by Amelia Autin
“Damn it, Carly,” J.C. growled.
“But I think he must have changed his mind,” she said before J.C. could go ballistic. “Or rather, the events yesterday must have changed his mind. Other than that, I can’t imagine why he’d want to talk with me. It can’t be anything to do with the assassination attempt—he’s staying mum on that, isn’t that what you told me?”
She didn’t wait for J.C.’s agreement. “So the only thing he and I have to discuss is...what I can’t tell you until he gives me the go-ahead.” She tugged her notebook out of her purse along with a pen and added, “What’s the phone number?”
* * *
A clean-shaven Marsh Anderson pulled his carry-on luggage from the overhead compartment and deplaned at Reagan National Airport in Washington, DC. He strode confidently through the airport, past the airline employees and TSA checkpoints, then retrieved his nondescript white Chevy truck from the long-term parking lot. As he drove to his home in Arlington, Virginia, his thoughts dwelled on the two phone calls he’d received yesterday—one from the man who’d hired him, one from the man on the inside. Neither had been at all happy with the outcome. Marsh agreed with their assessment that he’d screwed up. Not so much for missing his shot—that could happen to anyone due to circumstances beyond his control—but for allowing himself to be recorded as he made his escape.
“Damned reporters,” he whispered under his breath. He’d planned everything so carefully. He’d waited nearly an hour in the little park across from the entrance to the Mayo Clinic, moving around a little from spot to spot so as not to draw attention to a man lying in wait. He’d assembled his AS50 sniper rifle even earlier, secreting it between a boulder and a large aloe plant—close enough to retrieve at a moment’s notice, but out of sight. He’d known when the limo had pulled up in the driveway in front of the hospital, that was his signal the senator would be down shortly. He’d surreptitiously retrieved the rifle and had moved into position—a hidden vantage point he’d scouted and tested two days previously.
But everything had gone wrong from that point forward.
He’d followed his original plan regarding the disposal of the weapon he’d used and the clothing he’d worn, too, just as if he’d been successful in his assassination attempt. He’d immediately and without a qualm dumped the AS50 in a ravine in the Phoenix Mountains Preserve southwest of the Mayo Clinic—after he’d wiped it clean of prints, of course, and had rammed a metal rod down the barrel. That would ensure no one could match the rifling marks to any of the bullets it had fired—in case any had been recovered in usable form.
He’d also changed clothes in one of the restrooms there and had trashed what he’d been wearing in a Dumpster in Paradise Valley. Then he’d returned to his motel west of Phoenix to shave off the beard he’d grown specifically for this job.
But Marsh hadn’t tried to book a flight out of Phoenix—he’d kept his original ticket for this morning. He was too smart to try to skip town right after the shooting because he knew law enforcement—the Phoenix police and the FBI—would be watching closely for that. He’d holed up in his motel room instead, watched the news, then had taken the trim attachment on his electric razor to his somewhat shaggy hair—which he’d also let grow for this job—to make sure no one would recognize him from the video that damned reporter had managed to capture.
No beard and short hair matched the picture on his driver’s license, the one he’d displayed when he checked in for his flight in the early-morning hours.
Now he was home—almost home, he amended with a slight smile as he exited the freeway. But his smile faded as he acknowledged he had a hell of a lot of work to do once he arrived there. In addition to his contracted job on the senator—and the clock was ticking on that one, as the man who’d hired Marsh had reminded him last night—he also needed to take care of the witness, that damned reporter. The video she’d shot wasn’t good enough to conclusively identify him—she’d been too far away and the camera hadn’t been completely steady, although she’d tried. But in the unlikely event he was ever pulled in for questioning and forced to take part in a lineup, it was possible she could pick him out, despite his disguise that day. And that was not going to happen. Not if Marsh had anything to say about it.
* * *
Carly dialed the number J.C. had given her, identified herself to the press secretary then waited, yawning, for the senator himself. She was still several hours short of the seven to eight hours of sleep she needed every night, and she had to fight her body’s demands that she go back to bed. There was a time when she could go night and day with only a few catnaps, but she’d been a lot younger then. She wasn’t over the hill at thirty-five—not by a long shot!—but she didn’t have the stamina she’d had at twenty-five, and she was smart enough to know it. She hadn’t lost an ounce of drive—they didn’t call her Tiger Shark behind her back for nothing—but she knew her physical limitations. Usually. Senator Jones might not believe that, not after yester—
“Shane Jones,” said a voice in her ear. “Ms. Edwards?”
“Yes. You asked me to call you?”
She heard a slight sound, as if the senator had heaved a sigh, before he said, “Yes. About what we discussed two days ago? The assassination attempt has made it impossible to keep my presence at the Mayo Clinic secret. And I have no intention of lying about it. So I’m keeping my word—if you want the exclusive now, it’s yours.”
If she wanted it. If she wanted it? “Of course I want it. And given the sudden interest in you, the sooner the better. I can come to your home or office, but I’ll have to bring a crew with me. Easier if you come to the television studio.”
