“Mom?”

“Ellie? My goodness…” Why did her mom always sound so surprised to hear her voice? “Wait-let me go get your dad…” and she could hear Lucy calling in the distance, “Mike! It’s Ellie-pick up the cordless.” A moment later, breathlessly, “Oh, honey, I’m so glad you called. How did-”

At the same time there was a click, and her father’s calm voice. “Hi, Punkin, how’s it going?”

“Hi, Dad. Everything’s fine. I just-”

“That job you said you had to do-that all taken care of now? How’d it go?”

“Fine, Dad. Everything’s…okay. Uh…Mom, Dad, there’s kind of a lot that’s been happening-I can’t really talk about it right now, but I just wanted you to know I’m okay, and…I’ll tell you all about it later, okay?”

“Ellie?” That was her mom, sharp and alarmed. And then her dad’s voice, quietly breaking in, “By the way, how’d that new partner of yours work out? What’d you say his name was? McNeill…McMurphy…”

“McCall,” Ellie said on an exhalation. “Quinn McCall. Yeah…that worked out after all. Much…better than I expected. Really well, in fact.” She paused, not wanting to give away too much…and became aware of a strange breathless silence on the other end of the line. “Uh…Mom? Dad? You still there?”

“Quinn McCall…you don’t say,” said her father. His voice was as calm and quiet as always, but she heard something else in it-an unmistakable note of excitement.

“That’s right. Why? Dad, is something-”

“No, no-I used to know somebody named Quinn McCall, is all. Doubt if it’s the same person, though. It was a good many years ago-seven or eight, at least. This partner of yours-can you tell us anything about him? Where he’s from-”

“Oh, Mike,” her mother broke in, exasperated, “I’m sure it’s not the same person. Wouldn’t that be something-”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Ellie heard herself say. But her heart was suddenly beating fast and hard. I don’t know very much about him, actually. He could be anybody. Anybody at all.

“Tell you what,” said her dad, sounding way too casual. “Uh, honey…is there somewhere I can send you a fax?”

Ten minutes later she was standing in the consular office, watching pieces of paper shiver one by one out of an antiquated fax machine. Her chest was beginning to ache from the bludgeoning it had been taking from her pounding heart. She drew a deep, shuddering breath as the machine’s beep signaled the end of the transmission and the last page trembled into the basket. Her fingers shook as she reached to pick it up…blinked it into focus and began to read.

The breath she’d been holding whooshed from her lungs in a single shocked gust. “Oh…God,” she whispered, ignoring the curious looks she was getting from the consulate’s receptionist. She snatched up another page-then another, and another. “Oh, God-Quinn…”

McCall had spent most of the evening in his consulate guest room, trying to decide what to do with the rest of his life. There were several good reasons why he didn’t think it was going to be feasible for him to go back and pick up where he’d left off; the trouble was, he hadn’t been able to figure out a good alternative.

That’s what comes, he thought, of getting involved in other people’s business. Twice in his life, now, he’d set foot on that slippery slope. And twice, now, it had cost him everything he’d worked for. Everything he’d held dear.

Funny, though, how different this felt from the last time. Before, he’d felt great loss, it was true, but he’d also felt angry…bitter…betrayed. He’d come down here to Mexico knowing in his heart he’d done the right thing, the only thing he could have done under the circumstances, and determined to cut himself off from the world that had rejected him for that. This time…this time he still knew he’d done the right thing, and the only thing he could have done under the circumstances, and once again it had cost him dearly. But now instead of bitterness and anger he just felt…empty. And sad. And awfully damn lonely.

Last night he’d tried to sleep-should have slept like the dead, exhausted as he was. But the big comfortable bed had felt cold to him. Every muscle in his body had ached to feel the warmth of one neat, tidy little body snugged up against his. All his senses were primed and alert, searching for the sweet orange-blossom scent of her…listening for her funny, scratchy voice…watching for the sunlight of her smile. He’d tried to make her part of himself, and he’d succeeded, it seemed. Too well. Now, how was he going to live with that for the rest of his life?

