He pushed away the images, took a deep breath and gathered his composure. He was damn good at his job, never let sentimentality cloud his judgment. So what was going on? His gaze touched on Kelly again before he dragged it back to the road.
Her skin was smooth velvet, her lips full and kissable—no. He shook his head to clear the thought, forced himself to recall his wife’s beautiful face, bloody and battered beyond recognition. Her petite body, limp and broken. Smashed pottery, overturned drawers, scattered cutlery. She’d been barefoot.
Guilt twisted a rusty knife inside him. If only he’d taken Len Rattan’s threats seriously. Threats were nothing new to Spence; he’d heard them countless times before, and over the fifteen years of his career no one had acted on them. Not once. Always the threats were ugly, but empty. Until Len Rattan.
Spence had never dreamed the two-time convicted felon would come after his wife, go on a vicious rampage with no purpose other than revenge. He had, with a vengeance.
One night after work, Spence had found Anna beaten unconscious in their kitchen. He’d never again looked into her beautiful, chocolate-brown eyes.
It was his fault she’d been beaten, his fault she’d died. All because of his job. Which was all he had left.
Stay focused, he told himself. Remember Carl Hart. Remember that Kelly Jackson is your job. Her fear moved him, her courage touched him. It shouldn’t.
He’d gotten a lot of information, but he hadn’t gotten it all. A frustration he rarely felt churned inside him. If he ever had any objectivity with this woman, he was losing it fast.
Chapter 2
After spending the day with Kelly, Spence knew, with a rising sense of panicked confusion, that his barriers were slipping. What was it about this woman that got to him? He simultaneously wanted to push Kelly away and get to know her better.
She was a material witness, not a woman. He had to remember that.
Six hours after they’d arrived by car at Sam Houston International Airport, Spence sat with Kelly in a suite of rooms at the newly constructed airport hotel the FBI had made into one of two working command centers. With the airport closed due to the tornado, stranded travelers had nearly filled the hotel. The task force had commandeered the last few vacant rooms, plus a suite big enough for the task force and all the communications equipment. If they needed to get to the terminal, it was less than a two-minute drive.
FBI Special Agent Mason Taggart had assigned the task of questioning Kelly about her ex-husband to Special Agent Richard Zajak. In Spence’s opinion, Kelly had been more than forthcoming. He’d told himself that in the chaos created by the hijacking, it would be easy to focus on the work, not Kelly Jackson. He’d been wrong.
From his chair against the wall, he slid a look at her, noting the fatigue that tightened her mouth, hollowed her cheeks. Tension wound like a new spring in his gut, across his shoulders. He knew why Zajak kept hammering at Kelly and he wanted to protest that forcing her to admit Hart had physically abused her wouldn’t help them that much, but he was well aware they needed all the information she had.
Giving himself a mental shake, he ignored the way her scent slyly settled in his lungs like a sultry summer night. He rubbed the taut muscles in his neck and rose, needing to move.
“Was the trial the last contact you had with Hart?” Zajak’s voice lashed the stuffy air in the suite like a whip.
Spence eyed Kelly, who sat at the rectangular conference table with her back to a curtained patio door. She’d sat in the same spot since they returned from dinner to the hotel command center at eight o’clock this evening. Through a slit in the drapes, stars winked in a dark sky.
Closing her eyes, she massaged her temple. “Yes. I’ve told you that three times.”
Spence eased down on the edge of the table; restless energy and dissatisfaction spun through him. Despite the strong, unusual connection he felt to her, he’d insisted on sitting in on the FBI interview. He was glad he had, because he didn’t like the way Taggart’s man was handling it.
Spence tunneled a hand through his hair, then glanced at his watch. 9:35 p.m. It seemed like days since they’d eaten instead of two and a half hours. Through the last hour and a half of grueling, repetitive questions, Kelly had held out about Hart’s abuse.
He thought he knew why she wouldn’t admit to it. The shame that had crumpled her features so briefly when he’d asked her that same question in the car had twisted his heart. Spence knew Zajak pressed for the information so they’d know Kelly was cooperating one hundred percent.
