A reporter helps a sexy senator evade a deadly assassin in this thrilling Man on a Mission tale

TV reporter Carly Edwards has the scoop of a century! She’s discovered that Senator Shane Jones was diagnosed with a life-altering illness, but she can’t help but be drawn to his courage. So when Shane saves Carly’s life from a killer, she resolves to keep her story—and the irresistible politician—alive…

A politician and a media personality are a recipe for romantic disaster. The last thing Shane wants is to endanger Carly. But how can he prevent her from getting close when the very air between them sizzles? As their lives are threatened, Shane realizes Carly’s the one woman he wants forever—if he can keep them both safe!

Carly turned toward the closet as she was speaking, and that was 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 onto 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.

Be sure to check out the previous volumes in the Man on a Mission miniseries!

Man on a Mission: These heroes, working at home and overseas, will do anything for justice, honor…and love.

* * *

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Dear Reader,

When I wrote Cody Walker’s Woman, I gave my heroine, Keira Jones, four brothers—all older, all former US Marines and all playing a role (good and bad) in shaping the woman she was.

Then I wrote Alec’s Royal Assignment and Liam’s Witness Protection, the stories of two of Keira’s brothers. But even as I was writing Alec’s and Liam’s stories, in the back of my mind was Shane. The eldest. The toughest. The strongest influence on all his younger siblings.

But Shane wasn’t easy to get to know—he eluded me for the longest time. It wasn’t until a personal family crisis that Shane became real to me, and I knew what could make a nearly invincible man vulnerable. Then I just had to write his story.

After I understood Shane I realized I needed to find a tough-as-nails heroine to match him, but one with a tender, loving heart hidden beneath that tiger-shark exterior. Along came Carly Edwards, just in the nick of time. Carly wasn’t easy to get to know, either, because there’s nothing of Carly in me (I wish!). Once I accepted that, however, I suddenly knew who Carly was—a woman whose private pain once made the six-o’clock news…but never again.

Shane and Carly fought the odds and won, and in doing so won my heart. Isn’t that what we all look for in a hero and heroine? Isn’t that why we read romance?

I love hearing from my readers. Please email me at AmeliaAutin@aol.com and let me know what you think.

Amelia Autin

Killer Countdown
Amelia Autin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Award-winning author AMELIA AUTIN is an inveterate reader who can’t bear to put a good book down…or part with it. She’s a longtime member of Romance Writers of America, and served three years as its treasurer. Amelia resides with her PhD engineer husband in quiet Vail, Arizona, where they can see the stars at night and have a “million-dollar view” of the Rincon Mountains from their backyard.

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For the doctors, nurses, technicians, nursing assistants and everyone at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix, Arizona, who exemplify what medicine can and should be for patients and their families. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. For my stepson, Chris Lam, who will soon be a doctor himself and is already a great diagnostician because he asks the right questions and listens to the answers. And for Vincent…always.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

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 mental 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.

The mesh cap covering his head—and the electrodes she could see attached to his skull beneath it—should have made him look ridiculous, but somehow they didn’t. Not when his bare, muscular legs, clad only in a pair of running shorts, were right beneath her eyes—legs that were perfectly visible because the sheet that might have been covering them had been restlessly tossed to one side. Not when his impressively muscled chest, covered only by a short-sleeved button-down shirt, rose and fell with his steady breathing, drawing her attention there. She didn’t know why he wasn’t clad in traditional hospital garb, but he wasn’t, and she couldn’t help the way her gaze was riveted on his impressive physical attributes. Then the legs, the chest and the rest of his perfect body faded into obscurity as her eyes met his again, and she floundered helplessly beneath those dark orbs.

“Do you know who I am?” Carly blurted out, then felt foolish.

The gravelly voice she recognized from hearing him on the Senate floor giving impassioned speeches spoke. “Oh yeah. You’re my fiancée. I didn’t quite catch the name, but...” He looked her over from head to toe...twice. His eyes lingered—obviously—on her breasts. Both times. “I have good taste.”

