Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 63763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“You’re lucky Dad is over there,” she whispered.
“He knows I fuck you.”
Her face flared pink. “He does not need to hear you say it.”
“Neither did you.” I turned her in my arms and let my gaze drop deliberately to her mouth. “Still made you wet.”
Her eyes widened before narrowing with the kind of challenge that usually ended with her pinned beneath me. “You’re awfully confident for a man standing in the middle of a charity event.”
The loud voice of a woman near the fireworks perimeter drew our attention away. The company hired to handle the closing display had established its launch field beyond the southern drainage cut, far enough from the crowd to meet every legal requirement and close enough that Ghost had spent most of the evening irritating their safety coordinator. I had noticed the pattern twenty minutes after Bellamy Pyrotechnics arrived and filed it under problems that did not belong to me.
Tamsin Bellamy stood beside the temporary control station while she studied a launch diagram clipped to a board. Ghost leaned against the barricade several feet away with his arms folded across his cut, looking relaxed enough that anyone without operational experience might have missed how closely he watched every movement on the field. And every move Tamsin made.
“You’re inside my exclusion line,” she informed him without looking up.
Ghost glanced down at the painted marker beneath his boot. “By three inches.”
“Still inside.”
“Prez put me on site safety.”
“Stryker doesn’t hold the pyrotechnics license.” She finally lifted her face, fixing him with a stare that would have moved a less entertained man. “Behind the line.”
Ghost’s mouth curved lazily. “You always this friendly to people trying to keep you alive?”
“I’m friendlier to people who follow directions.”
Bex made a delighted sound beneath her breath. “I like her.”
“Ghost does too.”
“He’s spoken to her for thirty seconds.”
“He’s been watching her since she arrived.”
She laughed and pressed closer, but the opening notes of the recorded display soundtrack rolled across the field before I could persuade her that the fundraiser had already received enough of our time. Families began turning toward the launch area, children settling onto blankets while the brothers shifted subtly through the crowd. The first shells climbed from the mortars in clean sequence, bursting high above the canyon in red, gold, and white as applause moved through the meadow.
I watched the launch field instead of the sky. Tamsin stood at the firing board with one hand near the emergency stop, her attention moving between cue lights and racks while two technicians held positions outside the marked zone. Ghost remained near the barricade, his gaze tracking the same right-side battery that had caught mine when its status light flickered out of sequence.
The next volley began with three clean reports. A fourth ignition flashed from the far rack half a beat too soon, the recoil tearing one support free and kicking the tubes sideways until their mouths angled toward the occupied meadow. Tamsin’s hand slammed toward the emergency control at the same instant Ghost started moving.
“Down,” I ordered, turning Bex into my chest and covering her with my body while the brothers spread through the crowd.
The tilted rack spat flame. Ghost reached it before the shell cleared the tube, drove one boot into the steel frame, and knocked the entire assembly toward the empty drainage wash as the live round launched. It tore low across the dark, trailing sparks over scrub before bursting beyond the far ridge with a concussion that struck the meadow hard enough to send children into their parents’ arms.
Tamsin killed the firing sequence, but another fuse continued hissing inside the damaged rack. Ghost caught her around the waist when she lunged toward it, lifted her off her feet, and carried her backward despite the furious command she threw at him. His usual easy amusement had vanished, leaving the cold focus of the EOD specialist beneath it.
“Put me down,” she snapped. “There’s another live shell in that tube.”
“Exactly why you’re moving.”
“I know that system better than you do.”
“I know explosives better than you know me.” He set her behind the concrete barrier, pointed one finger at the ground near her boots, and added, “Stay.”
I lifted my head only after the immediate threat disappeared, then inspected Bex from hairline to boots while keeping one arm locked around her waist, my hand resting protectively over her flat belly. Only the two of us knew that our baby was growing there.
She had gone pale, but her breathing remained steady and nothing had struck her. The realization loosened none of the rage pounding behind my ribs, because a live shell had crossed the exact space my woman occupied and missing her did not make the attempt acceptable.
“I’m fine,” Bex assured me, cupping my jaw when my hands reached her waist for the second time. “It went into the wash.”