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  Reaching up, she fingered the gold hoop in her right ear. From the moment Jeff Buchanan introduced her to his kid brother, the chemistry between her and Quinn had sizzled. Even now, that clearly hadn’t changed. She scowled. So, fine, he was still pulse-stoppingly handsome, and she was still physically aware. All she had to do was ignore her hormones and get over it.

  Pulling her gaze from Quinn, she studied the destruction around her. As perverse as it seemed, she was glad of the more immediate problems that faced her. They would keep her thoughts off Quinn until she got that treacherous awareness under control.

  Turning back to confer with Pete, she determined the injured parking attendant had been transported to the hospital.

  “I’ll have Ula check on her condition,” Christine stated, referring to the efficient secretary she’d inherited from the previous airport director. “Pete, I want to inspect the airfield before I hold a staff briefing. Can you get away to take me?”

  “You’re the boss,” Pete stated. “You say go, we go.”

  Just then, Quinn rejoined them, his mouth set in a grim line. “One or more prisoners have taken control of the Marshals Service Flight 407.”

  Christine’s mouth went dry. “Is anyone hurt?”

  “That’s unknown. There’s an alarm in the cockpit that sends an emergency signal. The pilot managed to hit the button and radio to the transfer center that a prisoner had a gun. After that, all communication from the plane ceased. The FBI’s sending in a negotiator and hostage rescue team by helicopter. The weather’s playing havoc with their ETA.” Dipping his head, Quinn met Christine’s gaze. “Until they get this hijacking resolved, your airport essentially belongs to the feds.”

  She lifted her chin. “We’ll cooperate fully with law enforcement, Captain, but Sam Houston is my airport.”

  He flashed a grin. “That’s what I expected you to say.”

  Quinn’s grin had always done devastating things to her. It still did, she discovered when her heart jammed against her ribs. Swallowing hard, she looked at Pete. “I need to find some rain gear before we go out on the field.”

  “What we’ve got down in the maintenance office isn’t fashionable, but it’ll keep you dry.”

  “That’s all I ask.” Shrugging off Quinn’s suit coat, she handed it to him without meeting his gaze. “Thanks for the loan, Captain.”

  “You’re welcome.” When he took the coat, she felt the glide of his fingertips across hers. A frisson of heat shot up the back of her neck. Her gaze rose slowly to meet eyes as blue as a cool, calm ocean.

  The tornado, she assured herself when her clenching stomach shot a skitter of panic through her system. This was the second day of her new job and she had just survived a tornado that had devastated her airport. She had a hijacked plane filled with federal prisoners parked on one of her taxiways. Those were the reasons her emotions teetered on a wild pendulum. Those were the reasons the air around her was so thick she couldn’t seem to drag enough oxygen into her lungs. Quinn’s presence had nothing to do with it. Couldn’t have anything to do with it. He had loved her, then walked away. She had put him behind her long ago and gotten on with her life. She was a professional, she could work with him. That was all that was required of her. Nothing more.

  She would do nothing more.

  Her staff briefing ended, Christine gathered her pad and pen off the conference table. After answering a few last questions from the airport’s public information officer, then the fire chief, Christine entered the hall that connected the conference room with her office. Thick, dove-gray carpet muffled her steps as she passed the small sink, counter and refrigerator nestled near the closet where her hopelessly wrinkled red silk suit now hung. After inspecting the airfield, she’d taken a quick shower in the private rest room that adjoined her office, then pulled on her chambray shirt, jeans and tennis shoes.

  Turning a corner, she entered the roomy office that had once belonged to her father. The boxes stacked in one corner contained items that would put her own personal stamp on the office where rich wood covered the walls and an oriental rug pooled soft color across the floor. Stacks of reports, files and printouts awaiting her review sat on top of the big mahogany desk positioned in front of a wide window.

  After dropping her pad and pen in the center of the desk, Christine checked her watch. She had maybe ten minutes until Quinn arrived with the FBI agent in charge of the hijacking operation and the U.S. marshal whose men were now held hostage on Flight 407.

