Chapter 1
The hum of jet engines outside the hangar windows was a distant, yet familiar, murmur.
Inside, the waiting lounge smelled of over-polished leather and expensive coffee.
Outside the hangar’s towering doors, a private jet idled on the tarmac, its sleek frame gleaming under a hazy Virginia sky.
Sawyer “Voodoo” Graves sat alone in the terminal’s waiting lounge, back straight, one boot resting across the opposite knee.
A paper cup going cold in his hands, untouched.
His Condor-issued tablet was perched on his thigh, locked until a quick swipe of his thumb gave him access. No news alerts. No mission pings. Just one flagged briefing under the heading: PRIORITY CLIENT – OPERATION: SYMPHONY SHIELD.
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
The title itself spoke of Condor’s Overwatch’s resident computer genius, her sharp wit and quirky sense of humor shining through.
Haley Lamb, known online as Halestorm, was an essential part of the Condor’s Overwatch team, a brilliant computer whiz whose skills were legendary among her peers.
In Voodoo’s opinion, her remarkably sharp mind, combined with her extraordinarily quick coding and hacking skills, was unmatched.
With a sigh, he set his lukewarm coffee to the side before proceeding to open the file with a tap of his finger. It paled in comparison to the exceptional coffee his teammate’s new girlfriend made, anyway.
Name: Savannah McNabney
Occupation: Concert Pianist / U.S. Cultural Ambassador
Tour Duration: 21 days – 14 cities, 11 countries
Threat Assessment Level: Elevated (details redacted)
Protective Detail Lead: Voodoo (Sawyer Grant)
His eyes were drawn back to the name at the top. Savannah.
The name punched straight through his professional detachment the moment he read it.
Savannah McNabney. Concert pianist, art ambassador, stepdaughter of a U.S.
senator. Condor’s Overwatch had taken plenty of high-profile protection gigs before, but this one had come with an unusual set of parameters.
Her itinerary read more like a diplomat’s than a musician’s.
Performances followed by receptions for dignitaries, cultural outreach in tense territories, tight international security.
Her stepfather insisted she needed a shadow. A weapon with a heartbeat. And Condor’s Overwatch was one of the best.
But it was the name that bothered him more than the logistics. Savannah.
It’s just a name, he told himself.
Except it wasn’t. Not to him.
He leaned back against the stiff leather chair and stared at the name like it might shift if he looked long enough.
Savannah.
He hadn’t heard the name Savannah in two decades. Not like that. Not attached to someone he was supposed to keep safe. And now it looped through his mind like an old song he still knew the words to.
He hadn’t thought of her in years. Not really. The little girl with scraped knees and cherry popsicle lips. The neighbor who’d dared him to climb the oak tree out back and then cried when he fell. His neighbor and his best friend.
His first heartbreak. Even at fifteen-years-old.
Savi.
She’d hated being called by her full name. “Sounds like a rich lady with six poodles and no soul,” she’d told him once, back when they were just kids running wild through their Pennsylvania neighborhood like they owned it.
She was five when he’d met her. Barefoot, sunburnt, and eating a blue raspberry lollipop that stained her mouth like war paint.
He was seven, and he thought she was an angel.
White-blond hair like sunlight on snow, and bright blue eyes that never blinked when they should’ve.
She’d walked right up to him in her front yard like he was already hers.
“Wanna play?” she’d asked.
And just like that, he did. Every day. For eight years.
He’d promised to protect her. Crossed his heart and pinky-swore it. He’d even made a little wooden pendant shaped like a shield for her, carved sloppily with their shared initials—SG—because he thought if she wore it, nothing bad could touch her. She’d worn it like it was magic.
They’d always secretly delighted in the shared initials, a quirky coincidence that felt special. Savannah Gaines and Swayer Graves.
Then one day, she was gone.
When her mom remarried, it was like the world split at the seams. A new husband. A new city. A new life that didn’t include the boy next door who swore on his dog tags made of aluminum foil that he’d always be her shield.