“Sounds good. What time? I’m meeting with the FBI at ten and with my entire staff at eleven, but I’m free from noon until four. I have a cocktail party I’m supposed to attend at five...” He mentioned the name of the president pro-tem of the Senate. “And I’ve been invited to a reception at the Zakharian embassy that starts at seven, which my executive assistant already accepted on my behalf once she knew I’d be back in time. I don’t like to blow off prior engagements, but I will if—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Carly said quickly. “Noon to four works for me.” She gave him the address of the studio. “They’ll pull you in for makeup first—”
“Oh, cra—I mean crud. Is that really necessary?”
Carly smiled to herself. “It is if you want to look healthy. And I think you do, Senator, especially given what you’re going to reveal. The lights wash all the color out of your face—trust me, I know—so in order to look natural, you definitely need makeup.”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Shouldn’t take too long,” she assured him. “Oh, and wear a light blue shirt, red tie. The cameras love that combination.” She didn’t wait for his assent before adding, “I’ll have a list of questions prepared by the time you show up, and I’ll review them with you while they’ve got you in the makeup chair.”
He chuckled. “That’s unusual.”
Carly was surprised by the touch of anger that darted through her, and she wanted to leap to her profession’s defense. But...there was some truth to his statement. “No surprises, Senator. This isn’t an adversarial interview.”
“Shane. If we’re not going to be adversaries, just call me Shane.”
“Shane,” she agreed. “And my friends call me Carly.”
“Thanks, Carly.” Her name sounded different coming from him. Or was that sexy undertone just the way he spoke normally?
Out of the blue she remembered her chaotic dream earlier this morning. Something about Shane and her and a tropical island. But just as they’d been about to make love a platoon of US Marines had landed on the island with one of those landing craft from WWII and swarmed Shane to protect him. He’d immediately ordered the marines to protect her, not him.
But I’m not
targeted for assassination, she’d protested as the marines promptly shifted at his command. Think again, Shane had said in that deep voice that sent shivers down her spine. You saw him. You can identify him. He’ll be coming after you—count on it.
* * *
Shane glanced apprehensively at the array of cosmetics, brushes and spray cans on the counter before him, then at the makeup artist draping a large cotton bib over his chest and tucking a towel around his throat, pushing the edges into his shirt collar to keep it from accidentally getting smeared. “Do your worst,” he said in the resigned voice of a man going to the guillotine.
The fiftysomething woman chuckled and patted his arm. “Don’t worry, honey, I’m the best in the business. When I’m done, you won’t look as if you’re wearing makeup at all.”
Shane tried to ignore whatever it was she was doing to him and focus on Carly sitting on the stool next to him. She’d obviously already been worked on—her face still looked like her but...polished. That’s it, he thought. She looks polished. Her long, dark hair had been braided and coiled into gleaming perfection, her bright blue eyes were huge and thickly fringed with dark lashes, and her mouth—holy crap, her mouth!—curved sweetly with the barest hint of gloss to add color. He shifted in the chair, grateful for the expansive bib that hid his body’s obvious reaction to the woman he’d known he wanted two days ago—from the first moment he’d met her.
“... At that point I’ll ask you to describe the symptoms that caused you to contact the Mayo Clinic,” Carly was saying, her eyes on her script, and he forced his attention away from his sudden fantasy of the two of them alone on a desert island. “Keep it short. And don’t use any fancy words our viewers might not understand.”
“Got it.”
She went through the rest of the questions, none of which Shane considered anything but softballs that would allow him to hit home run after home run with his answers. Only once did he object—when she brought up how he’d received the traumatic brain injury the doctors theorized had been the trigger for the seizures.
“No, I’m not going there.”
She said patiently, “You don’t understand, Senator. People—”
“Shane.”
“Shane,” she amended. “You don’t understand. People are going to want to know what happened.”
“It’s not up for discussion.”
She pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing. “Okay. We won’t go there.” She crossed a line through that question in her script. But Shane was watching her closely, and he thought he saw something in the expression that fleetingly passed over her face. Something she knew, which she wasn’t going to tell him.
He opened his mouth to ask Carly about it when the makeup artist said suddenly, “There, honey, you’re all done.” She removed the towel and whipped off the bib, then patted the knot of his tie back into place.
He looked in the mirror and realized the woman had been right—he couldn’t even tell he was wearing makeup. He looked like himself...only better. And for the first time in his life he understood why women wore makeup. Not that he would ever wear it for anything other than the TV cameras—he could hear his brothers snorting with laughter and making crude jokes at that idea—but still...
“Thank you,” he told the woman, catching her eyes in the mirror. “I was wrong. You didn’t do your worst, you did your best.”
The woman beamed back at him. “’Course I did, honey.”
“How do I get this junk off afterward?”
“You leave it to Maggie,” Carly said, smiling at both of them. “I’ll bring you back here when we’re done. Thanks, Maggie, you’re a treasure.”