It was crazy. Stupid. She wasn’t the kind to get flustered by a man. Any man. Even one as blatantly masculine, sexy and irresistible as the senator was. Carly didn’t have a shy bone in her body, unlike her younger sister, Tahra. But...she blushed under his pointed stare. The kind of thing Tahra did a lot, but Carly never did. Until now.

She resisted the urge to cross her arms across her chest, and instead moved farther into the room, closing the door behind her with a little snick as the latch clicked shut. When she looked at the senator again, she realized with a tiny shock that he was strapped into the bed. And if she didn’t miss her guess, that was a lock on the strap.

Electro-shock therapy. Mental illness. Violent mental illness? she wondered. She couldn’t keep the question out of the eyes she raised to his.

To her surprise, he laughed suddenly, a booming sound that reverberated around the room. “No,” he told her, humor lightening the rather severe expression he usually wore. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” she asked quickly, her hand reaching for the door latch.

“The strap is for my protection,” he told her. “To make sure I don’t get out of bed without a nurse in attendance. To make sure I don’t fall.” He hooked a thumb over his right shoulder, and for the first time Carly saw the harness hooked to an inverted T bar. She followed the strap upward, to the mechanical device that seemed to run on tracks throughout the room, and into what she figured was a private bathroom.

“What in the world?” Carly had never seen anything like it.

“It’s actually quite ingenious. And if I really needed it, it’d be a lifesaver. But since I don’t—I never fall when I have an episode, never lose consciousness—it’s a damned nuisance. But it’s hospital policy.”

“Episode? Fall? Lose consciousness?” Carly felt stupid for repeating his words, but she had no idea what he was talking about. Her first supposition—that he was mentally ill—seemed to be all wrong. He certainly came across as being all there. Except for accepting her as his fiancée...which he knew she wasn’t. So why had he let her in his room? Never shy, she asked, “Why did you allow me in here?”

“Because I was sick of my own company and looking for a diversion.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“Well...” He drew the word out. “Anyone with the nerve to claim she was my fiancée—”

“I never actually said I was,” Carly quickly pointed out. “I just didn’t correct the nurse’s erroneous assumption.”

His smile was cynical. “As I started to say, I figured you had to be a reporter, Ms. Edwards.” She jumped when he said her name. “And if you tracked me down at the Mayo Clinic, the only thing to do—the only smart thing to do—would be to tell you the truth and ask you to keep it to yourself. For now.”

“How did you know who I was? I thought you said—”

“I didn’t know. Not until I got a good look at you. You used to cover the Hill.” His eyes conveyed it wasn’t just her face he recognized, but Carly appreciated he was enough of a gentleman not to actually say her figure had betrayed her. She couldn’t help the way she looked, and she’d learned early to dress to downplay it as best she could professionally. Her private life was a different story, but she’d taken enough grief in her career over her curves, which tended to make men think of her as nothing but a pretty face with a bombshell body. Good in some ways, she admitted to herself, because men sometimes grew careless of what they said to her. And that had led to her breaking more than one explosive story.

“But when I let you in,” the senator continued, interrupting her thoughts, “I was praying you were a legitimate member of the Fourth Estate.”

“The Fourth Estate? I haven’t heard anyone refer to the news media by that title in forever.”

One corner of his mouth curved upward in a rueful grin. “I’d rather refer to the members of the media by that term than a few others I could think of, including ambush journalists and sleazy paparazzi.”

“Ouch.”

“I didn’t say you were, I just said some are.” He indicated the chair set against the far wall. “Would you like to sit down? You’ll pardon me if I don’t rise.” He touched the strap belting him into the bed. “I’d have to call the nurse, and she’d have to strap me into the harness, and frankly, I’d just as soon avoid looking any more ridiculous than I already do.” He touched the mesh cap on his head.

“You don’t,” Carly said. “Look ridiculous, that is.”

