Line Of Sight. Rachel Caine

quickly down the Jetway ramp and breathed a sigh of relief when she achieved the open space of the terminal—room to breathe, finally.

      As Katie made her way toward the transportation, the traffic congestion increased. It was prime West Coast arrival time, and the flight from LAX had just disgorged a flood of tanned beach-bunny types, along with some business travelers in the dreary uniform of the breed. She could fit in with them, really; she’d worn black slacks today, and sensible shoes, a white-collared linen shirt and black jacket. No jewelry. All she’d done was rinse off the worst of her sweat in the airport bathroom in St. Louis. Crime scenes weren’t fashion runways.

      She cut diagonally through the milling crowd, trying to move faster, and collided with someone who had the same idea. “My fault, sorry,” Katie muttered and automatically backed off to steer around. So did he, and for a second she froze, staring, because he was…well, worthy of a good stare. Of a height with her, with a carefree tumble of raven-black curling hair. Big, dark, gentle eyes. Dark golden skin that could have come from half a dozen different ethnic heritages, a clever, handsome face and a devastating smile that he probably didn’t even realize he was using on her.

      “No, that was definitely my fault,” he said. He had a great voice, too. She wondered why she was noticing him so intently, and why now, and then it occurred to her: he was noticing her. She wasn’t used to that kind of scrutiny, so blatant and yet nonintrusive. He didn’t leer, he just…appreciated. “I don’t think I can say I’m sorry about it, though. Nice to meet you.”

      Realities crashed in. She didn’t have time for flirting; she had a crime scene to visit. The clock was ticking on two young girls, and she’d just wasted at least fifteen seconds of it on ephemera.

      Katie took it out on him with a cool “Excuse me, I’m in a hurry,” then brushed by him, walked even faster and didn’t look back.

      Stefan Blackman looked after the woman for a long moment, until she vanished into the crowd, and wondered what had possessed him to do a thing like that. There had been some kind of connection between them; he’d felt it, and he could have sworn she had, too. It hadn’t been a vision, not the way his mother received them, or even the way he usually did; it certainly lacked the power and definition of the images he’d received from the girl in the van.

      Still. Something there. The woman was gorgeous. Obviously, not in the way he was used to; he couldn’t imagine her in an orange bikini, in-line skating around Venice Beach, for example. No, this one seemed cool and quiet and utterly self-confident, with just a hint of vulnerability in those dark eyes. Professional.

      She was also armed. He’d felt it when they’d collided—a pancake holster under her plain black jacket—and his instant thought had been air marshal, but then he’d revised that. She seemed to be on her way somewhere in a hurry, and not just spending her days in airports. No, maybe a cop. FBI. Something like that. He didn’t imagine too many people other than those would be eligible to carry firearms on planes these days.

      He’d never really had much to do with cops, other than the ones he ran into on the streets. Once or twice, one of his less-than-savory clients had brought about a visit from detectives, but usually it was perfunctory at most. He’d certainly never seen a cop like her.

      Too bad he was on a mission. He was tempted to follow her, wherever she was going, although she’d probably have arrested him for it.

      Hmm. Handcuffs.

      He entertained himself with mental handcuff escapes as he shouldered his bag and strolled for the exits. He still wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing in hopping the last-minute flight, but something had told him not to delay. His mother had been correct—the police weren’t about to put any trust in what he had to say, and he didn’t yet have enough specifics to convince them. He needed more detail, and to get that, he needed to start at the beginning.

      All he had to do was find the place where the girls had been abducted. Stefan hitched his backpack to a more comfortable position, thinking about the problem, and then strolled over to the nearest bank of phones. He flipped through the directory to find the number for the television station whose call letters he’d seen on the TV earlier, then programmed the main number into his cell phone.

      He always did like the press. They were all show people at heart.

      The cab stand outside the terminal was a zoo, every cab already claimed and being loaded. Katie growled in frustration and paced, watching as vacationers and business travelers loaded bags and laptops and kids into the available transportation. Come on, she thought. All I need is a damn cab.

      One pulled up at the far end of the row, and Katie dashed for it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone else heading there, moving fast, and he was closer. His hand touched the door of the cab before she made it, and she pulled up short, fuming, as he pulled on the handle.

      It was the man from the California flight, the one she’d bumped into. He’d been gorgeous in the terminal, but out here in the sun he glowed, his skin an impossible shade of light bronze, his deep black hair picking up blue highlights.

      His smile was as warm as the sun.

      “Okay, this time I do apologize,” he said and stepped back from the door to offer her the cab. “You look like you’re in even more of a hurry than I am. How about we share? You get dropped off first.”

      She wrenched her stare away from that smile to some less dangerous territory. Not his eyes. His eyes were definitely, lethally beautiful.

      “No,” she said.

      “No?” He hung on to the smile. “You mean, no, you don’t want to share the cab, or no, you’re not taking the cab?”

      Yes, she thought. He was rattling her, and that was strange and very distracting in its own right. She never let guys get to her. She’d seen all kinds—gorgeous charmers included—and she was definitely inoculated against their particular gifts. She’d seen the wreckage they left behind.

      But this one…well. He was a challenge.

      “I’ll take the next one,” she said. “You take this one.” She didn’t need a distraction, and he was the Las Vegas of distractions, neon and glitter and flashing arrows.

      He frowned a little, and started to say something she was sure was going to be an argument, but then she heard someone behind her call, “Agent Rush?”

      She turned. There was a police cruiser parked at the curb farther down, lights flashing, with two uniformed officers standing next to it. Katie waved.

      “I think I already have a ride,” she said.

      She walked away, resisting the urge to look back. After a few seconds she heard the click of the cab door shutting, and breathed a sigh of relief as the yellow sedan rolled by. She kept her focus on the police cruiser, and the two officers beside it, as she walked.

      Okay, one glance at the taxi. He wouldn’t still be looking….

      He was. She looked away, furious with herself, as he waved.

      “Agent Rush, welcome to the lovely city of Phoenix. Detective Ryan sent you chauffeurs. Hope you don’t mind riding in our special visitor’s seats.”

      The male officer was already opening up the back door of the cruiser. She ducked inside and found it depressingly familiar; she’d ridden in a lot of police cars around the country, and it always seemed to be the same damn car, over and over. Different colored wipe-down vinyl upholstery, and the heavy grillwork separating her from the front seat. There were no handles on the inside of the doors, of course. The whole thing smelled of the body odor and vomit of the last transport, overlaid with the astringent wipe-down they’d given it to make it presentable for her.

      “Nice,” she said. “So I’m getting the royal treatment.”

      “You know us locals, anything for our cousins from the FBI. Watch your head.”

      Their names, according to the name tags, were officers Samson and Gilhoulie—one