He had changed, she thought as she checked the lock on a door leading to a jetway. His thick black hair no longer lapped carelessly over his shirt collar the way it had when he’d worked undercover. He now wore his hair short and brushed back from a straight hairline. His handsome face had thinned, accenting sharp cheekbones and those off-the-chart blue eyes that, with just one look, could make a woman shudder.
She had. God, she had. More times than she could count.
She had also wept, mourned, and longed for Quinn. Then she’d gotten over him.
Because she had, she knew that whatever she felt inside was anything but yearning. She would never again let herself yearn, not for this man who had walked away when she needed him most.
Her breath coming fast, Christine shouted Maria’s name as she dashed through the next two departure gates, then checked the darkened entrance to a grab-it-and-run hot dog concession.
Outside, thunder crashed. The wind picked up, wailing like a lost soul. Rain battered the windows.
“Christine!” At the sound of Quinn’s voice, she raced into the center of the concourse. Her hope that he’d found Maria faded when he dashed around a newsstand holding only his radio. “Maria’s been found.”
“Thank good—”
“There’s a twister on the ground. We’re in its path.” As Quinn spoke, the wind calmed. The rain stopped abruptly. The air inside the terminal seemed to take on weight. An ominous silence descended around them.
Terror consumed Christine. “We won’t make it to the tunnel.”
“You’re right.” He clamped one hand on her elbow. “There’s a private handicapped rest room just past the coffee shop.”
The sound of their heels echoed like gunshots off the waxed tiles as they raced down the concourse.
Quinn jerked open the door to the rest room; Christine darted inside just as a deafening roar blasted around them.
“Get in the corner!” he shouted, slamming the door behind him.
Diving for the corner, Christine wedged her back against the wall. Her mind registered the coolness of the tiles against her damp, hose-clad legs. Quinn hunkered down to face her, then wrapped his arms around her, his body a protective barrier over hers.
Fear…and a mix of emotions had her heart hammering. The storm’s roar intensified, sounding like a train speeding through a tunnel.
When Quinn’s arms tightened around her waist, Christine closed her eyes.
“It’ll be okay,” he murmured, his breath a warm wash against her temple.
With him crouched over her, prepared to take the brunt of the storm, she felt protected and safe. Oh God, she felt…
His arms. They wrapped around her like a lover’s, holding her in an achingly familiar embrace that made her pulse throb, hard and thick.
His chest. Her face was turned to the side, one cheek cushioned against the broad range of muscles while the remembered scent of him seeped into her lungs. She heard the strong, steady beat of his heart while her own pounded painfully. Dragging in a ragged breath, she catalogued the sinewy feel of the chest that she knew sported a crisp mat of dark hair that she had swirled her fingers through more times than she could count.
His thighs. He had one knee wedged against the wall; the inside of his thigh rode atop hers. The power, the press of muscle, the strength in the legs that had straddled her body in another lifetime sent a shiver up her spine that had nothing to do with the prospect of being hurled into oblivion by a tornado.
The ceiling tiles above them lifted, then smashed down. Seconds later, a flurry of snowlike pieces of foam floated around them. Outside the door, glass shattered; something heavy slammed into the wall behind Christine.
“God…” She was trembling, shaking. Against her ear, Quinn’s heartbeat remained steady.
The lights flickered, dimmed, then went out, plunging the small room into pitch darkness. Then everything went silent.
Christine dragged in a ragged breath. “Quinn?”
“We made it.”
For the space of a dozen heartbeats, neither of them moved. The warm press of his body against hers shot unbidden thoughts through her brain. Thoughts of all those nights they lay together, sated and unmoving, their arms and legs tangled, their flesh slicked with sweat.
Her throat closed and she shoved away the memory while blinking back a rare swell of tears that stirred her temper.
She’d been determined to control their first meeting in three years. Positive that when they faced each other, a conference table would separate them, a representation of the distance that existed between them. Now, here she was, huddled on the floor with Quinn’s arms around her and not enough space between them for even one splinter off that damn table!
