“Fair enough. I’ll make this quick then. I apologize for the awkward moment back in the VIP lounge.”
In spite of the lack of listening devices, she appreciated that he kept his comment vague with all the people around. However, she also knew this was about as much privacy as they would get for the next couple of days. “I guess there’s no need for me to say, ‘What moment?’ but really Hank, don’t give it a second thought. We’re old enough to be past worrying about things like that.”
“Do you think so?” He cocked a brow. “You don’t look too old to me.”
And never too old to appreciate what sounded to her ears to be a most sincere compliment. The butterflies in her stomach swirled faster than the snowflakes.
Her publicity smile still in place as she waved and looked ahead, she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “Lordy, Hank, I’m a forty-nine-year-old mother of four boys.”
“And still hot as hell. You always have been.”
His words actually sent her stumbling a step on her heels before she regained her balance by gripping his sturdy arm—and making a quick check to be sure no one had overheard that bit of blunt flattery.
Seemed they were in the clear, and she wished she could have credited her slip to an icy patch, except that each footstep hit a swath of red carpet laid expressly for her visit. “Well thank you very much…General.” She also couldn’t bring herself to leave him out there hanging. “The years have been more than good to you. I was a little afraid I had embarrassed myself back there, too.”
His “public smile” relaxed into something more real for a moment. “So basically, you’re saying it’s okay that we both felt something in the airport lounge?”
“I’m saying we are both normal human beings.”
Her waving hand paused for a moment to glide possessively over the crèche. It had been her idea to give away the item to the church in the region where her husband’s great-grandmother had been born. Her right. Nothing politically incorrect about it, but everything politically savvy.
So why was her heart aching so over letting go of a piece of artwork she hadn’t even set up for the last three years? She told herself maybe she was the only one obsessing about the crèche to avoid thinking overmuch about the more pressing matter of these unexpected feelings for Hank.
“We’re also friends, Ginger, and I’ve learned friendship is rare, unlike….”
Sex?
She didn’t know about him, but sex was more than rare for her. It was nonexistent these days. Still, she couldn’t miss the depth of what he’d said about friendships being rare, something to treasure.
Their limo loomed a few more steps ahead, the crowds behind them now, the only other observers and press across the lot, roped off.
She stopped, staring up into his golden-brown eyes while waiting for the limo door to be opened. “How have you stayed single this long? You are something special, Hank Renshaw.”
Even as she heard the vehicle door click open, she couldn’t pull her gaze away from his. She shivered and hugged her wool overcoat closer to her. The weight of the velvet bag on her arm pinched at her skin, the wind swaying the purse back and forth.
Deep in his eyes she saw so much, not just the shared memory from the airport lounge, but from those years of friendship. Swirling at the center she found times they’d comforted each other—which made her remember the near-crippling agony of losing Benjamin.
Eventually she’d made her way past the pain into a vision of a future full of her children, grandchildren and a career on the national scene full enough to keep her busy for life. It had felt like enough.
Except at the moment she was too aware of the feel of red satin against her skin.
Heaven help her, Hank was reaching toward her. Could he be as caught in this moment as she was? Now wouldn’t a single inappropriate touch between the two of them eclipse all other morning feature photos?
She started to caution him when she realized he wasn’t reaching to stroke her arm, but to grip her elbow. His mouth opened.
“Ginger. Down,” he shouted, just as a bullet split a hole in the red carpet an inch from her high heels.
Chapter 2
Hank flattened Ginger down to the red carpet, shielding her with his body as he weighed his options for the best place for her safety. Bullets came at them from both sides. Security personnel made attempts to rush toward her, but bullets held them off.
Downed two. Holy hell.
Handheld radios squawked as a local cop pointed out a target in a black suit. A man with a sputtering gun keeping them from the airport.
A longer rifle glimmered in the distance from the patch of icy trees. Hank shouted a warning as another hail of gunfire exploded. Good guys and bad guys—all wearing black suits—blended until he didn’t know who to trust. No way even of determining who was from what country.
Shielding Ginger, he pivoted left and right, ascertaining one thing for certain. The limo chauffeur narrowed his eyes in their direction.
Hank had a split second to decide whether to put Ginger’s life in that man’s hands. Hank’s training, his instincts all shouted, trust no one.
He went into battle mode. Over thirty years of training kicked into high gear with one objective. Keep Ginger alive.
His arm hooked around her, he pressed her to his side as he ran. He protected her as best he could, shifting his back to whichever way it seemed the barrage of bullets raged worst.
He needed cover. Certainly. More than that he needed to get the hell away. He scanned the field, a mass of mayhem now with the crowds of shrieking observers running for cover behind trees or distant houses.
He missed the good old days when he’d driven himself from point A to point B. The limo was a no-go for transportation even if he could trust—or take out—the chauffeur. The vehicle was too unwieldy and identifiable.
Hank ducked by a tree with Ginger against him as a fresh hail of bullets spat from the airport door. Thank God she wasn’t a squealer. She kept her head and her silence. Although she couldn’t keep up, thanks to those ridiculous high heels that made her legs dream material.
