Chapter 5
Ellie
Damn, I looked good.
I hated it.
Granted, I was only forty-two—still in the prime of my life—but being President meant dressing to project intelligence and competence, not to turn heads.
My stylist, Liam, had mastered that particular art form, always selecting conservative suits for me.
Mostly pantsuits, because heaven knew I needed to be comfortable if I was going to survive a sixteen-hour day of diplomatic problems, whiny senators, and budget negotiations.
But tonight? Tonight, Liam had outdone himself, and I absolutely hated that all of it was going to be wasted on Declan fucking Hewes.
The Michael Kors A-Line cocktail dress hugged my figure in all the right places.
The silky cobalt blue fabric made my skin practically glow in the soft lighting of my private residence.
The color brought out the red highlights in my chestnut hair, highlights I usually forgot I even had.
A simple strand of pearls rested against my collarbone.
Nothing ostentatious, just elegant, with matching studs in my ears.
The scalloped black Louboutin pumps added three inches to my height, and I'd need every bit of that extra stature tonight.
My hairstylist talked me out of my usual updo, leaving my hair loose.
It fell in soft, deliberate waves across my shoulders, the kind of effortless style that actually took over an hour to achieve.
She'd applied just enough makeup to make me look polished and put-together without crossing into the territory of trying too hard.
A sweep of mascara made my green eyes pop.
A touch of blush gave my cheeks a healthy glow. Nude lipstick completed the look.
I looked as if I was going on a date.
I looked desirable.
I looked good. And I fucking hated it.
A sharp knock at the door drew my attention from the mirror.
"Enter."
The door swung open and... speaking of looking good.
Rickon strode into the room. Despite the fact that I knew he was all copper-skinned and alien under the facade, I couldn't help the catch of my breath at the sight of him.
He stood nearly seven feet tall, his broad shoulders filling out his tailored black suit in a way that should be illegal.
Dark hair, almost black, was styled perfectly—not a strand out of place—and those chocolate brown eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.
His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, and the way he moved with that easy, confident grace made it clear he was all muscle beneath the expensive fabric.
I knew it was a lie. I knew that underneath the illusion was something entirely different. But damn if my heart didn't race every single time I saw him, anyway.
It had been surprisingly easy to integrate Rickon into my security detail.
The Alliance had fabricated a background for him that would make Captain America jealous—military service, commendations, the works.
Chase, the head of my Secret Service detail, had quietly arranged for one of the team to go undercover on a treasury mission, creating the perfect opening. No one suspected a thing.
In the past couple of weeks, Rickon had become indispensable to my Secret Service team.
And to me. He moved through the halls with quiet competence, always seeming to know what we needed before being asked.
His kindness felt genuine, not performative.
The way he'd remember minor details about everyone's day, ask follow-up questions that showed he'd actually listened.
There was a warmth in his manner that made even the longest, most grueling days feel a little lighter.
I found myself watching for him, aching for that small zing in my heart when he'd appear in a doorway or round a corner.
Seeing him had become something I looked forward to, a bright spot I hadn't realized I needed.
Not to mention that out of 300-some-odd agents on my protective detail, Rickon made me feel the safest.
"You look beautiful, my Lady," Rickon said, his voice a low rumble that did absolutely nothing to help my composure. His dark chocolate eyes swept over my figure, making me shiver. Maybe looking good tonight didn't go to waste.
I turned away from the mirror to face him. "You don't have to call me that. I'm not royalty like the Prime."
His head tilted slightly. A gesture I'd come to recognize as curiosity. "The Prime isn't royalty. She's appointed by a quorum of members of the Alliance Council."
"Still," I said, reaching for my purse on the dresser. "We don't use terms like 'my lady' except for royalty. Haven't you noticed how the other agents call me Ma'am or Madam President?"
Something flickered across his face—was it disapproval? "It doesn't seem honorable enough," he said simply. Then, with a slight bow of his head, "The car is waiting."
