At the small mountain airport, he parked the Range Rover and chartered a flight to New York. When the crew arrived, he motioned Quinn up the steps into the jet, half surprised she didn’t balk. Since she’d been practically silent, he thought she might be talking herself out of the plan. She only said, “Where will we go from New York?” He told her, “You’ll see,” and Quinn-like, she let it go. That was either trust or resignation. She’d already flown twice in three days and looked a little weary as she buckled in beside him. Shortly after takeoff she closed her eyes. Her hand slipped down her side, the strong yet delicate fingers dangling. For the better part of the flight, he watched her sleep, watched the dreams move beneath her eyelids, studied the peaked line of her eyebrows, the narrow bridge of her nose. Some heritage less fair than traditional Irish had given her skin a bronzer tone that matched her brown eyes.
