by Amelia Autin
She’d just opened her mouth to argue that freedom of the press was not a circus, it was a necessary adjunct of democracy, when a car squealed around the corner and jerked to a stop at the first parking spot it came to. A man jumped out. The TV cameras all swiveled in his direction and followed him as he raced toward Carly, his open overcoat flying behind him.
Her heart nearly leaped out of her chest when she recognized Shane. Then she dropped her purse and ran to meet him, TV cameras be damned.
Chapter 9
“Another attempt on the life of Senator Shane Jones, independent from Colorado, was foiled today in a remarkable turn of events,” the news anchor announced. “Correspondent Tate Westerly is on the scene. Can you tell us what we know so far, Tate?”
Carly snatched the remote from Shane’s hand and muted the sound before Tate could speak. Then she settled back against Shane’s shoulder. They watched the silent news coverage of Tate looking self-important in front of Shane’s relatively modest house just across the Potomac River from Georgetown, where Carly lived.
She gave a delicate snort. “I can’t stand him. And he never gets anything first. He just looks good in front of the camera.”
“You look good in front of the camera,” Shane replied mildly.
“Yes, but that’s not my only qualification for the job,” she insisted, sitting up straight to confront him. “I’m—”
“Yeah, I know.” Shane smiled. “Tiger Shark. No one can forget that, especially me.” He put a restraining hand on her arm, exerting gentle pressure. “Put that head back where it belongs,” he told her in no uncertain terms. And when she’d done so, he kissed her forehead. “I think I went a little crazy this evening when I thought...well...you know what I thought.”
“Me, too,” she confessed. “All I could think of was, if someone planted a bomb in my house, what about yours?”
“You know what this means, don’t you, that your house was targeted?”
She nodded. “Someone knows you stayed there last night.”
He shook his head. “That bomb wasn’t meant for me, it was meant for you. Which means you’re a target, too. Five will get you ten those two bombs were constructed and planted by the same man who sabotaged my car. I’m also betting he’s the same guy who tried to kill me at the Mayo Clinic. The assassin whose face you saw. He knows you saw him, Carly. He knows you can identify him. That’s why he wants to take you out. Me? Whatever he has against me, that’s one thing. With you it’s personal.”
* * *
She didn’t say anything for the longest time, and Shane wondered what she was thinking. He knew what he was thinking—this thing with Carly had rocketed to the top of his personal hierarchy of needs in nothing flat. The time from the moment he’d met her in his hospital room to today hadn’t even encompassed a week. But when he’d heard someone had been spotted leaving her town house in DC—the same someone who’d been spotted leaving his house in Virginia—all he could think of was warning her. Then getting to her side. All he could think of was keeping her safe the way he hadn’t kept Wendy safe.
His wife had been targeted because she was married to a US Marine assigned to NATO. The terrorists had reasoned striking a blow at the United States, as well as NATO, would have more political impact on delivering their message than if they’d targeted an unrelated civilian. And they’d been right—the news coverage had been lurid and unrelenting.
Now Carly was in danger because of him, too. And that was not going to happen. Not if he had anything to say about it.
The FBI and ATF had refused to allow Carly inside her town house so she could pack a suitcase. They’d told him the same thing—they needed time to sweep both houses to make sure there wasn’t another bomb or a booby trap somewhere. Sorry, Senator, the lead FBI agent on the scene had told him. It’s just not safe. If we don’t find anything, you and Ms. Edwards should be able to get back into your homes tomorrow.
So he and Carly had stopped at the nearest discount store for the bare minimum of essentials they would need overnight, and here they were in a hotel room in DC—with FBI agents outside the door.
He didn’t know how long that federal protection would last—they hadn’t volunteered the information and he hadn’t thought to ask earlier. He could take care of himself, but he was frantic to keep Carly safe long-term. He didn’t know who he needed to talk to, but he’d find out first thing tomorrow morning and argue his case—he wanted the FBI guarding Carly until the lunatic trying to kill them was caught.
Which might be later rather than sooner, he acknowledged, because the FBI had run the license plate on the truck the man had used...and it had turned out to belong to a Honda minivan in Maryland and not a Chevy truck in DC. The plates had been stolen the day before, while the minivan was parked outside a grocery store. And there was no camera covering the parking lot...only one on the store entrance and several inside. So Shane wasn’t holding out hope the man would be spotted on surveillance footage.
If the FBI couldn’t—or wouldn’t—keep the protection on Carly indefinitely, he’d have to find another way to ensure her safety.
When Carly finally spoke, though, it wasn’t what Shane had expected. “How did they know the bombs had been planted?” she asked as if it had just occurred to her.
Shane knew, but he wasn’t going to say. Not because she was a reporter and he didn’t trust her, but because he’d called in a huge favor from someone who was technically AWOL—if that terminology was used outside the military. There was no way he was chancing that getting out and negatively affecting the man’s career. So he temporized. “Someone must have been watching our houses. After the incident with my car the other night...”
“You need an affidavit for a search warrant...except in very circumscribed circumstances,” Carly insisted. “So how did they know about the bombs?”
