Killer Countdown (Man on a Mission) Read online

  She removed the clip from her hair, which she let fall over her shoulders, before running her fingers through the sable tresses to muss it up the way his hands always did. Then she arched her arms over her head and stretched, watching for his reaction to her provocative move. He loved her breasts, she knew...but she could also see in his eyes that he loved the way her hands slid down to caress them, fondle them through her sweater the way he wanted to do.

  Men are visual, she reminded herself as she crossed her arms, grasped the bottom of her sweater and lifted. Slowly. Revealing the bare skin of her midriff, then the satin-and-lace bra that cupped and barely managed to contain her already aroused breasts. She pulled the sweater off completely and tossed it to one side, shaking her head so her tousled hair concealed and revealed.

  His quickened breathing told her she was on the right track, and her hands moved to her jeans. When she’d inched down the zipper she slipped her hands into the waistband and began sliding her jeans off her hips. She stopped suddenly before she’d done more than expose the lacy band of her undies, saying, “I forgot.”

  He groaned when she sat down on the chair by the bed, but he never looked away as she bent over and unzipped first one boot, then the other. She sat up and stretched to remove her boots, making sure he could see cleavage as she did so. Then she stood and shimmied out of her jeans, leaving them in an untidy pile on the floor.

  Shane moved so quickly Carly didn’t even have time to breathe before he’d plucked her from where she stood and dragged her back to the bed with him.

  “Wait,” she protested. “I’m not fin—”

  “You’re all done torturing me,” he assured her, his voice husky with desire. He parted her legs with one of his, a hand stroking between her thighs, and she knew he could feel the dampness there caused by the striptease that had aroused her nearly as much as it had aroused him. He pushed the fabric aside and slipped two fingers into her. “So wet for me,” he said with male satisfaction, his thumb seeking and finding the heart of her desire as he pressed deeper. “God, Carly, you have no idea what you do to me. How good you feel.”

  She moaned and arched, her breasts straining against the satin-and-lace bra that suddenly chafed her sensitized skin. She was already throbbing around his fingers, so close to completion she could scarcely think, much less speak, but she managed, “This isn’t what I—oh, Shane!”

  “Oh, Shane, yes?” he demanded, his thumb stilling.

  She’d die if he stopped. That’s all she could think of. “Yes,” she moaned. “Please!”

  “My pleasure,” he whispered, kissing her belly button. Then his lips moved lower. He held the satin fabric aside for his tongue, which picked up where his thumb had left off, and Carly went crazy. She gasped and gasped again, arching into the slight roughness that teased and tormented until she couldn’t take anymore. Until she sobbed at the unbearable pleasure. Until she cried his name.

  * * *

  Shane didn’t know how he managed not to simply rip Carly’s remaining scraps of clothing from her body. Nor did he know how he managed to find a condom in his frenzied haste. But he managed both. And when he had Carly pinned beneath him, when she welcomed him into her body with a catch in her breath and a tiny whimper deep in her throat, when her fingernails dug into his back urging him on, he knew this was the only place he wanted to be. Now and forever.

  He didn’t last long. He couldn’t. Carly’s seduction had pushed him to the edge of control. Loving her with his hand and then his mouth until she saw stars had unchained the wolf inside him. And now, feeling her so hot and tight around him, so slick as he plumbed her depths, was the last straw.

  It wasn’t quite as quick as their first time...but it was close. And when they were done, Carly was crying again. His heart clutched for a second, but then he knew he hadn’t hurt her. There were a few things that moved Carly to tears...and this was one of them. The alpha male in him exulted—maybe he couldn’t control the electrical pulses in his brain, but he could make Carly weep with pleasure.

  He gathered her close and dragged the bedclothes over them. Then he crooned softly as he brushed his lips over the tears on her cheeks, bringing her down gently. Eventually her breathing slowed, and her hand moved, fingers idly crisscrossing the hair on his chest. Then she said with a trace of regret, “I wanted to seduce you.”

  He smiled and pulled her closer. “You did.”

  “I mean all the way.”

  “Can’t get more all the way than what we just did...unless you’re talking something kinky.”

  She laughed softly. “You are so bad.” Then said, “Oh damn. Our breakfast is cold. Just like dinner.”

  “I told you, I seem to have a one-track mind where you’re concerned. First priority is you...and a bed. Food runs a far-distant second.”

  She sighed softly, and he knew it was a good sigh. “That’s nice. That’s really, really nice. But...” She pulled away from him suddenly and darted from the bed, then yanked her sweater on over her head without bothering with a bra. “Where are my—oh, there they are,” she said, glancing around. She picked up a tiny ball from the corner where Shane had thrown it in his haste, then apparently changed her mind. “I think I need new ones.”

  Yeah, she does, he thought, remembering how damp her bikini underwear had been when he’d caressed her while she was wearing them. And for some reason the wolf in him was very, very pleased with that knowledge. Inordinately proud. And pleased.

  “Come on,” she said, tossing Shane’s sweater at his head after she’d pulled on her jeans over clean undies. “Let’s see if we can salvage that oatmeal.”

