It wasn’t quite as quick as their first time...but it was close. And when they were done, Carly was crying again. His heart clutched for a second, but then he knew he hadn’t hurt her. There were a few things that moved Carly to tears...and this was one of them. The alpha male in him exulted—maybe he couldn’t control the electrical pulses in his brain, but he could make Carly weep with pleasure.
He gathered her close and dragged the bedclothes over them. Then he crooned softly as he brushed his lips over the tears on her cheeks, bringing her down gently. Eventually her breathing slowed, and her hand moved, fingers idly crisscrossing the hair on his chest. Then she said with a trace of regret, “I wanted to seduce you.”
He smiled and pulled her closer. “You did.”
“I mean all the way.”
“Can’t get more all the way than what we just did...unless you’re talking something kinky.”
She laughed softly. “You are so bad.” Then said, “Oh damn. Our breakfast is cold. Just like dinner.”
“I told you, I seem to have a one-track mind where you’re concerned. First priority is you...and a bed. Food runs a far-distant second.”
She sighed softly, and he knew it was a good sigh. “That’s nice. That’s really, really nice. But...” She pulled away from him suddenly and darted from the bed, then yanked her sweater on over her head without bothering with a bra. “Where are my—oh, there they are,” she said, glancing around. She picked up a tiny ball from the corner where Shane had thrown it in his haste, then apparently changed her mind. “I think I need new ones.”
Yeah, she does, he thought, remembering how damp her bikini underwear had been when he’d caressed her while she was wearing them. And for some reason the wolf in him was very, very pleased with that knowledge. Inordinately proud. And pleased.
“Come on,” she said, tossing Shane’s sweater at his head after she’d pulled on her jeans over clean undies. “Let’s see if we can salvage that oatmeal.”
* * *
The lights were off in Adams Hall in Old Town University, and though the wintry morning sun streamed through the stained-glass windows on one side, most of the two-tiered structure was still shrouded in eerie shadows. The sparse light didn’t bother Marsh. He’d set up in worse.
Circumventing the security had been child’s play for him, and once inside he’d gone immediately to the front, mounting the five stairs leading to the raised stage that would undoubtedly be used for the panel discussion. Neither he nor the man who’d provided the information knew exactly what the configuration of the panel would be, or where the senator would sit, so Marsh needed to plan for any contingency.
He snapped a few photos with his digital camera on its best low-light setting, mentally picturing where he might lie in wait. He’d already looked Adams Hall up online and had downloaded a half dozen pictures, so he knew it was possible a lectern might be placed somewhere on the stage, in front of the red carpet runner. If the speakers were standing to deliver their opening remarks, it was very likely they’d stand at a lectern, which would make his job that much easier. Either way, the layout of this hall was perfect for him—clear line of sight to the stage from practically anywhere, especially from the balcony. Six rows of yellow seats ascended from the balcony railing in the far back, with a wide aisle bisecting them; three rows lined the sides.
Marsh paced off the distances, making cryptic notations in the little book he carried. He used a code that would be damned difficult to crack—he wasn’t stupid enough to create evidence against himself in the unlikely event he was ever arrested. Then he picked up the long, zippered case he’d brought with him, containing another AS50 sniper rifle, the same kind he’d used in his first attempt on the senator. He had other sniper rifles, but the AS50 was his favorite—it fit him like a glove.
He walked to the left side of the stage and down, then climbed up to the balcony, looking for a good place to stash his weapon for tomorrow. It wasn’t as easy as he’d thought it would be. He knew from his research that the hall had more than seven hundred seats, but he had no idea how many people would attend tomorrow’s panel discussion. And since this was being held on a college campus, who knew where the attendees would sit? College students were notorious for sitting in the back rows, so secreting his rifle under or in one of the seats there or in one of the window embrasures was problematic. He planned to arrive well before the starting time, but he needed to be able to retrieve the AS50 without being seen. And he had no idea what the janitorial schedule was. He couldn’t leave his rifle where it might be found.