My eyes flicked to Rickon before I could stop myself. What would it be like to kiss him? The thought slammed into me so suddenly I nearly stumbled.
Jesus Christ, Ellie. Get a grip.
But I couldn't help it. My gaze traced the line of his jaw, the way his lips pressed together in that serious expression he always wore. Would they be soft? Would he kiss gently, or would there be an intensity to it that matched everything else about him? Would it feel like kissing a human man, or would I be able to feel the alien underneath?
Heat flooded my cheeks, and I jerked my eyes away, horrified at myself. Rickon was here simply to capture Declan Hewes and head back into space, not whatever the hell my hormone riddled brain was conjuring right now.
I was the President of the United States, for fuck's sake, about to walk into a sting operation to arrest a corrupt billionaire, and here I was fantasizing about kissing my alien bodyguard like some teenager with a crush.
Get. It. Together.
The gangway was solid beneath my feet as I stepped onto the yacht, Rickon a half-step behind me. Two of Declan's guards, both built like brick shithouses in expensive suits, materialized at the top of the boarding ramp.
"Madam President," the taller one said with a nod that was just shy of respectful. "If you'll follow us."
I didn't miss the way Rickon's hand flexed at his side, or how his eyes tracked every movement the guards made. The tension rolling off him was palpable.
We descended into the belly of the ship, leaving the cool night air behind. The interior was exactly what I'd expected, all gleaming wood paneling, brass fixtures, and artwork that probably cost more than most Americans made in a lifetime. The carpet muffled our footsteps, the weave was so plush it felt like walking on clouds.
The guards led us down a corridor lined with what I assumed were guest cabins, then down another set of stairs. Deeper into the yacht. Further from the exit.
Finally, they stopped at a set of double doors. Mahogany, if I had to guess. Because, of course, they were.
"The stateroom," the shorter guard said, pulling open the doors.
I stepped through, and despite everything—despite knowing what Declan was, despite the plan, despite the danger—I had to fight to keep my expression neutral.
The room was obscene.
A dining table dominated the center, set for two with what had to be museum-quality pieces. The plates alone looked like they belonged behind glass, delicate porcelain with intricate hand-painted designs I recognized as Meissen. Crystal glasses caught the light from the chandelier overhead, refracting it into tiny rainbows. Baccarat, probably. And the silverware had a distinctive organic design I'd seen in a Smithsonian exhibit once, Peretti for Tiffany.
The table's place setting could probably fund a small school district for a year.
They had already laid out the food. Caviar glistening in a crystal bowl nestled in ice. A perfectly marbled ribeye that had to be Wagyu, the kind that costs hundreds of dollars per ounce. Pasta that looked handmade, probably laced with truffles, given the earthy aroma. Asparagus so green and perfect, it looked artificial. And the wine—I glimpsed the label and nearly choked. Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. A single bottle could go for tens of thousands of dollars.
The cost of this dinner could make a sizeable dent in the national debt.
My stomach rolled.
I settled into the chair the guard pulled out for me, hyperaware of Rickon's position near the door. When I glanced up, our eyes met, and I saw it written all over his face. He hated this. Hated letting me out of his sight, hated that I would be alone with Hewes, hated every single second of this plan.
For just a moment, I let myself draw strength from that look. From knowing he was close. From knowing he'd come through that door like the wrath of God if I needed him.
Then the guards ushered him out, and the door clicked shut behind them.
I was alone.
A few minutes passed, long enough for me to study the room, to note the other door on the far wall, to count my breaths and remind myself why I was doing this.
Then the door opened, and DeclanfuckingHewes walked in.
He looked so goddamn smug. His suit probably cost more than my entire wardrobe—and as President, I had a kick-ass wardrobe—perfectly tailored to his frame. His smile was wide and self-satisfied, like a cat that had finally cornered a particularly elusive canary. Vomit, I decided in a heartbeat. If hetried to kiss me, I'd vomit and try to get as much on his suit as I could.
"Madam President," he said, his voice dripping with false warmth. "I'm so glad you came to your senses."
I forced myself to smile back, to play the part. "Mr. Hewes. Thank you for the invitation."
He settled into the chair across from me, immediately reaching for the wine. "Please call me Declan. I think we're past formalities now, don't you?" He poured for both of us without asking. "I have to say, I wasn't sure you'd actually show. But I'm very pleased you did."
