by Amelia Autin
Deciding, he shook her gently. “Carly? You have to wake up now, Carly.”
She awoke with a start. “I wasn’t sleeping,” she told him as her eyelids fluttered but remained closed. She snuggled back against his shoulder. “I was just resting my eyes.”
“Right. Well, you have to open your eyes now. We’re here.”
“We are?” She straightened abruptly and glanced around, then blinked owlishly and said, “Oh. We are.”
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you to your door.” He handed his credit card to the cab driver. “Don’t leave. I’m coming right back.”
“No problem.”
Outside the cab, the cold air woke Carly better than he could have done, but Shane took her arm until they were safely on her doorstep, just in case.
She fumbled in her evening bag until she found the key, then unlocked the door and turned to face him. “Shane, I...”
He touched her face, sliding his fingers along the curve of her cheek and coming to rest beneath her chin. “You’re dead on your feet,” he told her. “Sleepy, early-morning sex might be great, but not for our first time.” He kissed her lightly. Then kissed her again, not so lightly, as desire for her surged through his body. “Tell me to go home, Carly,” he rasped, drawing back a little, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Go home, Shane,” she agreed, smiling faintly. She tugged his head down until she could brush her lips against his. “You’re right—not our first time.”
Chapter 7
Carly woke from an erotic dream of Shane, then curled tighter in her warm cocoon of bedclothes, thinking about him. About last night. And about how she wished it had ended. She tucked her hand between her pillow and her cheek and let her imagination run riot.
Eventually, though, she sighed, stretched and yawned. Then dozed off. She soon found herself in another dream of Shane—one that had nothing to do with sex or attempted murder. All he was doing was smiling at her in a quizzical way, his gorgeous brown eyes sending a message she couldn’t quite interpret. Not yet. But if she stood there long enough, she knew the answer would come to her. If she could just—
The phone beside her bed shrilled, shocking her awake, and she grabbed it. “Hello?” She couldn’t help that her voice was grumpy.
“Good morning, sunshine,” her producer said.
She told him exactly what he could do with his good morning, and he laughed softly, which chafed her temper raw. “What do you want, J.C.?” she demanded. “I didn’t get to bed until after three, and it’s...” She squinted at the clock on her nightstand. “It’s barely eight. Between last night and the night before, I’ve gotten less than nine hours of sleep. Don’t you have a life?”
“Sure I do. My job is my life.”
She told him what he could do with that, too, and he laughed again before turning serious, saying, “A little bird told me there was another attempt on Senator Jones’s life last night.” That made her sit up with a jerk.
“Who told you?”
“Not you.” He let that statement hang there like a silent accusation, then said, “And my little bird told me you were right there in the thick of things.”
“I can’t tell you anything because I don’t know anything,” Carly was quick to explain. “Yes, I was there, but not as a reporter. I was on a date, J.C. You should try it sometime,” she added caustically.
He ignored her statement. “My sources tell me someone tried to blow the senator to hell and gone after the reception at the Zakharian embassy. And the bomb could have killed you, too.”
“Are you asking for confirmation as my producer? Or as my friend?”
There was a slight hesitation at the other end. “Both.”
Carly rubbed her eyes and fought back a sudden yawn. Not that this conversation wasn’t important, but she was still sleepy. And she needed to think before she spoke. Needed to choose her words carefully. She trusted J.C., but... “Professionally, I’m standing mute—I refuse to go on the record. As your friend, the answer is yes. I was in the car. I don’t know how he knew, but Shane—”
“Shane? He’s Shane to you now?”
“He was my date, J.C.” Her tone was wry. “Don’t you call your dates by their first names? Or don’t you have any?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Shane saved my life. I don’t know anything about the bomb or how it was wired to explode or anything—the FBI and the ATF wouldn’t tell me a damned thing.” And I was too sleepy to question Shane afterward, she thought but didn’t volunteer. “But somehow he knew, and he got me out of the car so fast I had no idea I was even in danger until I wasn’t. Then the bomb squad showed up and the FBI and the ATF. And I spent most of the next four hours being interrogated by experts. But I couldn’t tell them any more than I can tell you—I don’t know anything.”
“If you say so.”
There was just enough of a question in the way he said those four words for Carly to vehemently repeat, “I. Don’t. Know. Anything.”
There was silence at the other end for a moment. “Okay, but I’m pulling you off anything related to Senator Jones.”
“What?”
“You’re part of the story now, Carly,” J.C. explained patiently. “You can’t be objective. Not if you’re right in the middle of it.”
Carly seethed, although she knew in her gut her producer was right. But she didn’t have to like it. “Who are you putting on it?”
“Pearly White.” It wasn’t his real name, of course, just the disdainful nickname Carly had given Tate Westerly. He was pretty-boy handsome, and his capped teeth gleamed pearly white when he smiled, hence the nickname. He wasn’t much of a reporter, but he played well to the cameras, and his likeability index with the viewers was high.
“That bozo?”
