Midnight Heat (3 page)

She was more out of shape than she’d thought if a short jog to the house was winding her. And if the sorry shape of her garden could be used as a measuring stick of how often she got out, she’d been out of shape for some time.

Maybe it was Pete Moore calling her to finally express gratitude for the flak she’d taken for him twice. He hadn’t been too happy with her after their little talk yesterday. He was so wrapped up in the misery of going through a
divorce, nothing much was getting past the thick fog of his self-pity.

Then again, Pete hadn’t asked for her help, she admitted.
She
had hurt for Pete, feeling all the pain she’d felt during her own divorce.

Skidding to a stop beside the kitchen counter, she scooped up the receiver on the fourth ring. Her voice was a bit breathless as she said, “Hello?”

There was a pause, then a deep voice said, “Ms. Burke?”

Her heart beat faster and her hand tightened on the receiver. It wasn’t Pete.

It was the man she’d last seen almost two days before in a small office. Two days. Forty-eight hours. Not very long really. Unless you were used to working fourteen- or fifteen-hour days.

“Yes, it is.” She took a moment to steady her nerves. “Mr. Colbourne?”

“Yes.” One word, bitten off so sharply she wondered if she should check her ear for blood. The man was not happy. So what else was new?

“What can I do for you?”

“You can stop talking to the media, that’s what you can do.”

“What?” For the second time in as many meetings, he’d caught her completely off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the story on the investigation,
my
investigation. Page four, first section,
Washington Post
, early edition.” He hadn’t raised his voice, but his dark tone fairly vibrated.

“I don’t take the
Post
,” she stated, more calmly than he deserved. “And I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“You’re telling me you aren’t the ‘inside source’ quoted in the piece?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. So go hunt down someone else, this time I’m blame-free.”

The silence lasted only a second, but the sense of foreboding carried over the line with ease. “This time?”

Adria shivered at his accusatory tone. “We all make mistakes, Mr. Colbourne, and I’ve got a list probably longer than most. But negligence isn’t on there.” She put special emphasis on that last part. “I was speaking in generalities.” Before he could remark, she added, “Instead of giving me a hard time because some reporter is dogging you, why aren’t you out there finding out what in the hell happened to that third plane?”

“Funny you should mention that.”

“And here I thought you didn’t have a sense of humor.” The retort was out before she could think to stop it.

“Ms. Burke, I’d like to see you in my office this afternoon. Before five if possible.”

Yes, master
. “Am I permitted to ask why?” She tried hard to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, knowing she’d baited him enough. Too much, considering the role he was playing in her bid to keep her career. Two days at home—gardening!—had taken a huge toll on her.

“The newspaper article is only part of a bigger problem. I think it would be better discussed in person. Let me give you directions.”

Adria swallowed the half-dozen questions that sprang immediately to mind, knowing there was no point in asking him now. “I know where your building is located, just tell me where in the building you are.” She went on, without letting him speak. “And it will be at least five. I’m all sweaty from … well, never mind. It’ll take me a while to get there. By the time I get out of here, traffic will be impossible.”

Silence. And this time she couldn’t fathom why. But the reason didn’t feel like anger. So softly she barely heard it, he slowly expelled a long breath. She shivered again, but this time chill was not a factor. And the heat was strictly internal.

It wasn’t as if he were asking for a date, she told herself, rubbing her arms. God knows the man always sounded absorbed and busy, not flirtatious. Tense, focused, determined, single-minded. Yes, she already knew Dane Colbourne
was all of those things. Not in her wildest dreams could she picture a man so self-contained being playful.

But the man had dark and seductive nailed right to the wall. Even if he didn’t know it.

It was just as well this
was
business. She’d stick with her harmless fantasies. No one ever got hurt from exerting a little imagination.

And yet, perversely, she couldn’t help but wonder what he did for pleasure. Or where. Maybe imagination wasn’t as harmless as she thought. Not when the fantasy involved Dane Colbourne.

“I’ll be here,” he said finally. There was the slightest trace of fatigue in his voice, but even that vanished as he quickly issued succinct directions. “Did you get all that?”

She’d gotten about half of it. He hadn’t waited for her to get a pen. No way was she asking him to repeat himself. “Yes,” she answered, then couldn’t help adding, “Is the dress code for this meeting formal? Or will casual be okay?”

This time the silence extended long enough to give her plenty of time to kick herself for not learning to curb her impulses around him. Then a weird sound carried over the line, sort of throaty and a bit rusty.

No. He couldn’t have actually laughed. A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. One emotion
Dane Colbourne didn’t inspire in her was boredom.

“Not tonight,” he said finally, the faintest trace of dry humor in his voice. “My tux is at the cleaners. Casual will have to do.”

