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  “What about it?”

  “Hart wants this runway and the taxiway around the plane cleared, so it’s obvious he intends for it to take off after he talks to his ex-wife. What will Taggart do about that?”

  “Hard to say. Right now, he’s made it clear to Hart that if the plane moves, the hostage rescue team will stop it. Taggart’s got three of his HRT men armed with shotguns positioned about fifty yards away from the plane. It starts rolling, the snipers shoot the tires out. If the plane’s got four or six flat tires, it can’t roll and can’t take off. Hart would only have made more problems for himself.”

  “If the plane’s fired on, Hart might start killing hostages.”

  “Yeah.” Quinn wadded his napkin and the plastic wrap off his sandwich into a ball, then dropped them into the paper bag. “There’s no way to predict what Hart might do. To save lives, Taggart might have to let the plane take off. If that happens, you can bet there’ll be a shadow plane in the air that’ll keep Flight 407 on radar but stay out of visual sight. No matter how long it takes, no matter where that plane winds up, the feds won’t back off from getting Hart, the other prisoners and their own people back.”

  Sandwich finished, Christine dropped her trash in the bag then swept her gaze across the debris-littered airfield. While they’d eaten, the sun had lowered, the air had thickened. The spotlights on the portable trailers were now on, illuminating the runway where the bulldozer continued its slow, grinding progress.

  “I’ve got serious problems to deal with,” she said. “But I’ll take being airport director any day to heading a hostage rescue team.”

  “I know what you mean,” Quinn said, wadding the bag in his hands. He remained silent for a moment, then said, “Tell me about the last three years, Slim.”

  When she turned her head to meet his gaze, the wind dashed her hair against her cheek. “What about them?” she asked, hooking the loose strands behind her ear.

  “I’d just like to know what you’ve been up to.”

  “Work,” she answered. She’d been thankful the position at LAX had opened when it did, grateful she’d had somewhere to run after Quinn ended their relationship. “I’ve mostly concentrated on my career.”

  “You’ve got your own airport now so it looks like all that work paid off.” His hand flexed against the wadded bag. “What about the other parts of your life?”

  “What about them?”

  “Is there a man in the mix somewhere?”

  Christine shifted her gaze back to the airfield. “There was for a while. Things didn’t work out.” Steve had been gentle and caring and had wanted to marry her. Although she had tried to love him, in the end, her heart hadn’t cooperated.

  “Too bad,” Quinn murmured.

  Because she couldn’t help but wonder, she remet his gaze. “What about you? What have you been doing the past three years?”

  “Working. Spending time with Allie and Sara.”

  His reference to Jeff’s daughters tightened Christine’s throat. On the night their father died, the two little girls had sat on Rebecca’s lap, clinging to her, doing their best to comfort a grief they could only dimly understand.

  Christine pulled in an unsteady breath. “How are they?”

  “Great. Allie’s into ballet. Sara’s on a swim team.” Quinn’s mouth curved. “Both are growing like fertilized weeds.” He paused. “Rebecca remarried nearly a year ago.”

  “I hadn’t heard.” Christine swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I hope she’s happy. She deserves to be happy.”

  “She is. Paul’s a great guy. The girls are crazy about him, and he feels the same about them.” Quinn raised a shoulder. “It feels right that he and Rebecca are together.”

  Christine fought an instinctive urge to reach out and touch Quinn’s hand. “What happened to Jeff wasn’t your fault.” She wasn’t aware she’d put her thoughts into words until a shadow of old hurt flickered in Quinn’s eyes.

  “It took me a couple of years, and a few sessions with the department shrink, but I finally figured that out.” He lifted a hand, shoved it through his dark hair. “After Jeff died, there were a lot of things I should have said to you, but didn’t. I never meant to hurt you, I hope you know that.”

  The ache in her heart was like a burning. Closing her eyes, Christine fought off a wave of emotion. She could not, would not, allow Quinn to sneak past her defenses. She had to remember how badly she had hurt when he walked away. Had to remember the long days and even longer nights she’d spent agonizing over him, wanting him. She’d put her broken heart back together and there was no longer any room in it for him.

