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  Both Quinn and Christine shook their heads.

  “As you both know,” Taggart continued, “located on this airport is the only federal prison transfer center in this country. Any inmate entering the federal system, or being transferred, spends time at the PTC. That’s not a secret. Mr. Hart came here after his kidnapping conviction and before his transfer to Marion. It’s logical to think he knew he would return here for a few days, maybe a week, if he got himself reassigned to a different prison.”

  Christine blinked. “You’re saying Hart purposely caused trouble with the gang in Marion so he would wind up back here at the PTC?”

  “That’s how I see it,” Taggart answered. “Like I said yesterday, Mr. Hart’s ex-wife, Kelly Jackson, lives only two hours away. He’s adamant she make an appearance here.”

  “Have you found out why?” Christine asked.

  “Not yet.” Taggart’s eyes narrowed. “I expect we’ll know more when Marshal Cantrell gets her back here.”

  Christine frowned. Cantrell had left for the woman’s home in Ryan, Texas, after their previous day’s meeting. “They’re not here?”

  Quinn shook his head. “When Cantrell got to Ryan, he found out Kelly Jackson went on vacation. She told her neighbors she was heading wherever the road took her, so they aren’t sure where she went, or when to expect her. They think she’ll get back in the next couple of days. She better. Cantrell put an APB on her vehicle. And he’s keeping tabs on her home.” A line formed between Quinn’s brows as he stared into his coffee. “Everything we’ve come up with on Kelly Jackson points to her being squeaky clean. Even so, I’ll feel a lot easier after I get my hands on whoever planted the gun on board that plane and know for sure she’s not somehow involved in this hijacking.”

  The mix of fatigue and frustration in Quinn’s voice pulled at Christine. “Did the NCIC computer come back with anything last night?”

  “No.” He shoved a hand through his dark hair. “So far, we haven’t found a link between anyone with access to the airfield and Hart. I had the PD’s Special Projects Unit go over the list of personnel with access. Projects didn’t spot anyone known to do business with local bookies and who might be in the market to make some fast money to cover gambling debts. A credit bureau check shows a few of the people on the list are overextended, but no one owes enough money to make you think they’d risk sneaking a gun on the plane.” Quinn shrugged. “That’s supposing Hart has money stashed somewhere to pay his accomplice.”

  “If he does, we’ll find it, Captain,” Taggart said. Settling back in the booth with his glass, the FBI agent switched his gaze to Christine. “How much of a delay did last night’s storm cause for the crews clearing the runways?”

  “A few hours,” she replied, keeping her thoughts firmly off the personal ramifications of the sudden deluge that drove her and Quinn into the back seat of his cruiser. “I’ll have both runways cleared by nightfall. First thing tomorrow morning my operations people will conduct an inspection. If all debris is gone and there’s no pavement damage, they’ll open each runway.” She glanced at her watch. “The FAA’s portable control tower is due in this morning. Installation and hookup of equipment take about twelve hours.”

  Ice rattled as Taggart sipped his juice. “This afternoon, I want you to order the construction crew to start moving some debris off the taxiway around the plane,” he said finally. “Tell them to work at a slow pace, and I damn sure don’t want all the debris cleared. Not now, anyway.”

  Christine exchanged a look with Quinn. The grimness in his eyes told her Taggart’s request didn’t come as a surprise. “You really may have to let the plane take off?” she asked carefully.

  “Mr. Hart insists that’s the only way to keep those on board his plane alive. Keeping them alive is, of course, what I want.”

  “Of course.” Christine shook her head. “I wouldn’t want your job, Agent Taggart.”

  “I’ve been in this business a long time, Miz Logan. I learned early on to prepare for any eventuality. Mr. Hart wants that taxiway cleared. I’m willing to accommodate him if he gives me more hostages. So far, he’s given me thirteen—five so I’d start clearing the runway. Another eight to get more food delivered to the plane. Counting Hart, that leaves ninety-five on board. I intend to get as many released as possible.” Taggart raised a shoulder. “Meanwhile, I’ve got three sharpshooters who guarantee that plane won’t move one inch unless I let it.”

