who had nearly been killed, the facts of the event, the reactions of the eye-witnesses, a response from the police, and slurred expressions of regret mixed with self-pity from the inebriated driver of the truck. She lacked only one element, but it was the most important — information about Jim Ironheart, the hero of the whole affair. Newspaper readers would want to know everything about him. But at the moment all she could have told them was the guy's name and that he was from southern California.
His brown suitcase stood against the wall beside her, and she kept eyeing it. She had the urge to pop the latches and explore the contents of the bag, though at first she didn't know why. Then she realized it was unusual for a man to be carrying luggage through a residential neighborhood; a reporter was trained — if not genetically compelled — to be curious about anything out of the ordinary.
When Ironheart came out of the restroom, Holly was still staring at the suitcase. She twitched guiltily, as if caught pawing through the contents of the bag.
“How're you feeling?” she asked.
“Fine.” He was limping. “But I told you — I'd rather not be interviewed.”
He had combed his thick brown hair and blotted the worst of the dirt off his white cotton pants. He was wearing both shoes again, although the left was torn in one spot and battered.
She said, “I won't take much of your time.”
“Definitely,” he agreed, smiling.
“Oh, come on, be a good guy.”
“Sorry, but I'd make dull copy anyway.”
“You just saved a child's life!”
“Other than that, I'm boring.”
Something about him belied his claim to dullness, although at first Holly could not pinpoint the reason for his strong appeal. He was about thirty-five, an inch or two under six feet, lean but well-muscled. Though he was attractive enough, he didn't have the looks that made her think of movie stars. His eyes were beautiful, yes, but she was never drawn to a man merely because of his looks and certainly not because of one exceptional feature.
He picked up his suitcase and began to limp along the corridor.
“You should see a doctor,” she said, falling in at his side.
“At worst, it's sprained.”
“It still should be treated.”
“Well, I'll buy an Ace bandage at the airport, or when I get back home.”
Maybe his manner was what she found so appealing. He spoke softly, smiled easily, rather like a Southern gentleman, though he had no accent. He also moved with unusual grace even when he was limping. She remembered how she had been reminded of ballet when, with the fluidity of a dancer, he had swept the little boy out of the path of the hurtling truck. Exceptional physical grace and an unforced gentility were appealing in a man. But neither of those qualities was what fascinated her. Something else. Something more elusive.
As they reached the front door, she said, “If you're really intent on going home again, I can give you a ride to the airport.”
“Thank you. That's very kind, but I don't need a ride.”
She followed him onto the porch. “It's a damned long walk.”
He stopped, and frowned. “Oh. Yeah. Well … there's got to be a phone here. I'll call a cab.”
“Come on, you don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not a serial killer. I don't keep a chainsaw in my car.”
He stared at her a beat, then grinned disarmingly. “Actually, you look more like the type who favors bludgeoning with a blunt instrument.”
“I'm a reporter. We use switchblades. But I haven't killed anyone this week.”
“Last week?”
“Two. But they were both door-to-door salesmen.”
“It's still homicide.”
“Justifiable, though.”
“Okay, I accept your offer.”
Her blue Toyota was at the far curb, two back from the parked car into which the drunk driver had slammed. Downhill, the tow truck was just hauling away the totaled pickup, and the last of the policemen was getting into a patrol car. A few overlooked splinters of tempered glass from the truck's broken windows still glimmered on the blacktop in the late-afternoon sunshine.
They rode for a block or so in silence.
Then Holly said, “You have friends in Portland?”
“Yeah. From college.”
“That's who you were staying with?”
“Yeah.”
“They couldn't take you to the airport?”
“They could've if it was a morning flight, but this afternoon they were both at work.”
“Ah,” she said. She commented on clusters of brilliant yellow roses that hung from vines entwining a split- rail fence at a house they passed, and asked if he knew that Portland called itself the City of Roses, which he did. After another silence, she returned to the
“Excuse me?”
“Your friends.” She shrugged. “I just wondered why you didn't call a cab from their place.”
“I intended to walk.”
“To the airport?”
“My ankle was fine then.”
“It's still a long walk.”
“Oh, but I'm a fitness nut.”
“Very long walk — especially with a suitcase.”
“It's not that heavy. When I'm exercising, I usually walk with handweights to get an upper-body workout.”
“I'm a walker myself,” she said, braking for a red light. “I used to run every morning, but my knees started hurting.”
“Mine too, so I switched to walking. Gives your heart the same workout if you keep up your pace.”
For a couple of miles, while she drove as slowly as she dared in order to extend the time she had with him, they chatted about physical fitness and fat-free foods. Eventually he said something that allowed her to ask, with complete naturalness, the names of his friends there in Portland.
“No,” he said.
“No what?”
“No, I'm not giving you their names. They're private people, nice people, I don't want them being pestered.”
“I've never been called a pest before,” she said.
“No offense, Miss Thorne, but I just wouldn't want them to have to be in the paper and everything, have their lives disrupted.”
“Lots of people
“Lots don't.”
“They might enjoy talking about their friend, the big hero.”
“Sorry,” he said affably, and smiled.
She was beginning to understand why she found him so appealing: his unshakable poise was irresistible. Having worked for two years in Los Angeles, Holly had known a lot of men who styled themselves as laid-back Californians; each portrayed himself as the epitome of self-possession, Mr. Mellow—
