Or perhaps it wouldn’t be that easy.

Heading toward her gate, she spotted a uniformed police officer checking her out. Judging from his expression, he wasn’t just appreciating her figure. Was there an all-points bulletin out on her already?

Time to improvise, she thought.

Veering away from the main concourse, she ducked into a secluded service corridor, ignoring the signs that said it was for authorized personnel only. As she expected, the cop followed her. He rounded the corner, only to find her applying a fresh layer of ruby-red lipstick.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said sternly. “I need to see your ticket and identification, please.”

Acting surprised, she fumbled in her purse.

“Would you mind?” she asked, handing him her hat. He accepted it without thinking. Big mistake, she thought. Her fist punched right through the crown of the hat, delivering a sharp blow to his chin. She grabbed him before his limp body hit the floor.

A janitor’s closet provided a convenient hiding spot. She crammed the unconscious cop into it and placed the mangled hat on his head. It didn’t exactly go with his uniform, but she liked to think it made a statement.

Better you than me, she thought.

Her brown hair neatly tied up in a bun, she closed the closet door and slipped back onto the concourse. Her flight was already boarding by the time she reached her gate. She trotted confidently down the jetway—only to spot two scowling airport security guys waiting at the end, right before the entrance to the plane.

Changing her mind, she turned around and started to head back the way she’d come. But a clean-cut young man in a cheap suit stood waiting at the other end of the jetway, blocking her exit. She quickly recognized him as the helpful cop she had ditched during the police raid on the bar.

He smiled and held up his badge. It looked brand-new.

So much for the French Riviera.

She looked up as Blake entered the interrogation room, carrying a thick file. A pair of cuffs had replaced the elbow-length black gloves she had been wearing earlier.

Harsh fluorescent lights illuminated a stark white chamber. Soundproof ceramic tiles cut the room off from the outside world, isolating the suspect. One-way mirrors, mounted on the wall, captured their reflections. A closed-circuit camera monitored the proceedings.

He sat down at the steel table across from her and started the tape recorder. This was his first formal interrogation as a detective, and he wanted to do it by the book.

“I showed your picture to the congressman,” he told her. “And guess what?”

“Don’t tell me,” she guessed. “Still in love?”

“Head over heels,” he acknowledged. “Pressing charges, though.” He smacked the file down onto the table. “You’ve made some mistakes, Ms. Kyle.”

She shrugged.

“Girl’s gotta eat.”

“You have an appetite,” he observed, flipping through the file’s contents. He glanced up from a list of her greatest hits to look her directly in the eyes. “Why run? You can’t hide from us with this record.”