  * * *

  The lights were off in Adams Hall in Old Town University, and though the wintry morning sun streamed through the stained-glass windows on one side, most of the two-tiered structure was still shrouded in eerie shadows. The sparse light didn’t bother Marsh. He’d set up in worse.

  Circumventing the security had been child’s play for him, and once inside he’d gone immediately to the front, mounting the five stairs leading to the raised stage that would undoubtedly be used for the panel discussion. Neither he nor the man who’d provided the information knew exactly what the configuration of the panel would be, or where the senator would sit, so Marsh needed to plan for any contingency.

  He snapped a few photos with his digital camera on its best low-light setting, mentally picturing where he might lie in wait. He’d already looked Adams Hall up online and had downloaded a half dozen pictures, so he knew it was possible a lectern might be placed somewhere on the stage, in front of the red carpet runner. If the speakers were standing to deliver their opening remarks, it was very likely they’d stand at a lectern, which would make his job that much easier. Either way, the layout of this hall was perfect for him—clear line of sight to the stage from practically anywhere, especially from the balcony. Six rows of yellow seats ascended from the balcony railing in the far back, with a wide aisle bisecting them; three rows lined the sides.

  Marsh paced off the distances, making cryptic notations in the little book he carried. He used a code that would be damned difficult to crack—he wasn’t stupid enough to create evidence against himself in the unlikely event he was ever arrested. Then he picked up the long, zippered case he’d brought with him, containing another AS50 sniper rifle, the same kind he’d used in his first attempt on the senator. He had other sniper rifles, but the AS50 was his favorite—it fit him like a glove.

  He walked to the left side of the stage and down, then climbed up to the balcony, looking for a good place to stash his weapon for tomorrow. It wasn’t as easy as he’d thought it would be. He knew from his research that the hall had more than seven hundred seats, but he had no idea how many people would attend tomorrow’s panel discussion. And since this was being held on a college campus, who knew where the attendees would sit? College students were not
orious for sitting in the back rows, so secreting his rifle under or in one of the seats there or in one of the window embrasures was problematic. He planned to arrive well before the starting time, but he needed to be able to retrieve the AS50 without being seen. And he had no idea what the janitorial schedule was. He couldn’t leave his rifle where it might be found.

  Then he found the perfect spot beneath the first tier of seats in the balcony. It took him a few minutes to pry the slats open without splintering the wood—and he commended himself for coming prepared with the tools he might need for most eventualities.

  He unzipped the rifle case, and from long practice quickly assembled the pieces of the AS50 while still wearing his gloves. Then he fit it in the curve of his shoulder. He sighted down the scope, taking careful aim at the stage. No problem.

  He loaded cartridges into the rifle from the box in the case and repeated the process, wanting every little edge he could have. A loaded rifle weighed more than an unloaded one, so he needed to be sure his aim was perfect.

  “Click,” he whispered to himself. The senator would never know what hit him.

  He stashed the loaded rifle and the case in the hiding place he’d created, then fitted the wood slats back in place. When he was done, few people would have noticed the difference between the before and after. And anyone who’d never seen that spot before wouldn’t have a clue that it hid anything.

  Marsh glanced around, thinking Adams Hall looked more like a medieval church—with its arched ceiling, lavish use of wood, ornate paintings and stained-glass windows—than a lecture hall. His lips twisted in cynical amusement. Not a bad place to die...if you were going to die.

  Chapter 19

  The oatmeal was edible...barely. Shane added salt and milk to his bowl before popping it into the microwave. Carly added a teaspoon of sugar and—after scrounging in the cabinets—a dash of cinnamon to hers.

  They sat at the table, eating and not saying much, until Carly raised her head and asked quietly, “Would you tell me what it’s like when it happens?”

  Shane didn’t pretend not to understand. “I told you before, that first day, remember? I also described the symptoms for the interview last Sunday.”

  “I know. You feel cold all over, as if you’ve walked into a freezer. You don’t black out—you have total recall of each episode. And you’re able to carry on a conversation when it happens—I know that from my own experience. But that’s not what I mean.” She made a face of frustration. “I’m not talking about the symptoms. I want to know what’s going on in your mind.”

  “Honestly? I’m not really thinking anything except ‘Damn it, not again.’” He shook his head. “There’s no warning. No odd feeling that a seizure’s about to hit. And unless my arms and legs are visible, no one but me can tell I’m having an episode.” He scraped up the last bite of oatmeal before adding, “I had one on the Senate floor on Wednesday morning. Right at the beginning of my speech on the pipeline bill.”

  “You did?” Her expression was half startled and half wondering. “I had no idea—I was in the gallery and I couldn’t tell.” Then her expression changed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What am I supposed to do? Announce to the world, ‘The show’s starting, folks. Senator Jones is having an epileptic seizure’?”

  “Of course not.” She gave him a long-suffering look. “But you could have told me later.” She thought for a moment. “That was the night we came here, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her voice was very quiet when she asked, “So why didn’t you tell me?”

  He had no easy answer. Why hadn’t he told Carly? “You’d already witnessed one episode, the night of the reception at the Zakharian embassy,” he said finally, stalling for time. “I didn’t keep that from you.”

