by Lori Wilde
Why was he so mad?
Punch, punch, punch.
He pounded the bag, beating back not only his frustration but the sexual desire he still felt for Tish that he was so ashamed to acknowledge.
Shane recalled another childhood memory. He had been twelve years old this time and eager to go on his first hunting trip with Ben and his cronies. Crouching in the deer blind, shivering cold, rifle clutched in his hand, pulse pounding with fear and adrenaline.
The big antlered mule deer walked into the clearing nibbling corn from the deer feeder they’d set up to lure him in.
Ben’s mouth was pressed against Shane’s ear as he whispered, “Look down the sight. Take aim at his heart.”
Shane raised the gun, peered down the barrel, the buck in his crosshairs.
“Commit,” his father commanded.
Shane’s finger curled around the trigger, his breath fogged frigid air. The deer turned, lifted his head, staring through the small rectangular window of the blind and straight into Shane’s eyes.
“Fire!” Ben’s demanding whisper sounded like a shout in Shane’s ear.
He pulled the trigger just as impulse telegraphed this thought to his brain: I don’t want to kill the deer.
His arm moved in response to his thoughts, throwing off his aim. The gun blasted, the noise reverberated in the small enclosure, inside his head. The air filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder. Shane flung the gun away from him, closed his eyes.
His father cursed, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and shook him. “Come on, boy. You’re going to finish what you started.”
Ben dragged him through the underbrush, tracking the blood drops spattered over the fallen autumn leaves. They walked for half an hour before they found him, lying against a cedar tree.
The buck thrashed on the ground, eyes glassy, breath raspy—dying. Slowly, painfully.
Bile rose in his throat and he dropped to his knees to retch in the weeds. He’d caused this.
Ben laid a heavy hand on Shane’s shoulder. “The animal is suffering, son. Suffering because you second-guessed yourself. Now get up and finish what you started. Put this animal out of his misery.”
Shane had learned an ugly but important lesson that day. He’d made up his mind. No more second-guessing. From now on he would not hesitate. He would do his duty. He would finish what he started.
And except for his marriage to Tish, he’d lived by that vow.
Wham, wham, wham. He pummeled the punching bag. His right hand was past pain now. It was numb. Dulled by the repeated punches.
He’d failed with Tish. Failed his marriage. Failed himself. He hadn’t stood by his commitment and they’d both suffered.
She pushed you away.
But that was no excuse. She’d needed him and he hadn’t been there. Not sticking with Tish was the biggest mistake he’d ever made. But it was over and done with now. He had a new commitment. He was engaged to another woman. A good, kind, trusting woman. And not just any woman, but the daughter of the President of the United States.
Exhausted, he dropped his aching arms to his sides, stepped back from the punching bag, rested his back against the wall and slowly sank to the floor.
He’d made promises. To Elysee. To Nathan Benedict. To himself. Promises he intended to keep.
Elysee needed him in a way Tish never had. He was determined to take care of her, especially since he’d messed things up so spectacularly with Tish.
So what if the sexual chemistry between him and Tish still lingered? It didn’t change the fact that he’d made a commitment to Elysee. She trusted him and he would not betray her.
No matter how much he might long to make love to his ex-wife, he’d do whatever it took to eliminate those desires. Slam a punching bag into oblivion, take cold showers and stay as far away from Tish as he could get.
It wasn’t going to be easy to accomplish with her underfoot as their wedding videographer. But this time he was determined. He was not going back on his promise. There’d been too much hurt already.
Chapter 12
When Elysee had told Tish she was going to fly her to Washington DC to video the engagement party, she’d assumed they would give her a coach ticket on a commercial airline. What she hadn’t counted on was traveling via Air Force One.
When the stretch limo pulled up to the private airfield in Houston with Tish sitting in the backseat, her mouth dropped open at the sight of the presidential airplane parked on the tarmac. Just looking at the 747 with the emblem of the United States flag painted on its tail made her want to put her hand over her heart and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. For the first time she fully understood the sense of pride Shane felt working for the Secret Service.
It was awe-inspiring.
As the limo driver held open the door and she alighted in blue jeans and a flowing, amber-colored tunic top, she felt even more out of place than she had in the limousine.
She’d ridden in limos before, at her senior prom and a couple of times when her mother was dating men with lavish expense accounts. In comparison to this sleek, polished piece of equipment, those limousines had seemed old and shabby.
A no-nonsense-looking woman dressed all in black and holding a clipboard asked for her name and identity before she got within ten feet of the plane. Tish fumbled for her wallet, overwhelmed by what was happening and pulled out her driver’s license. She explained who she was and why she was there. The woman took Tish’s suitcase and passed it to a cohort for inspection before they stowed it in the plane.
When the woman reached for her camera bag, Tish clamped a hand around the strap. “This stays with me.”
“Fine.” The woman nodded curtly. “But it must be examined first.”
Tish nodded, pulled out her expensive digital camera and accessories. She cringed while the woman turned on the camera, flipped settings, played with the focus.