  “I don’t…” Her voice hitched and she dragged in a breath. If the air had been heavy before, now it was unbreathable. “It would be best if we leave the past where it belongs.”

  He stared back at her, his eyes unwavering. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “I—”

  A crash of thunder splintered the air; lightning broke open the sky. Rain fell in sheets, hard and vicious.

  Yelping, Christine jumped off the hood, dashed around the cruiser, jerked open the back door and dove in. She didn’t know Quinn had followed her in until she twisted around, intending to pull the door shut and met a wall of muscle.

  “Lord.” Inching back, she shoved her sodden hair off her face, then glanced down. Her chambray blouse was plastered to her flesh, her jeans and tennis shoes soaked. “This is the second time today I’ve gotten drenched.”

  Slicking back his wet hair, Quinn glanced out the rear window. “If this keeps up, you may make it to three.”

  “Not if I can help it.” Using a palm, she squeegeed water down one arm while easing forward to peek into the cruiser’s front seat. “I don’t suppose you have a dry towel handy?”

  “Sorry, towels aren’t on the police equipment list.”

  She gave him a dark look through wet, spiky lashes. “I knew you were going to say that.”

  Using a forearm, he swiped water off his brow. “To be honest, I can’t say I’m all that sorry about not having a towel.”

  Christine took in his soaked shirt and slacks. “Why?”

  “Because you look real good wet, Slim.” His mouth curving, he leaned and nudged an errant strand of hair off her cheek. “Always have.”

  Her spine stiffened when his fingertips lingered against her flesh. Stiffened even more when those fingers began a soft massage that rolled her heart over in her chest.

  “Quinn…” Silence hung between them while rain drummed the roof of the car, washing over the windows like a roaring river, turning the evening gloom to a faded gray. Static crackled faintly from the radio in the dash.

  When his palm moved to cup the side of her throat, heat shot through her veins.

  “Don’t,” she said, even as the desire that had settled in his eyes sent a raw echo of need through her. Raising a hand, she curled her fingers on his wrist, yet she couldn’t bring herself to shove him away.

  It took her a moment longer to realize she was simply clinging to him. The awareness had her nerves snapping. She understood it was not him she fought against, but her own needs.

  His palm moved against her throat. “Your pulse is off the chart again.”

  Her stomach muscles clenched. “Quinn, we can’t….”

  “Yes, we can.” His hand slid to her nape as he leaned to nip her bottom lip. “I’m going crazy wondering if you taste the same, Slim.”

  Before she could protest, his mouth was on hers, covering and conquering. Her heart kicked in her chest, driving the breath out of her body. The smell of rain on his flesh, mixed with the same spicy male scent that had heated her blood in another lifetime crowded her senses.

  Mistake. Even as her lips parted beneath his in avid invitation, the word was like a warning strobe in her brain. Yet already his kiss pulled her from the edge of logic.

  His familiar taste swamped her with memories of when she’d reveled in his kisses while they lay sprawle
d together, arms and legs tangled, their flesh slicked with sweat. A bittersweet, undeniable longing had her body straining against his, no longer stiff but eager.

  His other hand dove into her hair. The upholstery gave a whisper as he nudged her back against the seat.

  Hunger came in swift, sharp waves that made her shudder. Heat raged through her veins like a firestorm. Her fingers tightened on his wrist. Her free hand rose to splay against his chest; beneath her palm she felt the tensed ripple of muscle, the thunder of his heartbeat through his wet shirt.

  “Christine….”

  As his mouth continued its tormenting, enticing assault of hers, his hand slid from her throat to cup her breast. A soft, yielding murmur escaped her lips when his thumb began circling her already budded nipple.

  Had she really forgotten how just the feel of his lips could shoot annihilating sensations throughout her entire body? Had she ever really believed any other man could make her melt so slowly, so luxuriously against him?

  No, she realized as her fingers curled into his shirt. She had forgotten nothing about Quinn Buchanan. Not the way he could seduce with just one graze of his mouth against hers. Or the hard feel of his body covering hers on soft, cool sheets.