  The now familiar sense of dread for those held aboard the hijacked plane resettled in Christine’s stomach. “If you do let it take off?”

  “We go to Plan B,” Taggart replied. “The minute this hijacking went down, I put the Bureau’s Gulfstream six-passenger jet on alert status. It’ll set down here as soon as your east runway opens. Suzanne Delachek, one of the FAA’s most senior flight check pilots, will be on board.” Taggart pursed his lips. “The woman has probably forgotten more than most folks will ever know about a 727. If circumstances require that I let Flight 407 get airborne, Ms. Delachek and I—and a few others—will be shadowing the 727 in the Gulfstream.” Taggart’s hand clenched on the brown bag. “I guarantee you, Miz Logan, whether it happens here in Whiskey Springs or somewhere outside this country, Mr. Hart will eventually be mine.”

  At that instant, a soft beep sounded. Quinn and Taggart reached for their pagers the same instant Christine pulled hers off the waistband of her slacks.

  “Mine,” Taggart said, regarding his pager’s display. “The FBI director wants an update on our status.” Nodding to Christine and Quinn, Taggart stuffed the small bag of nuts into his coat pocket and slid out of the booth.

  Christine watched the FBI agent thread his way past the tables and booths that had filled to capacity while they’d talked. Her gaze settled on a man wearing a dark work shirt who sat alone at one table. His thick hands wrapped around a mug, his gaze tracked Taggart’s progress toward the restaurant’s door. Furrowing her brow, she tried to remember where she’d seen the man before, but nothing came to mind.

  “Is coffee all you’re having for breakfast, Slim?”

  “Yes,” she said, turning her attention back to Quinn. “I notice you’re having the same.”

  His mouth curved. “Yeah, but I’ll remember to eat later. I can’t say the same about you.”

  Now that Taggart was gone and she and Quinn were alone in the booth, her nerves began to tangle. Was she destined to feel forever as though she’d just run a marathon whenever he got near?

  “Have you changed your mind?” he asked.

  The sudden softness in his voice put an instant wariness inside her. “About what?”

  “Last night. Still think what happened between us was a mistake?”

  Lowering her gaze, she stared into her coffee’s murky depths. It wasn’t enough just to want, she reminded herself. She had wanted this man before, and when he’d walked out of her life she thought she might die from the pain. Had wanted to die.

  Still, there was something about Quinn Buchanan that would always make her want to tempt fate. That was exactly what she’d done last night when she’d let him kiss her.

  She jolted when the pager she still held in one hand sounded. Grateful for the interruption, she checked the display.

  “I’ve got to go. The FAA’s portable tower just arrived.”

  Quinn nodded, then slid out of the booth. He waited until she’d risen, then turned to face her, his blue eyes inscrutable. “I’ll be sure to ask you that same question some other time, Slim.”

  Sixteen hours later, Christine stumbled into her office, swinging the door closed behind her. After leaving the restaurant that morning, she’d liaised with Pete and the FAA reps responsible for placement of the temporary control tower. That done, she’d driven downtown where she spent several hours giving in-person reports on the airport’s status to the city manager, the mayor and all three airport trustees. The remainder of the day had involved meetings with airline managers, operators of other on-airport busine
sses and her own staff.

  Now, the FAA’s control tower was in place and ready to start operation. Both runways were cleared. The taxiway on which Flight 407 sat had, according to Agent Taggart’s instructions, been partially cleared of debris.

  She had done everything in her power to help keep the hijacked passengers alive.

  Right now, there was no more for her to do. No more urgent calls to make or return. No meetings to attend. No more checks of the airfield, not until morning when the airport resumed operations. The only thing she had to do right now was be available.

  She could be that while she slept.

