WW13 Christmas at His Command

by Catherine Mann

  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. Sh
e 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.

  Relief shimmered through her. He really should know better. He wouldn’t climb in a plane without going through a checklist. A rogue thought ticked at her brain like a frosty bracing breath.

  He’d been more concerned about her safety than his own. She shivered with her exhale, her breath caressing the rough fabric of his open overcoat.

  His coat?

  Oh my. What a time to realize she lay with her cheek pressed against his thigh. The heat of him warmed her face chilled by winter and fear. Then her face flamed from more than the feel of him.

  Did he notice their suggestive position? She couldn’t decide whether she should be more embarrassed if he did or if he didn’t. She started to shift.

  The car jerked left. The brakes shrieked. Hank palmed her back. “Don’t move.”

  She hugged his waist for balance and tried not to envision what was happening outside. The best thing she could do for him was stay calm. He didn’t need some screaming, clingy liability distracting him.

  Time passed in a blur of growling engines, honking horns, screeching brakes. Finally—she had no idea how much later—the car jerked to a stop. Only then did Ginger realize she’d squeezed her eyes closed during the breakneck chase. Now that the danger seemed to have passed for the moment, her senses went on hyperaware. Her arms were wrapped around the hard muscle of Hank’s waist. The fresh smell of his soap mixed with an arousing hint of tangy sweat, no doubt from the run, the adrenaline.

  His hand moved along the small of her back. “Ginger? Are you all right?”

  “Just catching my breath.” She considered herself a strong woman, but she really wasn’t ready to open her eyes or sit up just yet. “Do we need to run again?”

  “No. I think we’ve ditched everyone for now.”

  “Okay.” She nodded her head against the coarse fabric of his pants leg.

  This had to be the strangest conversation of her life, lying with her head in her friend General Hank Renshaw’s lap. She attributed some of it to the flashback of losing her husband, something she expected she would never fully get over.

  Of course it wasn’t every day people shot at her.

  They’d also shot at Hank, this amazing man who’d stood by her for years, and she owed it to him to be strong because their hides weren’t out of the sling yet. Digging deep, she smoothed her frayed nerves and opened her eyes. Only to blink, once, twice, and still find the overwhelming evidence clearly in front of her in Hank’s lap. She wasn’t alone in becoming aware of feelings other than friendship.

  Hank was very impressively affected by their physically compromising position.

  Well damn. Here he was, fifty-five years old, and he felt about fifteen around this woman. There wasn’t much he could do about this second awkward-as-hell moment as he sat with a sexy lady parked in a car in the deserted woods. Not much he could do…

  Except laugh.

  He gripped Ginger by the waist and plopped her upright before he did something foolish—like act on the attraction aching through him. “Ginger, I’ve already told you once today that you’re hot. Doesn’t mean I respect you any less. We can talk about it more later if you’re of a mind to, but right now,” he paused and pulled out his cell phone, “we need to find someone we can trust.”

  “All right.” She blinked fast, chewing on her bottom lip, which made him think of that moment her hands had lingered on his shoulders. “And thank you. For the ‘hot’ comment.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She frowned. “Where are we?”

  “Near a place I know.” He’d had a good dinner here just up this mountain road. “I’ve been to Germany more times than I can count and made some trips up this way over the Bavarian border. This was all I could pull out of my memory when those guys were chasing us.”

  “I think it’s extraordinary you could remember anything about the area given everywhere you’ve traveled.”

  “Piloting, travel, navigation—it’s what I do for a living. Or rather what I did before these stars on my shoulders pulled me out of the cockpit and sent me off to deal with mostly political BS.”

  It had been a lot easier in the days when he’d only had to worry about his own butt on the line. He and his crew, out on a mission. Not a civilian to protect.

  Tonight, the stakes were high with Ginger’s life in danger for some reason he’d yet to determine.

  He didn’t have much in his arsenal—a Mercedes, a 9 mm, and the two weapons he’d scooped off the dead guy. Along with his own cell phone and his BlackBerry. And of course his standard stash of currency and an alternative ID he carried with him when he traveled overseas.

