by Lisa Childs
That was all in the past now for both of them.
Just like all Gage and Megan’s pain was in the past. After all they’d been through, they would never break up again. Their love was stronger now—unbreakable—like Gage had been in captivity.
Wrinkling her nose and blinking against the sting in her eyes, Nikki turned away from the closed door. She would be back—with a bottle of champagne so they could really celebrate.
She was happy for them even though this wasn’t what she wanted for herself. She had never been the girly girl. She’d never wanted to play Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty. She’d never needed a prince to rescue her. She’d never wanted to marry and have kids. She’d just wanted to kick ass like her brothers.
She hadn’t wanted love for herself, but she’d at least believed in it—until she’d learned of her father’s betrayal. Then she’d doubted that it was ever real.
Until now...
She blinked harder, fighting back the moisture blurring her eyes. She had no doubt that Megan and Gage were truly, deeply in love. And she had no doubt that her mother had at long last found her true soul mate in Woodrow Lynch.
Real love existed.
For other people...
Just not for Nikki. Not just yet, but maybe someday soon.
* * * * *
Look for the next thrilling installment in the
BACHELOR BODYGUARDS series, coming soon!
Don’t forget the previous titles in the series:
BODYGUARD’S BABY SURPRISE
BODYGUARD DADDY
HIS CHRISTMAS ASSIGNMENT
And if you love Lisa Childs,
be sure to pick up her other stories:
RED HOT
TAMING THE SHIFTER
THE AGENT’S REDEMPTION
AGENT TO THE RESCUE
AGENT UNDERCOVER
THE PREGNANT WITNESS
CURSED
BRIDEGROOM BODYGUARD
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Keep reading for an excerpt from KILLER COUNTDOWN by Amelia Autin
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Killer Countdown
by Amelia Autin
Prologue
Shane Jones, junior senator from Colorado, lay in his hospital bed in the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix, Arizona, staring in disbelief at the barrage of doctors and interns assembled in his private room. He could have gone anywhere for medical testing and diagnosis—and had, with no results—but he’d chosen the Mayo Clinic Hospital when a doctor friend from his days in the Marine Corps had recommended it. No other medical professional he’d consulted had ever even heard of his symptoms, much less had been able to put a name to them. But the doctors here had.
“Epilepsy?” he repeated, stunned. He still couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the diagnosis. “But...I don’t have seizures. All I have are these little episodes where I suddenly feel chilled for no reason. That’s all. It can’t be epilepsy.”
Dr. Rachel Mattingly, the primary neurologist on Shane’s case, smiled gently. “I understand you’re upset at this diagnosis. But what you call ‘chilling’ episodes are actually small seizures. We can’t know for certain, but we can surmise the traumatic brain injury you received five years ago was the initial trigger. Scar tissue on the left side of your brain is clearly visible on your MRI, which is where you were injured in that bomb blast.”
Shane touched the left side of his head, where his short brown hair was barely long enough to hide the long, white scar from where the brain surgeons had operated on him five years ago. At the time he’d just been grateful he hadn’t lost a limb or suffered any substantive cognitive loss as a result of his unthinking actions that day—although his brain injury had been bad enough for the Marine Corps to honorably retire him via a medical discharge.
Losing his home in the Corps—losing everything for which he’d worked his whole adult life—had devastated Shane at first, but then he’d thrown himself into politics with the same dedication and fervor he’d once had for the Marine Corps. But now...if Dr. Mattingly was right, all that was at an end. Who’d ever heard of a politician with epilepsy? There might be some, but damned few. Hell, he couldn’t even control the electrical impulses in his own brain. How could he expect the voters to trust him to play a role in controlling the country?
* * *
Marsh Anderson bought himself a cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria, then brought it out to the lobby to drink it where he could watch the comings and goings of Senator Jones’s staff, whom he now knew by sight. The senator had been here for four days already, and Marsh wondered how much longer it would be.
He had no idea why the senator was here...just that he was. HIPAA laws being what they were, hospitals were damned leery about releasing any information on a patient, and Marsh wasn’t about to draw attention to himself by asking anyway. He’d find out when Senator Jones found out. Or rather, when the man’s staff found out. All he knew was that the senator was here “for observation.” But why he was here wasn’t relevant anyway—all Marsh really needed to know was when he was going to be released.
Soon, I hope, he thought. He was getting tired of hanging around.
He’d tracked the senator all the way from DC, waiting for his chance. But he wasn’t a lunatic—Marsh had no intention of turning this into a suicide mission. He’d had plenty of time with nothing to do but think about this hit, and his plan would be foolproof before he put it into motion. Senator Jones would die...and Marsh would get clean away. Then disappear, as if he’d never existed.
