Unlike Elvis's baby blues, Fontana's eyes were anything but innocent. They were the color of the gem in his ring, dark amber. Sierra was as familiar with Guild politics as it was possible for any outsider to be. She was well aware that no man—and to date all of the Guilds were headed by men—got as far as Fontana had with his innocence intact.
Under the force of his disturbingly thoughtful expression, she found herself shifting in her chair. She uncrossed her legs and then crossed them again. The odd, fizzy excitement that she had been experiencing since she walked into the room had not diminished one bit. The hair on the back of her neck was still stirring. Energy hummed through her, both the physical and the paranormal kind. All of her senses were fully rezzed. What was wrong with this picture?
You expected a Guild boss to be intimidating, but somehow you didn't expect one to look thoughtful, at least not the way Fontana did thoughtful. The heads of the organizations were traditionally men of power, both physical and psychical, men who had clawed their way to the top using whatever means were required to achieve their objectives. You expected streetwise cunning in a Guild boss, but not the sort of cool-headed intelligence and the aura of centeredness and control that Fontana exhibited. For some reason the knowledge that he was the kind of man who considered carefully before he acted only made him seem more dangerous.
More dangerous and, for some inexplicable reason, more interesting. She was here to do the most important interview of her very short career as a journalist, and she could not concentrate. She just wanted to sit there and stare at Fontana—maybe forever.