Midnight Heat

by Donna Kauffman

  The heat that curled in his chest, the instant understanding that he could share this part of himself with her—and like it—hit him low and hard.

  The investigation, he reminded himself. She’s not here for your personal pleasure.

  But oh how he wanted her to be.

  “The runway collision three years ago in Denver,” he answered her, his abrupt tone not inviting further discussion. She took the hint and put the gearshift back on his desk. He opened his mouth to ask her to take a seat, relieved to be back on track and in control. So it was a little disconcerting to hear himself ask, “Where did you learn so much about parts that you know what sort of plane they come from? Do you fly?”

  She sat across from him, looking too fresh and graceful on the hard metal folding chair. She was the brightest thing this office had ever seen. Who needed windows?

  “No,” she said. “But my grandfather did. So did my dad.”

  “Mine too,” he answered, shocking himself. He didn’t talk about his father, not so much as a passing mention, with anyone. Not even Dara.

  “Actually, my father wasn’t a pilot by profession, not like Grandpa,” she said with affection. “Dad flew for the military in the Korean conflict, then, like so many other military pilots, he was recruited by the FAA into being a controller.”

  “Ah,” Dane said, glad to keep the conversation focused on her. “Like father, like daughter.”

  Her expression briefly clouded, confounding Dane. “Something like that,” she said quietly. It was clear to him that sharing time was over.

  Which was good. This wasn’t a social call. But it didn’t stop him from feeling uncomfortable, as if he should apologize for bringing up—however unintentionally—memories that were obviously bittersweet. Nor did it stop him from wanting to find out what had made them bitter and which ones were sweet.

  Dane quickly turned the discussion to work, deliberately excluding his emotions from involvement. It was a skill he’d perfected early on after watching the destructive effects on coworkers when they became emotionally involved in cases that usually involved multiple fatalities. He hadn’t known exactly when this detachment had become second nature. He’d never had cause to question it.

  That it required more work than usual to achieve just now only made him more determined to accomplish it.

  “I went over our copies of the printouts from the ARTS tapes.” He ignored with great difficulty the tug in his chest that felt too much like remorse for what he was about to do to her. “According to the data, the primary was never on your display.”

  “I know what I saw, Mr. Colbourne,” she insisted. “The plane was there. Maybe you didn’t go back far enough in the data retrieval.”

  Mr. Colbourne. He supposed it was foolish to regret that he’d never get to hear her say his first name now.

  “I went back to the beginning of your shift. All the data from the moment you took over your control, up to the moment the incident occurred is in this printout.” He slid the white sheet of paper over to her.

  Dane watched her as she quickly scanned the information detailed neatly—and indisputably—on the display copy he’d already memorized. The color slowly drained from her face until all that was left were two bright red spots on her cheeks.

  “The plane was there,” she repeated, but with only a trace of her former conviction. “What about the voice tapes?”

  Dane sighed. He was hating this more than he’d expected. He doubted very much that she was liking this either.

  “The voice tapes prove you tried to open communication with a primary target and that you warned the AirWest and Liberty pilots of its approach,” he said.

  “And doesn’t that count for anything? I mean, why would I have done that if it wasn’t there?”

  Disappointment had no place in this investigation, Dane reminded himself harshly. “I’m not saying you didn’t think you saw something. But the bottom line is the ARTS tapes don’t back you up.”

  She handed the paper back to him. He’d braced himself for and expected to see defeat in those sky-blue eyes. But for once, his instincts failed him.

  For some reason, he wasn’t too disappointed by that.

  She stood and pressed her fists on his desk. “There has to be some other way I can prove my theory.”

  “There is no eyewitness, not one, who can state categorically that they saw a third plane.” Dane massaged his stomach, then realizing what he was doing, picked up his pencil again.

  Adria leaned across the desk. Dane didn’t know which impulse was stronger; the one telling him to lean away in case she tried to strangle him. Or the one urging him to move closer and risk getting burned.

  “Then you don’t have any real proof that my explanation is wrong either. Do you?” The last part had been issued as pure challenge. But she didn’t wait to see whether he’d take her up on it. She spun away and began to pace. Her long legs made short work of it and she quit after several rounds, abruptly stopping to lean against the narrow table that ran along the wall across from his desk.

  Her gaze became a little unfocused.

  Dane remained silent, unable—and frankly unwilling—to conquer his immediate and complete fascination with her unpredictable actions.

  He noticed the way her eyebrows pulled together and tiny lines creased her forehead as she considered and discarded whatever scenarios were rolling through her mind.

  Dane respected agile minds and quick, logical thinking. But he wasn’t entirely sure it was admiration of her deductive-reasoning skills that had him so attentive. He found himself wondering what spending time with her—without the interference of work—would be like. What it would be like to have that sharp intellect of hers focused solely on him. The sudden impulse to find out was overwhelmingly strong.

