was more than interested. She was drawn. Like some damn molecule depicted in one of Luke’s Chem lessons, she was helpless about it too.
And she had no idea why.
And there was the crux of this frustration.
Keoni John Franzen. There was something about him. Something deeper than the muscles and the confidence and the powerful grace. Something beneath all the one-liners and the smack talk with his buddies. A darkness…but not one cowering in shadows and shame. He liked his darkness. Took refuge in it. Was more than happy in it.
Alone.
So why was she so hot to climb his tree?
And she was hot. More than she wanted to admit, even as the light caught the gold rings in his eyes again. As he rolled his head, cracking his neck. As he readjusted his stance, looming and large, before moving into place near the dressing room’s door.
Hot butter on a damn biscuit.
Her heartbeat doubled. Her libido flared. Everything between her thighs thumped in time to her escalated pulse rate.
She wanted him to stride back over to her.
As she lay on a massive bed, waiting for him.
Her body totally naked.
Her legs completely spread.
“Tigress is en route to the stage. I repeat, Tigress is en route to the stage.”
Nothing like Sol barking her code name into the comm link at his wrist, along with a mention of the damn stage, to land her pussy back on ice. Even if it was a kick-ass code name.
Shay eased the sting a little, letting her pull him into a maternal hug on her way to the door. “Off with you, Daddy Bommer,” she ordered. “And no fainting in the delivery room either.”
As he pulled away, a laugh lightened his lips but weariness darkened his gaze. Sol had said Bommer had “covert ops” experience. Not special ops. Suddenly, the difference hit her between the eyes—a difference she was all too aware of as vice president. The man had been black ops, likely some of the blackest.
Still didn’t prepare a guy for the birth of his own child. Even the second one.
She spent one last second to clasp his hand, using the contact to zing him with the energy of the prayer in her heart, before turning toward the door with fresh resolve.
She could do this. It was just a sound check.
She could do this.
As soon as she could move again.
As soon as she accepted—somehow—that John Franzen now waited, his stare missing nothing and his power filling the air, to become the back end of her security sandwich all the way to the stage.
As soon as she remembered—somehow—that the man was focused on her physical safety, not how huge her ass looked in this clunky skirt suit.
As soon as she acknowledged—somehow—that his arrival might even be a blessing in disguise.
For the next twelve hours, she suddenly had something to be more nervous about than being onstage in front of ten thousand people.
Thank God, after it was all over, she’d be boarding a plane back to Washington.
