by Amelia Autin
I wonder if Niall has any vacation time coming to him. The brother closest to him in age was a black-ops warrior—not really the name for it, but that’s how it was referred to by the public. Niall had been a marine sniper years ago before he’d left the Corps to take up an even more dangerous calling. But that didn’t really qualify him as a bodyguard. If you need a bodyguard, Alec or Liam would be better suited to the task, he reminded himself. Both of his younger brothers had been Diplomatic Security Service—DSS—special agents for years, although only Liam still worked as a bodyguard now. Alec was the regional security officer at the United States embassy in Zakhar.
But Alec and Liam were both married. Niall wasn’t. Shane might call on Niall to help him out in this crisis, but he’d have to think long and hard before he put one of his baby brothers—married baby brothers, each with a baby of his own—in harm’s way.
Shane laughed beneath his breath, imagining what Alec and Liam would say to that. He was so caught up in his inner musings that it barely registered when the seat-belt light was turned off and the announcement was made that portable electronic devices could now be used. It wasn’t until a soft oath from his press secretary, Mike Adamson, impinged on his consciousness that he realized the man had availed himself of the airplane’s Wi-Fi and was looking with dismay at something on his laptop screen.
“What?” Shane asked Mike, then nudged him to get his attention when the other man’s earphones prevented him from hearing Shane’s question. “What is it?” he asked after Mike removed the earphones.
“See for yourself,” Mike replied, handing both the laptop and the earphones to Shane.
He clicked to restart the news video. It only took a few seconds before he was swearing internally, although he had enough restraint not to curse aloud—he’d long since learned that wasn’t acceptable from a public figure in a public place.
“An assassination attempt at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix, Arizona, was foiled today by Colorado’s junior senator, retired Marine Lieutenant Colonel Shane Jones, in a scene reminiscent of his heroic rescue of a pregnant woman during a domestic terrorism incident five years ago,” Carly Edwards told the TV camera, a microphone in her hand.
Then a video began playing as Carly’s voice continued. “The alleged assassin escaped by running through a small park north of the clinic, to the parking lot, and from there to parts unknown via truck. The footage shown here was taken with a smartphone by this reporter, who just happened to be a bystander when the incident occurred. The Phoenix police warn that the suspect is armed and should be considered extremely dangerous—no one should attempt to approach or apprehend him. Anyone who recognizes the alleged shooter—described as a stocky white male of average height between the ages of forty-five and sixty—or the white getaway truck, is urged to call the Phoenix police or the FBI—” two phone numbers scrolled beneath the video “—or Crime Stoppers to report anonymously.” Another phone number came up.
Carly appeared on the screen again. “Once more, please note the suspect is armed and extremely dangerous—do not approach. Stay tuned to this station for updates on this developing situation. Back to you, Phil.”
“I thought the police would confiscate her smartphone,” Mike muttered to Shane when the video clip came to an end.
Shane’s smile was grim as he removed the earphones. “She’s a smart lady. She probably knew they would. I’ll bet you anything you want to name she emailed the video to herself or her news agency before they had the chance.”
“No bet.” Mike thought for a moment. “The reporters will be all over you, wanting a statement. We’d better have one ready.”
“Yeah. Want to work one up?”
“No problem,” Mike said. “But what are you going to tell them?”
Shane considered this. “Probably the best thing to say is the Phoenix police and the FBI have asked me not to discuss the details of the case—which is perfectly true.”
“Yes, but...” Mike trailed off.
“But why was I at the Mayo Clinic in the first place?” Shane finished for him.
Mike’s eyes met Shane’s. “You haven’t even told us. Well,” he amended, “you haven’t told me. I don’t know what you told everyone else. All I know is you were there for observation. Observation of what?”
Shane glanced across the aisle at his other three aides. They seemed completely oblivious. Two were watching the in-flight movie, and the third was dozing with his head propped against the window.
“No one knows any more than you,” he reassured Mike. “And I didn’t tell any of you because I didn’t want to put you in the position of lying to the press should any questions arise.”
“Cancer?”
Shane shook his head. “Worse. At least...in the perception of the general public.”
“What could be worse than cancer?”
He considered what if anything he should tell Mike and quickly reached the conclusion he’d been fooling himself thinking he could keep the diagnosis secret. He made a mental note to contact Carly regarding the promised exclusive—she’d kept her word, hadn’t mentioned his illness when she’d reported on the assassination attempt, so he needed to keep his word, too. Then he said, “Epilepsy. And it’s not curable.”
“Epilepsy?” Mike looked blown away. “But you don’t... I mean...you haven’t...”
“Yeah, my symptoms aren’t what most people think of when they think of it.”
“Jeez.” After a moment the younger man said, “What symptoms? You never said.”
Shane quickly recounted what he’d told Carly. “I’ve been having these episodes for about six months now. The first physician I consulted had no idea what was causing them. He thought maybe I was depressed and wanted to prescribe an antidepressant.” He snorted. “I knew I wasn’t depressed, so I insisted on seeing a specialist. A whole slew of specialists, in fact, an endocrinologist and a neurologist among them. Nobody could put a name to what was wrong with me. I was complaining to a doctor friend from my Marine Corps days that even with all the medical advances, there’s still a lot we don’t know, and he suggested the Mayo Clinic.”
