Killer Countdown. Amelia Autin

Shane and her and a tropical island. But just as they’d been about to make love a platoon of US Marines had landed on the island with one of those landing craft from WWII and swarmed Shane to protect him. He’d immediately ordered the marines to protect her, not him.

      But I’m not targeted for assassination, she’d protested as the marines promptly shifted at his command. Think again, Shane had said in that deep voice that sent shivers down her spine. You saw him. You can identify him. He’ll be coming after you—count on it.

      * * *

      Shane glanced apprehensively at the array of cosmetics, brushes and spray cans on the counter before him, then at the makeup artist draping a large cotton bib over his chest and tucking a towel around his throat, pushing the edges into his shirt collar to keep it from accidentally getting smeared. “Do your worst,” he said in the resigned voice of a man going to the guillotine.

      The fiftysomething woman chuckled and patted his arm. “Don’t worry, honey, I’m the best in the business. When I’m done, you won’t look as if you’re wearing makeup at all.”

      Shane tried to ignore whatever it was she was doing to him and focus on Carly sitting on the stool next to him. She’d obviously already been worked on—her face still looked like her but...polished. That’s it, he thought. She looks polished. Her long, dark hair had been braided and coiled into gleaming perfection, her bright blue eyes were huge and thickly fringed with dark lashes, and her mouth—holy crap, her mouth!—curved sweetly with the barest hint of gloss to add color. He shifted in the chair, grateful for the expansive bib that hid his body’s obvious reaction to the woman he’d known he wanted two days ago—from the first moment he’d met her.

      “... At that point I’ll ask you to describe the symptoms that caused you to contact the Mayo Clinic,” Carly was saying, her eyes on her script, and he forced his attention away from his sudden fantasy of the two of them alone on a desert island. “Keep it short. And don’t use any fancy words our viewers might not understand.”

      “Got it.”

      She went through the rest of the questions, none of which Shane considered anything but softballs that would allow him to hit home run after home run with his answers. Only once did he object—when she brought up how he’d received the traumatic brain injury the doctors theorized had been the trigger for the seizures.

      “No, I’m not going there.”

      She said patiently, “You don’t understand, Senator. People—”

      “Shane.”

      “Shane,” she amended. “You don’t understand. People are going to want to know what happened.”

      “It’s not up for discussion.”

      She pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing. “Okay. We won’t go there.” She crossed a line through that question in her script. But Shane was watching her closely, and he thought he saw something in the expression that fleetingly passed over her face. Something she knew, which she wasn’t going to tell him.

      He opened his mouth to ask Carly about it when the makeup artist said suddenly, “There, honey, you’re all done.” She removed the towel and whipped off the bib, then patted the knot of his tie back into place.

      He looked in the mirror and realized the woman had been right—he couldn’t even tell he was wearing makeup. He looked like himself...only better. And for the first time in his life he understood why women wore makeup. Not that he would ever wear it for anything other than the TV cameras—he could hear his brothers snorting with laughter and making crude jokes at that idea—but still...

      “Thank you,” he told the woman, catching her eyes in the mirror. “I was wrong. You didn’t do your worst, you did your best.”

      The woman beamed back at him. “’Course I did, honey.”

      “How do I get this junk off afterward?”

      “You leave it to Maggie,” Carly said, smiling at both of them. “I’ll bring you back here when we’re done. Thanks, Maggie, you’re a treasure.”

      As Carly led him toward the sound stage where the interview would be recorded, Shane tugged her sleeve to hold her back for a moment. “Before I forget, I wanted to ask you something.”

      “What?”

      “Would it be breaking any journalistic ethics rules if I asked you to accompany me to the reception at the Zakharian embassy tonight? The invitation was for me and a guest.” Carly’s eyes widened, as if he’d taken her by surprise. “I hate these formal affairs, but I’d hate them a lot less if I had an intelligent woman to talk with while I was there.” He laughed suddenly. “Sorry, that wasn’t very smooth. The truth is, I’d really enjoy your company. Will you go with me?”

      * * *

      After they finished taping the interview, J.C. came out of the sound booth to shake Shane’s hand. “Great job, Senator. Sorry about the diagnosis, but very glad to hear it’s controllable with medication.”

      “Thanks.” Shane didn’t say any more, but Carly saw the speculative way he assessed J.C. and then her, as if he was wondering if there was anything between them.

      Because he’s interested in you? she wondered. Seriously interested in you? Or just because he’s curious?

      Until that point Carly had never really looked at J.C. as a woman would look at a man, but now she did. And what she saw explained why Shane might wonder about their relationship. J.C. was nearly as tall as Shane, just as physically fit and a couple years younger. He wasn’t quite as handsome, but he had the kind of face—not to mention that terrific British accent—most women would be attracted to. But not me, she insisted. There was no spark with J.C. and never had been. She couldn’t say that about Shane.

      Carly’s gaze caught Shane’s, and she shook her head slightly, answering the question she knew he wouldn’t ask outright. His dark brown eyes warmed—there’s that chocolate fudge, she told herself—and a tiny smile played over his lips. And despite telling herself not to, she returned his smile with a tiny one of her own.

      She took Shane back to Maggie for removal of what he’d referred to as “junk.” Then she returned to the soundstage to confer with J.C. about the interview, which would be “spliced and diced,” and put back together, along with a computer-generated reenactment of the domestic terrorism bombing at the bookstore where Shane had been injured five years ago, for broadcast that evening.

      A twinge of guilt touched Carly’s conscience because she hadn’t told Shane about the reenactment when he’d refused to allow any questions about that incident. It had been J.C.’s idea, and she’d enthusiastically agreed this morning, thinking it would be a great visual. But now she wasn’t so sure. Oh, it would still be good—but she was fairly sure Shane wouldn’t like it. Even less would he like the two-minute film clip interview with the woman whose life—and whose baby’s life—he’d saved.

      There was something appealing about Shane’s insistence on keeping that door closed. It said something about his character that he wouldn’t use his heroism five years ago to his advantage now. But just as he hadn’t been able to keep the news media from telling and retelling the story when he’d been running for Congress and then for the Senate, he couldn’t keep her network from playing the hero card during this exclusive interview. Heroes helped ratings. And though Carly was a hard-hitting investigative reporter with a strong ethical background, ratings were a fact of life.

      She considered asking J.C. to ax either the reenactment or the film clip, then decided against it. The network had already spent the money on the computer graphics and to interview the woman. The only argument she could muster was that Shane wouldn’t like it, and she didn’t think that would carry much weight with J.C. It wouldn’t have carried much weight with her, either, three days ago.

      Before she’d met Shane.

      That realization scared her right down to her shoes, and made her wish she’d