Chapter 3
Shana said nothing, but it cost her. Her insides screamed in scalding fear, nearly melting her facade of cool calm, nearly breaking her disciplined defense against the disruption of overwhelming emotions.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, not even reaching out to Dane to grasp the reassuring solidness of his arm and squeeze.
He must have felt the tension, the heat of her emotions welling because he leaned closer, pushed a hand through her hair.
It was a tender gesture, calming, and to all outward appearances, unalarming and normal for a couple of lovers.
It was the kind of gesture that would signal leave us alone to the attendants.
Most importantly it was exactly what she’d needed.
“Threats by someone you put in jail for the police pension fraud—”
“I thought they were in jail.” She took a breath, realizing there’d been a tremor in her voice. Get control. Losing control will not help your mother.
Dane filled her in on the recent release of the supposedly terminally ill criminal, Chancy Peterson.
While her stomach sank, she gave in to the urge to touch him.
She took his hand. No one else but him would know how hard she squeezed.
No one else would know how badly vulnerable and terrified she felt at that moment.
She took a deep breath as she forced her grip to loosen.
“Do you think we could convince the pilot to let us make a call?”
Dane took her face in his hand, cupping and lifting her chin so that he met her eyes, letting everything show, mirroring her emotions exactly.
“You could. But I think she’ll be safer if we come in the back door.”
She nodded. He was right. Palpitations pounded in her chest, making her feel queasy.
It was going to take more than a little deep breathing and squeezing Dane’s hand—or even his muscular thigh—to get her through the long hours of this flight.
As if he’d read her mind, Dane turned to the ever-hovering Wendy the flight attendant and gave her a nod, permission to approach.
“Bring another two tequilas. Neat. Best you have.”
“Will Patron Silver do?” Wendy looked sincerely concerned.
“Perfect,” Shana told the woman. Forgetting about any latent aversion she might have about public displays of affection, she practically crawled onto Dane’s lap, snuggling close, sliding her arms around his solid hard body.
If he was alarmed by her aberrant behavior, he didn’t let on.
When she lay her head on his chest, the beat of his heart was slow, strong, and steady against her temple.
*****
Two rounds of Patron, two meals, a short nap, and several mugs of coffee later, their flight landed in Sydney.
Dane whispered their strategy, his usual crazy, ad-hoc, out-of-the-box plan for what they should do.
She listened intently under the guise of a passionate smile that was more than half genuine.
It was the reason marrying him was the only thing left she could do—her adoration for him was hopeless, helpless, as if she were his fan, as if he were her Svengali.
Sitting up straight as the wheels finally hit the ground at Sydney Kingsford Smith International Airport, she commanded herself to believe that it wasn’t true.
She was her own woman and every bit his match.
It was true as he stood, keeping his eyes on her, mirroring the same slavish look.
They were partners in this club of codependent admiration bordering on obsession.
Any whispers from her conscience about the suspicions of the emotional healthiness of their relationship had been laid to rest.
He was good for her soul. She took his hand and stood.
First to exit, he led them off the plane under the watchful, curious eyes of Emory and Wendy.
Knowing she was not just good, but necessary for his soul, she let him lead her through the outside door to the left of the gangway tunnel and down the metal stairs.
The startled airport workers had no more than a chance to shout a protest. When one of the orange-vested men moved to give chase, Shana glanced over a shoulder while Dane tugged on her hand.
She saw Captain Emory in the doorway at the top of the stairs, talking to the orange-vested worker, a hand on the man’s arm, stopping him. Exchanging a nod of acknowledgment with Emory, she hit the pavement of the tarmac a step behind Dane, then they ran.
As soon as they got back to Martha’s Vineyard, after they’d banished Chancy Peterson, after they’d made sure her mother was safe and looked after, Shana swore she would somehow reward Captain Emory Lane.
*****
For an almost middle-aged man who’d had no sleep and had sat in one place for far too long, Dane was doing an admirable job of racing through the dark hall with that special combination of speed and stealth required to stay alive—or in this case, to stay out of trouble with airport security.