“Do you think he was trying to mold you into the image of his first wife?” Zajak fired at her, his eyes hard.
“I have no idea. Because I was twenty-six to his fifty when we married, I know now Carl viewed me as a trophy wife, but I could never figure out if it had anything to do with her.”
“How did she die?”
“Heart attack.”
“What did you know about him before you married?”
“I still only know that his family owned the bank in Oklahoma City.” Kelly rubbed her forehead and Spence couldn’t ignore the strain in her face. “He’d worked there for twenty-something years. He and his first wife were married over twenty years. He was active in the community and his local church. He was a very affable boss. Nothing like the man behind closed doors.”
“How affable?” Zajak’s eyes narrowed. “Did he flirt with other women?”
Elbow propped on the table, Kelly rested her head wearily in her hand. “Was he having an affair, is that what you’re asking?”
“Was he?”
She leaned forward, her hair falling in a dark curtain across her shoulder. Spence wanted to tuck the silky length behind her ear, smooth away the lines of worry that furrowed her brow. Distance, he reminded himself.
“No, I didn’t suspect he had a mistress. No, I wasn’t afraid I was going to lose my expensive home, my jewels, my car. That had nothing to do with my decision to leave.
“The local police thought I was a rich, spoiled wife giving her husband a hard time,” she said bitterly, clearly conveying she thought the FBI believed the same.
Zajak was getting nowhere. And more importantly, Spence didn’t like the harsh way the FBI agent barked every question at Kelly.
Pulling the manila folder containing the Flight 407 information toward him, Spence opened it. “Miss Jackson, would you look at this manifest and these pictures?”
Zajak started to speak, but Spence quelled him with a warning look. Disgust crossed the other man’s buzz-saw features, but he turned away.
“All right,” Kelly agreed in a voice that was slightly uneven. Apprehension turned her eyes the smoky blue of the sky before a storm.
Spence leaned forward to push the file over to her and his nostrils twitched as he inhaled her floral scent. He immediately drew back.
As she scanned the computer generated passenger list, her gaze faltered once. Maybe she’d seen Hart’s name, Spence thought. Then, setting her shoulders, she laid the paper aside and began going through the pictures. Knowing that she would be able to differentiate the marshals’ formal suits from the khaki pants and white T-shirts of the prisoners, Spence watched her.
Hesitating at one picture, she pushed it toward him. “He looks familiar.”
His heartbeat kicked in anticipation as he glanced down at the steel-gray eyes of a dark-haired man. Could they finally have a lead? “That’s Ryder Hamilton, used to own Hamilton Oil and Gas. He’s doing time for an oil lease scam.”
“Oh, I remember. The media made a big deal about his arrest.”
Spence’s heart sank and he pinched the bridge of his nose.
She returned her gaze to the photos. In the next second, she sucked in a quick breath and he saw terror pinch her serene features. She closed her eyes, as if fighting off a memory.
“Miss Jackson?” He waved Zajak off as he started forward.
“I’m okay.” She opened her eyes. They were glassy with fear, her fa
ce ashen.
No one could fake that color-draining mixture of terror and determination. His gaze went to the picture of Hart that had caused such a reaction. What had that bastard done to her?
“Did you recognize any of those men?” he asked softly. “Perhaps one of them came into the bank while you worked there? Or maybe your home after you were married?”
“Carl. I only…recognized Carl,” she said hoarsely. Still pale, she gripped the edge of the table. “And the man named Hamilton, but that was from television and newspapers.”
Zajak leaned toward her. “Do you know a man named Don Post?”
Kelly shook her head and Spence straightened, frowning at the unfamiliar name.
“He’s a cousin of Hart,” the other man explained. “And was his accomplice on the ground. He was captured a few hours ago.”
“So, that’s how Hart got control of the plane,” Spence muttered.
Zajak nodded. “Post is a member of the airport ground crew and he slipped a gun on board.”
