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of Roses, which he did. After another silence, she returned to the real conversation: “Their phone wasn’t working, huh?”
    “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 like seeing their names in the newspaper.”
    “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-rely on me, baby, and the world can never touch either of us; we are beyond the reach of fate —but none actually possessed the cool nerves and unflappable temperament to which he pretended. A Bruce Willis wardrobe, perfect tan, and studied insouciance did not a Bruce Willis make. Self-confidence could be gained through experience, but real aplomb was something you were either born with or learned to imitate—and the imitation was never convincing to the observant eye. However, Jim Ironheart had been born with enough aplomb, if rationed equally to all the men in Rhode Island, to produce an entire state of cool, unflappable types. He faced hurtling trucks and a reporter’s questions with the same degree of equanimity. Just being in his company was oddly relaxing and reassuring.
    She said, “That’s an interesting name you have.”
    “Jim?”
    He was having fun with her.
    “Ironheart,” she said. “Sounds like an American Indian name.”
    “Wouldn’t mind having a little Chippewa or Apache blood, make me less dull, a little bit exotic, mysterious. But it’s just the Anglicized version of the family’s original German name—Eisenherz.”
    By the time they were on the East Portland Freeway, rapidly approaching the Killingsworth Street exit, Holly was dismayed at the prospect of dropping him at the airline terminal. As a reporter, she still had a lot of unanswered questions. More important, as a woman, she was more intrigued by him than she had been by any man in ages. She briefly considered taking a far more circuitous route to the airport; his lack of familiarity with the city might disguise her deception. Then she realized that the freeway signs were already announcing the upcoming exit to Portland International; even if he had not been reading them, he could not have failed to notice the steady air traffic in the deep-blue eastern sky ahead of them.
    She said, “What do you do down there in California?”
    “Enjoy life.”
    “I meant—what do you do for a living?”
    “What’s your guess?” he asked.
    “Well ... one