“I think the bullet through your shoulder did most of the talking.”
“It spoke to me, all right.” Tatum adjusted in his seat while he waited for the light to change. “But my mama would wash my mouth out with soap if I repeated the words it used.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. The bullet was foul-mouthed. Tatum had thrown himself in front of his client, the bullet missing his protective vest and blasting through his shoulder. As he lay there in the street, bleeding and pleading with his Maker to spare his life, he finally agreed with Nelson—they needed to get out while they still could.
Of course, he hadn’t told Nelson that until after his skin had been stitched back together. No sense letting the guy think he was scared.
Nelson chuckled. “The Jobassits’ contract with ProtectMoore is up in three weeks. They’ve taken bids, but we missed the deadline thanks to your extended vacation.”
Tatum snorted. His extended vacation was spent in a hospital bed. “A ball, seriously?”
“We need an in with the family and this is your shot. We’re lucky she made the trip. Word is she’s never left the island.”
“What do we do if the navy steps in?”
“They won’t. I called a buddy of mine. There are a half dozen sovereign nations near the Bermuda Triangle and the navy doesn’t have the budget to protect them all. They can’t help one without a host of other kings showing up on their doorstep looking for the same.”
“That’s where we come in.”
“Yes, it is.” Nelson’s smile cruised right through the line. “So get in there, waltz with the queen, and we’ll be drinking coconut milk by the end of the week.”
“You’re putting a lot of faith in my dancing.” Tatum gripped the steering wheel. He hated dancing. Hand him a rifle and a knife and he’d take out a room of mercenaries without breaking a sweat. Make him keep count to music while maintaining his end of a conversation and he became two left boots.
“I’d trust you with my life,” said Nelson. “Don’t screw this up.”
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.