“Someone helped Carl do this?” Kelly asked, as horror streaked across her face.
“He would have to have help,” Spence answered before turning to the FBI agent. “Did Post’s capture rattle Hart?”
“Didn’t seem to. He’s sticking to his noon deadline. No exceptions.”
“Damn.”
Zajak turned back to Kelly. “Do you have anything to tell us about your ex-husband, Miss Jackson? Anything new?” He plucked up Carl’s photo and waved it under her nose.
Defiant tears glittered in her tired eyes. “No, I have nothing new.”
“Are you sure?” Zajak dropped the picture and picked up a sheaf of papers.
Dread razored into Spence’s gut.
“Do you have a hearing problem, Agent Zajak?” she snapped. “I said no. I have nothing new to tell you.”
Kelly seemed not to have a compromising bone in her body and Spence couldn’t help the admiration that flared. Those soft looks hid a backbone of pure steel.
Zajak’s voice cut into Spence’s thoughts. “Did your husband abuse you, Miss Jackson?”
“He’s my ex-husband.”
“Did he hit you? Kick you, like he did your dog?”
Kelly’s mouth flattened and she stared straight ahead.
Spence ran a hand over his burning eyes. He wanted to urge her to talk, to coax her, beg her—anything—to get the information out of her. He leaned forward. “Zajak, Miss Jackson is a witness, not a suspect.”
“We don’t really know how involved she is, do we?” the other man countered.
“She’s not involved.” Spence trusted his gut on that.
After a moment, Zajak nodded, his voice less tense. “I have a police report that says you never reported spousal abuse, yet you testified to it in open court. What’s the real story?”
“Look at the 911 records,” she said tiredly. “My mother called and reported it.”
“It says here that Hart hit you.”
Instincts prickling, Spence turned toward the other man. Logically, he knew they needed to peel away the layers, to see if they could get anything new on Hart, but Spence’s muscles went rigid. His cautionary distance was fading by the minute.
Zajak looked down at the papers he held. “Did you say ‘I should’ve left after the first time, but I believed he wouldn’t do it again’? Doesn’t that infer abuse?
“Didn’t you testify that when you brought home your dog, Hart kicked her, then you. I quote—” Zajak’s gaze dipped to the paper as he bombarded her with her words. “—‘He also kicked me because I was trying to protect the dog. He said it was an accident, that he hadn’t meant to kick me, but I knew it would only get worse. That’s when I left.”’
Kelly looked stricken. Her gaze, tortured and betrayed, sought Spence’s.
Fury detonated inside him and he rose from the corner of the table, drawing a startled look from Kelly. He could barely keep a rein on the temper that was searing away his common sense.
“‘He broke my finger,’ you said. Cut your chin.”
Spence’s stomach knotted. “That’s probably enough, Zajak.”
“Question—‘How did you get away from Hart?”’ Zajak read from the transcript. “Miss Jackson answered, ‘He brought a bowl of soup to my room. I threw it in his face and ran downstairs. I got him pretty good in the head with the butt-end of his rifle.’ Did you testify to that, Miss Jackson?”
Spence wished he had the butt-end of a rifle right about now.
Kelly sat motionless, her face chalky. Devastated. A shudder ripped through her and seeing it loosed something dark and brutal inside Spence.
“You said your mother called the police,” Zajak continued. “‘He knocked me into the wall a couple of times, but the police arrived before he could do much more.”’
Spence’s gaze drilled into the cold flint of Zajak’s.
“Didn’t you say ‘I was such an idiot to believe him, but I filed charges after that. Then he went to prison.’ Are those your words, Miss Jackson?”
Seething, Spence fisted his hands at his hips, wanting to call a halt, knowing this wasn’t his call, but the protective instinct screaming through his body was undeniable. To his left, a crash sounded as a chair slammed into the patio door at Kelly’s back and he whipped around.
She stood, eyes manic with desperation. Vivid color flagged her cheeks; her chest heaved. “Yes!” she said in a trembling half whisper. “Yes, those are my words. Yes, I testified to that. Yes, it’s true.”
