"Your wife's?" she asked as she put on the glasses and breathed a sigh of relief as the uncomfortable glare disappeared.
"No, a passenger left them in the plane."
Well, that hadn't told her anything. She decided to be blunt, even while she wondered why she was bothering, since she would never see him again after they arrived in Seattle. "Are you married?"
Again she got that quick grin. "Nope." He glanced at her, and though she couldn't see his eyes through the dark glasses, she got the impression his gaze was intense. "Are you?"
"No."
"Good," he said.
Chance watched her from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, gauging her reaction to his verbal opening. The plan was working better than he'd hoped; she was attracted to him and hadn't been trying very hard to hide it. All he had to do was take advantage of that attraction and win her trust, which normally might take some doing, but what he had planned would throw her into a situation that wasn't
normal
in any sense of the word. Her life and safety would depend on him.
To his faint surprise, she faced forward and pretended she hadn't heard him. Wryly, he wondered if he'd misread her and she wasn't attracted to him after all. No, she had been watching him pretty blatantly, and in his experience, a woman didn't stare at a man unless she found him attractive.
What was
really
surprising was how attractive he found
her.
He hadn't expected that, but sexual chemistry was an unruly demon that operated outside logic. He had known she was pretty, with brilliant grey eyes and golden-blond hair that swung smoothly to her shoulders, from the photographs in the file he had assembled on her. He just hadn't realized how
damn fetching
she was. He slanted another glance at her, this time one of pure male assessment. She was of average height, maybe, though a little more slender than he liked, almost delicate. Almost. The muscles of her bare arms, revealed by a white sleeveless blouse, were well-toned and lightly tanned, as if she worked out. A good agent always stayed in good physical condition, so he had to expect her to be stronger than she looked. Her delicate appearance probably took a lot of people off guard.
She sure as hell had taken Wilkins off guard. Chance had to smother a smile. While Sunny had gone back to her gate to check on the status of her flight, which Chance had arranged to be cancelled, Wilkins had told him how she had swung her carry-on bag at him, one-armed, and that the damn thing had to weigh a ton, because it had almost knocked him off his feet.
By now, Wilkins and the other three, "Ms. Fayne." and the two security "policemen," would have vanished from the airport. The real airport security had been briefed to stay out of the way, and everything had worked like a charm, though Wilkins had groused at being taken down so roughly. "First that little witch damn near breaks my arm with that bag, then you try to break my back," he'd growled, while they all laughed at him.
Just what was in that bag, anyway? She had held on to it as if it contained the crown jewels, not letting him carry it even when she was right there with him, and only reluctantly letting him take it to stow in the luggage compartment behind them. He'd been surprised at how heavy it was, too heavy to contain the single change of clothes required by an overnight trip, even with a vast array of makeup and a hairdryer thrown in for good measure. The bag had to weigh a good fifty pounds, maybe more. Well, he would find out soon enough what was in it.
"What were you going to do with that guy if you'd caught him?" he asked in a lazy tone, partly to keep her talking, establishing a link between them, and partly because he was curious. She had been chasing after Wilkins with a fiercely determined expression on her face, so determined that, if Wilkins were still running, she would probably still be chasing him.
"I don't know," she said darkly. "I just knew I couldn't let it happen again."
"Again?" Damn, was she going to tell him about Chicago?
"Last month, a green-haired cretin snatched my briefcase in the airport in Chicago." She slapped the arm of the seat. "That's the first time anything like that has ever happened on one of my jobs, then to have it happen again just a month later—I'd have been fired. Heck,
I
would fire me, if I were the boss."
"You didn't catch the guy in Chicago?"
"No. I was in Baggage Claims, and he just grabbed the briefcase, zipped out the door and was gone."
"What about security? They didn't try to catch him?"
She peered at him over the top of the oversize sunglasses. "You're kidding, right?"
He laughed. "I guess I am."