  Ignoring the paperwork on her desk, Christine turned and looked out at the rain-soaked airfield. Her gaze tracked an airline van headed across the apron to a maintenance hangar that had lost most of its roof in the tornado. Quinn had left the staff briefing early to set up an emergency command center. Because her spine had stayed ramrod stiff the entire time he’d sat across the conference table from her, she had welcomed the page on his beeper that had summoned him to meet the feds.

  Not for the first time, she wondered what their lives would be like now if that one long-ago night had never happened. Would they still be together if she hadn’t cajoled Quinn into accompanying her to a benefit when he’d been scheduled to work an off-duty security job? If he had asked any cop other than his brother to work in his place? If, while she and Quinn sipped cocktails, that drug-crazed robber hadn’t shot Jeff point-blank in the chest?

  So many if’s, Christine thought. And never any answers. After Jeff died, the grief and guilt had been overwhelming. She’d suffered with the knowledge that she was responsible for his working in Quinn’s place. Battled even more guilt by giving thanks that it hadn’t been the man she loved who had died. Even as she stood at Jeff’s grave beside Quinn, she’d sensed his own ragged-edged guilt distancing him from her. Guilt that he should have been the one working the job that night. Guilt that Jeff’s wife was now a widow, his two young daughters forever fatherless.

  There had been so much guilt. And pain.

  Christine closed her eyes against the memories that sliced at her heart. She had ached for comfort, had been desperate to give Quinn the comfort she knew he needed. Yet, whenever she reached for him, she met the wall he’d erected around his emotions. The last time she’d tried to step into his arms, he’d turned away, telling her he had nothing left to offer her, that he needed to give everything he had to Rebecca and the girls. The torment in his eyes had told her the wall he’d put up around himself had become impenetrable. There was nothing she could do but watch him walk away.

  “Christine?”

  With her mind filled with thoughts of Quinn, the sound of his voice coming from the doorway was like a bullet to the heart. She gripped the back of her leather desk chair and turned.

  Quinn stood just in front of two other men. The one wearing a navy suit matched Quinn in height and build; he had dark hair and sharp blue eyes in a handsome face. The second man was small and stubby with a wide, lined face and thinning brown hair. His brown suit was as rumpled as the small paper bag that dangled from one hand.

  With the rawness of her memories still churning inside her, Christine pulled in a deep breath. Somehow, some way, she had to get a grip on her emotions. Had to separate the man who was once her lover from the cop who now headed security at her airport. The baffling flood of longing that had swept through her when he’d held her while the tornado raged was something to be suppressed and ignored.

  And forgotten.

  Watching her, Quinn narrowed his eyes. “Ula’s not at her desk, or I’d have asked her to call to let you know we were here.”

  “It’s all right.” Avoiding his gaze, Christine moved toward the front of her desk. “Come in.”

  Quinn angled his head in the direction of the older man. “Christine Logan, this is FBI Special Agent Mason Taggart.” Quinn gestured toward the second man. “Marshal Spence Cantrell.”

  Christine shook hands with both men, indicating they take a seat in the twin leather chairs in front of her desk. As she settled behind her desk, she no
ted Quinn had ignored the other chairs dotting the office and opted to rest one shoulder against the wall that displayed a large aerial photo of the airport.

  “I can have one of the clerks bring in coffee,” she offered.

  While Quinn and Spence Cantrell shook their heads, Taggart opened his bag. “I’ll pass.” The FBI agent had a Texas drawl as thick as cold molasses. “My wife’s made me give up caffeine and nicotine. Now, my one vice is macadamia nuts.” Leaning forward, he offered the open bag to Christine while studying her with an intensity that left no room for doubt he was sizing her up. “Join me, Miz Logan?”

  “No, thank you. Agent Taggart, I want to assure you that the FBI has this airport’s full support and cooperation during this crisis situation.”

  He dipped his head. “Nice to get something handed to you instead of having to pry it loose.”

  “Because lives are at stake,” she continued, “Flight 407 has priority.”

