A night in his arms.
Hank tipped his chair back, arms crossed over his chest. “There are more people in their group.”
“Very low risk. They’re disorganized with their leaders out of commission, and they’re not likely to strike in the same place so soon.”
Hank rocked his kitchen chair back and forth. “Fair enough.” Still he didn’t appear satisfied. “What about our cancelled appearances?”
“We told everyone the stress from the attack had aggravated the senator’s ear infection, and she was under doctor’s orders to rest. Since you’re in safely, we would like to invite those who missed meetings to attend the Christmas Eve dedication service, provided you’re still up to making the event, ma’am.” The agent reclaimed his seat at the table.
“Absolutely.” Ginger couldn’t fault how things had been handled. Everything seemed perfect, which meant there was no reason not to continue with the rest of her plans. “The chapel dedication is the most important part of this whole trip. Make whatever security arrangements are necessary.”
“Ginger…” Hank’s chair thudded to the floor with an ominous thud. A stubborn thud.
“Hank, we can’t leave the country on this negative note. It taints all the progress we made in the weeks prior.” She stared him down, her mind set in spite of the fact she felt the same unsettling sensation inside of her that she saw echoed in his eyes.
However, she’d been in public service long enough to have had bad feelings come to nothing. She couldn’t cancel every event because of a feeling, and this one, passing along the crèche, had somehow become especially important to her for some reason she had yet to pinpoint.
So she locked on Hank’s gaze and held until he blinked first and shifted his attention to the special agent at the table with them.
“I want damn impenetrable security measures at that dedication ceremony, Rodriquez. No screw-ups this time. I want her wrapped in a fortress of protection.”
Hank couldn’t miss the irony of his wish as he stood at the medieval castle window, looking out over the historic fortress’s grounds. He’d wanted Ginger well protected and now he waited with her in an alabaster stone citadel that had withstood centuries of sieges and attacks.
He continued his perusal of the outlying snow-capped land as Ginger bustled behind him, settling into the room, putting away her clothes that had been brought over by the secret service. His room connected through a small sitting area. They’d been assigned the lord and lady of the castle’s quarters. He’d been placed close to her for protection, practical, but hell on the willpower since he would be spending the night here with her before tomorrow’s Christmas Eve dedication ceremony.
Even with his back turned, he couldn’t help but be tuned in to her every movement, his awareness of her pleasure or frustration over the smallest details of the room. Her sigh at the bathroom door meant there wasn’t enough elbow room. Her harrumph over the closet stated she didn’t approve of the musty scent. A quiet humming noise while she filled the dresser drawers relayed that she liked the flowery smelling pillowy things they’d put in there to scent up the clothes.
God knows how he understood all of that since no one had ever accused him of being Joe Sensitive. But there it was.
And he would damn well lose his mind thinking about how much had shifted between them since he’d held her in his arms last night. Or kissed her this morning.
Better focus on the outside.
His eyes scanned a rocky, icy patch of scarred earth where he suspected there’d once been a moat. An ice-covered lake spread to the right, mountains along the left wrapping behind. Strategically, this had been a well-built home and he couldn’t deny the rush as he thought of all those old battles chronicled on the tapestries covering the walls.
How ironic that the castle had survived so much only to have the chapel razed by a fluke of nature fifty years ago. Lightning from a storm had sparked a fire, destroying the chapel along with its contents. The village had been devastated. The fundraising drive in this small town to rebuild the chapel had been a heart-tugging story—just the sort that called to someone like Ginger more than any big-city photo op.
One of the many things he admired about her.
As if drawn against his will, he turned on his boot heels to find her warming her toes by the fire. She toyed with the trailing end of the pine bough attached to the mantel, with red bows and silver glass balls. Her sigh of contentment seared right through him.
Their kiss that morning blazed in his mind and through his body as if it had just happened.
She turned to look at him, the flames from the hearth reflected in her eyes. He kept his gaze firmly off the looming four-poster bed with its poufy comforter across the room and a nice little spread of wine with holiday candies, fruit and nuts beside it.
The firelight brought out her blond hair, showcased the shadows of her every sweet curve, of her h*ps in formfitting jeans.
Her br**sts in that sweater—the woman looked fine in a sweater. He vowed to buy her lots of them, in every color. And yeah, these thoughts were leading him directly down one path.
Hell, he could stare at the moon and there was no ignoring the bed’s overpowering presence. In spite of all the danger—perhaps even heightened by the reminder of how easily everything could be taken away—they’d been working toward this moment all day.
His feet carried him to her with a surety he saw in her eyes along with those flames even if the breath she inhaled seemed a little shaky. He stopped in front of her and she dropped her extended legs, her feet resting toes to toes with his.
“So, Ginger, do I take my boots off and stay or not? It’s your call.”
Her face creased in a smile, her breath seeming a bit steadier this time. “Boots off, flyboy.”
She didn’t have to tell him twice. He dropped into the wingback chair opposite hers and slid his shoes off, dropping them to the floor, with a thud and thud, before he extended his hand to her. Without hesitation, Ginger glided up from her chair, sinking into his lap and his arms.