“You got the big exclusives,” J.C. consoled her. “The first assassination attempt. The epilepsy story. At this point it’s just a matter of reporting what someone else uncovers. And no matter what we think of him professionally, Tate is good in front of the camera.”
“Just keep him away from me,” Carly insisted. “He tries to ask me any questions about my story, and he’ll find out what I really think of him.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep him out of your hair.” She could tell J.C. was relieved he’d managed to skate right over what he liked to call a “sticky wicket,” and what Carly referred to as a disaster waiting to happen.
“If there’s nothing else, J.C., I’d like to get a couple more hours of sleep before coming in to work. If I can’t work on the attempted assassination story, do you have a new assignment for me?”
“Nothing urgent. We can discuss it when you get in.”
“Sounds good. See you then.” Carly hung up, then fell back against the pillow and pulled the bedclothes over her head. Sleep, she ordered herself. She was pretty good at that. Just like a lot of soldiers, she could sleep anytime, anywhere, given the opportunity.
She was floating in that half-awake half-asleep state when the phone rang once more. She snatched the phone off the cradle, assuming it was J.C. again, and snarled, “What now?”
“And good morning to you, too.” Shane’s voice, warm and amused, sounded in her ear.
* * *
Marsh disconnected his disposable cell phone—cutting off his conversation with his contact on the inside—before he cursed. Disposable or not, he was discretion personified on the phone. He never let his clients—or their hirelings—know what he was thinking. And he especially never let on when he’d made a mistake.
But he was angry with himself for his carelessness. He’d worn gloves, of course—he wasn’t stupid enough to leave fingerprints. He wasn’t stupid enough to leave DNA, either, if he could possibly prevent it. But in this case the gloves had been his mistake. Who could have foreseen the gloves
would smudge the dried dirt splatters on the panel below the driver’s side door of the senator’s car when Marsh had slid beneath it to set the bomb? Or that the senator would notice that tiny patch where the dirt splatters should have been but weren’t?
“Should have thought of that,” Marsh muttered to himself. “Planning? Perfect. Execution? Flawed.” Respect for his target made him add, “He’s smarter and more observant than anyone you’ve gone up against before. Which means you need to be on top of your game. No more screwups.”
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Carly told Shane. “I thought it was J.C. calling again. My producer.”
“Yeah, I met him yesterday, remember?” His voice turned dry. “I have epilepsy, not amnesia.”
Carly winced at first, until she realized something. “Hey, if you can joke about it, then—”
“It’s getting a little easier to talk about...with you. I haven’t received any feedback from my constituency on the interview that aired last night, but my mom called while we were at the reception and left a message on my answering machine—I heard it when I got in this morning. She thinks it went okay, but we’ll have to see what the polls say.”
She was suddenly reminded that since Shane hadn’t seen the broadcast, he still didn’t know... “I have to tell you something,” she began, but he interrupted her.
“Can it wait? The Senate will convene at nine and I just arrived at the office—I slept late this morning. I have several things I need to do before going down to the Senate floor, but I had to call and see how you’re doing this morning after last night.”
“Sleepy, but otherwise I’m fine,” she assured him. “But I have to tell you—”
“Will you have dinner with me tonight? Lunch is impossible, I’m afraid, but—hang on a second, please,” he said, and Carly could hear voices in the background. When he came back on the line he said, “I have to go. Dinner?” His voice dropped a notch. “Please, Carly.”
“Okay, dinner.”
“I’ll pick you up. What time?”
Surprised, she asked, “You have your Mustang back?”
“Not yet, but my executive assistant arranged a rental car. So what time should I pick you up?”
She thought quickly, and said, “Seven.” It was always possible he’d call and cancel...if he found out what she hadn’t told him about last night’s broadcast. If he didn’t cancel, then...
“Seven it is. See you then.”
* * *
Carly was jumpy and nervous all day. Every time her office phone or her cell phone rang, she was sure it would be Shane, calling to say she’d betrayed him by not telling him about the computer-generated reenactment and the interview with the woman he’d saved that had been included in last night’s broadcast. But every time it wasn’t him. She was so worried about Shane’s reaction that when the overnights came in—the ratings on her interview with Shane—they barely registered, even though her colleagues praised her for the journalistic coup that had also been a ratings success. She was so distracted that when J.C. laid out three potential stories he wanted her to pursue, she just said fine without picking one to focus on first.
She still hadn’t heard a word from Shane by the time she left work. So she went home and dressed for their upcoming date as if she were facing a firing squad. She tossed aside a “little black dress” she loved in favor of a killer red, practically backless one whose hem floated several inches above her knees. Men prefer red, she reminded herself feverishly. She didn’t go overboard with makeup, but she remembered the expression in Shane’s eyes when he’d seen her last night, and did pretty much the same with her eyes and lips. She couldn’t do her own hair the way Maggie had, so she brushed it until it crackled and coiled it into a simple chignon at the nape of her neck. Classic and elegant.
Dangly ruby and diamond earrings she’d inherited from her mother—and which she cherished more for that reason than their obvious beauty—completed her ensemble. She left her throat bare. Someday she’d have to worry about the signs of age every woman eventually fretted over, but that day—thank God!—had not yet arrived.