As Carly led him toward the sound stage where the interview would be recorded, Shane tugged her sleeve to hold her back for a moment. “Before I forget, I wanted to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Would it be breaking any journalistic ethics rules if I asked you to accompany me to the reception at the Zakharian embassy tonight? The invitation was for me and a guest.” Carly’s eyes widened, as if he’d taken her by surprise. “I hate these formal affairs, but I’d hate them a lot less if I had an intelligent woman to talk with while I was there.” He laughed suddenly. “Sorry, that wasn’t very smooth. The truth is, I’d really enjoy your company. Will you go with me?”
* * *
After they finished taping the interview, J.C. came out of the sound booth to shake Shane’s hand. “Great job, Senator. Sorry about the diagnosis, but very glad to hear it’s controllable with medication.”
“Thanks.” Shane didn’t say any more, but Carly saw the speculative way he assessed J.C. and then her, as if he was wondering if there was anything between them.
Because he’s interested in you? she wondered. Seriously interested in you? Or just because he’s curious?
Until that point Carly had never really looked at J.C. as a woman would look at a man, but now she did. And what she saw explained why Shane might wonder about their relationship. J.C. was nearly as tall as Shane, just as physically fit and a couple years younger. He wasn’t quite as handsome, but he had the kind of face—not to mention that terrific British accent—most women would be attracted to. But not me, she insisted. There was no spark with J.C. and never had been. She couldn’t say that about Shane.
Carly’s gaze caught Shane’s, and she shook her head slightly, answering the question she knew he wouldn’t ask outright. His dark brown eyes warmed—there’s that chocolate fudge, she told herself—and a tiny smile played over his lips. And despite telling herself not to, she returned his smile with a tiny one of her own.
She took Shane back to Maggie for removal of what he’d referred to as “junk.” Then she returned to the soundstage to confer with J.C. about the interview, which would be “spliced and diced,” and put back together, along with a computer-generated reenactment of the domestic terrorism bombing at the bookstore where Shane had been injured five years ago, for broadcast that evening.
A twinge of guilt touched Carly’s conscience because she hadn’t told Shane about the reenactment when he’d refused to allow any questions about that incident. It had been J.C.’s idea, and she’d enthusiastically agreed this morning, thinking it would be a great visual. But now she wasn’t so sure. Oh, it would still be good—but she was fairly sure Shane wouldn’t like it. Even less would he like the two-minute film clip interview with the woman whose life—and whose baby’s life—he’d saved.
There was something appealing about Shane’s insistence on keeping that door closed. It said something about his character that he wouldn’t use his heroism five years ago to his advantage now. But just as he hadn’t been able to keep the news media from telling and retelling the story when he’d been running for Congress and then for the Senate, he couldn’t keep her network from playing the hero card during this exclusive interview. Heroes helped ratings. And though Carly was a hard-hitting investigative reporter with a strong ethical background, ratings were a fact of life.
She considered asking J.C. to ax either the reenactment or the film clip, then decided against it. The network had already spent the money on the computer graphics and to interview the woman. The only argument she could muster was that Shane wouldn’t like it, and she didn’t think that would carry much weight with J.C. It wouldn’t have carried much weight with her, either, three days ago.
Before she’d met Shane.
That realization scared her right down to her shoes, and made her wish she’d turned down Shane’s date request instead of accepting it with alarming alacrity. Because if she was looking at herself and her actions differently after only knowing Shane for two days, any more time spent in his company was a disaster waiting to happen.
Chapter 5
“Wow,” Shane said when Carly opened the door of her Georgetown town house at his ring. “You look fantastic.
”
Carly knew from the warmth in her cheeks she was blushing under Shane’s admiring stare. Again. She’d blushed in his hospital room and had chastised herself for it. But apparently it wasn’t a onetime thing. Not with Shane.
“Thanks. You look pretty fantastic yourself,” she said. And he did. From his close-cropped golden-brown hair right down to the spit-and-polish shine on his black dress shoes, Shane looked the epitome of a well-dressed man. His tuxedo, which she could see because his black, camel-hair overcoat was unbuttoned, fit him as if it had been sewn together with him inside it. A gleaming white handkerchief just barely peeked out of his breast pocket. And the white carnation in his lapel was the perfect touch.
He held out a small plastic box, which contained a gorgeous white gardenia wrist corsage. “You said you’d be wearing blue, so I figured white was safe,” he said.
Carly managed to get the box open, and the fragrant scent wafted upward. “I love gardenias,” she admitted in a low voice. She wasn’t going to tell him he’d hit upon her favorite flower, one she hadn’t worn since Jack... Gardenias would have been in her bridal bouquet.
She blinked away the sudden tears and stepped back. “I’m not quite ready, so why don’t you come on in,” she invited, although at that moment she would rather have invited a rattlesnake into her home—and she had a phobia about snakes. She glanced at the schoolhouse clock on the wall in the foyer. “Five minutes,” she promised as she dashed up the stairs. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
* * *
Shane watched Carly ascend the staircase, grateful for a moment alone to pull himself together. She’d looked so unbelievably lovely when she’d answered the door—her dark hair still in the sophisticated chignon she’d worn during his interview, her sapphire-blue dress shimmering as it clung discretely in all the right places—and he’d been stunned. His heartbeat had quickened and he’d hardened in a rush. Wanting was such a pitiful word compared to what Carly made him feel.