  “Not after I guessed. No, you didn’t.” After a long silence during which her gaze never left his face, she said, “You didn’t tell me...because you’re ashamed for me to know.”

  Sudden anger shook him. “That’s a crock.”

  “Is it? Then why didn’t you tell me?”

  He stood so abruptly his chair scraped against the tile floor, a grating sound. He carried his bowl to the sink and ran water in it before turning to confront Carly. Only to find her bent over, her hands covering her face, her body shaking uncontrollably...and silently. Sobbing without making a sound.

  “Carly!” He was on his knees in front of her in an instant. “Don’t cry, Carly. God, don’t. I can’t bear it.”

  She raised a tear-wet face to his. “It’s my fault.” She sucked in her breath as tears continued to ooze out of her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. “There’s something wrong with me. That’s why you didn’t tell me. That’s why Jack didn’t tell me about his depression. About his thoughts of suicide.” She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, obviously trying desperately to hold on to her emotions, then she sobbed again as if she couldn’t help it. “That’s why he’s dead. Because of me.”

  “No, sweetheart, no,” he soothed. “It’s not your fault.” The endearment slipped out and he didn’t give a damn if she later made the connection. Because all he cared about in this instant was letting her know it wasn’t her fault. Not what happened to Jack. And not what was happening to him.

  He stood and scooped her into his arms, carrying her—still sobbing—into the living room. He settled into the recliner with her on his lap, his arms enfolding her. “Shush now, stop crying, sweetheart—you’ll make yourself sick. Come on, Carly.”

  But it was as if she couldn’t hear him. This wasn’t like her tears of yesterday—unexpected, stress-induced but quickly over. This was as if she were locked in her own misery with nothing but self-recriminations tearing at her heart, as if the only words she could hear were your fault, your fault, your fault.

  He cradled her head against his shoulder, stroking her dark hair, making soothing, wordless sounds. Wishing he had the words to ease her pain. Wishing with all his might he could go back to eight years ago and make Jack’s suicide not happen. Even though it would mean Carly would have married Jack and would have never been his, he would have done it in a heartbeat if it meant shielding her from this agony.

  Eventually Carly cried herself out and lay quiescent in Shane’s arms. He blotted her tears with his hanky, then gave it to her. When she was done he said, “Keep it,” making her choke and laugh. Somehow, with her laughter, the words came to him. “You’re right, sweetheart. It’s not your fault, but you’re right. I didn’t tell you because I was ashamed.”

  He breathed deeply and drew a measure of comfort when Carly’s hand moved of its own volition to stroke his arm in soothing fashion, the same thing he’d done to her a few moments ago. “It’s not easy for me to admit weakness. My entire life has been about control. I was the oldest child. The toughest. The strongest influence on my siblings—even more than our parents in some ways. And yeah, Niall and I competed, but I always won.” He brushed one knuckle against her now-dry cheek. “You were right. I always had to win.”

  He paused for a second. “Even when Wendy and our baby were murdered,” he said, pain welling up at the memory, “I still managed to be in control—I tracked down their killers myself and turned the information over to the Belgian authorities. The terrorists chose to blow themselves up instead of being arrested, and that was okay with me because I had still won. Justice and vengeance were one and the same.”

  Carly spoke at last. “So when you were diagnosed with epilepsy...”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t accept it. I thought I had. I thought, ‘Okay, I still have everything under control. The medication will handle the seizures and my life will return to normal.’ Then you showed up in my hospital room, and because I was able to talk to you about it, I thought I was dealing with it. And doing the interview with you was more proof I was in control of my life—I wa
s making the choice to go public.”

  “Then you had that seizure in my house.” And from the note of understanding in her voice, he knew she’d connected the dots.

  “Right. I had that seizure. Logically I knew it was too soon to expect the medication to work, but it bothered me because I couldn’t control it. It bothered me even more because you were there to witness my weakness.”

  “Oh, Shane...” The hint of chiding in her voice made him smile, because this was more like the Carly he knew.

  “I regained a little of my wounded pride the next night, when—”

  “When you displayed incredible stamina.” Her droll tone made him smile at first, then he laughed when she added, “I’m glad I could do my part helping you set a personal bedroom record.”

  “I wasn’t shooting for a record, Ms. Edwards,” he teased back, “but I’m always up for a challenge.”

  She pounded his arm with her closed fist, but lightly. “You are so bad.”

  He kissed her nose before continuing his story. “Then I had another seizure at the worst possible moment. Again, if logic was the only ball in play, I should have expected it—the doctors had told me the meds’ time frame, and six days just weren’t enough. But I was ashamed I still wasn’t in control of my body, so I hid it from the world. And I especially wanted to hide it from you that night.”

  “Because you wanted me to see you as the white knight riding to my rescue, taking me where I’d be safe. Got it.”

  He winced. “Ouch.”

  “I don’t mean it that way.” She buried her face against his sweater, and the rest of her words were muffled.

  “What did you say?”

  She lifted her head. “I said I never needed a white knight before, but it sure felt nice having one when I did.”

  He couldn’t look away from the bright intensity of her blue eyes. “Is that how you see me?”

  “Sometimes.”