  “Hey, Ginger, before I start driving again and risk stopping somewhere for gas, you need to take off your shirt.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your shirt. Or suit coat or whatever you call it. I’m not up on women’s fashion. We have to get rid of that listening device in case someone has activated it. I want to be careful who I speak to.”

  “Yes, right. I should have thought of that myself.” She shrugged out of her large overcoat, then worked her fingers down the gold buttons on the red suit coat, inch by inch revealing the satin camisole again.

  He might not be up on women’s clothing, but somehow the names for women’s lingerie stayed in his mind just fine.

  Hank swallowed hard.

  He’d noticed her looks before, but never had them gut-slam him like this. That, combined with his deep respect for her and a long-standing friendship, made for a heady combination. Out of respect—and a need to keep his sanity—he looked away at the snowy landscape of pine trees and bare limbs.

  Didn’t help. His eyes saw tall trees laden with pillows of snow, but his mind filled in the blanks of the rustling going on beside him. Ginger sliding her hand down the front of her camisole as she worked free the listening device.

  The world had gone crazy today.

  She extended her hand, thin wires wadded up. He took the listening device from her and crushed the mechanism in his fist.

  Once satisfied it had been completely destroyed, he nodded. “All right. Time to start making some calls.” His phone had the best encryption available. Still, he would keep the conversations short and move locations. “Hopefully this is just a single incident and we can head back in for a late supper.”

  He offered up his best consoling smile.

  “That sounds lovely.” She reached under the front seat and came back up with the velvet bag.

  Phone gripped in his palm, he hesitated in mid-dial. “You managed to hold on to that through the whole shootout?”

  “I must have done it through instinct. I don’t remember thinking about it, really. But I’m certainly not leaving a priceless heirloom behind now.”

  Staring at the steely woman beside him, Hank figured she took the word priceless to a new level, a thought more dangerous than any threats lurking behind the icicle-laden landscape. He wouldn’t risk anything happening to Ginger tonight, but he couldn’t deny his own peace of mind would seriously be at risk if they remained isolated together much longer. He’d only just barely willed away his physical attraction before the shock of having her life in danger, followed by the jolt of awareness over having her sweet curves up close to his body while he was hepped up on adrenaline, took hold.

  He definitely needed to get his head back in the game—because it was his job and because he couldn’t risk anything happening to the woman next to him.

  Hank clutched his cell phone and brought his mind back to the important task at hand. Time to start making
calls and hope they netted results. Otherwise he and Ginger would be stuck making use of the Bavarian hospitality undercover.

  Chapter 3

  Ginger eyed the potato soup in front of her—the price-wise special on the tavern menu—and tried to force herself to eat.

  Hank’s three calls from their wooded haven had been fruitless so far. None of the people had responded appropriately to his code word, so he couldn’t risk giving away their locale.

  At least they didn’t have to worry about the calls themselves. She knew his phone was encrypted well enough that he should be able to make quick, untraceable calls. With his job, he had the best technology available.

  Still, making contact involved some level of risk, no matter how fabulous the equipment. So he didn’t want to call too often, which left them in the back corner of a smoky old tavern recharging and regrouping.

  In spite of the roaring fire in the garland-strewn hearth, she kept her overcoat on to mask her bright-red suit. She didn’t expect people to recognize her, but she didn’t want to stand out. Hank had done the same with his coat, keeping it on, as certainly his American uniform with all its medals and stars would draw dangerous attention.

  Christmas music from an accordion combated the television and slapdancers to make conversation anonymous, but he’d stayed silent while he ate his bratwurst and potatoes. Was he thinking? Moody? Or just plain hungry?

  Ginger glanced around the smoky bar as best she could, taking in the back exit, the bathrooms, the bartender and a couple of patrons at the counter staring up at the television. She wanted to scout out the whole place, but Hank had taken the best seat for viewing. No matter where they went, he always kept his back to the wall. He said it made him feel less vulnerable.

  She understood the feeling as well. She didn’t much like having her back to this room full of diners when somebody could come through the door, guns blazing, at any second. So why hadn’t she simply sat beside him in the booth rather than plopping in the seat across from him with her own back so very exposed, dependent on another for protection?