episodes, Clay. Nothing. Nada. Good-bye.” Smoothing the frown from his face, he turned to the baby-faced guard.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Buchanan,” the guard said. “The night manager and I are both new. He says you’ll need to come back when the head security manager comes in.”
Ethan massaged the corded muscle in his neck, both frustrated and grateful for the forced break. The woman who had Alec would have an even bigger head start. Alec could truly be anywhere. But he was so tired. He’d use the time to get something to eat and check into a hotel for some sleep. “What time does the head manager come in?”
“Usually after nine, but his kid’s got a baseball game this morning so it’ll be at least noon. You might want—” The guard spun around when a scream echoed through the terminal. The guard started toward the sound, pulling his weapon from its holster.
Leaving his own weapon securely tucked against his kidney, Ethan followed, a sudden surge of adrenaline fueling his legs to run. A young woman in her early thirties lay on the floor next to one of the metal benches. A thin stream of blood trickled from her temple down her cheek, clashing with the rich copper of her short hair.
An old woman wailed while a handful of shocked travelers pointed mutely at the nearest exit. The guard took off in that direction, calling the incident into the police.
“She’s dead, she’s dead,” the old woman sobbed. “He’s killed her and it’s all my fault.”
Ethan dropped to his knees beside the woman, took her wrist, and exhaled in relief when he felt the slow steady throb of her pulse. He’d just pulled his cell phone out to call for help when her eyes flew open. Wide and brown, they flickered with alarmed confusion when she saw him, then the confusion gave way to wary assessment as she searched his eyes, his face. Then, as if she accepted what she saw there, she seemed to simply . . . settle.
And incredibly . . . so did he. Everything inside him, all the turmoil and confusion and the fear . . . it all stilled, focused. It was as if she soothed it all away with a palpable touch, although through the entire exchange she’d never moved a muscle.
Neither had he. Nor had he breathed. He did now as she slowly straightened, one hand coming down to tug at her skirt, drawing his eyes down long, statuesque legs.
“Tell her I’m not dead.” Her voice was soft and husky, like she’d just woken from a deep sleep and the sound dragged his eyes back up her body, up those long dancer’s legs, past curvy hips, generous breasts, back to warm brown eyes that held him. It wasn’t until she started struggling to sit up that awareness of the situation returned like a hammer to his head. She was hurt and he was gaping like an idiot while the old woman continued to wail. “Tell her I’m not dead,” she said again, more insistently. “Please.”
Ethan looked up sharply, found the old woman had come closer and now stood a few feet away, wringing her hands. “She’s not dead. Calm down, ma’am, please.” He looked back down to where she’d struggled up on her elbows and placed one hand on her shoulder. “You need to keep still,” Ethan said quietly. “Where do you hurt?”
She blinked. “Just my head.” Gingerly she touched her temple, grimacing when she saw her fingertips covered in blood. “Damn.”
“I’d say that about sums it up.” Ethan held up two fingers. “How many?”
She blinked again. Her eyes were a little dilated, but not alarmingly so. Once again she met his gaze and steadily held it. And his heart skipped a thump.
“Two,” she said. “Who are you?”
He studied her for a moment. Her color was coming back, her eyes becoming brighter, sharper, more intelligent by the moment. She was attractive, but by no means classically beautiful. She was something . . . more, and he couldn’t seem to make himself look away. The air around her practically vibrated. He could actually feel the blood
“I’m sorry, Mr. Buchanan,” the guard said. “The night manager and I are both new. He says you’ll need to come back when the head security manager comes in.”
Ethan massaged the corded muscle in his neck, both frustrated and grateful for the forced break. The woman who had Alec would have an even bigger head start. Alec could truly be anywhere. But he was so tired. He’d use the time to get something to eat and check into a hotel for some sleep. “What time does the head manager come in?”
“Usually after nine, but his kid’s got a baseball game this morning so it’ll be at least noon. You might want—” The guard spun around when a scream echoed through the terminal. The guard started toward the sound, pulling his weapon from its holster.
Leaving his own weapon securely tucked against his kidney, Ethan followed, a sudden surge of adrenaline fueling his legs to run. A young woman in her early thirties lay on the floor next to one of the metal benches. A thin stream of blood trickled from her temple down her cheek, clashing with the rich copper of her short hair.
An old woman wailed while a handful of shocked travelers pointed mutely at the nearest exit. The guard took off in that direction, calling the incident into the police.
“She’s dead, she’s dead,” the old woman sobbed. “He’s killed her and it’s all my fault.”
Ethan dropped to his knees beside the woman, took her wrist, and exhaled in relief when he felt the slow steady throb of her pulse. He’d just pulled his cell phone out to call for help when her eyes flew open. Wide and brown, they flickered with alarmed confusion when she saw him, then the confusion gave way to wary assessment as she searched his eyes, his face. Then, as if she accepted what she saw there, she seemed to simply . . . settle.
And incredibly . . . so did he. Everything inside him, all the turmoil and confusion and the fear . . . it all stilled, focused. It was as if she soothed it all away with a palpable touch, although through the entire exchange she’d never moved a muscle.
Neither had he. Nor had he breathed. He did now as she slowly straightened, one hand coming down to tug at her skirt, drawing his eyes down long, statuesque legs.
“Tell her I’m not dead.” Her voice was soft and husky, like she’d just woken from a deep sleep and the sound dragged his eyes back up her body, up those long dancer’s legs, past curvy hips, generous breasts, back to warm brown eyes that held him. It wasn’t until she started struggling to sit up that awareness of the situation returned like a hammer to his head. She was hurt and he was gaping like an idiot while the old woman continued to wail. “Tell her I’m not dead,” she said again, more insistently. “Please.”
Ethan looked up sharply, found the old woman had come closer and now stood a few feet away, wringing her hands. “She’s not dead. Calm down, ma’am, please.” He looked back down to where she’d struggled up on her elbows and placed one hand on her shoulder. “You need to keep still,” Ethan said quietly. “Where do you hurt?”
She blinked. “Just my head.” Gingerly she touched her temple, grimacing when she saw her fingertips covered in blood. “Damn.”
“I’d say that about sums it up.” Ethan held up two fingers. “How many?”
She blinked again. Her eyes were a little dilated, but not alarmingly so. Once again she met his gaze and steadily held it. And his heart skipped a thump.
“Two,” she said. “Who are you?”
He studied her for a moment. Her color was coming back, her eyes becoming brighter, sharper, more intelligent by the moment. She was attractive, but by no means classically beautiful. She was something . . . more, and he couldn’t seem to make himself look away. The air around her practically vibrated. He could actually feel the blood
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