Stiffening her spine, she placed a palm against his shoulder and pressed him back. “It’s over, Quinn.”
“Yeah.”
He shifted his weight. Seconds later, she heard a click. A weak ray of light from the thin flashlight he held in one hand illuminated the rest room in silver light and shadows. Christine felt the press of his hand on her shoulder. “You okay, Slim?”
“Yes.” She tried to ignore the blood pounding in her cheeks from his use of his private nickname for her. “You?”
“Still in one piece.”
She stared up into the face she knew so well, his eyes an almost transparent blue in the uncertain light. For a brief instant she felt it, that instinctive pull that had existed between them since the moment Jeff Buchanan introduced them. In another lifetime, she had wanted this man more than she’d wanted to breathe.
She kept her eyes level with his. That other lifetime had passed. “Do you always carry a flashlight?”
“I heard the weather forecast, so I grabbed it on my way out the door.”
“Good, it will make it easier for us to get out of here,” she said as they rose in unison. “I need to find out what’s happened to my airport.”
“So do I.” The light bobbed against the tiles as Quinn moved to the door. The lock gave a soft snick when he turned it, then he gripped the knob and pushed.
Nothing happened.
Christine blinked. “What’s wrong?”
“The door’s blocked.” He put his shoulder against the door, then shoved. Still nothing. A second attempt failed to nudge the door even a fraction.
Quinn turned to face her, his eyes cool, unreadable. “The good news is we’re alive. The bad news is we’re stuck here.”
“We can’t be stuck,” Christine stated.
Quinn leaned a shoulder against the rest room wall, studying her through the flashlight’s weak beam.
Her dark hair was damp and slicked back, emphasizing high cheekbones, whiskey-colored eyes and full lips. His gaze slid down her throat to her shoulders, then lower. The red suit molded wetly against curves he’d memorized a lifetime ago. They had shared some unforgettable times in a shower’s steamy haze while a mix of slow need and urgent lust drove them to mate. On a silent curse, he pushed away the unsettling image. He didn’t need a reminder of how good Christine Logan looked wet.
And of how she felt. Which was what he’d gotten a few moments ago. Even with a tornado ripping overhead, the feel of her breasts locked against his chest and one trim, endlessly long thigh riding the underside of his had sent a familiar awareness through him.
“We can’t be stuck in here, Quinn.”
Focusing his thoughts, he glanced toward the rest room’s entrance. “The door’s blocked.” Pushing back the flap of his suit coat, he rested a hand beside his holstered Glock. “We’re not going anywhere until someone springs us.”
“Then we need to contact somebody about doing that.”
He held up his radio. “Dead. The storm must have gotten the repeaters on the communications tower. Maybe the tower.”
“People might be hurt. I need to talk to Pete Jacobs so I’ll know what needs to be dealt with.” Turning, she walked to the corner, snagged her bag, pulled out a cell phone and crammed it agains
t one ear.
Moments later, a crease formed between her brows. “Circuits are busy.” Her mouth set, she slid the phone into her pocket.
“Dispatch will reroute through the emergency operations center. Hopefully that won’t take long,” he said, tamping down on his own need to see to the injured, then make sure the airport’s security was intact. “Problem is, nobody knows we’re here. Until communications come online, we have no way of telling them. Even then, getting us out will be second to tending the injured. We might be here awhile.”
She closed her eyes, opened them. “Wonderful.”
Had he not been watching her so closely, Quinn would have missed the quiet shiver that went through her. “You’re cold.”
“I’m okay.”
“Your hair’s wet. So are your clothes.” Leaving the radio and flashlight on the sink, he pulled off his suit coat. “You’ll have enough to deal with when we get out of here without getting sick.”
“I’m fine….”