"Losing another briefcase would have been a catastrophe, at least to me, and it wouldn't have done the company any good, either."
"Do you ever know what's in the briefcases?"
"No, and I don't want to. It doesn't matter. Someone could be sending a pound of salami to their dying uncle Fred, or it could be a billion dollars worth of diamonds—not that I think anyone would ever ship diamonds by a courier service, but you get the idea."
"What happened when you lost the briefcase in Chicago?"
"My company was out a lot of money—rather, the insurance company was. The customer will probably never use us again, or recommend us."
"What happened to you? Any disciplinary action?" He knew there hadn't been.
"No. In a way, I would have felt better if they had at least fined me."
Damn, she was good, he thought in admiration—either that, or she was telling the truth and hadn't had anything to do with the incident in Chicago last month. It was possible, he supposed, but irrelevant. Whether or not she'd had anything to do with losing that briefcase, he was grateful it had happened, because otherwise she would never have come to his notice, and he wouldn't have this lead on Crispin Hauer.
But he didn't think she was innocent; he thought she was in this up to her pretty neck. She was better than he had expected, an actress worthy of an Oscar—so good he might have believed she didn't know anything about her father, if it wasn't for the mystery bag and her deceptive strength. He was trained to put together seemingly insignificant details and come up with a coherent picture, and experience had made him doubly cynical. Few people were as honest as they wanted you to believe, and the people who put on the best show were often the ones with the most to hide. He should know—he was an expert at hiding the black secrets of his soul.
He wondered briefly what it said about him that he was willing to sleep with her as part of his plan to gain her trust, but maybe it was better not to think about it. Someone had to be willing to work in the muck, to do things from which ordinary people would shrink, just to protect those ordinary people. Sex was… just sex. Part of the job. He could even divorce his emotions to the point that he actually looked forward to the task.
Task? Who was he kidding? He couldn't wait to slide into her. She intrigued him, with her toned, tight body and the twinkle that so often lit her clear grey eyes, as if she was often amused at both herself and the world around her. He was fascinated by her eyes, by the white striations that made her eyes look almost faceted, like the palest of blue diamonds. Most people thought of grey eyes as a pale blue, but when he was close to her, he could see that they were, very definitely, brilliantly grey. But most of all he was intrigued by her expression, which was so open and good-humoured she could almost trademark the term "Miss Congeniality." How could she look like that, as sweet as apple pie, when she was working hand in glove with the most-wanted terrorist in his files?
Part of him, the biggest part, despised her for what she was. The animal core of him, however, was excited by the dangerous edge of the game he was playing, by the challenge of getting her into bed with him and convincing her to trust him. When he was inside her, he wouldn't be thinking about the hundreds of innocent people her father had killed, only about the linking of their bodies. He wouldn't let himself think of anything else, lest he give himself away with some nuance of expression that women were so good at reading. No, he would make love to her as if he had found his soul mate, because that was the only way he could be certain of fooling her.
But he was good at that, at making a woman feel as if he desired her more than anything else in the world. He knew just how to make her aware of him, how to push hard without panicking her—which brought him back to the fact that she had totally ignored his first opening. He smiled slightly to himself. Did she really think that would work?
"Will you have dinner with me tonight?"
She actually jumped, as if she had been lost in her thoughts. "What?"
"Dinner. Tonight. After you deliver your package."
"Oh. But—I'm supposed to deliver it at nine. It'll be late, and—"
"And you'll be alone, and I'll be alone, and you have to eat. I promise not to bite. I may lick, but I won't bite."
She surprised him by bursting into laughter.
Of all the reactions he had anticipated, laughter wasn't one of them. Still, her laugh was so free and genuine, her head tilted back against the seat, that he found himself smiling in response.
"'I may lick, but I won't bite.' That was good. I'll have to remember it," she said, chuckling.
After a moment, when she said nothing else, he realized that she was ignoring him again. He shook his head. "Does that work with most men?"
