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It was a typical Indian-summer Memphis morning: seventy-eight degrees and blue skies. But by ten o'clock the temperature would be up somewhere between dehydration and heatstroke. Cyrus had done his five miles early and was sitting on the top step in front of his apartment untying his sneakers when the woman climbed out of the little red Miata. He tried not to stare, but she was the kind of woman a man could not avoid staring at. Pixie-cut hair the color of red autumn leaves, turned-up nose, dressed in cool green silks and dark hose. She had a diamond on her right hand as big as his knuckle, dagger-red nails and a lot of Southwestern turquoise and silver on both wrists. At first glance he thought she was in her mid twenties. But as the woman crossed the parking lot, he saw the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and revised his estimate upward: maybe thirty or thirty-two. |
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Cyrus glanced down at the way he was dressed. She was Vogue; he was gym rat: a pair of sweat-stained running shorts and a T-shirt with more holes than cotton. Anyway, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. |
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"You're not Cyrus Trigg, are you?" |
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Her expression, as her eyes traveled up and down his five-foot-seven-inch frame, said she was somehow disappointed. |
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"Guilty as charged," he replied. "I go by Russ." |
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She climbed the steps slowly, as if trying to make up her mind about something. |
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