“Yeah, right.” Disbelief was evident in his tone.

She laughed. “Really,” she assured him before she sat in the chair, crossed her legs, reached into her capacious purse and pulled out her notebook. This was followed by her mini recorder, which she switched on. She glanced up at the senator and asked, “May I? I like to have a record of what people say. That way they can’t claim I made something up.”

His expression turned serious again. “No, I don’t mind. But I want you to understand up front that what I’m going to tell you isn’t something I want to publicize to the world. I can’t prevent you from broadcasting it. I can only state this is off-the-record for now, and rely on your journalistic discretion after you hear what I have to say. Deal?”

Carly considered this for a moment. “I can’t agree not to report what I uncover, not without knowing more. If it’s something that impacts your ability to carry out the duties of your office—you have to see how that would be news, Senator Jones, and I’d have no choice. It would be my responsibility to report it.”

“Agreed. But this doesn’t have a damned thing to do with my job as a senator. It’s personal. And very private. If I were running for office...maybe it would be relevant and the voters would have the right to know. But I’m not—not yet, anyway. If I do run for reelection, or if I go public with the story, I promise you’ll have an exclusive. Deal?”

“On those terms...deal.” She leaned forward, her mini recorder in one hand. “So can you tell me exactly why you’re here, Senator Jones?”

He drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “One word,” he told her, and his dark brown eyes were the saddest things Carly had seen in a long time. “Epilepsy.”

* * *

“Epilepsy?” Carly Edwards’s brows drew together in a frown. “How is it this is the first time anyone has heard of this, Senator?”

“Because I just found out.” Shane waved a hand that encompassed the room. “It wasn’t until I came here that I learned—” He broke off, fighting down the sudden upwelling of emotion. Guess I still haven’t quite accepted it, he told himself. When he finally trusted his voice, he said, “Apparently the head wound I received a few years back caused damage to my left temporal lobe. I knew that at the time and so did my surgeons. But no one knew the TBI—that’s short for—”

“Traumatic brain injury,” she finished. “Yes, I know.” For an experienced reporter—which Shane knew she was—Carly’s reaction was unexpected. She’d lost all color and her eyes had widened...in what looked like shock. Shock, and recognition.

He paused a moment, waiting for her to say something more, but when she didn’t he said, “No one knew the TBI would eventually cause focal seizures. It doesn’t happen in every case, but it did in mine.”

“Focal seizures?” The question came automatically, but for some reason Shane felt she wasn’t really focusing on his answer...and that intrigued him.

“The official term is focal seizure without dyscognitive features.” He grinned suddenly. “That’s a mouthful, isn’t it? All it means is that it’s a small, localized seizure in one hemisphere of the brain—kind of like an electrical ‘short’ in that area—which doesn’t cause any loss of consciousness, loss of memory or anything like that. In my case it manifests itself with a symptom that can best be described as a sudden chill...accompanied by goose bumps.”

She seemed at a loss for words. “Is that all? Just goose bumps?”

Shane allowed his eyes to wander from her face down to her legs—long, lovely legs, he noted—then back up again. And he felt a twinge in his groin he hoped wasn’t too obvious beneath his running shorts. “That’s all. I feel cold everywhere, as if I’ve walked into a freezer. And the goose bumps on my arms, my legs, make it very real. For about thirty seconds. Then the symptoms go away.”

“But you don’t lose consciousness?”

“No, and my memory of each episode isn’t affected. I can walk and talk normally while the symptoms are occurring, as well.”

“That doesn’t sound like epilepsy to me.”

“You’re thinking of what the general public knows of epilepsy—which isn’t a heck of a lot. I didn’t know any better, either, until the doctors here diagnosed me.”