She lightly touched the pulse points on her wrists and behind her ears with her favorite gardenia-scented perfume, hesitated, then dabbed it between her breasts. Then she looked at herself in the full-length mirror.
Carly knew she was quietly beautiful—if your preference was for dark-haired women and not blondes. But for the first time since Jack, she wanted to be especially beautiful for a man. For Shane.
The doorbell rang and she jumped. Don’t let him be upset, she prayed silently. Not for herself, but for him. Because it had suddenly become unbelievably important that she not hurt him. She grabbed the little clutch purse she’d already prepared, and hurried down the stairs.
* * *
When the door swung open Shane started to speak, but the breath left his lungs at the sight of Carly in red, and he had to remind himself to breathe. Last night, in her sparkly blue evening dress that matched her eyes, she’d been regal and radiant. Tonight, she was stunning.
When their eyes met he said huskily, “There are no words, Carly.”
He hadn’t realized she’d been anxiously awaiting his approbation until the anxiety was banished, replaced with a smile that made him want to forget dinner, walk her backward into her town house, and make love to her on the first surface he found. Which he couldn’t do, of course. But he wanted to.
“Come on in while I get my coat,” Carly said with a little catch in her voice.
Shane didn’t trust himself inside. “I’ll wait out here.”
She shook her head, took his arm, and drew him into the house, closing the door behind him. “That’s ridiculous. Forgetting the fact that it’s cold outside, you’d make a terrific target standing under the porch light. A ten-year-old boy could take you down, much less an experienced marksman.”
She turned toward the closet as she was speaking, and that’s when Shane saw the back of her dress. Or rather, what wasn’t there. And before he knew it, he’d spoken her name in a voice that couldn’t hide his desperate need.
She froze for a second, then faced him. And the invitation in her eyes was unmistakable. “I’m not really hungry,” she whispered. “Except...” She caught her breath, then let it out, the faintest tremor running through her body. “For you, Shane,” she finished on a rush. “Except for you.”
He closed his eyes, then opened them again. And suddenly Carly was in his arms, her lips locked on to his. A rushing sound filled his ears, and he realized it was his blood coursing through his veins as his heart pounded furiously. He let Carly go only long enough to fight out of his overcoat and jacket, dropping them unheeded on the floor. Then his arms closed around her again.
Shane retained just enough sanity to know he couldn’t take Carly right there on the floor in the foyer...or on the staircase...or bent over the arm of the sofa in the living room. But he honest to God didn’t know if he could make it to the bedroom.
He slid his hands beneath her skirt and up. Up over silky thighs, until he grasped her hips and lifted, pulling her flush against the hardness of his erection. “Hold on tight,” he whispered, and she wrapped her legs around his hips and rocked against him, moaning a little, her hands frantically clutching his shoulders for purchase.
Afterward he could never explain how they ended up in her bedroom, except that somehow he’d carried her up the stairs just like that—her arms around his neck, her lips glued to his, her thighs clutching tightly. He tumbled her onto the bed and followed her down.
Claws of need ripped through him. She’d lost her shoes somewhere along the way, but the .22 was still strapped securely to her right thigh. He hadn’t felt it before—hell, he’d barely known his own name earlier—but now he unbuckled the strap and dropped the holstered gun over the side of the bed. He would hav
e dispensed with her nylons and underwear by ripping them away, but Carly raised her hips and wriggled the offending garments off far enough for Shane to peel them down the rest of the way. The nylons and satin panties joined the gun on the floor.
His fingers stroked between her thighs and found her damp and oh-so-ready for him, and he praised her in a guttural voice. Her arousal fueled his own—as if he needed anything to make him harder. He slid one finger inside her, and she arched and moaned his name, her hands clutching his arms. He gently inserted a second finger beside the first, stroking in and out until she bucked against his hand and whimpered with need. Then she was whispering something he had to strain to hear. “Please, Shane. Please.”
Oh, hell yeah, he was going to please her. And please himself at the same time. He dug his hand into his pocket for one of the condoms he’d placed there, just in case, and came out with three. He dropped two of them on the comforter, then put the third packet between his teeth and ripped away the packaging. He unzipped quickly, freeing himself, and rolled on the condom faster than he’d ever managed before. Then he guided his erection to her damp entrance.
“Tell me yes,” he panted, his lips a fraction away from her ear.
She’d barely answered in the affirmative before he plunged deep, and her hips arched upward to meet him. It could have been all over in seconds—he wanted her that much. But he’d never left a woman unsatisfied, and he was damned if Carly would be the first. So he gritted his teeth and held back, even as he slid in and out. In and out. Faster, and yet faster. The tiny part of his brain that was still functioning kept saying each thrust had to be the last, but he held on. He managed to work his left hand in between their bodies, until he found the tiny nub he sought...and that was just enough to send Carly flying over the precipice, as she came. And came. And came.
When he felt her throbbing around him he thrust himself deep one last time and let go with a gasp of relief in a cataclysmic orgasm that seemed to be matched by hers.