He was glad that she had never questioned him in the week he had been with her, since his escape from the Stalls. She knew only that he was doing something unlawful, and that the police wanted him badly.
But she was a temperamental woman, Ostby knew, and her moods were as sudden and mercurial as a tropic storm. Now he observed one of those sudden changes building up within her.
"I've decided not to let you go," she said. "It's too dangerous."
Ostby had had enough experience with her to know that temporizing was useless. It hurt him to be brutal, especially when he realized that her stubbornness was prompted by concern for him, but he could not let himself be detained now. "I must," he said, "and there's no use our arguing about it."
"I said you're not going," she repeated.
"If you wish, I'll return when I'm able," Ostby said, rising.
She, too, recognized the inflexible spirit in him, and passion flared up suddenly in her face. A flush of blood darkened the olive of her skin. She twisted in sudden fury and buried her teeth in the flesh of his wrist.
Ostby reached over with his free hand and dug his fingers deeply into the ridge of her jawbone.
"I'll kill you for that!" she gritted, releasing her grip.
Ostby knew they had gone too far now for any hope of reconciliation. He bent her arms behind her back and bound them tightly with the long sleeves of her gown.