Her voice drifted off when he settled the coat around her shoulders. As he shifted the lapels, he caught a whiff of rain mingled with her soft vanilla scent. Gazing down, he watched the way the dim light cast shadows over her face, highlighting her eyes, sharpening her cheekbones, softening her skin.
Like a phantom stroke across his flesh, he again felt the soft press of her body against his. His hands tightened on the coat’s lapels as he forced back emotions that seemed to have gone haywire. She was no longer his. Why then, for a fleeting instant, did he feel her slipping through his fingers all over again?
He dropped his hands just as his radio sputtered to life. “Victor Ten?”
He took a step back, snagging the radio off the sink. More than anything, he needed to rid his lungs of that soft vanilla scent. “Victor Ten, go ahead.”
“Ten-twenty?” the dispatcher responded.
“I’m in B Concourse, south end.”
“Ten-nineteen.”
He raised a brow. He wished he could return to his office. “The airport director and I took refuge in the private handicapped rest room. Debris has us blocked in.”
“Roger, Victor Ten, is anyone in your party hurt?”
“Negative. Do you have a status report on injuries?”
“A parking attendant is down. EMTs are on the scene.”
Quinn met Christine’s waiting gaze. He had the sense that she was holding her breath. “What about on the airfield?”
“No injuries reported. An MD-80 parked at Gate 4C sustained damage, resulting in a fuel spill. Fire crews are there.”
“What about the airfield? Can the tower give us their view of any damage?”
“The tower doesn’t respond to calls. It might have gotten hit. A unit is en route.”
“Dear Lord,” Christine groaned and closed her eyes.
“Have you let headquarters know we need backup?”
“Ten-four. The twister cut a slash through the city. Headquarters says we’re on our own for a while.”
Quinn issued instructions to the dispatcher then added, “The cell phones are out. The director needs to talk to Pete Jacobs. Have him radio her on this channel.”
Christine shook her head as Quinn signed off. “If the MD-80 has electrical damage, one spark could ignite the fuel. The crew working there…” Her hands curled into fists. “I feel so helpless.”
“So do I.”
With silence settling around them, Quinn watched her pace, her long, slender legs taking her from one side of the small room to the other. Three years ago, she had not deserved to be shackled to a guilt-riddled cop who could no longer put their relationship first, so he’d walked away. It had taken time, but the guilt had subsided and he’d forgiven himself for the part he’d played in putting Jeff in harm’s way. Not until then had he realized that, by letting Christine go, he’d cut out his own heart.
“Airport One?” Pete Jacobs’s voice boomed through the radio. “This is Airport Three.”
Quinn handed the unit to Christine. “Airport Three,” she responded. “Pete, what’s the status of the damaged MD-80?” As she spoke, she knelt beside her bag and retrieved a notepad and pen.
“Debris punched a hole in a fuel tank.” The maintenance chief’s gruff voice battled against the sound of heavy rain and wind. “A hazardous materials crew is foaming the spilled fuel.”
“Any word on the control tower?”
“From what I can see, looks like the upper cab is gone. The phone lines are down, so we don’t know what damage was done to the lower part of the building. The police are checking it out.”
“This airport’s shut down until the FAA gets the tower back in operation,” Christine stated. “Radio our Ops Division and tell them to initiate a NOTAM,” she added, referring to a “Notice to Airmen” issued by the FAA to redirect air traffic.
“Roger.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Quinn studied the woman sitting on the floor, who was scribbling notes on the pad propped on the top of one thigh. In the semidarkness, her expression was serious, but not fearful. It reminded him of the calm, inner strength that had attracted him to her when they’d first met.
When Jeff died, she’d stayed strong. It had been his brother’s devastated widow and young daughters who’d needed him most. And because he’d talked Jeff into working in his place that fateful night, Quinn could do no less than make Rebecca and the girls his priority. Now, Rebecca was married to a man his nieces adored. Life had gone on.
“I’ll hold a staff briefing in a couple of hours.” With brisk efficiency, Christine continued to jot notes while working the radio. “By then we should know where we stand on damage.”