Spence didn’t want to hear, couldn’t bear for her to go through it, but the lives of those men on Flight 407 might depend on any scrap of information about Hart. His gaze riveted on the raw shame in her face. Something hot and fierce burst in his chest.
Her voice gained strength and volume. Resentment glittered in her eyes as she faced Zajak with teeth bared. “It’s not enough that you know everything about me! You want me to humiliate myself? You want me to tell you how he kicked me, how he yanked me up by the hair and slammed me into the wall, how I begged him to stop—”
Her voice broke. Her shoulders sagged. “What can this possibly have to do with the hijacking?” She momentarily covered her eyes with her hands, then dropped back into the chair she retrieved from its position at the patio door.
“Did he hit his first wife?” Zajak asked quietly.
“I don’t know. Based on my experience, I’d say yes,” Kelly answered in a wobbly voice.
The defeat, the vulnerability in her posture ripped Spence right down the middle. Silence filled the room.
“It’s all right.” His heart squeezed hard. She shouldn’t have to relive this with an audience. She wasn’t going to. His gaze leveled into Zajak’s. “This is over. We all need to get some rest.”
“She’s telling us what we want to know,” Zajak argued.
“And I think you got it all,” Spence said evenly. “Let’s clear out. We could all use a break.”
After a look at Kelly, Zajak tossed the transcripts on the table and walked to the door.
Spence followed him, stopping in the suite’s open doorway.
Zajak turned. “What’s going on here, Cantrell?” he asked in a low voice. “You got a thing for her?”
“Don’t be an ass.” He glanced across the room to where Kelly sat, her face still cradled in one hand. “I have a connection to her, is all. Don’t screw up what little trust I’ve established.”
“Seems to be more than that to me.”
“Well, you’re wrong. Which proves we’re all too tired to think straight.” He couldn’t remember ever feeling such dark frustration and anger, didn’t know if it was directed at Hart because of the way he’d abused Kelly or the agent in front of him.
The other man seemed to sense the fine line Spence walked. He held up his hands in supplication. “Sure, I’m going.”
Spine rigid, Spence stepped back into the room and pushed the door shut behind him. Taking a few seconds, he tried to diffuse t
he fury that knotted his insides. Kelly’s silent sobs tore at something deep inside him.
He didn’t care if it was stupid. He couldn’t stand seeing her like this. Walking across the room, he placed a hand on her shoulder.
She sobbed harder, still hiding her face.
“Kelly?” His voice sounded rusty, the words tight in his throat.
She shook her head.
Feeling useless and incompetent, he squeezed her shoulder, wanting to do more, not sure if he should. He eased down onto the table in front of her. “Kelly?”
“I didn’t want to talk about that. Can’t I forget? Aren’t I entitled to that?”
“Yes. Yes, you are.” He couldn’t imagine having to tell a stranger about his deepest shame, his guilt over Anna. Operating purely on instinct, he cupped Kelly’s elbow and pulled her gently to her feet. He pressed her head against his chest and just held her.
She stood stiffly within the circle of his arms, her hips warm and tight against the inside of his thighs. He ignored the low heavy pull in his groin.
She sobbed quietly against his chest for long moments. Hot tears wet his shirt and burned his skin through the damp fabric. Her breasts flattened against him as she finally relaxed, her body curving into his. Lithe, arousing, clutching at a place he’d thought long dead.
His mind hurtled back eighteen months to the first time he’d held her. He’d never forgotten how she felt—her firm thighs against the lean muscle of his, the way her hair tickled his chin. That haunting scent.
He’d dreamed about her for a solid week after that. Hot, erotic dreams that woke him, dry-throated, aching and hard. He’d buried that memory, along with the memories of his wife.
Unable to help himself, Spence rested his head on Kelly’s and stroked her hair. He spoke softly, not conscious of what he said. After long moments, she let out a deep breath.
Special Report Page 10