After she made it past that gatekeeper, a Secret Service agent frisked her. The frisking put Tish in mind of the favorite sex game she used to play with Shane. Where he was the Secret Service agent and she pretended to be a foreign spy out to seduce him for state secrets. Her face heated at the memory.
“You may proceed,” the agent said, sounding stern and not smiling.
She remembered that, too. How Shane could look at her sometimes so coldly and unemotionally. She hadn’t really realized until now it was something he’d learned in training.
The revelation startled her.
Maybe all those times he had seemed to be stonewalling, he was actually struggling hard not to show his feelings, thinking it would make him seem weak somehow. She bit down on her bottom lip and followed the female staff member who ushered her inside the plane.
Ascending the retractable stairs at the rear of the plane was a mythic experience. She was being granted entry where few had ever gone.
Once inside Air Force One, the staffer led her immediately up another staircase to the middle level. It looked more like a hotel or an executive office than a jetliner, except for the seat belts on the chairs.
“The lower level on the plane serves as a cargo hold,” the woman said, acting as tour guide. “Most of the passenger room is here on the middle level. The upper level is largely dedicated to communications equipment and the cockpit. The president has onboard living quarters, with his own bedroom, washroom, workout gym, and office space.”
The woman paused, letting Tish catch up. She’d been lingering, looking around at the masterfully handcrafted furniture with a photographer’s admiring eye.
“All in all,” the woman continued, “Air Force One can comfortably carry seventy passengers and twenty-six crew members. Passengers are not allowed to move forward within the plane. If the President should wish to speak with you, he’ll walk back here to see you.”
Staff members were moving to and fro. Security, military men and women, and members of the press were all dressed in either uniforms or suits. Tish felt out of place and extremely underdres
sed.
Why hadn’t she realized what a big deal this was? Feeling like the proverbial local yokel, she stood in the middle of the aisle, confused and fighting the urge to turn around and run right out the way she’d come. She even turned her head toward the exit, checking the escape route.
She spied Shane’s physical therapist, Pete Larkin, coming up the ramp with Shane bringing up the rear. At the sight of her ex-husband, Tish’s breath slipped from her lungs, falling like mercury through a thermometer during a Blue Norther. Even before their tête-à-tête on the porch at the Benedict ranch house, Tish had been battling old memories and feelings she thought she’d put to rest.
He looked like Sir Galahad with a beam of sunlight streaming in through the window from over his shoulders, as if he were a mythological god bringing illumination to those inside. He wore the ubiquitous Secret Service sunglasses, even though he was no longer Elysee’s bodyguard.
Old habits died hard.
For some strange reason that thought lifted her spirits. Like what? Was she subconsciously thinking of herself as one of Shane’s old habits?
Stop it. Stop it right now.
He spotted Elysee sitting in the corner, but apparently he hadn’t seen Tish. His face softened into a gentle smile as he went toward the President’s daughter.
Elysee smiled back and tilted her face up to him. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Elysee looked at him as if he’d singlehandedly created the world.
It was a sweet, romantic moment that knocked the breath from Tish’s lungs. She felt mean and petty and hurt. Jealousy was an ugly thing.
Panic spread through her veins like a firestorm.
It’s all a mistake. Coming here today. Going to Washington. Agreeing to be the videographer for their wedding.
Not fighting harder to keep Shane.
What made her so self-destructive? Why couldn’t she latch on to what was wrong with her and fix it? Why wasn’t she able to control her spending? How come she swept her finances under the rug? Why had she just given up on their marriage?
He gave up on me first!
Misery had her jonesing for Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. Either that or a double shot of really strong tequila. Unexpected hysteria clamped down on her mind.
I can’t do this. I can’t stand by and watch while Shane marries another woman.
Her knees trembled and her heart was in free fall, tumbling out of her chest and into her feet.
Elysee noticed her, waved, and called out, “Tish, come sit with us.”
I’d rather stick a hot poker in my eye, thank you very much. “Okay.”
Pasting on a fake smile worthy of a politician, Tish ambled over to a quartet of plush leather chairs arranged so they faced each other. Elysee and her secretary, Lola, sat on the forward-facing chairs, while Shane and Tish sat side by side on the backward-facing chairs.
If she were to reach out her right hand she could trail her fingers along the left sleeve of Shane’s dark jacket. Instead, she made sure that both hands were tightly clutching her camera bag.
“Something to drink?” asked an attendant.
“V-8 juice, please, if you have it.”
“Certainly, miss.” The flight attendant departed.
Silence descended. Tish was aware that Elysee was studying Shane, who was looking over at her, an enigmatic expression in his eyes. He’d taken off the sunglasses and tucked them in the front pocket of his jacket. Lola was discreetly staring out the window.
Tish inhaled sharply. Oh God, this trip was going to be horrible.
“So what do you think about Air Force One?” Elysee asked. Tish could tell she was struggling to make pleasant conversation.
“Impressive. Photographs don’t do it justice.”
“It is difficult, catching the atmosphere of something on camera.” Elysee gave a forced laugh. “But of course you know that. You spend your life trying to breathe dimension into a one-dimensional medium.”
It sounded like a criticism, even though Tish knew Elysee hadn’t meant it that way.
