male she couldn't bear to lose. And now Hunter was sure he knew that male's name.
Nathan.
He didn't know why the knowledge should set his teeth on edge, but it did. He clamped his jaws together so hard his molars ached.
"Hunter," Corinne began, breaking off to inhale a shaky breath. "What happened between us just now - "
"It will not happen again," he finished for her.
When lust and pride bit into him with twin spurs, he mentally tamped the useless emotions down. He grasped for the rigid discipline that had always served him so well - a discipline that seemed intent on eluding him when he met the look of wounded confusion that swam in Corinne Bishop's lovely eyes.
"The sun will be setting soon," he told her. "We'll leave as soon as it does."
She flinched, worry edging her expression now.
"Where to?"
"A safe house has been arranged. You'll stay there while I resume my mission for the Order."
He turned, and left her standing behind him in the room alone.
"Mr. Masters, I certainly do appreciate the generosity you've shown my campaign in recent months. This check - " The senator arched a well-groomed brow as he glanced once more at the sizable corporate donation. "Well, sir, quite frankly, a contribution of this magnitude is humbling. It's unprecedented, really."
Dragos steepled his fingers under his chin and smiled from his plush guest chair on the other side of the upwardly mobile politician's desk. "God bless democracy, and the United States Supreme Court."
"Indeed." The senator chuckled somewhat uncomfortably, his Adam's apple straining against the starched white collar of his tuxedo shirt and crisp black bowtie. His flawlessly styled golden blond hair was combed back loosely from his handsome face, the dusting of gray on either side of his temples giving the thirty-something senator an air of wisdom and distinction. Dragos wondered if he'd earned those distinguished-looking stripes at a pricey salon, then decided he didn't care. It was the senator's politics - and his elite Ivy League connections - that interested Dragos the most.
"I'm honored that you and TerraGlobal have demonstrated such faith in my campaign's objectives," he said, adopting an earnest look that probably scored Boston's charming, mosteligible bachelor everything he'd ever asked for in his privileged young life. "You have my personal assurance that all the money you've contributed will be put to prudent, good use."
"I have no doubt, Senator Clarence."
"Please," he said, sliding the check into the top drawer of his desk and locking it. "You must call me Robert. Ah, hell, call me Bobby - all my friends do."
Dragos returned the polished smile. "Bobby it is."
"I want you to know, Mr. Masters, that I share your commitment to the real issues that are impacting our great nation. I've promised to do my part in Washington to help bring us back to where we deserve to be - where we need to be, as the greatest country in the world. And I want you to know that my fight is only beginning now that I have the honor of holding this office at such a crucial time in our history. I'm here because I mean to make a difference."
"Of course," Dragos intoned, patiently sitting through the red-white-and-blue highlights of a stump speech he'd heard more than once while Bobby Clarence was on the campaign trail.
"You and I share many of the same interests. Not the least of which being your dedication to antiterror initiatives. I admire your zero-tolerance stance on those who would engage in such deplorable activity. I commend you on being willing to draw a hard line when it comes to matters of national security."
Bobby Clarence leaned forward across his desk, eyes narrowed with practiced intensity.
"Between you and me, Drake - if I may?" Dragos gestured for him to continue, smiling to himself as he granted permission for the human to address him by one of his many aliases.
"Between you and me and these four walls, I wouldn't be opposed to bringing back public executions when it comes to any and all terrorist scumbags, especially the ones sprouting up like weeds from our own American soil. Hang the bastards by their balls and turn a pack of starving dogs on their entrails, I say. Unfortunately, my handlers would probably tell me that doesn't make a great campaign slogan."
He broke into a gregarious laugh, humor that Dragos shared, though not for precisely the same reasons. Dragos's chuckle was one of private amusement and the almost giddy anticipation of the moment he would