Free Targeted by Carolyn McCray Page B

Five-star
restaurants, man. They did service with a capital “S.”
    She sipped the nearly overflowing glass of champagne as she
glanced around the room. Was this what her life could have been like if she had
applied her skills to the commercial sector? Being able to splice DNA fifteen
different ways was an extremely well-paid career in the pharmaceutical world.
    Could she dine like this every night? Forget what Top Ramen
tasted like and learn when lobster was best in season?
    Rebecca chuckled. That was so not her. Sure, tonight was
grand, but tomorrow, she and Brandt would pick up some street food off a
camel-drawn cart and be all the happier for it. Opulence was great, but a
well-worn pair of jeans was much more her style.
    Brandt came around the corner, straightening his jacket. He
looked so sophisticated. But was that water dripping off his nose? Rebecca
frowned. Was he sick? He had been acting a little odd all night. She had just
assumed that his tuxedo’s cummerbund was too tight. Lord knew that the silk
dress had gotten itchy after the first five minutes. And the static from the
garment? Rebecca feared she’d look in a mirror and find her hair standing on
end.
    He sat down rather abruptly, placing the napkin back on his
lap like a little boy might at his first cotillion. She waited as he stared
down at the white tablecloth. Finally his jaw bunched and he looked up,
reaching for her hand.
    “Your dessert menu,” the waiter announced in a clipped
British accent.
    “Not now,” Brandt rumbled.
    The poor man’s eyes dilated as he awkwardly placed the menu
on the table, then scurried off.
    “Sorry,” Brandt said as he gripped her hand. “But if I don’t
say this now…”
    Rebecca kept a cheerful smile even though her heart sank.
They hadn’t really discussed life post-Knot. Had Brandt realized he wasn’t up
for not just a long-distance relationship but a transcontinental one? Had he
brought her to the shadow of the Taj Mahal to soften the blow of a breakup?
    “Rebecca,” he said nearly pained. She hated seeing the
crow’s feet at the edge of his eyes pinched in worry. She hated it even more when
it spelled the bad news that was about to come her way.
    “I, I…” Brandt stammered.
    You what? She wanted to scream but also didn’t want to hear
the words that followed.
    “Rebecca, will—” Brandt stopped, dropping her hand. “Crap. I
almost forgot…
    Seriously this was going to go down as the worst break up
speech ever.
    But then Brandt pulled something out from his pocket. A box.
A red velvet box. A box just the right size for a ring. Breath caught in
Rebecca’s throat. Brandt wasn’t breaking up with her. Not at all.
    Was he really going to propose?
    As Brandt fumbled with the box, he asked, “Rebecca Sasha
Monroe will you—”
    Yeah, that’s about when the first explosion sounded.
    * * *
    Brandt slammed the box closed shoving it into his pocket
while his other hand found Rebecca’s and pulled her down, using his elbow to
knock the table on end so when the car right outside their window blew, the
wood took most of the damage.
    Glass shattered, screams sounded, and chaos reigned.
    The restaurant was plunged into quasi-darkness as the lights
were replaced by yellow emergency lighting.
    Everyone here was well aware of the Mumbai attacks. This current
assault had all the earmarks for it. Car bombs to start then gunfire in the
distance. The terrorists were known for hitting tourist spots, especially where
Americans gathered. And the Taj Mahal on Valentine’s Day? This restaurant was
an all you can eat jihadist’s buffet. The fundamentalists were getting more
fundamental by the day. Even grabbing and beating native Muslims who expressed
their affection too outwardly in public.
    He held Rebecca close as the other patrons scrambled to
flee. But he pulled in one breath after another, making certain that there
wasn’t a second car bomb waiting to go off. Once past five breaths, he tugged
Rebecca behind