Page 41 of Freeing Lark

Lark couldn’t deny that she was happy to see Hoot. Surprised, yes. Confused, definitely. But happy.

Good Lord. It should be criminal for one man to look so incredibly yummy in a tuxedo. The sharp, crisp lines of the tuxedo hugged his frame perfectly, the black fabric a stark contrast against his skin. He carried himself with an effortless grace, the kind that made the silk of the lapels gleam under the soft, ambient light. The sheer perfection of his appearance felt almost scandalous, a delicious visual feast.

She’d spent most of the evening surrounded by people who smiled without meaning it, laughed because someone important had made a joke, and spoke in carefully polished sentences designed to reveal absolutely nothing.

Hoot was different. He didn’t belong here. Neither did she. Maybe that was why standing beside him felt like taking a breath after being underwater too long.

And then there was the flirting. Lark still hadn’t quite recovered from that. Maybe you bring it out of me. She’d replayed the words in her head at least a dozen times since he’d said them. The grumpy SEAL flirting with her. Who would have thought?

She was smiling when she noticed the change in him. One second, Hoot was relaxed. The next, he was completely still. His gaze had fixed on a man entering the ballroom. Lark followed it.

The man wasn’t particularly imposing. He was tall, well dressed, probably somewhere in his early forties, with dark hair threaded with gray at the temples. His tuxedo fit perfectly. His smile was easy.

But something about him made the tiny hairs on Lark’s arms rise. She couldn’t explain why. Still, she studied him. Then she saw it. A small pin attached to his lapel. A circle. And inside it, a helmet.

Lark’s breath caught. The broken piece of wood she’d found on the island flashed through her mind. The symbol burned into the crate. She’d only seen half of it, but there was no mistaking the resemblance.

Her fingers curled into the material of her gown. What the hell? Was it a coincidence? It had to be. There were probably hundreds of organizations using variations of helmets, shields, circles, crests...

Except she’d never seen that particular design before. And now it was here. On the lapel of the man who had just made Hoot look like he’d spotted an enemy combatant.

Lark glanced at Hoot. He was watching the man with an intensity that made her stomach tighten. She wanted to ask. She wanted to tell him about the crate. But this was hardly the place.

“Hoot...” Before she could finish, her mother’s voice cut across the room.

“Lark!” She turned. Hildi was waving her over. Of course.

“Apparently, I’m being summoned.”

Hoot’s attention shifted toward her. “Stay close to others.”

The words were quiet. Almost an order. Lark raised an eyebrow. “Are you worried about me?”

His gaze met hers, and there was something that looked suspiciously like surprise in those startling blue wonders. “Guess I am.” Her heart stumbled. However, he followed that with a playful jab that made her want to roll her eyes at him. “Beside, we both know how accident-prone you are.” Then he was gone, melting into the crowd with the same uncanny ability he’d displayed when approaching her earlier.

Lark shook herself. Stop it. She headed toward her family. As she approached, she stopped. The man she’d been watching was standing with her parents. With Bradley and the Whitmores. And judging by the laughter, they knew him. Very well.

Her mother beamed. “Lark, darling. Come meet someone.” She didn’t like the sound of that. “Grant Calloway, my daughter Lark Meadows,” Hildi said.

The man turned toward her. His gaze slowly swept over her. Too slowly, causing her discomfort to intensify.

“An honor,” he said. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Grant is with Praetorian Strategic Group,” her mother continued.

“Yes. I’ve heard of your beauty and requested an introduction,” he said in a voice dripping with polished ease. Lark wanted to gag.

Lark didn’t bother pretending she was impressed. “I haven’t heard of you.”

Her mother’s smile tightened, and Grant chuckled. “That’s probably a good thing.”

Bradley stepped forward. “Grant has helped the foundation with several security and logistics matters.”

“He’s been invaluable,” Charles Whitmore added.

Grant waved off the compliment. “Happy to help.”

Lark glanced at his lapel. There it was again. That symbol with the same style of helmet. Her stomach twisted.