Back where it belonged. But the precious art collection in the chapel had been destroyed by a fluke fire.
Or not.
Ginger gasped. “You burned down this chapel during a storm—after looting the place to sell the invaluable treasures on the black market.”
“You’re a smart woman,” Mashchenko replied. “I was only sixteen but I had dreams and a plan.”
Hank couldn’t help but fill in the blanks. Talking would buy time, and damn it, if the guy managed to squeeze off a shot…“The money financed your rise in government.”
“Enough talk.” He waved his weapon, obviously relying on firepower to overcome what he lacked in strength due to age. “There’s no reason why we all can’t end this day happy. If I kill you, I’m a marked man for life. I just want out now. I can hide. Come quietly until I can get to my connections.”
Fat chance.
Hank decided that age didn’t have a thing to do with any of it. He’d never felt more honed than at the moment as years of experience blended with training and a deep-rooted need to protect the woman he loved.
As if sensing his intent, Ginger gripped his clothes tighter; with those snipers out of commission, he couldn’t afford to hesitate.
The second he saw that Mashchenko’s weapon wavered and was only pointed at him, Hank leapt, not far at all. The weapon discharged. Ginger screamed. Hank couldn’t afford to hesitate. He forced himself to focus on the mission.
Take down Mashchenko.
Save Ginger.
Muscles bunched, Hank landed on the older male—a man who obviously worked out. Still, Hank gripped the bastard’s gun hand in a relentless grip, banging it against the rocky remains of the floor again and again. Praying the villainous thief wouldn’t get another shot off.
The thought of losing Ginger was inconceivable.
Even the notion caused a fresh pulse of adrenaline to surge through him, managing to mask most of the pain in his hand as he battered the villain’s arm against the ground. He slammed Mashchenko’s wrist against a sharp stone one last time.
The weapon skittered away along the cobblestones.
Hank’s fist followed as quickly across the man’s jaw, knocking him out a second before the secret service descended, Ginger’s sons leading the pack to rush them. A swarm of activity buzzed all around them, but his focus was only on one woman.
Where it belonged.
He pivoted to find Ginger already launching toward him—his feisty Carolina angel—blessedly safe and unharmed. He opened his arms to have her fall against his chest where he now knew she belonged.
For a lifetime.
Three hours later—which felt like a lifetime, so much had happened—Ginger stood with Hank under one of the tents erected for the dedication ceremony. After the shooting, it had been changed into a questioning center for the police to collect data, but most of the crowd and media had cleared away now.
A paramedic was just finishing splinting Hank’s two broken fingers from when he’d grappled with Mashchenko to pound the gun from the villain’s hand. Her pugnacious general insisted he would go to the hospital in the morning. Tonight, give him some tape and a Tylenol. He just wanted to be with his family—the Renshaws and the Landises.
She couldn’t stop the warm spread of joy over his words, even if they had been spoken with a grumpy-bear growl.
She hoped the secret service would let their children come over sometime soon. At least no one had been seriously injured. The sharpshooter had been hit in the shoulder and was reported to be doing well in surgery.
The stray bullet from Mashchenko’s gun, as he and Hank struggled, had struck one of the aircrew—who’d been with them from the start of this trip—in the arm. A superficial wound, thank God.
The injured sergeant was already being lauded by the press as the hero of the day as he’d helped carry an elderly woman to safety during the fracas.
Ginger sank back in the chilly metal chair and stared up at the moonlit sky, stars shining through clearly as midnight approached for Christmas Eve to pass away into Christmas morning.
While she was so relieved everyone would be all right, still she couldn’t help but be sad that she’d missed the chance to donate her crèche as planned. Such a silly thing to regret when she considered the larger implication of what could have happened, but as she sat here next to Hank, she couldn’t deny the truth any longer.
Giving away that family nativity, something that had been an integral part of her life with Benjamin from their first Christmas together, had been her way of saying goodbye. Because, finally, she was ready.
Ready to let go. Ready to love again.
Ready to love Hank.
Once his hand had been bandaged, Hank waved away the offer of a hypodermic needle that apparently held something with a little more kick than Tylenol. Her heart pounded faster as she thought of the two of them getting swallowed up by the media again, then their families, then their jobs. It seemed as if there might never be another chance for them to talk.
If nothing else, tonight she’d learned to grasp every moment.
She turned her chair to face his as the medical technician reluctantly stashed her needle back in a supply case and stalked away. Ginger took in the powerful set to Hank’s shoulders in his uniform, the slight dampness from snow and his injured hand the only signs he’d almost lost his life trying to save hers.