  Her body spent with fatigue, she headed for the small bathroom off her office, washed her face and brushed her teeth. Snapping off the light, she walked to the couch, toed off her shoes, then dropped like a stone facedown onto the cushions.

  She was asleep in thirty seconds flat.

  So far, all the checks Quinn had run on individuals with access to the airfield had been a wash. He’d had every undercover cop in WSPD’s Vice Detail question snitches about anyone on the street with knowledge about the hijacking. Nothing. He and his troops had checked the welfare of everyone with a current airport ID on the off chance someone had wound up murdered and their ID stolen. Another zero. He’d scoured the list of people who had signed in to visit prisoners housed at the PTC the same time as Hart. The hijacker-to-be had had no visitors, and Quinn could find no connection between Hart and anyone who’d had contact with any other prisoner. Or guard.

  Now, as he strode through the dimly lit reception area that led to the airport’s executive offices, Quinn bit back a vicious case of frustration and the beginnings of a headache. Someone on the ground had smuggled a weapon on board Flight 407. That someone had to have authorized access to the airfield. If it was the last thing Quinn did, he was going to find that someone.

  His steps slowed when he neared the closed door to Christine’s office. He frowned when he saw no thread of light coming from under the door. She had notified his dispatcher nearly two hours ago that she would be working in her office in case she was needed.

  With concern spiking through him, he tapped lightly on the door. When he got no response, he turned the knob and swung the door open. The dim light coming from behind him wedged into the dark office as he stepped inside.

  Crossing silently to the couch, he gazed down at Christine’s sleeping form. She lay on her stomach, her head turned toward him, one arm and one bare foot dangling off the cushions. Her lips were slightly parted; her dark hair spread like smooth silk across a cheek that looked impossibly sculpted in the dim light and shadows.

  Emotion tightened his chest. Had he ever really believed his life could be complete without her?

  Quinn scrubbed a hand across his face. Time had eased the guilt, faded the vicious grief he’d felt over Jeff’s death. Yesterday he had discovered what an empty shell of an existence he’d been living. He wanted to be whole again. He couldn’t—would never be—unless he had Christine Logan back in his life.

  The problem was, she had made it clear she didn’t want him back in her life.

  Muttering an oath, he walked across the office to the small closet, opened the door and pulled out a blanket. Maybe she had yet to figure it out, but she wasn’t going to slip though his fingers again. He’d be damned if he would let her.

  Christine dreamed she was floating in a pool of warm, soothing water. Suddenly Quinn was beside her, his hands roaming across her damp flesh while his mouth moved on hers in a moist, deep, sumptuous kiss that went on endlessly, endlessly until she was as pliant as melted wax.

  “Quinn….” His name escaped her lips on a moan of pain mixed with pleasure.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you, Slim.”

  His voice was so soft, so close, so real. Too real. Her eyelids fluttered open. Disoriented, she rolled onto her back, trapped between the dream and the present. “Quinn?”

  “I brought you a blanket.”

  Her blood seemed to thicken, as if his very presence had slipped into her body like a drug. “A…blanket…?”

  He was crouched beside her, the light angling through the open door of her office shadowing his face as he leaned in to tuck the blanket beneath her shoulders. With that gesture he closed her off with him, shut out everything in her world but him, just as he’d been all that existed for her in the dream.

  “Didn’t want you getting cold.”

  She doubted she would ever be cold again, not after the way she had melted in his arms.

  Soft as a whisper, his fingertips nudged her tumbled hair off one cheek. “Go back to sleep, Slim. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  A deep, almost desperate longing for what they once shared gripped her. Would it be wrong, so wrong, to experience again all they’d lost? To block out all the past hurt, all the regret and share this one moment in time? This one night, she could keep the want and need separate, she told herself. She wasn’t ever going to need him again.

  When he started to rise, she snagged his hand. “Quinn?”

  His fingers slid between hers, linked. “Yeah, Slim?” In the dimness his eyes looked as soft as fog.

