Shaking his head, Chad laughed again and smacked his colleague on the back. “It’s great to see you too, Rowan. The Lincoln is in the parking lot. I left it running so it’d be nice and warm for your wimpy California ass. You’ll be in your room in the Executive Wing at the Sheraton before you know it. You can even take a hot bath.”
* * *
Danielle Stratton glanced at the tall, blonde-haired man as he pulled on an overcoat and leather gloves and then strode out the door after her friend Ed marshaled the Learjet into its parking spot. For the last hour he’d alternately sat and then paced around the plush customer lounge on the private side of the airport. While she waited in the cushy leather chair, watching advertisements for the company’s services on the giant flat screen, he made a few phone calls and grumbled to himself.
Whoever he was meeting had delayed her as well. Tugging on the ponytail restraining her dark red hair, she knew she should never have agreed to give Ed a ride home. As his boss, the part-time job he’d taken, working on the private side of the airport was not her problem and neither was his broken truck. But here she was, because he was also her friend.
Shoving her coat sleeve up, she stared at her watch and yawned. As station manager for Legacy Airlines in Sioux Falls, her day started when the operation opened at five o’clock in the morning and didn’t end until the final turn left for Chicago at six o’clock in the evening. Everyone told her she was too dedicated and they were right. At thirty-three, she’d been in the airline industry for thirteen years and didn’t like the chaos anymore. Someday, it would be nice to have a life that consisted of more than baggage service problems, on-time departure statistics and ungrateful passengers.
When the tall blonde went out the door with a muttered, Finally she decided to check out the passengers so important that they were arriving by private jet at almost eleven o’clock in the evening. Wandering over to the tables and chairs facing the floor to ceiling windows, she took a seat and waited. First a man who looked like he could be her father’s age came down the steps, stopping to talk with the guy she’d been watching. Both men looked up, and she followed their gazes to the door of the aircraft. Oh my – who was that?
Too hot was the only way to describe the man who paused in the doorway of the jet before slouching down the stairs. Once on the ground, he looked cold as he hurried toward the building with the other two men. And God love him, he needed a shave – but the sooty whiskers only added to his decadent good looks. Drawn by instant, overpowering desire, she wanted him, right now. She could feel strong arms wrapping around her, eager lips finding hers and the burn of rough stubble on her cheeks.
Good grief, what was wrong with her? Taking a deep breath, she felt the heat spreading across her face. Shoulders tense, palms damp, she watched him move through the customer service lounge with a lithe swagger, vigorously rubbing his hands and blowing on them. The blonde guy smacked him on the back and said something she couldn’t hear. Tossing back thick black hair, he laughed out loud, gave his tall friend an insolent grin and answered with a word that made the older guy guffaw.
Watching the three men interact filled her with inordinate, foolish jealousy. They were obviously good friends and she felt cheated out of something special. Who was this man and how long was he going to be in Sioux Falls? Of course, flying in on a private jet put him way, way out of her league.
When he slipped out the door and into the darkness, she felt letdown, as though she’d missed an important opportunity and now it was gone. How could she feel such breathtaking attraction to someone she didn’t even know? Telling herself to get over it, she decided that by morning she probably wouldn’t even be able to remember what he looked like.
Turning back to the window, she propped her elbows on the table, rested her chin in her hands and watched Ed methodically chock the wheels, close the cargo bin and the aircraft door, buttoning up the jet for the night. Disturbed that a man she’d never seen before and most likely would never see again could leave her feeling so bereft, she sighed disconsolately. In her heart she knew she was a fool to think she’d forget what he looked like anytime soon.
* * *
Watching Rowan hustle through the revolving door at the Sheraton, Chad turned to Ralph. “Thanks for taking a minute to talk.”
Ralph looked at him, face bone-weary. “Spit it out Chad. I’m about to fall asleep on my feet.”