  Nor had she forgotten how much he’d hurt her.

  She had loved him beyond reason. She had loved him and he’d left her and she’d died on the inside.

  “Quinn, no,” she managed against his mouth.

  “Yes,” he corrected. The hand in her hair slid to the back of her neck and held her still with firm, determined fingers. Angling his head, he deepened the kiss.

  Panic scrambled inside her as she felt him pulling her toward a clawing desire against which she had no control.

  “Quinn.” She pulled back far enough to see his face while she fought to regain both her breath and sanity. “I want you to stop,” she said, her voice shallow and ragged. “We have to stop.”

  “All right.” His breathing as unsteady as hers, he loosened his hold minutely. He remained where he was, leaning over her, studying her face with blue eyes that had gone as dark as smoke. “Christine—”

  “I can’t,” she blurted. “I don’t want any part of this.”

  Before she could react, his palm settled against her chest. “Your body’s sending a whole different signal.”

  Jerking sideways, she slid across the seat until she reached the door. Her breasts ached from his touch, her thighs trembled. She had to get away from him. Had to have time alone to gather her wits. Turning to the window, she could barely see the outline of her Bronco through the gray sheet of rain. She was about to get drenched for the third time that day.

  “I don’t care what signal you think you’re getting.” Looking back at Quinn, she curled her fingers around the door handle. “I don’t want a personal relationship with you. We had one. It didn’t work. Period. I make it a point to learn from my mistakes.”

  He leaned back against the seat. “So do I,” he said softly.

  The glint of determination in his eyes closed her throat. “And not repeat them.”

  “I’m with you there, too.”

  “Fine. Then we agree this won’t happen again.”

  “No,” he said mildly. “My mistake was letting you go, Christine. I didn’t know how big a mistake that was until I saw you this morning. I know now. That’s a mistake I don’t intend to make again.”

  “Your thinking’s twisted, Buchanan.” She shoved an unsteady hand through her wet hair. “You can’t let go of something you don’t have.”

  Emotion flickered in his eyes. “That’s another mistake I’d like to correct,” he said, his voice a soft, intimate glide against her damp flesh. “You could give us another try, Christine.”

  She felt regret for what might have been creeping inside her and forced it back. “I could also try jumping off what’s left of the control tower. Either way, I risk a few breaks.” She shook her head. “Nothing’s going to happen between us, Quinn. You need to accept that.”

  He dipped his head. “Now that we both know where the other stands, Slim, what are we going to do about it?”

  “Not a damn thing.” Shoving open the door, she dashed through the downpour toward her Bronco.

  Chapter 4

  Day 2

  Before dawn the following morning, Christine walked into the one airport restaurant that had remained open after the tornado hit. Already the place was crowded and noisy, its air thick with conversation and the smoky smell of bacon frying. Though the airport was closed, the crews working to repair the airfield and terminal building needed quick access to food. Yesterday, she had arranged with the concessionaire to keep the restaurant in operation for the duration.

  She filled a mug with black coffee, then made her way past the crowded tables. At the rear of the restaurant she slid into a booth.

  She needed caffeine and solitude.

  After spending the night with thoughts of her damaged airport, the hijacking crisis…and Quinn keeping her tossing and turning, she doubted either caffeine or solitude would do her much good.

  Now, sitting alone in the booth, she allowed thoughts of Quinn to overshadow all others.

  It had been bad enough losing sleep over him after she’d learned they would be working together. At least then she’d been dealing only with memories whose sharp edges had been dulled by time. The moments they’d spent last night in the close, intimate confines of his cruiser had left her with all new memories, ones that had twisted her insides into a knot.

  What in heaven’s name was she going to do?

  She could no longer deny that the chemistry between her and Quinn was as strong as before. Even so, it was wrong. All wrong. Despite the fact that she understood the reasons he had walked out of her life—understood intimately the guilt that had motivated his actions—he had walked all the same. Could she ever again completely trust him to be there when she needed him?

  She didn’t think so.

