Page 37 of Freeing Lark

Maybe it was nothing. Probably nothing. If only that thought brought her a greater feeling of certainty.

Lark headed back toward the bell, gathering her tools as she went. She glanced once more over her shoulder. The disturbed patch of ground was already becoming difficult to see beneath the lengthening shadows.

She shivered. Something had happened on this island. Something she hadn’t noticed before. And for the first time since she’d chosen it as the perfect place for her Liberty Bell, Lark wasn’t entirely sure she was alone out there.

CHAPTER 11

Hoot hated tuxedos. There was something fundamentally wrong with putting a former Navy SEAL in a penguin suit and expecting him to look comfortable. He wasn’t. Neither were the rest of the guys. They’d all been instructed to dress in the same uncomfortable black armor disguised as formalwear, and the collective misery was almost enough to make Hoot smile.

The ballroom of the National Building Museum was spectacular. The Whitmore Foundation had spared no expense. Massive Corinthian columns rose toward the ornate ceiling. Crystal chandeliers threw warm light across polished marble floors. Round tables dressed in white linen filled the central portion of the room, each decorated with elaborate floral arrangements and tiny gold place cards.

At one end, a stage had been constructed beneath a massive banner bearing the Whitmore Foundation’s crest. Beyond the ballroom, open archways led into reception rooms where servers circulated with champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

Three hundred people mingled. Politicians and diplomats. Military officers chatted with business leaders and foreign dignitaries. People who could make a phone call and change the trajectory of an entire company—or a country.

And there was the potential that somewhere among them were people who might want to hurt one of those people.

Hoot scanned the room again, finding nothing suspicious. Nothing out of place. Which meant they were doing their jobs. Condor’s Overwatch had been brought in as additional security, working alongside the Whitmore Foundation’s private detail and law enforcement. Technically, they weren’t in charge. They were there to fill gaps. Hoot wasn’t convinced there were any gaps to fill.

“Anyone else feel overdressed?” Eggs asked through the comm.

Hoot kept his eyes on the crowd. “Yes.”

“Anyone else feel like we’re guarding a room full of people who’d faint if someone spilled red wine on their shoes?” Spark’s voice came through.

“That’s because they would.” Voodoo chimed in.

“I’d pay money to see it.”

“You’re supposed to be working,” Flint reminded them.

“We are.”

Hoot watched a server cross the ballroom. “So far, I’ve prevented three canapés from becoming airborne.”

“Heroic,” Jeeves said.

“I thought so.” Hoot almost smiled. They might be bored, but boredom didn’t mean complacency. Their eyes never stopped moving, constantly scanning every entrance, every exit. Every person who lingered too long. Every hand that disappeared into a pocket.

Haley was back at the office, monitoring hacked security feeds and feeding information through their comms. She always preferred the computer. It didn’t complain about tuxedos. “Camera four is clean,” Haley reported.

“Six?” Flint asked.

“Clean.”

“Loading entrance?”

“Clean.”

Hoot scanned the ballroom again. Then he saw her. Everything inside him stopped, and for one completely irrational second, he forgot how to breathe.

Lark stood near the far side of the ballroom beside her parents. He’d seen her in jeans. Paint-stained clothes. With her hair pulled back while she worked. He’d seen her covered in coffee. He’d seen her dripping wet in the middle of Bell Creek.

None of those images prepared him for this. Even the most detailed social media images he’d pored over didn't do her justice.

Her gown was elegant without being flashy, the fabric flowing from her shoulders to the floor in a way that seemed to move with her rather than restrict her. Her hair had been styled differently than he’d ever seen it, swept away from her face with loose strands framing her cheeks.

She looked beautiful. No, beautiful wasn’t enough. She looked like she belonged in this room. And yet somehow, Hoot knew she didn’t. Or didn’t want to.