“Boss, can you keep Rowan away from the airport for a couple days? The airlines out there are like one big dysfunctional family and they’re all pissed off. The agents are in an uproar because apparently it’s the first time in airline history that one person caused three flights to cancel, one right after another. The rumor mill is in full swing too, and the big news is that he’s Middle Eastern. They don’t understand how he can be an FBI special agent and part of an Anti-Terrorism Task Force.”
Sniffing as the cold air stung his nose and eyes, he continued. “If you can offer some explanation to management, the info will trickle down to the masses, and they’ll move on to the next big issue. From what I’ve gathered, these folks have a short attention span. One of United’s customer service reps told me all this crap.”
Ralph’s shoulders sagged. “Nothing surprises me anymore, especially not when Rowan’s involved. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him to lay low. He could use a couple days off. Besides, I need to establish a relationship with local Law Enforcement and the Assistant Federal Security Directors assigned out there and meet with airline management.” Ralph gave him a tired smile and patted him on the shoulder. “Relax special agent, I’ll pave the way. Now, I’ve got to get some sleep. See you in the morning, eight o’clock sharp in the restaurant here.”
Watching as Ralph headed into the pool of light and warmth beyond the revolving door, he heaved a sigh. He’d done as much as he could. Sliding behind the wheel of the Lincoln, he headed for home, the stupid Mandy song still playing in his mind. His mother had been a hopeless romantic, collecting sappy love songs from the seventies and eighties and playing them endlessly while he was growing up. As a consequence, one of the silly songs always popped into his mind at odd times and places.
Like tonight, he thought as he drove through the snow-covered streets. He hoped that his mother, trapped in the alternate universe that Alzheimer’s had relentlessly tugged her into, still enjoyed the music. Just like he hoped things would quiet down now so he and his colleague and boss could get serious about their assignment.
* * *
Absorbed in paperwork, in the midst of her shift as evening manager at the Sheraton, Jennie Kelly didn’t want to deal with the late arriving guest blowing in through the revolving glass doors. Bracing herself for one more in a long line of disgruntled travelers, she looked up with a forced smile. Gazing at her with inscrutable black eyes was one of the sexiest looking men she’d ever seen. Yikes. A trip wire went off in the back of her mind, telling her to proceed with caution. He was good looking, but something about him scared her and she felt the tingling rise of the hair on her arms. Dry-mouthed, unable to stop staring at him, she felt like an idiot. “Um, good evening sir, do you have a reservation?”
To her utter surprise, he held out his hand and smiled. “Special agent Rowan Milani, FBI and yes, I have a reservation.”
She shook his hand and wondered if she had to let go. With shaky fingers she flipped long black hair behind her shoulder, pushed up her glasses and tapped the keyboard, finding the information she needed to process the check-in. Handing him a key card, she treated herself to another look at his indecently sensual face. “Is there anything else you need this evening, Mr. Milani?”
“Please call me Rowan, and yeah Jennie, is there any way to get a sweater and jeans washed before morning? Does your overnight staff do laundry?” He looked embarrassed. “My suitcase got lost today, and all I have with me is what I’m wearing. You couldn’t find me a bathrobe anywhere, could you?”
In the Presidential Suite they had all kind
s of supplies, and the suite wasn’t booked. Tugging on the name tag he’d obviously read, she made a snap decision and looked up at him with a smile. “That’s no problem, Mr., ah…Rowan. I’ll have room service bring you a robe, and I’ll be glad to take your clothes…” Face reddening, she floundered on. “I mean, we can take your clothes and have them cleaned for you. We’ll hang them on your door when they're ready, so you won’t be disturbed.”
He rewarded her with a wicked smile and a second, even bigger surprise. Pulling a worn wallet from his back pocket, he peeled five one hundred-dollar bills from it, folded them carelessly and shoved them across the counter while she gaped. “Thanks, Jennie, I appreciate it a lot. Would you divvy that up with your night staff? Oh – there’s one last thing.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Does that Starbucks open early?”
Looking past him to the Starbucks kiosk, she nodded. “Yes sir, they open at six o’clock every morning.”
