He looked over at me. I tugged the headphones from my ears and smiled at the hostess.

“Coffee, please. Just cream.”

As she poured, the husband leaned toward his wife, voice dropping a notch. “You don’t need to worry, Anne. If you ever got within fifty feet of a killer, you’d see it in his face.”

The hostess held out my coffee. The husband took it and passed it to me. Our eyes met.

“Thanks,” I said.

He nodded, returned my smile and took his own cup from the hostess.

I exited the plane, swept along in the tide of passengers. Inside the terminal, I looked around and groaned. A crowded major American airport, and Jack hadn’t specified a meeting spot. Plus he’d be wearing a disguise. Wonderful.

Did Jack expect me to be incognito? I stored all my things in New York, having no need or inclination to play dress-up at home. I took out the passport and checked the photo again. Shoulder-length auburn curls. Hazel eyes. Not smiling, but dimples threatening to break through. Yep, definitely me, so he obviously hadn’t intended for me to wear a disguise. Hey, where’d he get a picture—? I shook my head. Better not to know.

I looped back toward the exit gate. Halfway there I spotted Jack. Something—maybe his posture or the tilt of his head—tripped a wire in my head. Normally I’d peg Jack at late thirties. Now he’d aged himself another decade, deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth, roughening his skin. His hair was dark blond, pulled back into a ponytail. A Vandyke beard covered his chin. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved pullover pushed up to his elbows to reveal a garish forearm tattoo. He looked like an aging biker who’d retired from the life, settled down, bought himself and the missus a honky-tonk bar. I really hoped I didn’t have to play the missus.

He stood back from the crowd, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. For at least a minute, I stood there, just watching. This was one huge step up from sitting with him in the forest, taking lessons. Could I trust Jack enough to work alongside him? Did I dare?

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then started toward him.

As his gaze scanned the last trickle of exiting passengers, his mouth set in a firm line. The flow of passengers petered out. Jack strode to a garbage can and crushed the cup. It wasn’t empty, and coffee spurted on his hand. He glared at the mess, pitched the cup into the trash and swiped his wet hand across his jeans. Then he stalked toward the exit. I slipped through a small crowd and put myself in his path. He nearly mowed me down before stopping short.

“Nad—” He rubbed his hand across his mouth, as if erasing the mistake.

“Surprise.”

“Right.” Pause. “Luggage?”