All of a sudden Carly clicked the button to turn the mini recorder off. She swallowed once—visibly—then said, “I’m sorry. You’re right. This is personal and private. I don’t need to hear any more to know it’s not news. Not the kind of news I report on.” She stood up abruptly, shoving her notebook and mini recorder into her purse. “I’m very sorry, Senator. Not just that it happened to you, but that you had to share this with me, when it’s really no one’s business but yours.”

Without another word she walked out of the room.

Chapter 2

Shane tried to chase after Carly, but the strap locking him in the bed held firm. “Damn it,” he cursed, tugging futilely at the strap. For just a second he thought about ringing for the nurse, but he knew by the time anything could be done to prevent it, Carly would be long gone. “Damn it!”

He lay back against the pillows, seething with frustration. He hadn’t liked being bound to the bed from the beginning. He understood why it was hospital policy. And as he’d said to Carly, if he lost consciousness with his seizures or even lost motor control, that would be one thing, because the strap would keep him from falling out of bed. But he didn’t, so he’d mentally railed against the restriction from day one. This was the first time he’d actively cursed out loud, however, and he suddenly announced to the empty room, “Sorry.”

“Not to worry, Senator,” answered the technician constantly monitoring him from the other room. “Believe me, we understand how frustrating it can be for our patients, especially the ones who think they don’t need protection.”

“Thanks.”

Shane punched up his pillow, then settled his big frame more comfortably in the bed, thinking about his recent visitor. Carly Edwards. He’d never actually met her before, but he knew who she was, of course. She’d been a fixture on the nightly news as a war correspondent and then reporting from Capitol Hill on one of the major cable news networks. She’d just recently moved to another cable news channel, one that had surged into prominence recently, surpassing most television news agencies for hard-hitting news coverage. Everyone said she was the next Christiane Amanpour.

He wondered why she’d cut their interview short. Carly had the reputation for being unstoppable where a news story was concerned. Once she got her teeth into something, she refused to let go. It wasn’t like her to cut an interview short, especially on an exclusive. And while he’d hoped she would agree with him this wasn’t legitimate news, he’d figured he’d have to tell her everything before she decided not to broadcast what he had to say. It didn’t make sense that she’d run out in the middle of an interview.

For a minute he also wondered what she’d been doing there without a camera operator, but then realized no way would they have been able to sneak the camera gear into the Mayo Clinic, past the various stations that guarded their patients’ privacy. Not to mention Carly didn’t have a reputation as an ambush journalist...although she had used subterfuge to gain access to him. By pretending to be his fiancée.

Shane smiled. Whether she’d intended it or not, Carly had been a bright note in his otherwise bleak week. His body hardened in a rush as he let himself fantasize about what it would be like if she was his fiancée. If he could peel that jacket off her, the one she wore that was not-quite-good-enough camouflage for a body that would tempt a monk. And Shane was no monk.

* * *

Carly was already in her car in the parking lot before she lost it. Before memories of Jack swamped her, bringing unaccustomed tears to her eyes. God, oh God, who knew?

She stared down at her engagement ring, the brilliant diamond shimmering through the haze of tears. When Jack had asked her to marry him more than eight years ago she’d been the happiest woman in the world. They’d been in love. Not just the crazy, Tilt-A-Whirl kind of love, but the solid, let’s-make-this-last-a-lifetime kind of love, with dreams of children in the not-too-distant future and grandchildren far down the road.

In mind-numbing slow motion the memory of the car accident replayed in her mind. The drunk driver weaving head-on into their lane. Jack’s desperate swerve to avoid the collision. Sliding sideways on the treacherous, ice-slick road. The sudden impact and the side air bag that failed to deploy. Jack’s head making sickening contact with the window—numerous times—as his body was flung side to side.

After a year of mourning, she’d taken off Jack’s engagement ring and placed it in the back of her jewelry box. Never to be worn again...until today. Until she’d used it as a prop to sneak into Senator Jones’s hospital room.