Chapter 1
Nurse Cindy Watkins handed Shane a little paper cup containing one lone pill and a cup of water from the fresh pitcher she’d brought in with his medicine. “Here you go, Senator.”
She waited patiently while Shane stared at the first dose of the medication he would be tied to—assuming this one worked for him without too many negative side effects—for the rest of his life. Assuming he had a rest of his life...with epilepsy.
He breathed deeply, then abruptly tipped the pill into his mouth and swallowed it with a swig of ice water. The nurse patted his arm in a motherly fashion, saying, “We understand, Senator. We really do. It’s not an easy diagnosis to accept. But you’re lucky—Dr. Mattingly is just about the best neurologist in the country. If she says it’s epilepsy, then that’s what it is.”
When Shane didn’t respond, she volunteered, “I think you share the general public’s misunderstanding about epilepsy
. But look at it this way—at least now you know. And it can be controlled.”
“Yeah,” Shane agreed drily. “At least now I know.”
“Can I get you anything before I go? Do you want me to call one of your aides?” Shane shook his head. “Lunch will be here in less than an hour,” she added, patting his arm again. “Why don’t you try to get a little rest in the meantime? I know we didn’t let you get a lot of sleep last night, what with the stress test and all.”
“Yeah, maybe I will try that.” Shane lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes. There was no way he could sleep; he just wanted to be alone. And if that meant pretending to be asleep...
When he was finally alone, Shane opened his eyes and stared at the wall opposite him, his thoughts in turmoil. He gave himself ten minutes to feel sorry for himself. Then he ruthlessly shut down the self-pity, the way he’d ruthlessly shut down other emotions in his life when they’d threatened to overwhelm him—put them into a little box he could lock away and not think about. Including the devastating pain caused by the death of his wife fifteen years earlier. His pregnant wife. His unborn son.
He could still remember the last time he’d seen Wendy alive—seven months pregnant and glowing. Excited about the upcoming baby shower her friends on the base were throwing for her.
And he could still remember being called to the morgue when her body had been found—he’d barely recognized her.
He hadn’t cried, though. Not then, and not at her funeral. He’d turned that grief inward, into an implacable determination to find the terrorists responsible...and he had.
He absently rubbed his fingers against the scar tissue on the left side of his skull, until a friendly voice over the loudspeaker reminded him not to scratch his head. “Sorry,” he told the disembodied voice of the technician monitoring his room via the video camera mounted on the ceiling facing his hospital bed. “I forgot.”
He rarely thought about how he’d gotten the scar anymore—except when he’d been on the campaign trail and some reporter asked him about it point blank. He’d done his best to put the incident at the bookstore out of his mind for two reasons: it had just about killed him to lose the life he had in the Corps...and the pregnant woman he’d saved had somehow reminded him of Wendy.
Even waking up in the hospital afterward with his mother and sister dozing at his bedside was something he tried not to think about too often, because it reminded him of things he wanted to forget. His mother had reacted the way most mothers would when their firstborn child had done his damnedest to get himself killed—she alternately cosseted and scolded. His sister, Keira, on the other hand had smiled at him in perfect understanding of his actions. “Good job, Shane,” she’d whispered when their mother was out of the room. “Good job.”
But he couldn’t let himself dwell on what he’d done—and the unexpected aftereffects. What’s done is done, he reminded himself. Where do I go from here?
Back to Washington, DC, for now. The Senate was in recess this third week of February—which was why he’d picked this time to check himself into the Mayo Clinic on the advice of the doctors here—but it would be back in session next week. So far no news agency had discovered where he was, and he’d like to keep it that way. Not that he had any intention of keeping this diagnosis a secret from his constituency the next time he ran for reelection.
Assuming he ran for reelection.
In the meantime, the fewer people who knew about this, the better. He wasn’t even going to share the news with his aides, although he’d have to think of something plausible to tell them. Not that he would outright lie, but he didn’t want to put any of them in the position of having to prevaricate with the press, should they discover he’d been here in the hospital and besiege them with questions.
If any reporter asked him, he’d stonewall because it wasn’t anyone’s business but his own—unless and until he decided to run for reelection—and he didn’t want people looking at him differently. Didn’t want people making excuses for him or feeling sorry for him. The doctors had assured him the seizures could be controlled with medication, so there was no way it could impact his job—it hadn’t so far and that’s the way it would stay. He didn’t feel any different, and he certainly wasn’t planning to lower his expectations of himself as a result of this diagnosis.
In fact, the only change in his life was the damned twice-daily medication.