“Yeah, well... I’m not going to complain. Are you?”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” she argued. “I totally get that in this case we got lucky, but Big Brother isn’t supposed to be spying on people who haven’t done anything, and—”
He kissed her to distract her. Okay, not just to distract her, although that was part of it. He kissed her because it still terrified him how close he’d come to losing her. If that bomb in her town house had exploded while she’d been inside...he couldn’t even bear thinking about it.
Shane deepened the kiss when Carly kissed him back, and he slid his hands down, over her hips, to pull her body flush with his. When he finally let her go, his heart was pounding and he was hard as a rock. Her breathing was as ragged as his was, and that pleased him to no end. He didn’t want to be the only one vulnerable here.
But then Carly drew away from him and said, “We have to talk about something.”
He desperately wanted to make love to her and she wanted to talk? Stand down, he ordered his body. The lady has something to say before you see action. “Okay.”
She jumped to her feet suddenly and walked away, pacing nervously. And Shane knew whatever it was she planned to tell him was a hell of a lot more serious than he’d first thought.
“We have to keep a certain...distance,” she said finally.
“Distance?” The word didn’t compute. Not where he and Carly were concerned. “How distant can we be if we share the same bed?”
“I don’t mean sexually. I mean...emotionally.”
He didn’t know where she was going with this, but he already knew it was a load of crap. She’d run to him this evening. She’d been as terrified for him as he’d been terrified for her. That didn’t equate to emotional distance. But all he said was “Uh-huh.” As if he was following her logic.
“We... I...can’t... That is, I was engaged years ago. Did you know that?”
He’d known...but only because of Dee-Dee’s in-depth report. The
one he’d asked her to compile the day he met Carly. That was another thing he wasn’t about to reveal, but he wouldn’t lie to her. “I’d heard.”
“If you heard, then you probably know Jack...died,” she added in a rush. “And it was my fault.”
What the hell? That was all he could think of in that instant. Because he knew the story. It had all played out on the six o’clock news, had been plastered across the bottom half of the front page of The Washington Post. Jack Tremaine, rising star in DC politics, and his fiancée, Carly Edwards, a war correspondent for a prominent cable news network, had been in a horrific car accident involving a drunk driver, an icy road and a faulty airbag.
But Carly hadn’t been driving. And Jack Tremaine hadn’t died in the crash, anyway, so... “How was it your fault?”
“The doctors warned us—Jack’s parents and me—that the traumatic brain injury he received in the crash could cause...mood swings. Depression. They warned us, Shane.” Her voice broke. “They told us what to watch for. They explained how critical it was for everyone around Jack to be on the lookout, especially that first year after the crash.”
Tears stood in Carly’s eyes, and the sight of them made Shane’s heart ache the way hers was obviously aching. She blinked rapidly to hold back her tears, as if she could hold her emotions at bay that way, too. “I should have seen the signs,” she whispered. “But I was so busy with the story I was working on...and so caught up in the preparations for our wedding, that I...”
Then it clicked for Shane. He remembered from the news clipping in the file Dee-Dee had compiled, that Jack, suffering from untreated depression the doctors theorized had been the result of the traumatic brain injury he’d received, had committed suicide. He’d jumped from the Eleventh Street Bridge into the Anacostia River three days before his wedding.
And Shane had suffered a TBI, too.
He shook his head vehemently. “There’s no parallel between Jack and me,” he began. “They’re two completely different situa—” Then he stopped cold. Yeah, he hadn’t been depressed—unduly depressed—after the explosion that had ended his career in the Marine Corps five years ago. And suicide was the last thing he could ever see himself doing. But...he had epilepsy. And one of the known side effects of many of the drugs used to control seizures was...depression.
Including the medication he was taking.
The words he’d intended to say died a quick death, and he alternately clenched and relaxed his left fist, attempting to come to terms with what Carly was trying to tell him without actually coming right out and saying it.
Bitter rage swept through him. Not against Carly, whose heart had been broken once and who never wanted to suffer that again. He could relate—he’d loved and lost before, too. Fifteen years was a long time, but he could still remember what it felt like.
No, his rage wasn’t externally directed, it was directed against himself. Against the traitor within his own body. Against the damned seizures he couldn’t even control without medication.
“I...see,” he said finally. He stood and walked slowly to the window. The curtain was drawn, but he pulled it back slightly to stare out at the DC skyline, bitterness still churning inside him. But instead of the lights of the city, all he could see was his own reflection, and it gave him pause. Because the man in the window was a stranger. A stranger who asked in a voice Shane didn’t recognize, “Would you rather we had separate hotel rooms?”
He had to make her that offer. If she said yes, that would be that. But if she said no, he still had a chance. A chance to change her mind. A chance to make her see they had something special, despite everything going against them. Something worth the risk. Not just sex, although they were incredible together that way, too.
She didn’t answer right away, and he turned to face her. “I hurt you,” she said at last. And some latent emotion in her voice gave him hope. “I didn’t mean to.”
He dug his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her and smiled faintly, forcing a lightness he was far from feeling. “I’m a big boy. I’ve been hurt before, and I’ve always survived.”