Carly didn’t believe in omens, good or bad. And she didn’t believe in fate—life was what you made of it. But guilt overwhelmed her now, as if by wearing Jack’s ring for a purpose he’d never intended, she’d somehow brought this whole sequence of events about. As if she was responsible for what had happened to Senator Jones the way she was responsible for Jack’s death.

* * *

Shane picked up his cell phone and hit speed dial for his executive assistant in Washington, DC, a grandmotherly type who reminded him of his own mother—not surprising since she’d been his mother’s best friend as long as he could remember. He still had difficulty calling her by her nickname, especially since she insisted on calling him Senator now instead of Shane. He was more inclined to call her Mrs. Wilson as he’d done growing up, but when she’d first gone to work for him when he was running for the House, she’d flatly told him to call her Dee-Dee, so he did...reluctantly.

When she answered the phone he said, “I want you to find out everything you can on a reporter, Carly Edwards.” He listened for a minute, a frown forming. “No, nothing like that. This is personal, Dee-Dee, not professional. So only work on this if you have nothing else to do.”

“Hah!” Dee-Dee responded. “As if I ever have nothing else to do.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, of course, you’re serious. That makes all the difference,” she said drily.

For the umpteenth time Shane wondered why he kept Dee-Dee as his executive assistant when she never gave him the kid-glove treatment he got automatically from the rest of his staff. Even though she called him Senator, she still acted as if she remembered him with a dirty face and untucked shirttails, sneaking cookies when his mom’s back was turned.

But then for the umpteenth time he remembered that was exactly why he kept her—she brought a touch of reality to the sometimes stultifying protocol he was usually surrounded with. She was a whiz at keeping him organized, too. And besides, she needed the job. Her husband had left her little but debts when he’d passed away years earlier...and his mother would kill him if he fired her best friend.

“Don’t worry,” Dee-Dee said, “I’ll have a complete dossier on Ms. Edwards by the time you get back to DC. You are coming back tomorrow night, right? That’s what you said. They’re discharging you tomorrow morning?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good. I know you’ve been keeping up on pending legislation even in the hospital—your mom didn’t raise any slackers—but I’ve fielded calls from a half dozen senators, including the president pro-tem and both the majority and minority leaders, wanting to know how you’re planning to vote on their bills when the Senate is back in session. Especially that pipeline one—the news agencies are calling you ‘the swing vote.’ Not just because of your own stance on the issue, but because others will follow your lead and vote their consciences, not their pocketbooks—if you weren’t already aware. And since you haven’t clued me in on where you stand, Senator,” she added with a touch of acerbity, “I wasn’t able to answer for you.”

“As if you don’t know where I stand on every issue.”

“Yes, but you haven’t officially told me how you plan to vote, so my lips are sealed.” That had Shane laughing silently. Dee-Dee’s lips were always sealed...when it came to guarding him and maintaining the integrity of his office. Another reason he couldn’t possibly do without her. He was just preparing to disconnect when Dee-Dee said out of the blue, “You do know her nickname, don’t you?”

Shane was familiar with the way Dee-Dee’s mind jumped back and forth between topics, so he knew she was referring to Carly Edwards. He cast around in his mind but came up blank. “No, can’t say I do.”

“Tiger Shark.” Heavy silence. “Keep that in mind.”

* * *

Marsh Anderson walked outside the Mayo Clinic lobby and a little distance away before pulling out his disposable cell phone—one he’d bought specifically for this job—and punching in a number he already knew by heart. “Just checking in,” he said when the phone was answered. He listened, nodding his head in agreement even though he knew the person on the other end couldn’t see him. “Not a problem,” he said finally. “When will he be discharged?”

“He has plane reservations for tomorrow,” came the clipped response. “Whether the clinic is ready to discharge him or not, he’s flying out Saturday evening. The Senate will be back at work come Monday, and he has never missed a debate or a vote. He’s not about to let that happen now—especially not with what’s at stake this time around.”