He smacked the counter with his hand. “Fantastic. Would you mind leaving them a note to bring a carafe of Italian Roast up to my room around eight?” When she nodded mutely, he pulled another hundred from the wallet and handed it to her. “Please make sure the wait staff gets this. You guys are great.” With one last killer smile he turned, stuffed the wallet back in his pocket and walked off, following the signs to the Executive Wing. She was sure she heard him laughing.
* * *
A hot shower and Jack Daniel’s whiskey worked miracles for his attitude. Rowan sat on the edge of his bed in a warm velour bathrobe that was purple, for God’s sake, and wiggled his toes in heavy black socks. Chad was a godsend, and he’d already called him to say thanks. Of course, his friend blew it all off and asked him how much he’d paid to get his clothes washed.
Downing a shot of whiskey, he thought wryly that Chad knew him too well. Thanks to his clandestine activities on behalf of his country, he earned a lot of money, and one of the few things he enjoyed was spreading it around to people he knew worked their asses off for low wages. So some poor old lady stuck washing his clothes got a gift. Big deal, it was the least he could do.
Sloshing more whiskey in the cup, he stood up and stepped around the bed to look out the window. Cold air radiated from the glass. Gazing down, he saw snowflakes, still falling, glittering in the lights of the parking lot and flailing in eddies around the corner of the building. How did people live in this godforsaken state? The weather was even worse than he’d imagined. The cable TV channel posted the temperature at ten degrees, and the wind chill made it an even zero. With a shiver, goose bumps forming all up and down his arms and legs he stepped back to the bed, punched a couple pillows into shape against the headboard and crawled under the sheets and down comforter.
Yawning so hard he spilled the drink, he wiped his hand on the sleeve of the robe and thought back on the day. It had been long and ugly, harboring the potential to destroy his career and maybe even his life. Taking a gulp of the potent whiskey, he tipped his head back and swallowed, hating to think what would have happened if Ralph hadn’t appeared when he did. How many days would he have sat at the Federal Building in downtown Denver, being interrogated by the likes of special agent Banks, Fred Ralston and God only knew who else?
His career as an FBI special agent would not have survived the ordeal. The aftermath of that kind of scrutiny would leave him on the wanted list of more than a few foreign governments. Not to mention the wish lists of a bunch of pissed off holy warriors who’d seen their plans uprooted and their martyrs sent to paradise early.
He’d like to know who had made the anonymous phone call – and how they knew about the jihadists he’d killed along the border. The list of people involved in the Mexico operation was extremely short, and he couldn’t imagine any of the other participants making that call. But someone had called. And now according to Ralph, the poison had spread to Sioux Falls. Massaging drowsy eyes, he thought righteously that it wasn’t his fault any of those three flights had canceled. And anyway, if he hadn’t been detained in Denver, none of this would have happened.
Tossing back another mouthful of whiskey, he relished the burn down his throat and felt the warmth spreading. Now he had two days off, and Ralph had been adamant. Stay away from the airport. That was all right with him, because he didn’t think the focus should be on the airport anyway. He’d like to head for the local mosque. If he could keep a low profile and get acquainted with the faithful, he’d be another step closer to uncovering the invisible leader of the secret jihad working to undermine the country. All he needed was time to let his beard and already shaggy hair grow even longer.
His head dipped as his eyes slid shut. The whiskey had warmed him nicely. Downing the last swallow, he pitched the cup and hit the switch on the bedside lamp before pulling off the robe and tossing it to the floor. Flat on his back with hands clasped on his belly and feet crossed at the ankles, he could sleep undisturbed – at last.
* * *
CHAPTER THREE
He heard the planes. The horrendous fireballs seared his soul. As he staggered up the stairs, caustic, ash-laden smoke filled his nostrils and caked his throat. Choking, coughing, lungs on fire, he knew he had to keep going, he had to find her. Then the tower imploded, the stairs disappeared and he fell through space, arms clawing the air, legs pumping in vain. Rowan jerked awake in a tangle of sweat soaked bedding, heart slamming in his chest. Gray light leaked from the edges of the curtained window and he slung an arm over his eyes and lay there, waiting for his heart rate to slow.