  And just as impossible.

  But there was no denying she’d captured his full attention. His dates, when he found time for them, had long ago fallen into the category of functional rather than fun. An escort to the opera in exchange for pleasant company to some NTSB function. Some evenings ended at the door, some did not. But none of them stood out in his mind as being particularly memorable.

  He wondered, if they were asked, if the women would remember him either. Probably not. That’s why he chose them. Why they chose him. Lately, there had been no choosing at all.

  Work had been his entire life lately. But he didn’t want that right now. What he wanted was Adria Burke. Would she let herself be chosen? By any man? By him?

  And the hell of it was, he’d never know.

  “So,” she said finally, “does this mean the investigation is closed?”

  Half of him wanted to ask her what possibilities she’d been mulling over while the other half wished she’d taken longer doing it. He enjoyed watching her. Couldn’t remember if he’d ever actually taken pleasure in simply staring at a woman.

  “No, it isn’t.” He could have said more, could have told her that the remaining information and data to be collected would likely continue to prove her guilt before it would exonerate her, but he didn’t.

  She casually lifted a block of windshield from a 727 off the table next to her, then turned the piece over and around in her hands.

  “Why did the newspaper story bother you?”

  Her question pulled him fully back into the matter. “Most of the story was general coverage of the collision and details on any injuries, speculation as to the cause.”

  “Was my name mentioned?” Her tone was even, but strain was evident in the tightness around her mouth.

  “No. Other than mentioning that an unnamed controller had been put on temporary leave, the reporter stated our standard comment that a routine investigation into the matter was ongoing.”

  She waited a beat, then said, “And? But? I hear at least one of those coming.”

  His mouth twitched, but he controlled it. She had the damnedest effect on him. “But said reporter ended her routine piece with the line ‘an inside so
urce has hinted that there may be more to this than simple navigational error.’ ”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And you immediately thought I’d talked to the media and given them my version of the story. Given them the third plane.”

  Dane wasn’t sure what he should feel at her accusation, but he was pretty damn sure it shouldn’t be guilt. “If you thought your version would get more coverage by leaking it to the press, well then—”

  “I was asked not to discuss the events of that night while the investigation is ongoing and I haven’t. I understand and happen to agree with that policy. Things get distorted enough.”

  “It’s my job to question everything, Adria.” Her eyes widened at his use of her name. Her reaction set off one of his own, and he had to fight to keep his mind open and unbiased. He looked down at his notes. They didn’t have accusing blue eyes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  His head shot up. He’d been thinking those very words and for a split second wondered if he’d actually said them.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know what I expected from you.”

  “I think you made it clear that first night in my office you didn’t expect me to do much of anything. Least of all, to help you.”

  She didn’t deny it. “Which is why you thought I’d taken things into my own hands and approached the press. But don’t you think if I had come forward, my name would be all over the place? Or at the least the third-plane scenario would have been run through the media wringer.”

  “Anonymous sources are most reporters’ bread and butter. They wouldn’t betray them. She still got her byline.”

  “So who did tip them off? And what else could the ‘inside source’ have been referring to if not the third plane.” Her gaze had gone all unfocused again as she began to run through the possibilities, but suddenly she focused on him. From the sparks he saw, Dane knew her conclusion wasn’t going to thrill him.

  “Unless there is something else going on here that I don’t know about.” She paused, then asked, “Is there any point in my even asking you?” Then her tone turned more bitter. “Or am I being incredibly naive to believe the head investigator would simply hand that sort of information over to his lead suspect?”

  Dane didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. Why did the idea of telling her everything not seem the terrible mistake logic dictated it would be? Instinct versus logic. Head versus heart. He was beginning to resent how easily she managed to put him in turmoil.

  He turned his attention away from her and pulled another Coke from the cooler by his feet. He lifted it to her. “Thirsty?”

  She shook her head. It was clear she was waiting for him to respond.

  I’m responding, lady, he thought darkly as his body tightened. For the first time in a while, a very long while—maybe ever—his mind was as actively engaged as his hormones. And that was what made her so dangerous.

  The lady expected answers. Even if they weren’t the ones she wanted to hear.

  Dane admired that. He popped the top and downed half the can. He looked back at her, waiting for the burn of the fizz to pass from his throat to his stomach. Maybe a little carbonation would settle it down. Who was he kidding?

  “First, I can’t tell you everything that’s going on in this investigation. It isn’t procedure.” He held up his hand when she rolled her eyes. “Procedures, I might add, that are in place for a good reason. You know you are the main focus here. But until my report is filed, you have the right to be protected too.”

  “And just what is it I’m being protected from? The truth?”

  “No.” Dane raked his hand through his hair. “Listen, I’d like to believe you. But whether or not I do has no bearing on how thorough a job I do. I’m not in the habit of explaining myself, so you’ll have to take it on faith. I don’t file my report until all the facts are in. All of them. Neat, tidy, and no questions. That’s how I like my cases. That way nothing comes back to haunt you.”