  Closing her eyes, she sipped the hot, potent coffee while fighting back a wave of emotion. Last night when Quinn’s mouth took hers so relentlessly, she had been close—so close—to being swept away. Desire for him had sparked inside her with such staggering speed that she now knew the flame that had once burned between them had never been completely extinguished.

  She had never known desire could be so painful. Or make her feel so off-balance. So vulnerable.

  No, she thought, tightening her fingers on the mug’s handle, she was vulnerable only if she allowed herself to be. Desire, after all, was simply an emotion. As was regret. Where Quinn was concerned, she had lived with both for a long time. Just as she had let neither of those emotions control how she’d lived her life for the past three years, she would allow neither to motivate her now. What had been between her and Quinn was in the past. That was where she intended it to stay. They would share no more clenching embraces. No more lung-searing kisses. From now on, all dealings between them would be strictly business.

  Glancing up, she spotted Quinn striding through the restaurant’s entrance. Instead of a suit, he wore a black polo shirt open at the neck, well-washed jeans that molded his long legs and scuffed boots. His gold badge and holstered weapon were clipped to his belt. The instant longing that shot through Christine weakened all the vows she’d just made.

  Her fingers trembled against the mug while her heart pounded. She was realist enough to know that, at this rate, she would find herself involved with him whether she wanted to be or not.

  What in heaven’s name was she going to do?

  Quinn scanned the restaurant’s interior, his gaze meeting hers. For a brief instant, his eyes probed her face with such intensity that she felt as if she were not being looked at, but into. Then he glanced across his shoulder and spoke to FBI Agent Mason Taggart who had ambled in behind him. Taggart, dressed in the same rumpled brown suit he’d worn the day before, inclined his head in her direction.

  Christine dragged in a deep breath while the men went
through the service line. Even as she tried to placate herself with the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to face Quinn alone this morning, the tide of uneasiness that had been with her since he’d kissed her brainless rose a little higher inside her.

  Carrying a glass of ice and a plastic bottle of orange juice, Taggart settled on the opposite side of the booth; Quinn slid in beside her.

  She could smell his soap, his skin, the spicy cologne that had made her senses swirl only hours ago.

  “Morning, Miz Logan,” Taggart said in his thick Texas drawl.

  “Good morning.” Christine gave the man a slight smile, then met Quinn’s gaze. “Captain Buchanan.”

  Blue eyes met hers over the rim of his coffee mug. “Morning.”

  “The Captain and I thought this would be a good time to update you on a few things,” Taggart stated as he twisted off the container’s lid and poured orange juice over ice.

  “I’d appreciate that,” Christine said, forcing her thoughts firmly to business.

  “I’ll start with what we know about our hijacker’s background,” Taggart said. “For years Carl Hart was president of a bank his family owned in Oklahoma City. Kelly Jackson went to work there and caught his eye. Not long after that they married and she quit her job. Apparently, the honeymoon hadn’t been over long when Hart started abusing her. She finally walked out and moved to Ryan, Texas, where her mother lived. Hart hunted down Kelly and dragged her back to Oklahoma. He’d crossed the state line with her—that constituted kidnapping so the feds got involved. Hart was tried on kidnapping charges and convicted. He was in the county jail in Oklahoma City awaiting sentencing when he managed to escape.”

  Christine shook her head. “Did he go after his ex-wife?”

  “He was on his way to Ryan when he got picked up,” Taggart answered. “In the meantime, Spence Cantrell headed there to advise Jackson of her ex-husband’s escape and offer her protective custody. That offer turned out to be unnecessary since Hart was captured shortly after Cantrell arrived in Ryan.”

  Taggart paused to sip his juice. “That was eighteen months ago,” he continued. “Since then, Hart’s been in the federal prison in Marion, Illinois. From his first day there, he’s stirred up trouble between himself and members of a prison gang. The trouble escalated, so when the Bureau of Prisons received a recent relocation request from Mr. Hart’s lawyer, the request got quick approval.” As he spoke, Taggart pulled the small rumpled brown bag he’d carried yesterday out of his suit pocket and offered it across the table. “Have a macadamia?”