* * *
Investigative television reporter Carly Edwards stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor of the Mayo Clinic’s main building, turned left, and confidently strode toward the neurology wing—5 West—as if she knew where she was going. She didn’t. The hospital would say she had no business here, and in a way that was true. She wasn’t a patient’s relative. She wasn’t visiting a loved one. But she did have business here. A source had told her Colorado’s junior senator was here—Senator Shane Jones—somewhere on the fifth floor. And Carly was going to track him down if she could, get an exclusive interview, and be the first to break the story. Whatever the story was.
She saw the attendant at the outer desk, with a sign that read Desk 5 West. Before anyone could challenge her, she turned right, again as if she knew where she was going, into a corridor marked 5 West Pod A. The patient rooms—all private rooms, she knew, from the research she’d done—were arranged around the nurses’ station and the various rooms behind it in a square. Some of the doors to the rooms were open, but some were closed. And Carly cursed internally when she realized the patients weren’t listed outside the doors—not even their last names—the way they were in some hospitals. Which meant she had no idea if Senator Jones was in any of these twelve rooms. Had no idea if he was even in Pod A.
“May I help you?” the nurse on duty behind the desk politely asked Carly.
“I’m looking for...” She quickly amended Senator to Shane and finished, “... Shane Jones.”
“That patient specified no visitors except those on a very short list—and all those names are male. Are you a relative?” the nurse asked pointedly.
Busted, Carly thought. She smiled her best smile. “Not exactly.”
“If you’re not a relative and you’re not on the list, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
The nurse’s hand went to the phone, and Carly knew the other woman wouldn’t hesitate to call Security to escort her out, if necessary. But Carly wasn’t about to get this close to her prey and give up meekly. She hadn’t gotten where she was in her career by being faint of heart. She glanced down at the prop she’d donned before she came here—the diamond engagement ring Jack had given her over eight years ago. She tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder, suppressed the brief memory of Jack and the expression on his face when he’d placed it on her finger, and smiled brightly. “He didn’t want me to visit him in the hospital. That’s probably why my name’s not on the list. But I wanted to surprise him.”
“You’re Senator Jones’s fiancée?” the nurse asked.
Not willing to out-and-out lie, even for an exclusive, Carly didn’t confirm or deny, just beamed at the nurse and let her smile work its magic. That smile had gotten her into—and out of—more dangerous places she had no business being than the Mayo Clinic.
The nurse stood up and started out from behind the desk. “Let me see if he wants to see you.”
Uh-oh, Carly thought. “I wanted it to be a surprise,” she demurred.
“Yes, but sometimes the patient is sleeping or just isn’t in the mood for visitors.” She smiled at Carly, inviting her to understand. “Since you’re not on the list, maybe he didn’t want you to visit for a reason—because of the way he looks with all the electrodes attached. You know how vain men are. Especially a man as handsome as the senator.”
Carly’s ears perked up when the nurse mentioned electrodes. Electroshock therapy, she quickly hypothesized. Now that would be an exclusive, indeed. Colorado’s hero senator—a former United States marine—needing electroshock therapy for a me
ntal illness. She suppressed the little nudge her conscience gave her that people were entitled to their privacy and reminded herself that Senator Jones was a public figure. If he were mentally ill, that could impact his job performance, and his constituents had a right to know about it. His constituents and the entire country.
“Hang on,” the nurse said. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”
Carly watched as the nurse walked into 5W-10, making a mental note of the senator’s room number, then turned to make a run for it. She wasn’t Senator Jones’s fiancée—he didn’t have one, as far as she knew—and when he told the nurse he wasn’t engaged, the nurse would probably call Security. Carly would need to do some fancy explaining—if they caught her.
She was already heading down the corridor, nearly past the outer desk, when the nurse called her back. “Miss? Miss? You can see him now.”
Carly hesitated. Was this some kind of trick? Maybe the senator had asked the nurse to bring her back to his room, but to call Security so she could be arrested for trespassing. Either that or the senator was so mentally out of it he actually imagined he had a fiancée? If that was the case, could she snow him into thinking she was? Again her conscience gave her a nudge—harder this time. But that didn’t stop her feet from turning around and heading back toward room 5W-10.
Carly put her hand on the door latch, then pushed. The door swung open noiselessly, and she entered the room. And caught her breath as a set of stern brown eyes zeroed in on her face. She knew what he looked like—of course she knew. Handsome as sin, with a face carved in granite, and chocolate-brown eyes that could be warm as fudge or cold as a frozen Eskimo Pie...which they were now. Six-foot-two with broad shoulders tapering to a waist and hips that hadn’t an ounce of flab anywhere. Long, long legs—of course, you idiot, he’s six-two!—that seemed to dwarf the hospital bed on which he lay in a semireclining position.