He remembered the day she left. Her mom’s new husband had pulled up in a black sedan, and he’d known the minute the man got out of the car that he was the kind of guy who didn’t belong in small-town Pennsylvania.
The smell of freshly cut grass had hung heavy in the air as Voodoo—known as Sawyer, then—watched from his driveway.
The weight of the man’s importance was palpable in the hushed efficiency of his entourage loading luggage into the car.
She’d cried.
He hadn’t.
He’d just watched, jaw clenched, fists balled up in the pockets of his cargo shorts, memorizing the way she looked with her forehead pressed to the backseat window.
And then she was gone.
He remembered standing in the empty driveway the morning after the moving truck rolled out. Her swing still swayed in the breeze like she might come back for one last push.
She never did.
Voodoo blinked hard and refocused on the screen.
He never let himself wonder. Not usually. But now, with her name in his file, echoing in the back of his mind like a melody he couldn’t quite place, he couldn’t shake the feeling.
His Savannah was Savannah Gaines. Not McNabney.
Two decades had passed since she’d moved away that he couldn’t remember the name of her new stepfather.
He’d always known he could find out, but the fear of the unknown had always held him back.
The image of her married, perhaps with children and a life that he was not a part of, would undoubtedly cause him to regret not having found her sooner.
If that happened, he knew he’d feel a profound sense of loss.
But the Savannah in his file couldn’t be her. That would be too much like fate, and Voodoo didn’t believe in fate.
Still, his gut was twisted, and that meant something.
A message popped up on his screen.
She’s five minutes out.
He stood, stretching the tension from his shoulders.
His hand drifted to the small of his back, where the weight of his concealed weapon rested like a second spine.
He didn’t know yet what kind of danger Savannah would face on this tour, if any, but if someone was making threats against a U.S.
Senator’s stepdaughter, it wouldn’t be hollow.
The senator’s request for a protection detail had been rushed.
Haley was still working on gathering the information he needed to successfully conduct his mission.
He turned toward the runway windows as a sleek black car approached the hangar. His pulse slowed, sharpened.
The door opened.
And the woman who stepped out—
His heart plummeted. She didn’t resemble his Savi in any way. This woman had straight black hair, not the blonde curls he remembered. She came strutting in like the floor was a runway and the terminal was lucky to have her.
And unfortunately, she was heading straight for him.
Bright red heels. Tight black miniskirt that was so short it was practically indecent. Sunglasses indoors. Loud perfume. Louder attitude.
Her cropped top revealed her navel ring, a small flash of silver against her skin.
The fabric was so sheer that he could clearly see her lacy bra underneath.
Ten years ago, when he’d been a wet behind the ears SEAL, her look might have stirred something in him.
But time and experience had changed him.
As the women made her way across the room, Voodoo could clearly see, despite the layers of makeup, that she was young. Probably early twenties. His dossier on Savannah McNabney hadn’t mentioned her age.
As soon as the cloying perfume of the woman enveloped him, Voodoo groaned. If he had to spend the next three weeks with this woman, he feared for his sanity.
“Well, well, well,” she said, her voice smooth as silk and laced with a predatory confidence. A crimson fingertip traced a slow path down his chest with audacious disregard for propriety, the touch unnerving. “You must be waiting for me.”
The touch made his skin crawl. Seizing her wrist, he pulled her hand away from his chest, the action causing her lips, painted a vibrant shade, to purse in a childish pout.
The burden of protecting her, this girl who couldn’t be more than twenty years old, pressed down on him.
It was his job to maintain her safety, but who was going to protect him from her?
He already felt the tension building, a headache forming at the mere prospect of resisting her advances for the next several weeks.
Suddenly, he felt all of his thirty-two years.
Though internally he recoiled, he effectively concealed his flinch. “Savannah McNabney?” he asked.
Her laugh barked out so hard people two rows down looked over. “Excuse me?” she snapped, pulling off her sunglasses with flair. “Me? Savannah McNabney? Are you kidding me?”
He didn’t answer, but his silence was its own kind of yes.