  “We’re on the same wavelength, Ms. Logan.” Taggart’s brows slid together. “From what I saw when we helicoptered in, you’re dealing with some major damage that’s going to keep your airfield closed for at least a few days.”

  “Correct. Already, I have seven local airline managers and their corporate offices wanting to know when the airfield will again be operational. The FAA is arranging to bring in a temporary control tower. They need a timetable as to when I foresee the airfield will be ready to handle commercial and general aviation traffic.”

  Taggart’s gaze leveled on hers. “That, along with a hijacking, is a lot to have on your plate, this being your second day on the job.” The edge that had settled in his voice was in direct contrast to the man’s laid-back manner.

  “Whether I’ve occupied this office two days or two thousand is not the point,” she countered, unsurprised that the FBI agent had checked out who he’d be dealing with during the crisis. “The point is how I deal with what’s on my plate.”

  “True,” Taggart agreed, then popped a nut into his mouth. “What’s your plan on getting back in operation?”

  “I’ll clear the debris from the east runway.” As she spoke, Christine rose and moved to the aerial photo. There, she tapped a fingernail on the runway that lay on the opposite side of the airfield from where the marshals’ hijacked plane sat. “The airlines will have to juggle schedules, but we can get them back in operation at Sam Houston using only this one runway.” She shifted her finger on the map, much too aware that Quinn’s gaze never left her face. “The other half of the airfield can remain closed for as long as it takes you to resolve the hijacking.”

  Taggart’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have the manpower and heavy equipment on hand to clear the airfield?”

  “No, but a local construction company does. They began working on a pavement project here last week so they’re on-site. I’ve already contracted with them to bring in more crews and the equipment to remove the storm debris. I wanted to coordinate with you before I issued a notice to proceed with the job.”

  “Good.” Shoving his bag of nuts into his pocket, Taggart leaned forward in his chair. “I need you to have that construction company add even more crews and equipment to the job.”

  Christine tilted her head. “Why?”

  Taggart exchanged a look with Cantrell. “I’ve got a hijacker by the name of Carl Hart demanding I remove debris on the taxiway around ‘his’ plane. He also wants the runway nearest the plane cleared.”

  Christine blinked. If that happened, there would be little to stop Flight 407 from taking off. “You’re sure you want that side of the airfield open, too?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t, but Mr. Hart does,” Taggart replied. “I need time to figure out what he’s up to, so I’ll buy that time by trading him concrete for hostages.” The agent inclined his head toward the aerial map. “Start the crews working at the end of the runway farthest from where Flight 407 sits. That way, Mr. Hart will see I’m making a good faith effort to meet his demands.”

  “I understand.”

  Taggart met Quinn’s gaze. “Captain, I trust I can count on you to make sure every man on that crew knows the taxiway where Flight 407’s parked is off-limits. Those three snipers watching the plane won’t take kindly to anyone drifting too close.”

  Quinn nodded. “My troops will take care of perimeter security for as long as you need them.”

  “How many people are on board the plane?” Christine asked.

  “One hundred eight, counting Hart,” Spence Cantrell responded. “Ninety-five prisoners. The rest are marshals, a few staff members, one pilot and a copilot.”

  Christine nodded. “Do you know how Hart gained control of the aircraft?”

  “Not yet,” Cantrell answered. “We operate our planes like flying prisons. All inmates wear shackles and leg irons. Before boarding, everybody gets frisked for weapons. None of the cabin crew or marshals on board the flights carry firearms because of the risk that they could be overpowered and those weapons taken away.” Cantrell’s mouth tightened. “We think Hart has an accomplice at this airport who smuggled a weapon on board the plane.”

  Christine went rigid. “One of my operations people?”

  “It’s possible,” Quinn stated. “More likely, it’s one of the private ground crews that service the plane. A fueler. Maybe a mechanic. Could be someone who works for one of the airlines.”

  “Even so, I intend to review the files of all my personnel.”

  “So do I,” Quinn said. “My people are rerunning background checks on everyone who’s been issued an ID card to access the airfield over the past year. That includes everyone on your staff.”

