Tonight when she’d opened the door to her town house, he’d been blown away at how beautiful she was in that shimmering blue dress, and all he’d wanted to do was take it off her. Okay, rip it off her, but he’d settle for unzipping it and gently sliding it from her body. A body that was a challenge he wasn’t strong enough to resist. And yet, she didn’t seem to have any idea how much he wanted her.
He automatically took Carly’s arm and guided her down the stairs, a gesture that wasn’t strictly necessary since the embassy stairway and the sidewalk in front of it had been meticulously cleaned of every vestige of snow and ice. But he’d had his manners drummed into him by his parents, who’d taught him a gentleman always helped a lady. Always. Old-fashioned? Yeah. Condescending toward women, who could manage for themselves in this day and age? Not at all.
Shane had quickly learned in the Marine Corps that his father’s attitude toward women was outdated and sexist. He’d served alongside women who deserved—and got—respect from him. And when his baby sister, Keira, had joined the Corps when she turned eighteen, as all four of her older brothers had done, he’d adjusted the way he thought of her, too.
But respect was one thing. Courtesy was another. Just as he used sir and ma’am when addressing the older generation, he would continue to treat his date with the courtesy she deserved—including taking her arm in any situation where she might conceivably need his assistance.
Shane accepted the Mustang’s keys from the valet and slipped him a generous tip, then superseded him when the man would have opened the passenger door for Carly. “I’ve got this,” he told the valet.
He didn’t make a big deal out of it, just made sure Carly was comfortably seated before closing the door and walking around the front toward the driver’s side. Then he stopped abruptly when he saw something that shouldn’t be there. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered under his breath, completely forgetting to place a curb on his tongue. His body was already moving back to the passenger side, tugging Carly out of the seat and away from the Mustang without conscious thought. “Clear the street if you can,” he barked at the two valets who approached him. “And if you can’t, keep everyone away from the car. I think it’s wired to explode.”
“Shane, what—” Carly began breathlessly as he hustled her back up the stairs and into the embassy.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” he assured her. To the guards on the door he said, “Call the DC police and the FBI. Tell them to send the bomb squad. And don’t let anyone leave the embassy until they get here.” Such was Shane’s air of command that one of the guards immediately turned to the nearest phone to do his bidding. Shane quickly explained to the other guard, “If I’m right, my car has been wired with explosives. I don’t know if it’s rigged to explode at a certain time or if it’s radio controlled, but either way it’s a threat to anyone out there. Can you see if the embassy can somehow cordon off the street until the police and FBI get here?”
* * *
Marsh hadn’t hung around when he saw his targets slip through his fingers. He hadn’t been prepared for the senator’s sudden suspicion and quick reaction. By the time he grabbed the remote control device on the seat next to him, the senator and the reporter were already near the top of the embassy stairs—too late to set off the bomb with any certainty of killing them. Marsh had cursed under his breath, then hightailed it out of the vicinity.
He didn’t waste time bemoaning fate. He didn’t believe in it. Fate was an excuse used by lesser men for inadequate preparation or improper execution. As he drove, Marsh mercilessly analyzed his actions tonight, from start to finish, and came to the conclusion that his preparation had been flawless. Which meant his mistake was in execution. Something had set off alarm bells in the senator’s head this time, same as last time.
A flash of admiration for the other man’s instincts in no way mitigated Marsh’s determination that next time he would succeed in killing his targets. Hopefully the man on the inside would be able to tell Marsh exactly how he’d screwed up. This was twice now that Marsh had underestimated the senator. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.