Marsh grunted. He knew what was at stake, even though his contact thought him nothing more than a hired gun. He was a hired gun...as far as that went. But he was a very smart one, and he’d figured out a hell of a lot more than the men who’d hired him realized. He called them the Agenda Men, because they had a concrete agenda and would stop at nothing to achieve their goal.

He knew just how much money was behind the effort to push one piece of legislation through. Not bribes. You couldn’t call them bribes. Campaign contributions was the polite euphemism, and the Agenda Men were very good at it. But their money had availed them nothing where Senator Jones was concerned. He could not be swayed as other politicians were. So they had no choice but to contract Marsh’s services.

Marsh admired Senator Jones for his integrity. But that didn’t impact his willingness to carry out his job. One was personal. The other was business. And Marsh never put anything above business.

“So he’s leaving tomorrow, but you don’t know exactly what time he’s leaving,” Marsh said now. It wasn’t a question, but the voice on the other end of the phone answered anyway.

“No. You’ll just have to play it by ear.”

“Okay,” Marsh said. “I know what I have to do. Just make sure you do your part.” Then he hung up. My money, he thought to himself. You just have my money ready.

* * *

Shane was the happiest man in the world when the clinic finally got around to discharging him Saturday, right after lunch. So happy he didn’t even cavil at another hospital policy—wheeling him out to the waiting limousine in a wheelchair. God forbid I trip over my own feet walking out and hurt myself on hospital property, he thought with a touch of mordant humor.

The limo wasn’t his first choice for transportation because he hadn’t wanted to draw that kind of attention. But it made sense since it had to transport not only him to the airport but the four staff members accompanying him, as well—his deputy chief of staff, senior legislative assistant, legislative correspondent, and press secretary. So when Bobby Vernon, his deputy chief of staff, told him they’d arranged for a limo, he’d merely accepted it.

As his staff crowded into the elevator after him, Shane joked with Laney, the nursing assistant wheeling him out. He’d come to know Laney casually during his nearly week-long stay at the clinic—she’d even shown him pictures of her grandchildren. All his staff were dressed as casually as he was, in jeans and a Henley, because he’d been adamant he didn’t want to draw too much attention by making them look like Secret Service agents guarding a public figure. But his little group did draw eyes as they made their way across the multistoried lobby to the front door, and Shane mentally winced, hoping no one would recognize him. Not that he was ashamed—well, maybe just a little—but because he’d already dodged one bullet where Carly Edwards was concerned, and didn’t feel up to answering questions from the idly curious or from another reporter.

He’d just been rolled out the front door, where the limo was drawn up to the curb, when Carly appeared out of nowhere, across the curving drive to the right. “Senator Jones,” she called out, lengthening her stride to catch him before he entered the limo. “If I could just talk to you for a minute,” she began.

Shane’s eyes were drawn to her, but out of the corner of his left eye he saw something glint in the early afternoon sun from the brushy knoll in the center of the horseshoe-shaped circular driveway.

“Get down,” he yelled to his entourage as he leaped from the wheelchair, grabbed Laney and flattened her on the sidewalk just as rifle shots rang out, shattering the sliding glass doors behind them. Shane rolled Laney and himself toward the limo, using that as a shield against a further barrage of bullets.

Screams were coming from everywhere—from the people inside the clinic’s lobby and those who had been eating lunch on the cafeteria’s outside patio. Shane couldn’t see a damned thing from his position on the ground, but he was praying no one had been hit. Laney was whispering something in a breathy little voice, but it took him a minute to focus on what she was saying.

“Mary, mother of God,” she repeated over and over, and Shane knew it was a prayer.

Sirens could be heard in the distance now. Shane levered himself into a crouch behind the limo after making sure Laney was unharmed, except for the bad scrape on her elbow where it had made contact with the unforgiving sidewalk.

He peered over the limo’s hood. A stocky figure was running in the opposite direction, through the center island’s walkway, heading toward the far parking lot. Shane wanted to give chase, but knew that would be stupid. An unarmed man going up against someone with a high-powered rifle?