“And that’s the diagnosis they came up with? Epilepsy?” Mike shook his head. “Maybe you should get a second opinion.”
Shane laughed, but the humor was lacking. “Don’t need one. And you wouldn’t suggest it if you read the literature they provided me with. What I have isn’t all that common, but it is a specialized form of epilepsy—the symptoms are unmistakable. And even if they weren’t, the tests they performed—”
“You mean all those electrodes?”
“Yeah. Those electrodes were for EEG tests. They were actually able to trigger two episodes with their stress tests. The nurses observed the goose bumps on my arms and legs—that’s the reason they wanted me to wear running shorts and a short-sleeved shirt in bed, by the way, so they could observe the physical manifestations—and they talked to me during each episode and recorded my responses. Just as I’d told them, each incident lasted about a half a minute then went away, and I never lost consciousness. But the EEG recorded what was happening in my brain each time. Sure enough, I was having tiny seizures.”
Mike didn’t respond for several minutes as he digested this. “And it’s not—you said it’s not curable? What are you going to do?”
“It’s controllable but not curable.” Shane reached into his pocket and pulled out a little pill bottle, the prescription he’d had filled before he left the hospital. “Twice a day, and it’s supposed to control the seizures.”
“And that’s what you want me to include in your statement to the press?”
Shane shook his head. “Not exactly. As I told you, first let’s just say I’ve been asked not to talk about the attack. I promised Carly Edwards—”
Mike pointed to his laptop screen. “Tiger Shark? Her?”
>
“Yeah.” He envisioned her in his hospital room...then in his fantasies. “I promised her an exclusive if and when I went public with this information. And I always keep my promises.”
* * *
Carly settled into her first-class airplane seat on the red-eye flight to DC with a tiny sigh of satisfaction. She declined the offer of an alcoholic beverage and instead requested a bottle of water, which was quickly forthcoming. She sipped at it, then closed her eyes. As the plane took off, she let her mind replay everything that had happened over the past two days. High on the list was the scoop she’d managed, even though the police had seized her smartphone and the video she’d taken as evidence in the assassination attempt on the senator.
But even higher on the list was Senator Jones himself. Shane Jones. She could still see him confronting her this afternoon, a seething, very-pissed-off male. She was on the tall side for a woman, but he towered over her. And she would have bet her next exclusive there was not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body. A body that had sprawled protectively atop hers when the bullet had whizzed over them. At the time, she hadn’t focused on anything except her fortunate escape, but now she realized how good it had felt to be held in his strong arms. Safe. Secure. And unbelievably, that embrace had reminded her she was a woman and he was a man. An incredibly sexy man.
Stop thinking about his physical attributes, she told herself, frowning a little. But then she remembered those chocolate-brown eyes, and the way they and his mobile mouth could express a wide range of emotions, as they had in his hospital room. He’d been angry with her this afternoon—and all marine—but yesterday...yesterday he’d seemed human. Approachable. A wounded warrior trying to come to terms with a diagnosis that made a mockery of his seeming invulnerability.
She ran through the facts she knew about him—the ones she’d known for a while and the ones she’d researched yesterday after she’d cut the interview short—and tried to assemble them into a picture of the man.
Knowing he was a widower whose wife and unborn child had died at the hands of terrorists, explained that incredibly protective streak in him. Not just this afternoon, but five years ago, when he’d used his body to shield a pregnant woman from harm in a domestic terrorism incident outside a bookstore. He’d escaped injury this afternoon, but not back then. That’s when he’d sustained the TBI that most likely was the trigger for the seizures he was experiencing now.
Carly had still been in college when Shane’s pregnant wife had been kidnapped and murdered, but it had made the news at the time. She remembered it vividly, but she hadn’t known it was him. She hadn’t made the connection until she’d researched everything she could about the senator.
Wendy Jones, wife of a marine lieutenant stationed at the NATO headquarters in Belgium, had been abducted in broad daylight by a terrorist organization in retaliation for the arrest and conviction of three of its members, including its founder. And then executed in cold blood.
Carly had read with keen interest the interview he’d given his hometown newspaper shortly after the US Marine Corps had retired him due to the injuries he’d sustained that day five years ago. He’d made the Corps his home for so long it almost seemed a sacrilege to even think of “hanging up his spurs,” retired Lieutenant Colonel Shane Jones had explained to the reporter. “Twenty and out” had never been in his mind. He was a lifer. “Once a Marine, Always a Marine” wasn’t just a slogan used by former members of the US Marine Corps to distinguish themselves from lesser mortals, it had been his mantra.
Shane had been reticent, but the reporter had skillfully elicited the information that Shane was one of those rarities, a marine who’d enlisted in the Corps as a buck private and then had rapidly risen through the ranks. Not just as a noncommissioned officer—a noncom—but as a commissioned officer. Tapped at twenty-one for the Marine Corps Enlisted Commissioning Educational Program, the Corps had sent him to Officer Candidates School and then to college. Everything he was, everything he’d accomplished professionally, he owed to the Corps, he’d been quick to point out to the reporter, and he’d had no intention of reneging on the deal.