  Memories poured through his mind—of his father’s crash, the investigators who had crawled all over the wreckage, looking at every scrap for clues. That they had determined his father hadn’t been at fault had been Dane’s only solace at a time when nothing in his life made sense. He’d understood right then the power of fact, of the tangible. And the very high risk of faith and trust. Not to mention love.

  The fire in her gentled to something more warm, more soothing. She stepped to his desk. “Dane, listen, I—”

  Dane. Damn if his name on her lips didn’t sound a hundred times better than he could ever have imagined. He cut her off, the words spilling out. “Even if I want to, I won’t always be able to tell you everything, Adria. But what you can always expect and get from me is the truth. I don’t know who leaked to the Post that there was more to this investigation. I don’t know what was intimated. But I won’t file my report until I have all the answers.”

  Adria felt his intensity like a living force. It took several moments for his actual words to sink in. To have someone like Dane, a man with such drive and determination, on her side …

  No, she corrected herself. Not on her side. Dane was on the side of truth. Which was as good. Better maybe. Because Adria was speaking the truth. She had not been negligent.

  If he was as good as he claimed, and looking at him right now she would even guess he might have understated his abilities, then he’d find proof of that third plane.

  Adria fought down a sudden smile. He had made it clear on more than one occasion what he thought of her side of the story. But that hadn’t kept him from getting swept up in it.

  He’d seized on it. He covered it well, but beneath that controlled exterior, Adria would bet her life—and likely was—that his mental wheels were spinning even faster than hers had. All the questions and inconsistencies were being played and replayed, analyzed and dissected, as he looked for that final pattern, where all the pieces fit, where the answer was incontrovertible. Where the answer was fact. And for her, proof.

  And she was just as certain that he was fighting the process tooth and nail. Why? Because it went against his logical mind to believe in something so farfetched?

  Or was it because of her? Was it personal?

  The undercurrents zinging around his office hadn’t escaped her. She’d fought recognizing the interest in his eyes, the probing looks, the open calculation of what she was really all about. The idea that he’d actively focused his powerful interest not only on solving her case, but on herself as a woman, shook her more deeply than she wanted to admit. Or deal with. Not now.

  She looked at him. Animated, intense, alert. And attuned to her.

  She’d roused the predator.

  Great. Now what in the hell was she going to do with him?

  Get him to keep her job, that’s what. And that’s all.

  “I appreciate your dedication.” She finally did smile when he frowned. “And I’ll hold you to your promise. If you don’t file your report until you get all the answers, then I know I’ll be proven innocent.”

  THREE

  Adria answered her phone two days later, crossing her fingers that it was Pete. She’d left three messages on his machine, none of which he’d answered.

  “Ms. Adria Burke?” It wasn’t Pete. It was a woman.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m a reporter. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the incident that occurred over Metro Airport last Monday.”

  “No.” The answer had been immediate, instinctive. Had someone finally put two and two together? Had the mysterious “inside source” divulged the existence of the third plane? “I have no comment to make on the current investigation.”

  “So, you’re saying there is an ongoing investigation?” the woman asked, her tone polite, yet entreating. It was that “trust me” voice Adria was convinced all reporters were taught the first day of journalism school.

  “I’m not saying anything,” Adria replied in the same tone. “However, I’d like to
ask you a question.”

  There was a pause while the woman obviously weighed the value of taking the bait. “Go ahead,” she said finally.

  Adria tightened her grip on the phone. Dane had shown her the article before she’d left his office that evening. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to remember the byline. Sarah. “Is this Sarah Greene? Are you the reporter responsible for the story in the Post several days ago?”

  “Yes, I am,” came the quick, assured, response.

  So, she was confident. Because of her source? Adria was dying to find out who it was and how much information this person was privy to, but she knew better than to ask straight out. “I’m sure you know that until the standard investigation is concluded, all involved are encouraged not to discuss the matter. Well, obviously you got someone to bend the rules a bit and discuss this with you. I have to admit to being curious as to who this person is.”

  “I don’t reveal sources, Ms. Burke, if that is what you’re getting at.”

  “What I’m getting at is you wouldn’t be calling me unless you thought there was something going on here. As far as I know, this is just a standard review.” That was a lie, but one she told without compunction. This reporter would likely sell her down the river for a story, so Adria figured she might as well steer the boat as long as she could. “But if it’s more than that, my job could be at stake. Now, frankly, I’m not all too concerned about the outcome of the investigation with the facts as I know them.” Another lie, but she held an even tone. “So if you’ve uncovered something that may change that fact, then I’d like to know what it is. I don’t care who told you, just what was said.”

  The pause this time was almost nonexistent. “You’re saying that if I pass along the information my source is giving me regarding the case, you’ll talk to me about what you know?”