His staff members, who’d hit the ground when he had, stood and swarmed around him suddenly, as if they feared he would do just that. Then more people rushed outside from the clinic’s lobby—security guards and the morbidly curious. Shane quickly bent down and helped Laney to her feet, then brushed her off. He pulled a clean hanky from his jeans pocket and held it against her elbow, which was oozing blood.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “Thanks to you, Senator.”

A medical emergency team rushed onto the scene, and suddenly police cars were everywhere, although—thankfully—no TV news crews were on site yet. Then Shane remembered Carly, and he shot a quick glance over to where he’d last seen her...only to realize she wasn’t there. He scoured the parking lot for a sign of her. On the right he saw the back of a woman cutting across the drive, darting from one sheltered area to another. Moving in the same direction the gunman had been heading when he’d made his escape, but trying to stay under cover.

Shane cursed and took off running before the policemen could even exit their vehicles. He ignored the urgent cries of the people behind him in his goal to cut Carly off before it was too late. He sped through the circuitous sidewalk leading through the driveway’s center island, grateful the cactus and bushes shielded him from the gunman’s sight. He passed the statue of an American Indian woman, then a small waterfall, but he had eyes for neither. He took the stairs in three steps and was just about to exit the north side when he saw Carly. She was crouching behind a giant saguaro and a large agave plant, but peering around the one and over the other. She had something in her hand aimed at the running gunman...and she was right in his line of sight when he suddenly turned.

Shane made a flying leap and tackled Carly. The iPhone she’d been trying to use to film the sniper’s escape flew across the gravel and skittered into the roadway. He rolled her beneath him as the unmistakable crack of a rifle shot broke the silence. Then a door slammed. Tires squealed. And a white pickup truck fishtailed out of the far side of the parking lot as the driver gunned the engine.

A police car gave chase a minute later, siren blaring, but Shane wasn’t optimistic. Whoever had been shooting at him and then at Carly had too great a lead. The highway was only two stoplights and a few blocks away, and since it was the weekend, there wouldn’t be rush-hour traffic to impede the getaway.

Shane picked himself up off the ground and helped Carly to her feet, first making sure she wasn’t hurt. Then he grasped her upper arms and shook her. Hard. In a voice he hadn’t used since his Marine Corps days he demanded, “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Chapter 3

Carly shook Shane’s hands off her arms and darted into the roadway. She retrieved her smartphone, which miraculously hadn’t been run over by the pursuing police car. The case had protected it against most of the damage that could have occurred, but there was a scratch across the touchpad. She swiped and pressed, then heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s not broken,” she exulted under her breath. Her eyes caught Shane’s. “And I got him.”

“You got him?” Throttled temper made him rigid, and he towered over her like the USMC officer he’d once been. “You think that was worth risking your life for?”

“I wasn’t in any real danger,” she replied calmly.

“The hell you weren’t!”

“The hell I was.” She lifted her chin. “You think I’m stupid? I’ve covered two wars and three ‘police actions,’” she said, referring to a military conflict in an undeclared war. “I know how to keep my head down. There was no point at which I was completely exposed.”

“You think a saguaro would block a high-velocity bullet?” He snorted. “It would slice through that like a hot knife through butter. Then go right through you.”

Carly opened her mouth to retort, but hesitated as she acknowledged there was some truth to what Shane was saying. She had been a tad reckless. True, she’d never been injured covering a story. In fact, she’d never been wounded at all, no matter what happened to her. She’d fallen from the top of a jungle gym when she was ten with nothing but brush burns and bruises to show for it. The helicopter she’d ridden in during her first foray as a war correspondent had been caught in a hot LZ—a landing zone where the helicopter came under enemy gunfire—and she’d been untouched. She’d even walked away physically unscathed from the horrific car crash that had caused such devastating damage to Jack.