“But all that’s at an end,” the reporter had stated. “So what’s next for you now?”
Shane hadn’t had an answer for the interviewer. But Carly had read everything she could find on the senator, and she knew that after knocking around for a couple of months, Shane had gone into politics with the same single-minded dedication he’d once had for the Corps. He was an avowed independent—despite his military background that made some think he must be a right-wing “hawk”—but even though he’d staunchly refused to allow his media consultants to use the reason for his medical discharge in the campaign, the local media had played up his heroism despite his own refusal to do so, and he’d won that election in a landslide.
A year later, when the then-senior senator from Colorado had announced his retirement, Shane had declared for the vacant seat in the Senate. He hadn’t been the only one vying for that position, but his heroism during the domestic terrorism incident at the bookstore had still been recent enough to be the deciding factor in a close election.
Integrity counts, Carly mused. Then added with a touch of cynicism, Sometimes.
She shifted positions, tucking her pillow between her head and the wall of the plane, her thoughts growing drowsy. Drowsy...and dangerous.
She’d been drawn to Shane both physically and emotionally. Yesterday and today. But she knew better than to let herself get involved with someone like him. After Jack she’d sworn off men completely, then modified her stance somewhat. She would only date those who didn’t threaten her closely guarded heart.
And Senator Shane Jones was a threat—no question about that. Not only did he have the emotional depth and strength of character she admired, he’d suffered the kind of injury that had stolen Jack from her. And that she couldn’t bear. She couldn’t lose another man the way she’d lost Jack. She just couldn’t.
Chapter 4
The ringing of the phone roused Carly from a chaotic dream, the basic elements of which lingered even after she pried her eyes open, glanced at the alarm clock and collapsed back onto the bed. She tugged her pillow over her head, ignoring the phone for once. She’d had all of three hours of sleep, and unless the building was on fire, there was no emergency that would get her out of bed.
Eventually the ringing stopped. Then her brand-new, less-than-twelve-hours-old smartphone began chirping. She hadn’t had time to set up all her ringtones yet, so she had no idea who’d be calling her at the ungodly hour of—
She emerged from beneath the pillow and cracked one eye open to peer at the clock—8:34 a.m. Not so ungodly, but still...she hadn’t arrived home until fivefifteen this morning. She’d dumped her carry-on suitcase in the hallway, stripped off her clothes without bothering to hang them up and tumbled naked into bed without even brushing her teeth, an oversight she was paying for now with the yucky taste in her mouth.
Her smartphone stopped for all of five seconds, then started chirping again. Whoever was on the other end was persistent, she’d give them that. She tugged on one purse strap until she managed to pull her purse off the dresser and into bed beside her, then fumbled until she found her new iPhone. “Hello?”
“Carly? It’s J.C.” The clipped British accent of her producer at the cable news network she’d joined last year filled her ear.
“You have ten seconds before I hang up on you,” she told J.C. “So whatever it is, it had better be good. And quick.”
“Senator Shane Jones is trying to reach you.”
That made her sit up, then clutch the bedclothes to her chest as if J.C. could see her naked. “What?”
“Yeah, the subject of your broadcast last evening wants you to call him ASAP.”
“Did he say why?”
“Wasn’t the senator himself. His press se
cretary called the network looking for your contact info, and that got routed to me. You know what this is about?”
Carly slung her long, dark hair over one shoulder and scrubbed a hand over her eyes, her brain scrambling to focus. Was the senator just pissed because she’d reported on the assassination attempt? That didn’t make sense—she wasn’t the only reporter covering the story, and he had to know it. Of course, she was the only one with footage of the gunman, which raised her story head and shoulders above the rest. Still, even if he’d seen her broadcast, she hadn’t said anything he could really object to, hadn’t mentioned why he was there at the Mayo Clinic.
“Carly?” J.C.’s voice took on an impatient tone.
“I’m thinking,” she countered quickly. No, she reasoned, if he’s trying to get in touch with me, there’s only one explanation. He intends to go public with— “He promised me an exclusive,” she told J.C.
His voice sharpened. “When did he promise you that? You never mentioned it to me.”
“I don’t tell you everything.” A long silence followed, during which Carly could have sworn she could hear J.C.’s thoughts.
He didn’t say any of the things she figured he was thinking. All he said was, “When the senator arrived in DC last night, he released a statement through his press secretary.”
“Saying?”
“Nothing more than he’d been asked by the Phoenix police and the FBI not to discuss the incident since it’s still under investigation. But his press secretary refused to take any questions during the press conference, including the one every reporter there wanted to ask—what was he doing at the Mayo Clinic? Congress is in recess, and as far as anyone knew, Senator Jones was back home in Colorado.” J.C. let that statement hang there for a few seconds, then asked, “Do you know why?”
Carly’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes,” she admitted. “But only on deep background. I can’t report the story until he’s willing to go on the record, and when I spoke with him two days ago he had no intention of doing that.”