Chapter 5
FIVE
The smart answer was no.
Britta knew this with the same certainty that she knew her full legal name and her Secret Service code designation and the exact number of steps from her Georgetown dorm to Constitutional Law (forty-seven, she’d counted obsessively junior year).
No was safe. No was smart. No kept her heart intact and her father’s approval secure and her security detail from adding “danced with unsuitable private contractor” to their evening report.
It would land in some security log somewhere, and logs had a way of reaching her father eventually. And her father always had questions.
So definitely, no was the answer she should give.
But West stood in front of her, hand extended, sunset turning everything gold behind him, and what was a girl to do?
Especially when she met his eyes. Hazel. Hopeful. A wry smile on his handsome face, as if he might be completely aware that everyone was watching and he didn’t care.
“Yes,” Britta said.
And took his hand.
His fingers closed around hers—warm, careful—and led her to the open deck space where other couples were already swaying. The band played something slow, acoustic, the kind of song that made you want to sink into the person you were dancing with.
West’s hand settled on her waist. Not presumptuous. Not tentative. Just…right.
Britta’s hand found his shoulder. Then slid to the back of his neck because apparently her body had decided to ignore the warning bells dinging in her head.
They started moving. Barely dancing. Just swaying in time to the deep thrum of the music.
“You good?” West asked quietly.
“I’m overthinking. It’s my primary personality trait.”
“What are you thinking about?”
That Martinez is watching. That my father will know about this by morning. That you’re going to break my heart and I’m letting you do it anyway.
“That I don’t know how to dance without performing,” she said instead. “I’ve spent my entire life being watched. I don’t know how to just…be.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I’m calculating the political implications of being this close to you while forty-three people watch.”
He almost smiled. “Forty-three exactly?”
“I counted. Writer’s brain. I catalog things.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Lawyer by day. Writer when no one’s looking.”
“Like what?”
“Like the fact that you smell like the ocean and something clean I can’t identify. That your hand on my waist is exactly the right amount of pressure—not controlling but not hesitant. That we’re barely moving but it feels like dancing anyway.” She looked up at him. “See? Overthinking.”
“That’s not overthinking. That’s noticing.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Yeah. Overthinking is worrying about what Martinez will put in his report. Noticing is being present in the moment instead of three steps ahead of it.”
She wanted to argue. But his hand was warm on her waist and the sunset was spectacular and for once—just once—she wanted to be here instead of managing how here looked to everyone else.
“Tell me about EOD,” she said, changing the subject because being present was terrifying. “What’s it like defusing bombs?”
“Technically precise. Highly stressful. Remarkably boring until it’s absolutely not.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What made you choose it? Most people don’t volunteer to be the person who walks toward explosives.”
West said nothing for a moment, just held her, swaying. Oh, he smelled good, the sense of him solid and safe and…and now she might be overthinking in a completely different way.
“My dad was Secret Service,” he said finally. “Died protecting the governor’s family when I was seventeen. And I—” He stopped. Started again. “I was so angry. But I also wanted to matter like that. To protect people. To make the kind of difference that cost him everything.”
“But you left the military. Why?”
He looked down and met her eyes. “Because along the way I realized I didn’t want to die for duty. I wanted a family and a future…and to protect people. So I found Jones, Inc., and that philosophy actually worked.”
She looked up at him. He was close. So close she could see the gold flecks in his eyes catching the sunset light. Could see the slight stubble on his jaw. Could count his eyelashes if she wanted to be that ridiculous.
“You’re staring,” he said quietly.
“You’re close.”
“Too close?”
“Not close enough.”
The words were out before she could stop them, and with them, West’s expression shifted.
Something sparked in his eyes. Desire. Intent. He pulled her a little closer, and his other hand came up to cup her jaw—gently, carefully, giving her every opportunity to pull away.
She didn’t pull away.
She tilted her face up. Let herself want this even though wanting was dangerous and hope was stupid and this was definitely going in the report.
But she was on vacation. A wedding getaway. And maybe she got to fall in love a little this weekend too.
His lips were an inch from hers. Less. His hazel eyes searched hers. Making sure this was what she wanted too.
Yes.
She started to close her eyes—
West went completely still.
She opened her eyes.
His jaw was tight, his hand firm on her waist. Not romantic anymore. Protective. His eyes weren’t on her—they were scanning the deck over her shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
“Probably nothing.” But his voice bore a sharp edge. “Stay here.”