After all the intervening years, the nightmare still plagued him. On the evening of September 10, 2001, his fiancée had been in New York City for a job interview. She’d called to tell him that she planned to have breakfast at Windows on the World the next morning. On assignment in Ohio, he’d been drinking coffee with Ralph in his hotel room when the first plane hit. His sweet Michelle, with honey-blonde hair and kind blue eyes, didn’t answer her cell phone. It wasn’t until he traveled to the city to collect her things that he found it, with all his heartrending messages, on the bedside table in her hotel room.
For one precious month, his life had been perfect. Both he and Michelle were twenty-five and had grown up together in Carpinteria, CA, a sleepy town a few miles down the coast from Santa Barbara. Engaged on August 11, 2001, he’d been happy – delirious when she’d told him she was pregnant. Lying in bed together, they’d laughed and dreamed and he’d splayed his hand across her abdomen and closed his eyes, envisioning a family with the only woman he’d ever loved. One month later, she was gone – his family was gone – forever. He still couldn’t get his mind around the concept of that word. Shoving the rumpled blankets aside, he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes viciously with the heels of his hands. But goddamn it, he’d tried.
He’d shown up at Ground Zero a week after the attack with his FBI credentials, grabbed a hardhat and a mask and stayed for six months, working alongside firefighters and volunteers, digging through debris by the bucket full. One afternoon, he taped their engagement picture next to the thousands of other pictures and letters on the fences lining the massive funeral pyre. Michelle’s remains were never found and finally, despairing, he flung the platinum wedding bands that would never be worn as far as he could into the wreckage.
A threesome of volunteers from Lynchburg, Tennessee took him under their wing. They empathized, told him they were sorry for his loss and introduced him to Jack Daniel’s whiskey. The potent elixir became his new lover, faithfully numbing his mind and allowing him the nightly relief of passing out. For that he would be eternally grateful.
Taking a call from Ralph one day, he’d agreed to join a low profile Anti-Terrorism Task Force his boss commanded under the loose discretion of the Director of the FBI. Whispers about black ops came soon after that, and his own personal jihad had given him a reason to continue living. Which brought his mind back to the present as he stretched, scratched himself and yawned, wondering if the wait sta
ff had remembered his Starbucks. They had and he sipped the strong coffee, gazing with longing at the bottle of whiskey on the bedside table. Ralph had been right about him needing a couple days off.
Grasping the coffee cup in one hand, drawn back to the window, he shoved the drapes aside and gazed at the alien landscape four stories below. The trees looked like black sticks stuck in wads of grayish cotton. Low clouds blocked even the thought of sunlight and across the street, atop a pole a flag whipped back and forth in the unyielding wind. Still mystified that people chose to live in such misery, he turned away and decided to find something to do in the hotel. He remembered a sign in the lobby with directions to a work-out room and a pool. If he kept himself busy for the morning, he could spend the afternoon with his bottle of whiskey and by evening, he’d pass out and not wake up until the next morning. Perfect.
* * *
Jennie looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps and tried not to stare at the two hard-featured, big men approaching her podium. “Good afternoon, how may I help you?”
One of them had close-set blue eyes and buzz cut black hair. When he smiled at her, she felt uneasy. “We need to check-in, one room. I’m Seth Hancock.” Tipping his head toward the other man, who was taller, he continued. “And this is Lucien Talbot. Say, a buddy of ours is staying here – Rowan Milani. Can you set us up with a room somewhere close to his?”
Just looking at both men made her skin crawl and she could hardly believe either of them had anything in common with the sexy man she’d checked in the night before. “OK, let me see. I can’t give out special agent Milani’s room number. Um, he was here a while ago, playing pool in the work-out room with our maintenance man, but I’m not sure where he is now. Did you want to leave him a message?”
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