An earpiece in place, he listened to the security chatter, but it did little to reassure him or stop him from scanning the area. The Christmas decorations of lit trees in every corner, live boughs, bows and floral arrangements were magnificent; still, he couldn’t help but think of the personnel who’d tromped through setting up each and every piece.
Most of all, he couldn’t help but think of how vulnerable Ginger was, sitting next to him wearing her creamy off-white suit and a matching overcoat. She stood out like a beautiful beacon amid all the formal black and festive red.
A Christmas angel to his Scrooge.
They could tra-la-la all they wanted, but he was in more of a bah-humbug mood. Something felt off.
Ginger sat perched on the edge of her chair alongside the remains of the stone altar, empty velvet bag in her lap as Franz Kohl made comments about the rarity of the crèche now nestled on the stark stone altar. As if having Ginger here in the open wasn’t enough, to up the stakes, his own kids had arrived for the event as well, showing up a mere twenty minutes before showtime.
They all sat in the audience with Ginger’s boys, their friends since childhood. Hank eyed them lined along the front row of observers—vulnerable, even if his children were all trained Air Force warriors as well.
His oldest, Alicia, and her husband Josh, who both flew fighter planes, passed their wide-awake baby girl back and forth to quiet her while the Minister of Arts continued his lengthy speech.
Shifting his gaze to his own baby girl, Hank could hardly believe Darcy would be a mother soon. Part of him wanted to launch down there and protect her, but she had her special agent husband sitting next to her on one side and her navigator brother—Hank Junior—on the other. Hank couldn’t suppress the twinge of surprise at his son’s appearance, since his namesake usually checked out of family stuff, especially if “the old man” was around.
As much as he appreciated their support in showing up, he really wished they were somewhere else tonight. He’d asked them to consider observing from the safety of the castle—but none of them would even consider it.
“Hank,” Ginger whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “do you have your BlackBerry with you?”
“Does a rose have thorns?” he answered softly without moving his lips. They’d gotten pretty good at near-silent ventriloquism over the years of sitting in the limelight for hours on end.
She rested a hand on the crook of his arm. “Could you look something up for me without appearing conspicuous?”
“No one will think it’s odd if I’m using the thing. What do you need?” He surreptitiously slid his BlackBerry from beneath his jacket and cradled it in his palm, his hand large enough most should never even notice he held it.
“You mentioned not liking the look of Mashchenko.”
“That’s because he was checking you out.” The lech.
“Oh really?”
Hank growled lowly.
“Your instincts are usually right on. Why not run a search on him?”
Hank’s eyes shot over to Mashchenko where the older man waited for his turn to speak after Kohl. “Now?”
“Why not now?”
Of course nothing about this weekend had been on anything but a breakneck timetable.>The oldest of the crew, apparently the only one not shocked speechless, stepped forward. “Mom?”
“Thank you for a most enjoyable afternoon, Senator Landis.”
“Thank you, Chancellor. I look forward to the rest of the visit as well.” Ginger gathered her composure as she nodded to the German Chancellor as well as Franz Kohl, the Minister of Arts, and Igor Mashchenko, the Vice-Chancellor from neighboring Kasov. The meeting had been called seconds after she and Hank had tossed out her sons and tossed on some clothes. Which left no time for her or Hank to speak to her sons after the enormously embarrassing encounter.
In the grand hallway outside the dining room, she finished her farewells to the heads of state after their lengthy luncheon. Her eyes lingered on the two special guests as she took a final moment to gather her impressions of them. She thought of Hank’s concerns regarding the crèche being the focus of the threats.
Could the Minister of Arts want the crèche for monetary reasons? She studied the ambitious young man, a traditional-looking academic in his layered sweater and jacket with slightly rumpled pants. She could have sworn she caught a hint of paint on his brown leather shoes. His thinning hair, however, had been neatly groomed for the important occasion.
She shifted her attention to their guest from neighboring Kasov, Igor Mashchenko. A grandfatherly figure with a full head of steel-gray hair, he had a regal bearing that inspired confidence. He’d risen to the heights through shrewd investments that had helped finance his rise to power. He definitely didn’t need money.
Mashchenko bowed over her hand with an old-world elegance that elicited a low growl from Hank only Ginger would have heard. She lightly elbowed her general in the side before smiling at the visiting dignitary and wishing him farewell until the sunset ceremony.
Now that this final meeting was past, she and Hank had no excuse to avoid what waited in the sitting room back in her quarters.
Walking down the castle corridor with Hank distinctly quiet by her side, she winced to think of the conversation still waiting to happen between her and her boys. She wanted to say it didn’t matter what they thought. They were the children and she was the parent.
Except they were adults, and actually their opinions did matter to her. She didn’t want dissension in her family. Something special had happened between Hank and her, and she wanted to start things off on the right foot with her boys.