“West—”
He released her. Stepped back. The warmth of his hands disappeared, and the sunset air felt cold in comparison.
“I need to check something,” he said. “Stay with the group.”
Then he was gone. Walking away. Mid-dance. Mid-almost-kiss. Mid-moment.
Um.
She stood there alone on the dance floor while everyone watched.
Not a great look.
Britta wrapped her arms around herself. Tried to look like being abandoned mid-dance was fine. Normal. Not devastating.
If she was honest, this was the story of her life. People leaving when duty called. Her whole life being less important than the job.
Her father missing her college graduation for an emergency Senate vote.
Her mother fading into the background because being married to ambition was lonely.
Her college boyfriend who’d lasted three months before deciding her complications weren’t worth it.
Britta stepped off the dance floor. Tried to walk with dignity toward the railing. Pretended her hands weren’t shaking.
Coco appeared beside her. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“That didn’t look fine. That looked like—”
The yacht’s engines cut.
Coco stilled.
Silence. The kind that dropped over them when the engines died, loud in its own way.
People stopped talking, started to look around, confused.
Then smoke. Billowing from below deck. Black. Acrid. Definitely not normal.
Someone screamed.
Just like that, crew members who’d been serving drinks pulled weapons. So not crew, clearly. And immediately the guests—the operators—reacted.
If whoever planned the attack thought these people would go down easily, maybe cower at the sight of handguns, clearly they’d forgotten that, like Coco had said, the place was lousy with spec ops, most of whom knew how to handle themselves.
Including the women. Jayden and Emberly and even RJ kept their heads cool and gathered up the other guests, steering them into the salon or barricading them behind tables, now pushed over, drinks sloshing across the deck.
Britta looked around for Martinez. Vanished.
Stay with the group.
Don’t panic.
Panic would get her killed.
A hand grabbed her arm.
Britta spun. Instinct said fight. Training said assess first.
West.
His grip wasn’t gentle. “Behind me,” he said. Not a request. A command. “Now.” He positioned her body behind his in one smooth motion.
Her instinct was to argue. She wasn’t helpless. She’d survived the UN attack. She could handle herself.
But his eyes stopped her.
This wasn’t the charming man who’d asked her to dance. This wasn’t the guy who’d made her laugh over breakfast.
This was the Marine. The operator. The man who ran toward danger while everyone else ran away.
This was who he really was.
She stayed behind him.
West moved her across the deck, his body between her and the armed men. But the armed men weren’t herding anyone. They moved with purpose toward the lower decks, weapons up but eyes forward—whatever they’d come for, it wasn’t the guests. Not yet.
West and Britta reached Ham.
“Below deck,” West said to Ham. Low. Fast. “Smoke suggests fire or explosive. Crew isn’t crew—tactical training. I counted at least five armed—probably more.”
“Is it the Russians?” Ham had grabbed Signe and Aggie, Selah and Chloe, and RJ’s daughter. Wyatt had hold of his son, and Glo carried her daughter. One of the Marshall cowboys was grabbing a lifeboat.
“I dunno. I need to check the source of that smoke.”
“West—”
“I saw a crew member headed below to the engine room. I gotta check it out. The yacht might be wired.”
Ice ran down Britta’s spine.
Wired. As in explosives. As in bomb.
“Can you defuse it?” Ham asked. The lifeboat splashed into the water behind him. The cowboy had jumped over, reaching for Wyatt’s son.
“If I can get to it. Yeah.”
What? “West!”
West turned to her. Their eyes met.
She wanted to tell him not to go. Wanted to grab his arm and hold on and use every ounce of authority she had to make him stay.
But she didn’t.
Because his eyes told her he’d already decided. Of course.
“Stay with Ham.” West grabbed her arms. “Don’t leave his sight. Understand?”
She nodded, and her throat closed around all the words she couldn’t say. Mostly, Don’t die!
“I’ll be back,” he said. He turned to Ham. “Get everyone off this boat. Now.”
Then he ran toward the stairs that led below deck. Toward the smoke. Toward whatever explosive device the attackers had planted.
Toward death, possibly.
What was going on?
Around her, chaos continued. North and Dakota subduing one of the armed operatives. Scarlett crying. Ford and Tate fighting another operative, and even Jayden, despite her dress, maneuvering around a man with a gun, disarming him.
More than she could count…and it hit her.
They were a floating target.