Of course, he’d thought about going to her, knowing it would be the selfish thing to do. Unforgiveably selfish. Then, tense and wakeful, he’d waited for her to come to him, half of him hoping she would, the other half terrified she would. He’d never be able to turn her away if she did, he knew that. And to stay with her any longer would only make the inevitable separation that much worse. He was already wondering how he was going to manage that, and trying his best to justify slipping away like a thief first thing in the morning, without saying goodbye…taking the coward’s way out.

When the knock came that evening, he knew instantly who it was, even before he heard her soft and breathless, “McCall? Are you awake? It’s Ellie.”

He thought about not answering her…feigning sleep. And discovered that, when it came to his Cinnamon Girl, he had no willpower at all.

He went to the door and opened it, and then just stood and looked at her while his heart tried its best to leap out of his chest. She looked like a girl, fresh and clean as new grass in some sort of greenish-blue Oriental-style silky lounging outfit the consul’s Chinese-American wife had lent her, and for a few treasured moments he feasted his hungry soul on the warm earth and sunshine colors of her. Then his eyes fell on the untidy sheaf of papers she held in her hands. His heart seemed to plummet through the floor of his chest and into his belly. The colors of his world turned gray.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asked huskily.

He stood aside without a word, and she walked past him. He shut the door carefully, then turned to face her.

She didn’t have it in her to be dramatic. She was simply…Ellie, straightforward and inexorable as rain, standing in the middle of his room with the papers in her hands, looking at him. Just…looking at him. Then at last, in a cracking voice, she said, “Why, McCall?”

He gave a deep sigh. Defeated and heavy, he nodded at the papers in her hands. “Your father’s articles, I suppose. He did a whole series on me, back then. I gave Mike Lanagan the story because he was the only one I trusted to tell it right.” He felt his face stretch unevenly with his smile. “Just thought you’d like to know that…”

She nodded, taking the compliment for granted, and then said it again, this time in a whisper. “Why, McCall? Why couldn’t you just have told me?”

“That I’m the notorious whistle-blower, you mean? The man who single-handedly destroyed one of the oldest and largest auto makers in the world, sent the U.S. economy into a tailspin and put thousands of people out of work?” He spoke the exaggeration sardonically, and watched her eyes glaze suddenly with tears.

“But you were a hero.”

He gave a mild snort. “Not everybody saw it that way. I think it was Mike Wallace on 60 Minutes who first called me ‘The Most Hated Man in America.”’

“But thousands of people would have died if you hadn’t done what you did!”

His smile was gentle as he shrugged. “Nevertheless. I broke the rules. Betrayed the code of honor. Became a snitch. Ratted on my bosses…my co-workers.”

She held out the papers, and they rattled faintly in her shaking hands. “It says here you lost everything-your job…your home…your wife. I just find that…so hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” he said softly. “It happened.”

“But why did you leave?” she cried. “It would have blown over-those things always do.”

He made an angry gesture with his hand, then corraled it, pressing it between his injured arm and his tense and quaking body. “For the rest of the country maybe-not for me. Maybe I was a coward, I don’t know. But I didn’t want ever to go back-not to that life. Not to the business world. Not ever.”

“I’d never ask you to-” Her voice broke. Then, for a long time there was silence, except for labored breathing and charging heartbeats.

McCall listened to the echoes of her words, considered all their possible implications, and finally said in a gentle voice he could barely hear above the rushing, pounding rhythms of his own pulse, “I don’t think you know what you’re saying.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. Her chin jerked upward, and he felt a sudden guilty jolt of joy. “I may be small, but I’m not a child, McCall. And I meant what I said the other night-I know all I need to know about you. I didn’t need these-” disdainfully, she hurled the sheets of paper from her, and they drifted across the floor like wind-blown leaves “-to tell me who you are. I already know what kind of man you are. I know-” She stopped, suddenly looking trapped and scared.

“What do you know?” He stepped closer to her, holding himself together with tightly folded arms.

“I-uh…” She closed her eyes, but even so he could see her woman’s heart doing battle with her proud and competitive nature. “I know I…um.”

“I don’t have anything to offer you,” he said quietly, taking pity on her. “You know, I’m basically a beach bum. I have a house and a kinkajou. I paint pictures for tourists…”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” She was angry now, and her eyes were shooting out red-hot cinnamon sparks. “Who you are’s got nothing to do with what you do, or how much you have, McCall, don’t you know that? It’s because of who you are that I…” And again she stopped, closing panic-stricken eyes.