She’d led a charmed life physically...had she grown overconfident? “You’re right,” she admitted now. She drew a deep breath. “And I apologize for putting you in the position of having to rescue me.” Then her natural ebullience returned, and she held up her smartphone. “But I got him.”

* * *

The police had whisked them all away before the TV news cameras showed up, for which Shane was grateful. He hadn’t wanted to be confronted by a reporter asking what he was doing at the Mayo Clinic or theorizing as to why he’d been an assassin’s target. Those questions would be posed soon enough, but at least he’d have a little time to come up with suitably noncommittal answers.

The Phoenix police, who’d been joined by FBI agents from the city office, finally let Shane and his entourage go four hours later. Four hours during which he’d been grilled relentlessly—albeit respectfully—with questions that, for the most part, he couldn’t answer. He hadn’t really seen much of anything except the glint of the rifle scope and a stocky figure running away. The man was white—he knew that much. And he was pretty sure the shooter’s hair was that indeterminable shade between blond and brown, although the ball cap the man had been wearing had concealed most of it. The shooter might have sported a close-cropped beard—but Shane couldn’t swear to it because he hadn’t really seen the man’s face. Yes, he’d seen the getaway vehicle, but he hadn’t caught the license plate number. And there were probably a million white pickup trucks out there.

He didn’t even struggle over the decision to disclose what Carly had said, that she’d caught the man on camera, although she wouldn’t thank him for it. Yes, she’d earned her scoop—by risking her life—but public safety trumped it. The shooter had been aiming at Shane, but anyone in the vicinity could have been gravely injured or killed. It was a miracle no one had been. Carly’s camera footage was critical evidence, and whatever the police and the FBI could glean from viewing it was more important than an exclusive news report...even if it meant confiscating her iPhone.

Shane didn’t see Carly again before he left for the airport, although he thought of her constantly as the limo ferried his aides and him from the police station to Phoenix’s Sky Harbor International Airport through the Saturday afternoon traffic. He caught his flight by the skin of his teeth, dashing through the hallways once he got past the TSA checkpoint, his aides scurrying to keep up. “Last call for flight...” was just being announced when he arrived at the gate, and Shane heaved a sigh of relief. There were later flights to DC out of Sky Harbor, but this one was nonstop.

Carly’s face rose in his mind once more as he handed his ticket to the smiling airline attendant and moved down the jet bridge before he tried to banish her from his mind. He quickly stowed his carry-on in the overhead compartment and took his seat in coach, his entourage settling in around him. Used to be members of Congress flew first-class as a matter of course, but Shane had never thought that was a proper use of taxpayer money, so he always traveled economy. And he was paying for this flight for himself and his aides out of his own pocket—no way could he justify this as anything other than a personal expense.

He chuckled softly to himself as the plane took off. And that’s another thing, he thought. One of the Phoenix policemen questioning him this afternoon had asked why Shane didn’t have a bodyguard or two keeping him safe, but the FBI agent had dismissed that question out of hand, already knowing the answer. Members of the Senate and the House of Representatives didn’t have taxpayer-provided bodyguards—that was a public misconception. Only the president, vice president and presidential candidates had Secret Service bodyguards. Any bodyguard Shane had, he would have to pay for himself. And since he wasn’t independently wealthy, that wasn’t an expense he’d wanted to incur.

But he might have to rethink that position, at least temporarily. He had no idea why anyone would want to kill him, but there didn’t need to be a reason most people would understand. He wouldn’t be the first politician targeted by a crazed gunman with a perceived grievance. Not to mention the successful and unsuccessful assassination attempts on several US presidents over the years, despite the best protection the Secret Service could offer.

His own sister, Keira, had taken a bullet meant for another man who’d been targeted for elimination. And all because he’d brought down the New World Militia and its founder, David Pennington, years ago.

That thought gave him pause. Could this attempt on him have anything to do with that organization or a similar one? His public stance on terrorism—both foreign and domestic—had made him a few enemies, he had to admit. Was that the reason?

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 secretary 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.”

“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.

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