"Does what work?"
"Ignoring them when they ask you out. Do they slink away with their tails tucked between their legs?"
"Not that I've ever noticed." She grinned. "You make me sound like a femme fatale, breaking hearts left and right."
"You probably are. We guys are tough, though. We can be bleeding to death on the inside and we'll put up such a good front that no one ever knows." He smiled at her. "Have dinner with me."
"You're persistent, aren't you?"
"You still haven't answered me."
"All right—no. There, I've answered you."
"Wrong answer. Try again." More gently, he said, "I know you're tired, and with the time difference, nine o'clock is really midnight to you. It's just a meal, Sunny, not an evening of dancing. That can wait until our second date."
She laughed again. "Persistent
and
confident." She paused, made a wry little face. "The answer is still no. I don't date."
This time he was more than surprised, he was stunned. Of all the things he had expected to come out of her mouth, that particular statement had never crossed his mind. Damn, had he so badly miscalculated? "At all? Or just men?"
"At all." She gestured helplessly. "See, this is why I tried to ignore you, because I didn't want to go into an explanation that you wouldn't accept, anyway. No, I'm not gay, I like men very much, but I don't date. End of explanation."
His relief was so intense, he felt a little dizzy. "If you like men, why don't you date?"
"See?" she demanded on a frustrated rush of air
.
"You didn't accept it. You immediately started asking questions."
"Damn it, did you think I'd just let it drop? There's something between us, Sunny. I know it, and you know it. Or are you going to ignore that, too?"
"That's exactly what I'm going to do."
He wondered if she realized what she had just admitted. "Were you raped?"
"No!" she half shouted, goaded out of control. "I just… don't… date."
She was well on her way to losing her temper, he thought, amused. He grinned. "You're pretty when you're mad."
She sputtered, then began laughing. "How am I supposed to stay mad when you say things like that?"
"You aren't. That's the whole idea."
"Well, it worked. What it didn't do was change my mind. I'm sorry," she said gently, sobering. "It's just… I have my reasons. Let it drop. Please."
"Okay." He paused. "For now."
She gave an exaggerated groan that had him smiling again. "Why don't you try to take a nap?" he suggested. "You have to be tired, and we still have a long flight ahead of us."
"That's a good idea. You can't badger me if I'm asleep."
With that wry shot, she leaned her head back against the seat. Chance reached behind her seat and produced a folded blanket. "Here. Use this as a pillow, or you'll get a stiff neck."
"Thanks." She took off the headset and tucked the blanket between her head and shoulder, then shifted around in her seat to get more comfortable.
Chance let silence fall, occasionally glancing at her to see if she really fell asleep. About fifteen minutes later, her breathing deepened and evened out into a slow rhythm. He waited a few minutes longer, then eased the plane into a more westerly direction, straight into the setting sun.
"Sunny." The voice was insistent, a little difficult to hear, and accompanied by a hand on her shoulder, shaking her. "Sunny, wake up."
She stirred and opened her eyes, stretching a little to relieve the kinks in her back and shoulders. "Are we there?"
Chance indicated the headset in her lap, and she slipped it on. "We have a problem," he said quietly.
The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and her heartbeat skittered. No other words, she thought, could be quite as terrifying when one was in an airplane. She took a deep breath, trying to control the surge of panic. "What's wrong?" Her voice was surprisingly steady. She looked around, trying to spot the problem in the cluster of dials in the cockpit, though she had no idea what any of them meant. Then she looked out of the window at the rugged landscape below them, painted in stark reds and blacks as the setting sun threw shadows over jagged rock. "Where are we?"
"Southeastern Oregon."
The engine coughed and sputtered. Her heart felt as if it did, too. As soon as she heard the break in the rhythm, she became aware that the steady background whine of the motor had been interrupted several times while she slept. Her subconscious had registered the change in sound but not put it in any context. Now the context was all too clear.