  “Stay. I want you to stay with me tonight.”

  His hand went still against hers. “Why?”

  “Because…” She cupped her palm against his cheek, felt the stubble that covered his jaw. “Just because,” she murmured, bringing her lips to his.

  His mouth was warm and soft and infinitely more potent than any dream could ever be. As their lips moved together, her breath shuddered out to merge with his. His taste, his scent filled her system, swamping her with memories, filling her with an ache only he could ease. Just as her arms rose to slide around his neck, Quinn drew back.

  “You’re sure this is what you want?”

  She let the clogged air slowly out of her lungs. He had walked away from what had been, and what might have been between them. Because of that, she wasn’t sure she could ever trust enough again to consider a future together. Didn’t know if she wanted one. All she knew was that tonight she desperately wanted to push away all the doubts and misgivings…and logic. Right now, the ragged desire she felt was all that mattered.

  “I’m sure this is what I want right now.”

  “Well, that’s honest.” He stared gravely back at her, his mouth set. “I’ll be honest, too, Slim. I want you now. Tomorrow. Forever. For the rest of my life, I want you.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he rose and crossed to the door. He swung it closed, blanketing the office in black, velvety shadows. A heartbeat later, she heard the lock engage with a quick, deliberate snick.

  Then Quinn was back, crouching beside her, cupping his hand at the back of her neck, his mouth claiming hers as he dragged her and the trapped blanket onto the floor with him.

  The kiss was exactly what she wanted. Needed. Hungry and fierce and mindless. Her back pressed into the soft carpet as his mouth crushed down, hot and hard to devour hers. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she gave in to the kiss with a mindless frenzy where desire ruled all thought and blood roared over reason.

  She tugged his shirt free of his waistband, then jerked it over his head. Her exploring fingers grazed over the remembered contours of flesh and iron-hard muscle while she breathed in his spicy scent. Her nipples burned against the restriction of her bra; the soft, wet pulse between her legs pounded. He was the only man who had ever made her want so quickly, so completely, so utterly.

  Pushing her blouse open, he shoved it off one shoulder and replaced fabric with his teeth. Minutes later, the remainder of their clothes lay heaped around them on the floor.

  His mouth traced the contours of her breast, then settled as he used teeth, tongue and lips to feast on one nipple. His fingertips took a slow journey down the flat planes of her stomach, then slid lower until his palm settled, cupping her.

  Her heart bounded into her throat.

  As he continued to suckle at her breast, his fingers knea
ded the most intimate part of her, sending sensation sliding over sensation, building toward delirium. Clutching at the blanket tangled beneath her, she absorbed the first stunning waves of pleasure.

  Her muscles tensed, then went lax.

  “I’m not done with you,” he murmured, then shifted his clever, dangerous mouth to her other breast. His lips fed, his fingers moved, driving her up again until her nerves snapped like a whip and her entire body pulsed.

  His name tore from her lips in a mindless moan of pleasure.

  Lifting his head, he dragged his hands through her hair, fisted them there. “I’ll never be done with you, Christine. Never.”

  The greed in his voice broke through her already reeling senses. Wanting to feel that greed, she arched her body up, offering more of herself as her nails dug into the hard ridges of his shoulders. She hadn’t known she could want so much, that the need for one man, this man, could be so sharp, so potent.

  So terrifying.

  His mouth moved to savage her throat, her shoulder. The office was dark, yet lights danced with brilliant color behind her eyes. With each gasping breath, blood pumped harder beneath her sweat-slicked skin, pushing her system closer to that teetering edge of insanity until she was ready to beg for release.

  He entered her in one hard, welcoming stroke. She felt his body shudder as hers took him in, tightened around him. Her hands clenched in his hair; his mouth crushed down on hers as they plunged blindly into the kiss while their bodies moved together, fast and hard.

  Breathing labored, flesh quivering, they tumbled over a jagged brink into unspeakable pleasure.