Rickon moved to help me with my coat, a full-length velvet number that matched the cobalt blue of my dress. His hands were steady and professional as he settled it across my shoulders, but I swore I felt the heat of his touch even through the fabric.
The motorcade left the White House, traveling along I-695 toward the National Harbor where Declan had moored his yacht on the Potomac.
The whole idea made my skin crawl. I shivered, prompting Rickon to pull a flannel throw from the storage compartment and lay it across my legs. I didn't have the heart to tell him my shiver was more from dread than the cold.
The weather honestly wasn't too bad for late January, a moderate cold despite the dusting of snow on the ground.
With remnants of Christmas lights still adorning some trees and buildings, it looked as though we traversed through a fairyland.
I liked it. I'd dedicated the majority of my Christmas to treaty negotiations with the Japanese Prime Minister.
Although Chef Henri made me some fruitcake and hot chocolate, I spent the rest of my time binge-watching Hallmark Christmas Movies. Not too bad, just lonely.
The SUV merged from I-695 to I-295, staying with the flow of traffic.
Not an official motorcade, meant to be inconspicuous.
But seriously, how unnoticeable were a dozen bulletproof SUVs traversing the streets of Washington, DC?
I rode in the middle car with Rickon, Chase, and my driver, while other agents occupied the cars in front and behind me.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the National Harbor complex, the Ferris wheel looming against the darkening sky like some kind of carnival sentinel.
The SUVs bypassed the main marina entrance, heading instead toward a gated access road marked Private - Authorized Vehicles Only.
One of the agents in the lead car must have called ahead because the gate swung open before we even slowed.
The private pier stretched out into the Potomac like a finger pointing accusingly at Maryland on the opposite shore. And there, moored at the very end like some kind of floating monument to excess, was Declan's yacht.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered.
The thing was massive. Easily several hundred feet, all gleaming white hull and polished teak decking.
Even in the fading light, I noticed the name emblazoned on the bow in gold lettering: Sovereign.
Of course it was. Because Declan Hewes couldn't just own a boat.
He had to own a floating metaphor for his ego.
Warm light spilled from the portholes and upper deck, and I could make out figures moving around on the pier—more agents, I assumed—securing the area.
The SUVs came to a stop at the base of the pier.
Through the tinted windows, I noticed at least four agents positioned at intervals along the dock, their breath misting in the cold air.
They were trying to look casual, but the bulges under their jackets and the way their eyes constantly scanned the perimeter gave them away.
Chase shifted in the front passenger seat, speaking to the rest of the team, his voice crackling slightly over his radio. "The area is secure. No press presence detected."
Thank God for small mercies. The last thing I needed was photos of me boarding Declan's yacht splashed across every news outlet by morning. I could already imagine the headlines. President's Romantic Harbor Rendezvous or some equally nauseating variation. The thought made my stomach turn.
Rickon was already out of the vehicle, his movements efficient as he scanned the area before opening my door. The cold air hit me immediately, cutting through the flannel throw I'd forgotten still draped across my lap.
I stepped out onto the pier, my heels clicking against the weathered wood. The yacht loomed even larger up close, all sleek lines and ostentatious luxury. A gangway extended from the main deck, and I could see someone—probably crew—waiting at the top.
My eyes drifted to the agents positioned along the pier. Professional. Alert. Doing their jobs. None of them were looking at me with anything resembling judgment, but I felt it anyway. What did they think of their President going on a date with Declan fucking Hewes?
What did I think of it?
I hated it, that's what. But it was a means to an end, and if it got Declan off the planet, it was well worth it.
I pulled my coat tighter and started toward the gangway, Rickon falling into step beside me, close enough that I felt the warmth of his presence. Chase and another agent followed close behind.
The yacht swayed almost imperceptibly with the movement of the water, and I heard the soft lapping of waves against the hull. Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn sounded.
I paused at the base of the gangway, looking up at the Sovereign with something between resignation and revulsion.
"Ready, Madam President?" Rickon asked quietly.
Was I? No. Absolutely not. Did I have a choice?
Also no.