She refused to let the lump welling in her throat steal her ability to say the words hammering at her heart. “We probably only have a minute or two before the security folks unleash the kids on us, so I’m going to talk fast because I don’t want to wait another second to say a few things that should have been said a long time ago.”
“Okay.” He settled back into his seat, warding off a circling police officer who obviously wanted a word with him.
Her heart pounding, hopeful, she gasped in a deep breath of the icy night air. “You asked about me being afraid. About my feelings when I lost Benjamin. What happened out here tonight made me remember that there are no guarantees of tomorrow. This is a scary world we live in—whether it’s a terrorist, a crook or a fluke of fate.”
“Where does that revelation leave us?”
“Oh, Hank, it made me realize I’m an extremely brave woman. Sure I’m scared. Who wouldn’t be? But you’re more than worth the risk. We’re worth the risk.”
“You’re also a very smart woman.” He glanced around at the remaining crowd, his gaze landing on their children waiting not so patiently by two local police officers. “I guess the only question left to ask is whether or not you’re an impulsive woman?”
“Why do you want to know?”
He took her hands in his uninjured one. “Ginger, you’ve been my best friend for most of my adult life, and now you’re my lover, too. I’ve always loved you. Today I learned that I’m also in love with you.” He slid down on one knee. “So how about tonight you become my wife?”
“Tonight?” She blinked fast, in time with the cameras of the few media hounds who’d stuck around to the end already click, click, clicking away. Apparently their moment wasn’t quite as private as she’d hoped.
But oh my, she had the feeling this was one moment she wouldn’t mind having captured on film.
“The priest who came for the dedication ceremony is still around. Our children are all here.” His smile broadened until it lit his eyes brighter than the Christmas stars overhead. “And you’ve never been more beautiful. I can’t think of a more perfect time or setting.” He brought her hands to his mouth for a kiss. “The only thing I need to know is if you’re in love with me, too.”
In love? It was as though her head was spinning from too much warmed gluhwein, her heart overflowing with more emotion than one woman could process. “As you said, I’m a very smart woman. Although actually, I find I’m listening to my heart’s IQ right now and it says, absolutely, totally, I am completely in love with you.”
She flung her arms around his neck and to
hell with the cameras. She was seconds away from becoming Ginger Landis Renshaw anyhow.
The marriage might not be official until they could get back to the States, but as of this night, Hank would be her husband.
He pulled back with a smile meant only for her before he stepped away to speak to the crowd, starting with her sons. “Boys, do you mind if I marry your mother here, tonight?”
The four brothers stepped free from the applauding police and clapped him on the back with a yes, some laughter—and a definite welcome. The Renshaw offspring and their spouses followed closely behind with smiles and hugs, and the flailing joy of Alicia’s baby girl. The priest joined the fold, camera lights kicking back into full-blown blinding mode at a goodwill stop that had turned into a media blitz beyond the journalists’ expectations. Definitely a bonus to all who’d braved the cold to stay to the end of this event.
Kyle grinned with that one-sided smile indigenous to all the Landis men. “About damn time. I was starting to wonder if we were going to have to dub you the fourth wise slacker.”
Ginger stood in the middle of her growing family, Hank’s strong—oh so sexy—muscular arm around her waist, and wondered how she’d gotten this lucky. The tiny crèche sat nestled on the stone altar, not officially dedicated, but home all the same and she realized she didn’t have to let go of her past to step forward into the future. Both could be a part of her, blending to make her the woman she wanted to be: wife, mother, grandmother—senator. Lucky lady all the way around.
She and Hank had taken a while to find each other this way, but he was right. The timing was perfect. Stars twinkled overhead as Christmas Eve melded into Christmas Day. Their children gathered around the stone altar where the crèche rested. The priest stood in front, reciting the ceremony in heavily accented English until finally the time came to kiss the bride.
Hank whispered warmly against her lips, “Merry Christmas, my love. You’ll never have to worry about me forgetting our anniversary.”
“Smart man.” Her laughter rang along with local church bells, and then just the bells sang as Hank claimed his kiss.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-0854-8
HOLIDAY HEROES
Copyright © 2007 by Harlequin Books S. A.
The publisher acknowledges the copyright holder of the individual works as follows:
A SOLDIER FOR ALL SEASONS
Copyright © 2007 by Susan Civil-Brown and Cristian Brown
CHRISTMAS AT HIS COMMAND
Copyright © 2007 by Catherine Mann
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U. S. A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S. A.
® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S. A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
Visit Silhouette Books at www.eHarlequin.com
WW13 Christmas at His Command Page 8