“Look. There.” She pointed to another man dressed in a suit. Appeared to be secret service, but damned if he wasn’t pointing his gun in their direction.
His brain raced until the obvious hit him. They couldn’t go inside the limo, but the back end of the limo would make a fine place to crouch while planning.
Arm around her waist, Hank hefted her off her feet and sprinted back, closer to their original position. Bullets pocked the ground by his polished uniform shoes. Damn it all, he wished he had his flight suit and combat boots rather than this monkey suit with medals clanking and shoes pinching.
Finally, he eased Ginger to the ground. Luckily, the vehicle’s engine was off—shot out from bullets perhaps?—so no worries about being run over.
She wrapped her arms around the boxed crèche, her black wool coat trailing in the snow behind her. “What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know, but I’m not sticking around to chat with the guys shooting at us.” He slid his hand inside his overcoat and pulled out his 9 mm. “Can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys.”
He had a gun—of course he did, given the woman he’d been tasked to escort. Right now it was tough to figure out who to shoot. He could just as easily take out one of their own, but by the same token he couldn’t bring himself to trust a single person here at the moment. Bottom line, the best course still seemed to be trust no one for the moment, leave and recoup.
Now he had to figure out how to get out surreptitiously—with a hot woman in a red suit who just happened to be the high-profile U. S. Senator from South Carolina.
“Hank?”
“Thinking.” He gave her waist a reassuring squeeze. “Hang in there.”
“Hank—”
“Damn it, Ginger—”
“Hank!” She thumped his chest and pointed.
Tucked twenty feet or so away under an icicle-laden tree sat a silver Mercedes, engine humming, driver slumped over the steering wheel.
A getaway car.
He smiled.
She winked. “Ready?”
“Set,” he growled.
“Go!” Her purse clutched to her chest, she leapt to her feet and ran like hell in those heels he could have sworn would keep her back.
Well, damn. So much for carrying her this time. He bolted after her, his coattails flapping in the wind. He focused on creating a boundary with his body between her and anyone who might target her. Seconds later, they reached the Mercedes. Hank gripped the dead man by the collar and pulled him from the car.
He took a precious extra five seconds to relieve the dead guy of all his weapons before climbing behind the wheel—to find Ginger already buckled in beside him with her black velvet bag containing the family crèche resting on her lap. Her seat was reclined enough to keep her head out of the way of incoming fire.
“Let’s blow this pop stand.” He stretched his arm along the back of her seat and looked behind them, reversing the vehicle before pulling forward onto the road. Away from the firefight.
God, it felt like an hour since he’d stepped out of that little airport, but the whole ordeal had probably lasted all of ninety seconds. He’d experienced that same bizarre time-warp sensation countless times before in battle.
Now he just had to figure out a safe place to relocate in a foreign country with a U. S. Senator in tow at a time when people had decided to start shooting at her for no apparent reason.
Merry flipping Christmas.
“Buckle up.” Ginger couldn’t hold back the order as she gripped the dash of the Mercedes they’d just stolen from the dead agent.
“Yeah. In a second.” Hank slammed the car into Reverse again as they reached a road block of tractors.
“Now. Buckle it.” She put on her best mother voice that had actually stood her in good stead at the bargaining table when working to eliminate pork from legislation. “You’re no good to me if you catapult through the windshield in a car chase.”
“Uh-huh.” He rammed the Mercedes into Drive and nailed the gas pedal, whipping the steering wheel around to dodge the limo that had suddenly taken an interest in them again. Apparently the engine hadn’t been dead after all.
“I hear you, Ginger. As soon as I get a hand free. Duck.”
A bullet nailed the vehicle. The car rattled on impact. The reverberation shuddered up through her toes. Echoed through memories in her mind. She would never forget the unmistakable sound of tearing metal when she’d lost her husband in that awful car crash on an icy road.
She also couldn’t help but think of Hank in battle. How often had Hank heard antiaircraft fire hit his plane? Had it sounded the same? Life was too fragile.
Her heart pounded. She hit the deck as ordered. That didn’t mean, however, that she would forget about Hank’s safety. If he wouldn’t take care of himself, she would do it for him.
Ginger tucked her head low and reached over his lap. He thought he was invincible. She knew better. Images of her dead husband’s lifeless body in the wreckage of their family car still haunted her dreams at vulnerable moments. Like now. Here she was again, in a vehicle, driving too fast beside a man who was an important part of her life.
The Mercedes engine roared a reminder of their need to put space between themselves and the current crisis. She could hear the limo behind them. The squeal of brakes. Feel the swish of tires on slushy roads as rubber worked to gain traction.
The luxury sedan lurched forward as if rammed from behind. Hank braced himself. She bit back a scream that reverberated in her mind anyway.
Stop thinking. Take care of Hank’s seat belt while he worked his racetrack magic over the streets along the Bavarian border. She stretched her arm, fingers wiggling until she finally…felt…the fabric of his seat belt. Victory. She tucked the shoulder harness under his arm—not optimal, but he wouldn’t take his hands off the wheel—and yanked the lap belt in place with a satisfactory click.