  “Fine.” Christine remet Taggart’s gaze. “Has Hart made other demands?”

  “Yes. He wants his ex-wife brought here.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Not yet,” the agent responded. “Hart’s doing time for kidnapping her, so it sounds like he has some sort of agenda involving the woman. She goes now by the name of Jackson, Kelly Jackson. Lives two hours from here in Ryan, Texas. Since Marshal Cantrell has had dealings with her in the past, he’s heading for Ryan in a few minutes.”

  Christine almost missed the flicker of emotion in the marshal’s blue eyes. Curious, she wondered what past dealings Marshal Cantrell had had with the hijacker’s ex-wife.

  Taggart rose. “Call me before you put those crews to work on the runway, Ms. Logan.”

  “Count on it, Agent Taggart.”

  “You did good, Slim,” Quinn said after Taggart and Cantrell left her office.

  Christine turned. Quinn still stood where he’d been throughout the meeting—one shoulder propped against the paneled wall near the aerial map of the airport. “I presented a plan that works for both of us, is all.”

  “And proved to Taggart you can handle this job.”

  “I didn’t know I had to prove myself.”

  “Not to me, you don’t,” Quinn said, giving her a long, steady look. “I found out a long time ago you can do anything you set out to do. This job isn’t any different.”

  When he shifted away from the wall and moved toward her, she took a step back. Business. She intended to maintain a strictly professional relationship between them.

  “Before you go, Captain, I’d like your opinion on the best site for the FAA to locate its portable control tower.”

  He arched one dark brow. “Sure.”

  Seated back at her desk, Christine sorted through stacks of file folders until she found the one she’d had Ula bring in earlier.

  “Here’s an exhibit of the five-story parking garage,” Christine said, pulling the legal-size paper out of the folder. “I think the top deck of the garage is the best place for the tower.”

  As he studied the exhibit, Quinn placed a palm on her desk and leaned in. “It’ll take months to repair the actual tower, so the portable one will have to handle traffic on both runways,” he commented.

  “That’s right.” She tapped a finger on a spot on the exhibit
. “This location should give the air traffic controllers as clear a view as possible of both.” As she spoke, Christine’s gaze slid to Quinn’s hand splayed against her desk’s dark wood, a hand that had once conjured magic against her skin. The spicy scent of his cologne that she would forever associate with hot, intimate sex slid into her senses, making her throat go dry. Her heart gave one thump before she quashed the flicker of desire.

  “I agree.” Quinn slid a fingertip across the exhibit. “We’ll set up a perimeter of cement barricades along here to keep security tight.”

  Christine opened her mouth to reply, but no words got past the knot in her throat. What air was left in her lungs had thickened.

  She needed space. Lots of space.

  She rose so suddenly that her shoulder caught Quinn’s. The impact knocked her off-balance.

  “Easy,” he stated, gripping her forearms to steady her. His eyes seemed to intensify in color as he stared down at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He was so close she could see the dark flecks in those stunning blue eyes, each individual long, sooty eyelash that surrounded them. “I just remembered something I need to take care of.”

  “You have a million things to take care of.” As he spoke, his hands slid slowly down her arms to circle her wrists. “What specific one are you talking about?”

  His face was only inches from hers, his mouth close. So close. For one moment, one very dangerous moment, her brain simply clicked off. All she knew was that she was suddenly desperate to find out if he tasted the same after so long, if his mouth still fit so perfectly, hotly against hers.

  She felt the pulse hammering at the base of her throat, saw that Quinn’s gaze had lowered, settled there.

  “Quinn, let go.”

  “No.” His fingers tightened on her wrists. “Not just yet.” His eyes rose, dark and intense, to lock with hers.

  “Quinn—”

  “Slim, we need to talk.”

  “No.” Panic overwhelmed desire. What was she going to do? How could she want this man, this man, after he’d turned his back on her? How could she feel desire while warnings flashed like neon in her brain? Be careful. Don’t touch. Don’t let him close. Not again. Never again.