“Oh,” Elysee said and brought two fingers to her lips. “That sounded stupid, didn’t it? It’s just that Shane told me how hard you work to capture the core emotional content of a moment with your camera. He said you focus in on the small details. An untied shoelace on a two-year-old ring bearer, a single bead of perspiration on the upper lip of the father of the bride, a bridesmaid fondling her own bare ring finger.”
“He said that?” Tish slid her gaze in Shane’s direction.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said gruffly.
“I never realized you ever paid much attention to my work.” She studied him with fresh eyes.
“I was proud of you; of course I paid attention.”
“Really? When was that? Before or after you bitched at me for buying this camera?” She clutched her camera bag to her chest.
“Tish.” He leveled a warning glance. “You’re distorting things.”
“You’re right.” She held up her palms. “Ancient history.”
“I didn’t mean to stir up controversy between you two,” Elysee apologized.
“You didn’t,” Tish and Shane said in unison and glared at each other. The undercurrent of tension was still there, strong as ever.
The flight attendant returned with the V-8 juice she’d ordered and Tish set it in the cup holder nestled in the arm of her chair and rested her camera bag at her feet.
A commotion at the door drew Tish’s attention to the entrance. A knot of Secret Service surrounded the President as he entered the plane. Awestruck, she stared openmouthed as the Commander-in-Chief made his way over to Elysee.
Nathan Benedict’s presence was palpable. Not only because of everyone’s reaction to him, but from the aura emanating from him. He had steel gray hair and a no-nonsense stride. He slipped out of his suit jacket, handed it to an underling, and rolled up the sleeves of his starched white shirt. He hugged Elysee, shook Shane’s hand, nodded hello to Lola, and then turned to her.
“You must be Tish,” he said warmly. “My daughter speaks very highly of you and your work as a videographer.”
“It’s a great honor to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise.”
“Please, take my seat, Mr. President; sit with your daughter.”
She was up and moving, desperate to get away from the sudden claustrophobia squeezing her lungs. This was too much. She was ill-prepared for such a momentous encounter. She couldn’t look the President in the eye. Not when she was still aching for Shane, who was about to marry his daughter. She was terrified that this perceptive man would see her secret etched upon her face.
“No, young lady, sit, sit.” The President gestured toward the chair she’d vacated.
“I’m more comfortable standing.”
“We’re about to take off,” he said, a bemused smile playing across his lips. “You have to sit down.”
Tish pointed over her shoulder at vacant seating in the rear corner. “I’ll be more comfortable over there.”
He studied her a moment, obviously reading her nervousness.
“As you wish.”
She snatched up her camera bag and grabbed her V-8 juice from the cup holder on the chair. She moved to the right. The President went in the same direction.
“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled and stepped left at the very instant he did the same.
“Hold still, young lady, and let me get around you.” Nathan Benedict chuckled and reached out with both hands to grab her shoulders.
Call it a subconscious response. Call it extreme nervousness. Or call it what it really was—her self-destructive mode kicking into high gear. Either way, it was a major snafu.
The second he reached for her, Tish raised her arm in a protective gesture, forgetting she was clutching a glass of viscous V-8 juice.
Her hand went up.
The glass came down.
Thick red juice splashed, blooming like blood in the center of Nathan Be
nedict’s pristine white shirt.
The President made a startled sound.
Tish gasped.
“She stabbed the President!” someone shouted.
The Secret Service converged in a swarm.
The next thing Tish knew she was pinned to the floor by six burly bodyguards.
People were shouting. Hard knees jammed into her back, pressing down on her lungs, making it hard for her to breathe. Someone sat on her legs. Her knees dug into the carpeting. Both of her hands were staked to the ground by thick wrists heavier than iron shackles and her camera bag had disappeared.
Panic seized her. Her camera was her most valuable possession. It had cost her fifteen thousand dollars and her marriage.
“My camera!” she cried. “Where’s my camera?”
Above all the hubbub she heard Shane calmly explaining that they could let her go, because while his ex-wife was a monumental klutz, she’d hardly intended to assassinate the leader of the free world with a glass of V-8 juice.
“Get off my wife.” The words were on the tip of his tongue. Shane almost spoke them, but just in the nick of time, he managed to bite them back. Instead he said, “All clear, suspect no threat to the eagle.”
“I’m fine,” Nathan Benedict reiterated as another agent whisked him away. “It’s nothing more than spilled tomato juice.”
“I can’t breathe,” Tish mumbled, her face pressed against the floor.
A shock of concern passed through him. “Get off,” he snapped at the bodyguards. “You’re hurting her.”
Slowly, the Secret Service agents let her up and backed away, holstering their drawn weapons as they went. Shane understood why they’d done what they’d done, but he couldn’t help feeling as if they’d acted overzealously.
He reached down to take Tish’s arm. “You okay?”
She raised her head, pushed up on her knees, and threw him a scathing glance. Reluctantly she took his proffered hand, but once on her feet she immediately twisted from his grasp and glowered at him darkly.
“Are you pissed off at me?”
“Why on earth would I be pissed off at you?” Her voice was laden with sarcasm.
