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Fallon stated. “I don’t do anything but.”
    “She can find those bad guys for you.”
    Fallon snorted. “Finding them is not a problem I have ever had.”
    “I agree your natural abilities are a major asset, but I don’t think she would have
    been handed over to you unless what she can do will help you on your assignments.”
    “How?” Fallon challenged.
    “Any way the Supervisor sees fit.”
    “I don’t want her,” Fallon said, and when the man beside him made no comment to
    that assertion, Fallon folded his arms over his broad chest. “And I don’t need her to
    help me do what I was born to do.”
    With still no response from Groves, Fallon pushed his chair back and stood. “And
    besides, the bitch reads romance novels.”
    “How positively evil of her,” Groves mumbled before taking up his glass of orange
    juice and sipping.
    “Retarded is more like it,” Fallon pronounced, and sauntered off with his hand dug
    into the pocket of his tight jeans.
    * * * * *
    Keenan was mentally numb by the time she left the Supervisor’s office. It was well
    into the afternoon before he’d allowed her to leave and she was exhausted.
    “You’ve no reason to fear Agent Fallon, Keenan,” the Supervisor had tried to assure her.
    “I will keep his ass in line, believe me.”
    On the way up to her floor at the dormitory she studied her reflection in the
    polished titanium doors of the cage. Soft, pleasant music—something Celtic she
    thought—was coming quietly through the overhead speaker and the interior of the
    elevator smelled of oranges. The scent and sound was comforting, relaxing, and when
    she stepped out of the cage, she felt calmer.
    Until she came face-to-face with the man who would be her unwanted partner from
    now on.
    Keenan stepped back, a deep frown between her brows. “You surprised me,” she
    said.
    “I’d have thought you would have known I’d be waiting here for you. Didn’t your
    little inner voice tell you I would be?” he asked with a mean smirk. He was leaning with
    his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over his wide chest.
    Keenan stiffened. There was only one thing that pissed her off more than all others
    and that was to have her talents, her abilities, dismissed as though they were
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    Dancing on the Wind
    unimportant. She knew he was insulting her, and the hateful gleam in his unusual eyes
    made her bristle. Her chin came up.
    “What exactly would you like to know, Mr. Fallon?” she queried.
    Fallon’s gaze narrowed dangerously. He leaned toward her—towering over her
    five-foot six-inch frame—and with his face set and hard replied, “Tell me what I was
    doing on September 5, 1977, if you know so fucking much.”
    He grinned nastily, knowing there was no way in hell she’d know where he’d been
    on that day, but she stunned him by replying, “You were in your grandfather’s barn
    with a girl named Elana playing doctor until her older brother Feodor caught you.” Her
    lips twisted with a smirk of her own. “Don’t you think you were a little young at eight
    years of age to be…”
    “That’s enough!” he snarled, and pushed away from the wall.
    “Satisfied?” she taunted, and her unease with him seemed to be melting.
    He gave her a brief glower before walking past her to head in the opposite direction
    from her quarters. “Doesn’t prove anything,” she heard him growl. “That could be in a
    file somewhere.”
    “Privately you call your penis Yindy, which is short for Yindyssagh mie —meaning
    mighty good in the Manx language—so I can’t help but wonder if it really is or if that’s
    just wishful thinking on your part,” she called out to him.
    Fallon spun around with his eyes wide. No one—and he meant no one!—could
    have known about the nasty nickname he had for his cock. He stood there staring at
    her, and for the first time in his life felt the world shift beneath his feet. She said
    nothing, but the scorn on her face was enough to set his