A short laugh escaped before she could stifle it. He was almost tolerable when he tried. “You know, Colbourne, there just might be some hope for you yet.” She was more than a little disturbed by the throaty sound of her voice when she added, “And please, call me Adria.”

She hung up before he could reply.

Dane swore as he finally shut the folder he’d been making notes in. He looked at his watch—something he’d sworn he wasn’t going to do just five minutes before—then swore again. It was almost five-thirty. “Where the hell is she?”

Very likely stuck on the Beltway in rush-hour traffic. God only knew what sort of mood she’d be in by the time she arrived. Not that he cared. This was business after all, not a date.

He hoped her car had air-conditioning.

He downed the rest of his Coke, pitched it into the recycling trash can already overflowing with empties, then unburied his notebook,
sliding the wrinkled paper with her number from the inside flap.

He didn’t need it anymore. The number had been committed to memory long before he’d even been aware of repeatedly looking at it.

The sound of her voice when she’d first answered the phone played through his mind again. He’d been so frustrated. Hell, he’d been full-blown angry when he’d dialed her number. But the first sound of her voice, all heated and breathless, and he’d found himself struggling to remember why.

And just when he’d worked up a good head of indignant steam, she’d tossed off that comment about being all hot and sweaty, then had deliberately trailed off from the why of it. Leaving his mind soaring over the possibilities, none of them improving his mood and all of them creating a little sweat on his own usually cool brow.

Damn but the woman tied him in knots.

He dug into the small cooler he kept under his desk, but instead of pulling out a fresh can, he grabbed a couple of ice cubes and popped them in his mouth. He purposely let them sit there until his tongue began to go numb. Numb. That’s what he wanted to be around her. What he needed to be. Detached, remote, emotionally uninvolved. All the things that he’d perfected—had to perfect in order to do
his job—had vanished the moment she reached up and straightened his boutonniere.

And this afternoon she’d actually hung up on him.

“Mr. Colbourne?”

Dane almost choked on the ice cubes. Adria was standing in the doorway to his office. She was wearing a loose flowery print dress with a neckline that covered way too much and short little sleeves that didn’t cover anything. A tiny ribbon, barely cinched, emphasized the difference between her waist and her hips. The dress material was filmy enough to give a glimpse of her long, lean frame. Life truly wasn’t fair. He wanted to groan.

“You call that casual?” He couldn’t believe he’d just said that.

Her polite smile faltered briefly, then she nodded toward his chest, where his neatly knotted tie rested. Framed by his suit jacket. “I figured this was a safe compromise.”

She hadn’t compromised a thing, he thought, wanting to look away, knowing he should.

And he was beginning to understand there wasn’t a damn thing safe about her.

She entered his office and did a slow study of his cramped surroundings. He followed her gaze. His office was small, windowless, functional,
and decorated in early government issue. Gray metal desk, gray-and-black metal file cabinets—as many as he could cram in—functional swivel chair, one long folding table littered with pieces of various planes, most tagged, some not, stacks of black cardboard boxes crammed with files, and two metal wastebaskets. One overflowing with paper, the other with Coke cans.

That last item raised her eyebrows.

“My one addiction.” He was disturbed to discover that explaining himself was rapidly becoming a habit with her.

“And I would have thought your job was your only addiction.”

Her lips fascinated him. Full, but not too full. Deep pink without being too pink. He enjoyed watching them move. Without thinking, he answered, “No, work is my salvation. Different thing all together.”

Her eyes held a wealth of understanding. “Yes, that it is.”

Dane wanted to ask her what her work had saved her from, but he was too unsettled by his own admission to ask. When she picked up an altitude indicator on his desk, he automatically reached to take it from her. “Be careful with that. It’s—”

“An altimeter.” She turned it over to look at the back before gently replacing it on his desk. “From a DC-3, right?”

He dropped his hand, feeling awkward and not liking it in the least. “Right.” He’d be damned if he’d ask her how she knew.

“Quite a keepsake,” she said. “When did they stop making them—1945?”

Dane sighed. “Forty-six.”

Before he could tell her to have a seat, she picked up the sheared-off gearshift he used for a paperweight. “What investigation yielded this treasure?”

Dane curled his fingers into his palms. He felt like a kid who didn’t want his stuff touched. And, also like a kid, he felt defensive about what he chose to collect.

But what he sensed in her was genuine interest. Not the mocking taunt or, worse, the guarded wariness that indicated his visitor had decided he was some sort of sicko who actually enjoyed picking through wreckage. Which was why he’d made the decision long ago to be very sure that the women in his life—when there were any—didn’t come anywhere near his office or anything directly involving his professional life.

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.