Fallon looked down at her, his wolf's eyes narrowed.
"Listen," he said. "I'm not a fiction hero. We've got an Army, a Navy, an air force, and a secret service. They're getting paid for risking their necks. Let them worry. I had a hunch, which may not be worth a dime. I passed it along. Now I'm going to clear out, before anything more happens to me."
Joan's face was cut, sharp and bitter, from brown wood. Her eyes had fire in them, way back.
"Your logic," she whispered, "is flawless."
"I saved your life," said Fallon brutally. "What more do you want?"
The color drained from the brown wood, leaving it marble. Only the angry fires in her eyes lived, in the pale hard stone.
"You're remembering how I kissed you," said Fallon, so softly that he hardly spoke at all. "I don't know why I did. I don't know why I came here. I don't know...."
He stopped and turned to the door. Bjarnsson, very quietly, was picking up the phone. Fallon took the knob and turned it.
"I am sorry," said a quiet, sibilant voice. "You cannot leave. And you, sir—put down that telephone."