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He nodded slowly. “But I didn’t tell you the medication has to build up in my system. Two days isn’t long enough. A week. Two weeks. Possibly more. The doctors weren’t able to give me a set time frame.”
She put a hand over her mouth for a moment, her eyes meeting his in empathy. Eventually she drew her hand away and said, “I’m so sorry, Shane.”
He shook his head. “Nothing to do with you. I’m just impatient, I guess. I want it to be over now.”
She moved until she was standing right in front of him. He had six inches on her normally, but her heels gave her added height. Her hands cradled his face, then she touched her lips to his. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, her breath catching in her throat. Then her hands were sliding down, over his shoulders, over his chest. “I know bad things happen to good people, but it just doesn’t seem fair that—”
Her left hand paused at the lump beneath the right arm of his tuxedo jacket. “What on earth...?”
Shane stepped back from Carly. “I’m strapped for a left-handed draw because I’m left-handed,” he told her, his voice suddenly cool. “And yes, I have a permit for it. I can’t carry a handgun into a government building, so I haven’t worn it recently. But after yesterday I’m not going anywhere unarmed if I can help it.”
To his surprise, Carly suddenly laughed. She tried to hold it back, but it bubbled out of her, and her eyes danced with merriment. “Oh, Shane, I should have known.” She bent down, grasped the hem of her sapphire-blue gown, and tugged it upward, revealing those long, lovely legs he’d first admired in his hospital room. She kept raising the hem until she revealed something else. A gun strapped securely to her right thigh.
“Are you kidding me?” Shane could scarcely believe it. “You’re packing?”
“I have a concealed carry permit, too, which I got a little while ago,” she admitted, letting her hem slide back down her leg. “And thank goodness I did. But I’ve had my twenty-two for years, and I know how to use it. I told you, I’ve covered two wars and three ‘police actions.’ And DC isn’t the safest city for a single woman to live in.”
“Were you armed when—”
She shook her head. “I have a permit for DC, and while some states do have reciprocity, including Arizona, it’s not easy transporting a gun on an airplane even if you do have a permit for it. Whenever I leave the country on assignment, though, my twenty-two goes with me.”
“So you were going armed to the embassy tonight?” he asked.
“I might have to check my gun at the door,” she told him. “I totally get that. But I’m not risking anyone taking another shot at you if I can prevent it.”
* * *
From the shelter of his darkened truck halfway down the block, Marsh Anderson watched Senator Jones walk out of the town house, a woman on his arm. Then he did a double take when the couple passed under a street lamp right before the senator held the door open for his companion and helped her into the car he’d parked at the curb a few minutes ago.
Marsh smiled grimly. Both of his targets together—the senator and the reporter. He’d trailed Senator Jones here, expecting him to head for the Zakharian embassy—the insider had insisted that’s where he was supposed to be from seven to ten—so he’d wondered when the senator had driven to Georgetown instead of heading for Embassy Row.
He’d almost been tempted to try installing the little surprise he had for the senator’s car when Jones had entered the town house, but his caution had paid off. He would have needed more than the few minutes the senator was out of sight.
Marsh was nothing if not resourceful. He had to be. Paid assassins were only paid in full when their targets were dead. And his reputation was only as good as his last kill. Some assassins were expert marksmen. Some had a light touch with gelignite and detonating cord—common explosives. Some were even stupid enough to dabble in plutonium and similar heavy metals that were as dangerous to the killer as they were to the target.
Marsh wasn’t stupid. And he had no intention of dying. So he had no plans to ever get anywhere near anything that could kill him as easily as it killed his target. But gelignite and det cord? If you knew what you were doing, which Marsh did, you could take care of two problems—a junior senator and a nosy journalist—at the same time.