Forgetting about their luggage for the moment, he stopped in a spot out of the line of sight from any cameras in an alcove between plastered-over structural beams.
“I think there’s a hole in your plan, sweetheart,” Shana said. He wasn’t fooled by the sweetheart reference. He knew she relished finding holes in his plans.
“Tell me about it. If my plan was a water bucket we’d be doomed to die of thirst.” He smiled at her as they stood against a wall in a darkish hallway within earshot of the luggage handlers, where workers brought the off-loaded luggage and tossed it onto the magical carousels where they were spit out for passengers to claim.
He’d needed to catch his breath—and to work up some drama to play out the next, iffy part of his plan.
“Well?”
“Although I truly regret it, we’re going to need to pilfer some poor passenger’s suitcase for suitable gear to—”
“You aren’t?” Shana interrupted in an outraged whisper.
“No, you’re right. I think it would be better if you did it.”
“We’re already in danger of someone catching up with us and hauling us off. Plus there are a million cameras everywhere to spot us if we make one wrong move.”
“Good. The more the better. If the police are after us, then Peterson will have to get in line behind them.”
She stopped short and squeezed his arm, staring at him in disbelief.
“That’s your real plan? To put us out there on stage for the police?”
“Police intervention can’t hurt.”
“Yes it can—if Chancy decides that we’re talking to the police, his gang may escalate the situation and take my mother hostage.”
“Or worse—if Peterson is working with the police. Or at least one crooked cop.”
“You have such little faith.”
He wasn’t sure if she meant he should have faith in the police or faith in her that she knew there was a crooked cop involved. But before he could figure it out, he spied another of the ant-colony-like battalion of orange-vested workers heading their way. Time for plan B.
“Sir.” Shoving Shana behind him, he assumed his most authoritative persona.
Though the man looked skeptical, he stopped and waited for Dane to approach him at the juncture of perpendicular hallways.
“We’re here for an unscheduled random check of bags for the Australian Federal Police.
Dane flipped a leather identification wallet from his inside jacket pocket and flashed an official-looking badge—the one that pronounced Dane a member of the Hyannisport Gun Club in nifty, gold-embossed engraving.
He flipped it closed quicker than the man could digest the information—unless he was way quicker and smarter than your average guy. He wasn’t.
“Yeah? I never heard of that kind of inspection.”
“There’s a reason for that. This inspection is supposed to be undercover. Where do you keep your uniforms? We’ll need to dress like the other bag handlers.”
The man nodded and smiled an evil smile as if he relished catching someone in the act of something. Luck had sent them a man out to get someone and an airport with possible baggage-handling problems. This place definitely had security gaps.
“Follow me.”
The man directed them to a storeroom around a corner.
“It goes without saying that you’re sworn to secrecy about this. You are to tell no one.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the man said.
Dane waited a beat, staring him down until the man’s smile turned grim, touched with fear. He turned and left them. Dane and Shana quickly put on uniforms over their clothes and orange vests over that. Dressed as airport workers, they closed the storeroom door behind them.
“Where to now, smart-ass?” Shana said. “You forgot to ask your friend how to get to the baggage-handling area.” Shana stood behind him, her body against his where they stood against the wall. Dane listened for the rumbling of the metal rollers conveying luggage.
“Simple. We follow the sound.” He maneuvered along the hallways until the sound of the wrong side of the baggage carousel was unmistakably on the other side of a doorway.
“Follow my lead.” His fingers were on the door handle.
“I will. As long as you don’t get too used to it.” Pushing past his knee-jerk reaction to her sass, he buried the flare of desire and pulled the door open.
The space looked like a giant garage open to the outdoors where wagons filled with luggage came and went and men—all men, not one single woman—lifted and hauled all manner of bags and packages from bins onto thick belts over heavy-duty rollers.
He strode purposefully toward the nearest wagon unloading and pulled an idle man aside.
“Which one of these trucks is from Virgin Australia flight 5462?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m with security.” He flashed his fake creds once again. “We got a report about some bags and we need to confiscate them before they go up.”