Her mouth dropped open like he’d just asked if she’d auditioned for a hemorrhoid medication commercial. “Oh my God, you actually thought I was her?” She gave a dramatic scoff. “Wow. Wow.”
Voodoo blinked. “You’re not?”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Do you live under a rock? I’m Kandy. With a K. Because I’m sweet and unforgettable.”
His continued blank stare prompted her to go on, “You know, the Kandy.” She paused, as if waiting for some kind of response from him.
“As in two world tours, three Grammys, and the face of LuxeWear fragrance?” She gestured to herself.
“This doesn’t scream ‘dull and dowdy classical pianist,’ babe. This screams icon.”
Voodoo gave a slow, impassive blink. “I don’t listen to pop.”
She laughed like it was the cutest thing she’d ever heard. In a tone of denial, she insisted, “Sure you don’t.” With an air of entitlement, she moved closer, as if his personal space was hers for the taking. “Playing hard to get? Cute. I like that in a man. Keeps things interesting.”
Voodoo turned his head just enough to look at her. “Ma’am.”
“Oh, formal. I can work with that,” she purred, arching her body in a motion that screamed look at me. “But I think we both know you’re dying to be with me.”
“I’m really not.”
Giving a casual wave, she let out a soft purr and then, with a playful air of confidence, declared, “I’ll rock your world; I’m simply that unforgettable!”
He stared straight ahead. “You’re definitely something.”
Kandy leaned in closer, completely ignoring the steel wall he was projecting. “Listen, I get it. You’re probably just overwhelmed. Most guys don’t know what to do with all this.” She motioned to herself like she was unveiling the Sistine Chapel.
He shifted slightly, creating a much-needed space between them, his muscles tense with the effort. “I don’t get overwhelmed.”
She laughed again, mistaking his comment for banter. “Oh, honey. You’re funny. Dangerous, broody, and funny? Triple threat. You better watch out . . . I fall fast.”
Voodoo’s jaw flexed. Where the hell was his assignment?
Kandy flicked her hair, clearly not getting the message. “I bet you’ve got a rough exterior, but a soft heart. I love that. You’re a protector, huh? A man who takes care of what’s his.”
He let the silence hang just long enough before deadpanning, “Only what I want to be mine.”
“Ooh, a slow burn.” She practically clapped. “I knew you’d be trouble.”
He stole a quick glance at his watch, once again wondering about his client’s whereabouts, all the while pointedly ignoring the increasingly obvious and irritatingly persistent innuendos coming from the bothersome woman crowding him.
“Well, can you be any more painfully obvious?” she muttered, folding her arms with a pout.
And of course, the action pushed her tits up in a way he feared they’d tumble out of her top.
“God, do you even know what Savannah McNabney looks like? I met her once at a charity gala. Talk about beige. I mean, the girl wore flats. In public.”
She leaned in like they were old friends swapping gossip. “She’s one of those ‘I-don’t-do-social-media’ types, you know? Like it’s a flex to be invisible. Total bore. Probably alphabetizes her books and labels her salad dressing.”
He didn’t answer. He’d stopped listening.
Because the terminal door hissed open.
And she walked in.
Light blonde hair, natural, not styled to make a statement. Soft features, confident stride, eyes that scanned the room with quiet intelligence. No noise. No flash. No performance.
Savi.
She was older, sure. More guarded. But he knew her.
She spotted him instantly and froze.
Something passed across her face. Shock. Hope. Recognition.
Behind him, Kandy sucked her teeth. “Ugh. There she is,” she said, venom laced in every syllable. “Little Miss Vanilla. Bet she sleeps in matching pajama sets. She’s got no edge. And absolutely no style.”
Voodoo stood without a word.
“Seriously?” Kandy called after him, tone incredulous. “That’s who you’re waiting for?”
He didn’t respond. Just walked toward the girl who used to climb trees with him and smelled like berry shampoo.
“Savi?” he said, quieter than he meant. Her scent reached him and he took it in. Still like berries, but with something a touch more sophisticated. Something like champagne.
She smiled. “You still call me that?”
And for the first time in a long damn while, his chest stopped aching.