to Shade. Where were they all going in such a hurry? The unfamiliar crush of humanity made her head begin to swim again and this time she was grateful for his touch as he put a strong, almost protective, arm around her shoulders.
Outside Union Station, a taxi was unloading its passengers. Shade waved it by. Then another. He stopped the third.
"Was there something wrong with those first two?" Rachel asked. Now that they were outside, she found herself able to breathe again. Her mind cleared, allowing her to remember her mission.
"I like this one."
Years ago, he'd been driven around Moscow by a trio of KGB agents who were not exactly thrilled to discover him in their country. Two hours later, he'd learned three important lessons: KGB agents tended to be humorless thugs, broken bones healed and never, ever, take the first cab that conveniently shows up just when you're looking for one.
As he opened the back door for her, Shade glanced with seeming casualness at the cab behind them, making a mental note of the license plate: Able Kilo X-ray 398.
Rachel slid gracefully into the back seat, treating Shade to a flash of thigh. Whoever she was, the lady definitely had world-class legs.
"reeling better?"
Once again, color rose in a complexion that was a study in winsome pastels. "I'm fine," she said quietly, folding her hands neatly, almost primly, in her lap. "Thank you for asking."
"You looked like you were about to pass out."
"I think it was the heat in the tavern. Now that I've had some fresh air I'm feeling very much better." She smiled. "It was very kind of you to be concerned."
His broad shoulders moved in a careless, irritated shrug. "Lesson number one, Sister Rachel. I'm never kind."
Knowing better but not wanting to engage in an argument, Rachel didn't answer. Instead, she turned her attention toward the passing scenery.
Rachel had never ridden in an automobile. Add to that the chaos that was rush-hour traffic in the District and she found the journey to the restaurant to be a trip she knew she would never forget.
As the taxi driver tore through the streets, Rachel clung to the edge of the cracked vinyl seat. The experience was absolutely terrifying. And exhilarating. Adrenaline, once felt but long ago forgotten, coursed through her veins as the cab careened around a corner.
Behind the cover of the dark glasses he'd donned after leaving the bar, Shade watched her with unwavering interest that he told himself was strictly professional.
Bright color stained her high cheekbones, her lips were slightly parted, she was breathing in short little gasps, and her white-knuckled fingers were grabbing onto the edge of the seat as if she were afraid she was in danger of spinning off the edge of the world. Although there was nothing remotely sensual about the madhouse that was Washington late-afternoon traffic, she looked, Shade mused, exactly like a woman approaching orgasm.
"You must not be from around here," he probed.
She closed her eyes as the taxi abruptly cut in front of a Shoreham hotel curtesy van, earning a deafening squeal of brakes, then a furious bleat of the van's horn.
"I'm not." Now that, she considered, was a major understatement.
Gingerly she peeked again, just in time to watch the driver cut off a delivery van. "Is the restaurant very far?"
"No. So where's home?"
Relief flooded through her. As admittedly thrilling as the ride was, she didn't know how much more of it she could take. "I was born in Massachusetts."
"Ah. I thought I recognized the accent." Although the cadence was different, it reminded Shade slightly of Marianne's Bostonian tones. Perhaps that was why she seemed familiar. "Boston?"
"Salem."
"So, do you live there now?"
"I left some time ago. Dear Lord," she murmured, pressing a palm against her pounding heart as two bicyclists suddenly cut across three lanes of fast-moving traffic.
In the front seat the driver leaned on the horn and shouted a string of colorful, imaginative curses
Outside Union Station, a taxi was unloading its passengers. Shade waved it by. Then another. He stopped the third.
"Was there something wrong with those first two?" Rachel asked. Now that they were outside, she found herself able to breathe again. Her mind cleared, allowing her to remember her mission.
"I like this one."
Years ago, he'd been driven around Moscow by a trio of KGB agents who were not exactly thrilled to discover him in their country. Two hours later, he'd learned three important lessons: KGB agents tended to be humorless thugs, broken bones healed and never, ever, take the first cab that conveniently shows up just when you're looking for one.
As he opened the back door for her, Shade glanced with seeming casualness at the cab behind them, making a mental note of the license plate: Able Kilo X-ray 398.
Rachel slid gracefully into the back seat, treating Shade to a flash of thigh. Whoever she was, the lady definitely had world-class legs.
"reeling better?"
Once again, color rose in a complexion that was a study in winsome pastels. "I'm fine," she said quietly, folding her hands neatly, almost primly, in her lap. "Thank you for asking."
"You looked like you were about to pass out."
"I think it was the heat in the tavern. Now that I've had some fresh air I'm feeling very much better." She smiled. "It was very kind of you to be concerned."
His broad shoulders moved in a careless, irritated shrug. "Lesson number one, Sister Rachel. I'm never kind."
Knowing better but not wanting to engage in an argument, Rachel didn't answer. Instead, she turned her attention toward the passing scenery.
Rachel had never ridden in an automobile. Add to that the chaos that was rush-hour traffic in the District and she found the journey to the restaurant to be a trip she knew she would never forget.
As the taxi driver tore through the streets, Rachel clung to the edge of the cracked vinyl seat. The experience was absolutely terrifying. And exhilarating. Adrenaline, once felt but long ago forgotten, coursed through her veins as the cab careened around a corner.
Behind the cover of the dark glasses he'd donned after leaving the bar, Shade watched her with unwavering interest that he told himself was strictly professional.
Bright color stained her high cheekbones, her lips were slightly parted, she was breathing in short little gasps, and her white-knuckled fingers were grabbing onto the edge of the seat as if she were afraid she was in danger of spinning off the edge of the world. Although there was nothing remotely sensual about the madhouse that was Washington late-afternoon traffic, she looked, Shade mused, exactly like a woman approaching orgasm.
"You must not be from around here," he probed.
She closed her eyes as the taxi abruptly cut in front of a Shoreham hotel curtesy van, earning a deafening squeal of brakes, then a furious bleat of the van's horn.
"I'm not." Now that, she considered, was a major understatement.
Gingerly she peeked again, just in time to watch the driver cut off a delivery van. "Is the restaurant very far?"
"No. So where's home?"
Relief flooded through her. As admittedly thrilling as the ride was, she didn't know how much more of it she could take. "I was born in Massachusetts."
"Ah. I thought I recognized the accent." Although the cadence was different, it reminded Shade slightly of Marianne's Bostonian tones. Perhaps that was why she seemed familiar. "Boston?"
"Salem."
"So, do you live there now?"
"I left some time ago. Dear Lord," she murmured, pressing a palm against her pounding heart as two bicyclists suddenly cut across three lanes of fast-moving traffic.
In the front seat the driver leaned on the horn and shouted a string of colorful, imaginative curses
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