“Yes, but I hurt you,” she reiterated, placing the emphasis on I. As if it was important to her that she not hurt him, and Shane drew a small amount of comfort from that knowledge. He meant something to Carly, even if she didn’t want to admit it.
“No more than I hurt you.”
“You didn’t!” Her eyes flashed blue ice. “You never hurt me.”
He didn’t agree, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. “So what’s your answer? Would you rather we had separate hotel rooms?”
She shook her head slowly, then crossed the room to stand in front of him. This close he could see the fine tremor in the hand she placed against his chest. “But it has to be...just sex,” she reminded him.
And pigs can fly, he thought but didn’t say. Carly wasn’t that kind of woman, no matter what she said. She was dreaming, but he wasn’t going to argue with her on that, either. “Okay.” He forced himself to grin at her. A wicked, lighthearted grin that promised things he was going to have to work hard to deliver, because he didn’t want “just sex” with Carly, even if that was all she was offering...for now. “So when does the ‘just sex’ part start? I bought a box of condoms.”
* * *
Carly couldn’t sleep. Shane was already out like a light, one arm thrown possessively across her bare waist as he spooned behind her, as naked as she was beneath the covers. She usually slept in the nude at home, and apparently so did he. He radiated heat, and she loved the way his big body made her feel, all warm and cherished. So it wasn’t that keeping her awake, even though it had been a long time since she’d had a man in her bed. It wasn’t the strange bed, either. She’d slept in enough hotel rooms in her career that that never bothered her. She’d slept on army cots, too, and a few times even in a bedroll on the cold, hard ground. She’d never had trouble falling asleep before—the exact opposite, in fact. Once she was asleep she had a hard time waking up.
No, she decided, there was one reason and one reason only why she remained awake—the way Shane had so readily agreed to her insistence on emotional distance. The way he’d willingly accepted her “just sex” decree.
It didn’t make sense that it bothered her, but it did. She was the one who’d set the boundaries, after all. Shane was merely going along with them. But...
But what? she asked herself. The answer, when it came to her, was terrifying. You’re falling for him, she chastised her heart. You’re not supposed to fall for him.
Can’t help it, her heart replied. He’s just so lov—
She tried to cut the thought off, but it was impossible. Lovable. Shane was just so lovable. Her heart knew it, and now her head did, too. Which was why she didn’t want him to willingly settle for “just sex” with her.
Not that sex with Shane wasn’t mind-blowing. It was. Just thinking about some of the things he’d done last night and tonight made her shiver and tingle all over. But she wanted exclusivity. She wanted him all to herself. She didn’t want him making any other woman tingle and ache and moan and...
She shifted uncomfortably, squeezing her thighs together to suppress the sudden throbbing in her loins that thoughts of Shane ignited.
She froze when his arm tightened around her waist. “What’s wrong?” he rumbled in a way that told her he was only half-awake. “Can’t sleep?” His warm hand slid down until it was curled at the juncture of her thighs. “Maybe I can help.”
Her sudden laugh was mixed with something that sounded suspiciously like a sob to her ears. She was going to decline his offer, but before she could open her mouth one of his fingers stroked down and in...and she melted. That was her last coherent thought.
Chapter 10
Carly was not—never had been, and never would be—a morning person. She could neve
r be an anchor on one of those morning TV programs—even if she even remotely wanted to be one, which she didn’t—because she couldn’t get up to be at work by four in the morning on a regular basis. There were exceptions to her rule, of course, if the story she was working on absolutely demanded it—such as when the combat unit she was embedded with in Afghanistan moved out before dawn.
But waking in the early-morning hours to strong hands stroking her bare skin, a night’s scruff on an unshaven chin nuzzling her cheek and firm lips nibbling on her earlobe? Not to mention a certain male body part letting her know US marines—retired or not—were always ready for action?
She wouldn’t object to that...especially since that was how Shane woke her in the wee hours of the morning. “Oorah,” he whispered in her ear when her quickened breathing gave away that she was awake...and appreciating everything he was doing, thank you very much!
Her gurgle of laughter ended on a sharply indrawn breath when his fingers brushed an area of her anatomy she hadn’t realized was so sensitive—the inside of her elbow. Or maybe it’s just him, she acknowledged against her will. Maybe every part of her body was especially sensitized when Shane touched her...the way he touched her. Which meant attempting to keep an emotional distance while sleeping with him was a fool’s errand.
She turned in his arms to tell him she’d changed her mind...and he kissed her. His kiss sent streamers of desire rippling through her body, making her toes curl. And just like last night, all rational thought fled.
* * *
Shane reluctantly and surreptitiously slid from beneath the covers, hoping not to wake Carly. But the minute he was gone her eyelids fluttered open. “Where are you going?” she whispered.
The room was dark save for the light Shane had deliberately left on in the bathroom last night, because he’d wanted to see Carly when he made love to her. Because he’d wanted her to see him. To know who was there in bed with her. To understand that “just sex” wasn’t possible for him, no matter what he agreed to.