“Roger. I take it the captain can hear me?” Pete asked.
When Christine confirmed, Pete continued, “Might be something going on with the marshals’ plane that was due to take off around the time the storm hit.”
Quinn frowned. A prison that served as the national processing and transportation center for federal inmates was located on the airport’s south boundary. The U.S. Marshals Service operated the various aircraft that continually shuttled prisoners all over the country.
Christine handed him the radio as she rose from the floor.
Quinn keyed the microphone. “What sort of something?”
“Don’t know,” Pete responded. “The plane’s sitting on a taxiway near the prison with a couple of vans surrounding it. Debris has the plane blocked so it can’t taxi back to the transfer center. Seems to me, since that plane isn’t going anywhere, they’d have started off-loading those prisoners by now.”
“Seems that way.” After signing off, Quinn met Christine’s gaze. “If something happened on board the marshals’ aircraft, we may be dealing with more than just tornado damage.”
“That’s all we need.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “A crisis situation on a plane filled with prisoners right on the heels of a tornado.”
“My thoughts, exactly.”
Easing out a breath, she pursed her lips and studied the notepad.
The gesture reminded Quinn of how seductive that mouth could be.
He jammed a hand into his pocket. Seeing her, touching her, made him think of things he’d forced out of his mind. Things that now flooded to the surface. He’d forgotten nothing about her, he realized. Not the expressive sable-brown eyes, or the silky dark hair that framed her face, or her cool, vanilla scent.
For months after he let her go, he had lain awake nights, tormenting himself with thoughts of her. The only thing that had kept him from going after her was the knowledge that he’d made the right choice. Right for her sake, as well as for the people Jeff had left behind. Over time, he had even managed to nudge Christine into a place in his mind where he no longer hungered for her.
Or so he’d thought.
The moment he saw her today, touched her, every feeling he’d ever had for her had come rushing back, stronger than ever.
Quinn set his jaw. Nobody had to tell him tha
t having Christine Logan back in Whiskey Springs was going to cause him to lose even more sleep.
Chapter 2
Two hours after they dove into the rest room for cover, Christine and Quinn walked out.
“Watch your step,” Pete Jacobs cautioned as glass crunched sickeningly beneath their shoes.
Christine’s throat tightened when she saw that the storm had shattered every window in the concourse. Ragged pieces of glass glinted from walls, planters and the padded seats toppled throughout the passenger boarding gates. Gleaming shards hung like stalactites from the ceiling.
Outside, rain fell in a torrent. Damp gusts blew through the open panes, chilling the air. Christine’s flesh prickled beneath the coat Quinn had draped over her shoulders.
“Does the terminal still have its entire roof?” she asked.
The maintenance manager nodded. “Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen, especially when you consider we’ve got fencing, oil well rigs, baggage carts, roofs off a couple of hangars and other debris scattered across the airfield. We found the upper cab of the control tower sitting in the middle of runway three-five-right.”
Christine shook her head. “Did all the controllers make it out in time?”
“Yes, lucky for them.”
Quinn glanced sideways. “I take it that’s what had us blocked in?”
“Roger, Captain,” Pete said, his gaze following Quinn’s to the chairs, a phone card vending machine and two crumpled newspaper racks piled beside the rest room door. “Last time I saw that vending machine it was up by security screening.” He paused to touch a match to the end of a thick cigar. “Good thing you folks took cover. If you hadn’t, you’d have been cut to pieces.”
“Good thing,” Christine echoed. She slid a look toward Quinn when he stepped away to respond to his dispatcher’s call on his radio. After their initial contact with the outside, there had been little for them to do while they awaited rescue, so they’d sat in silence a few feet apart on the tiled floor. With each minute that passed, her system had grown more unsteady.
After years of hurt that had slowly transformed into dragging regret—and a final knowledge that she’d gotten over him—how could his presence still make a direct assault on her nervous system? How?
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