Her hair was a medium brown, drawn back into a tight braid that made her cheeks look almost sharp, severe, except for her forelocks, which hung down close to her eyes in insolent disarray. She had a predatory look to her, harsh, sharp.
She wore a crisp white shirt, grey slacks, and held a lit cigarette in one hand. The smoke curled up around my nose, and I exhaled, trying to push it away.
She looked me up and down, frankly assessing.
"Don't tell me. Ryan Banks."
"I really need to talk to you, Miss Randall. It won't take long."
She glanced at her watch and then at the terminal doors.
Then back up at me. "Well. You've got me cornered, don't you? I'm at your mercy." Her lips quirked.
She took a drag of her cigarette.
"And I like a man who just won't stop."
