A Matter of Choice
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Prologue
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James Sladerman frowned at the toe of his shoe. He'd been frowning since
the summons from Commissioner Dodson had reached him in the squad room
that morning. After blowing out a long stream of smoke, Slade crushed
out the cigarette in the mosaic ashtray to his left. He barely shifted
his body. Slade knew how to wait.

Only the night before he had waited for more than five hours in a dark,
chilly car in a neighborhood where it paid to watch your back as well as
your wallet. It had been a tedious, fruitless five hours, as the
stakeout had produced nothing. But then, Slade knew from long experience
that police work consisted of hours of endless legwork, impossible
boredom, and paperwork, punctuated by moments of stark violence. Still
he preferred the five-hour wait to the twenty minutes he had spent in
the commissioner's carpeted, beige-walled outer office. It smelled of
lemony polish and now, his own Virginia tobacco. The keys of a
typewriter clattered with monotonous efficiency as the commissioner's
secretary transcribed.

What the hell does he want? Slade wondered again. Throughout his career
Slade had studiously avoided the politics of police work because of an
inherent dislike of bureaucracy. In his climb from cadet to detective
sergeant, there had been little opportunity for his path to cross
Dodson's.

Slade had had brief personal contact with Dodson at his father's
funeral. Captain Thomas C. Sladerman had been buried with all the glory
and honor that comes from serving on the force for twenty-eight years.
And dying in the line of duty. Mulling over it, Slade recalled that the
commissioner had been sympathetic to the widow and the young daughter.
He'd said the right things to the son. Perhaps on some level he had been
personally grieved. Early in their careers Dodson and Sladerman had been
partners. They had still been young men when their paths had
separated--one finding a niche in politics and administration, the other
craving the action of the streets.

On only one other occasion had Slade had one-to-one contact with Dodson.
Then Slade had been in the hospital, recovering from a gunshot wound.
The visit of the commissioner of police to a mere detective had resulted
in talk and speculation that had embarrassed Slade as much as annoyed
him.

Now, he realized, it would be all over the station house that the old
man had called him in. His frown became a scowl. For a moment he
wondered if he had committed some breach in procedure, then became
furious with himself for behaving like a kid hauled before the school
principal.

The hell with it, he decided, forcing himself to relax. The chair was
soft--too soft, and too short. To compensate, Slade curved his spine
into the back and stretched out his long legs. His eyes half closed.
When the interview was over, he had the stakeout to look forward to
again. If it went down tonight, he'd have a few evenings free to spend
at the typewriter. With any luck--and a solid month without
interruptions--he could finish the novel. Blocking out his surroundings,
he mentally reviewed the chapter he was working on.

"Sergeant Sladerman?"

Annoyed by the distraction, Slade lifted his eyes. Slowly his expression
cleared. He realized he'd wasted his time staring at the floor when the
commissioner's secretary provided a far more appealing view. His smile
was at once appraising and charming.

"The commissioner will see you now." The secretary answered the smile,
wishing he'd looked at her like that before, rather than sitting in
sullen silence. He had a face any female would respond to--a bit narrow,
angular, with dark coloring that came from Italian ancestors on his
mother's side. The mouth had been hard in repose, but now, curved, it
showed both promise and passion. Black hair and gray eyes were an
irresistible combination, especially, she thought, when the hair was
thick and a bit unruly and the eyes were smoky and mysterious. He was an
interesting prospect, she thought as she watched Slade unfold his long,
rangy frame from the chair.

As he followed her to the oak door he noted that the ring finger of her
left hand was bare. Idly, he considered getting her phone number on the
way out. The thought slipped to the back of his mind as she ushered him
into the commissioner's office.

There was a Perillo lithograph on the right wall--a lone cowboy astride
a paint pony. The left wall was crowded with framed photos,
commendations, diplomas. If Slade found it an odd combination, he gave
no sign. The desk, with its back to the window, was dark oak. On it were
papers in tidy stacks, a gold pen and pencil set, and a triple picture
frame. Seated behind them was Dodson, a dark, tidy little man who had
always reminded Slade more of a parish priest than New York's
commissioner of police. His eyes were a calm, pale blue, his cheeks
healthily ruddy. Thin wisps of white wove through his hair. All in all,
Dodson was the picture of avuncular gentleness. But the lines in his
face hadn't been etched by good humor.

"Sergeant Sladerman." Dodson motioned Slade to a chair with a gesture
and a smile. Built like his father, he thought briefly as he watched
Slade take his seat. "Did I keep you waiting?"

"A bit."

Like his father, Dodson thought again, managing not to smile. Except
that there'd been talk that the son's real interest lay in writing, not
in police work. Tom had always brushed that aside, Dodson remembered. My
boy's a cop, just like his old man. A damn good cop. At the moment
Dodson was banking on it.

"How's the family?" he asked casually while keeping those deceptive blue
eyes direct.

"Fine. Thank you, sir."

"Janice is enjoying college?" He offered Slade a cigar. When it was
refused, Dodson lit one for himself. Slade waited until the smoke stung
the air before answering. Just how, he wondered, did Dodson know his
sister was in college?

"Yes, she likes it."

"How's the writing?"

He had to call on all of his training not to reveal surprise at the
question. His eyes remained as clear and steady as his voice.
"Struggling."

No time for small talk, Dodson thought, tapping off cigar ash. The boy's
already itching to be gone. But being commissioner gave him an
advantage. He took another slow drag of the cigar, watching the smoke
curl lazily toward the ceiling. "I read that short story of yours in
Mirror," Dodson went on. "It was very good."

"Thank you." What the hell's the point? Slade wondered impatiently.

"No luck with the novel?"

Briefly, almost imperceptively, Slade's eyes narrowed. "Not yet."

Sitting back, Dodson chewed on his cigar as he studied the man across
from him. Had the look of his father, too, he mused. Slade had the same
narrow face that was both intelligent and tough. He wondered if the son
could smile with the same disarming charm as the father. Yet the eyes
were like his mother's--dark gray and thoughtful, skilled at keeping
emotions hidden. Then there was his record, Dodson mused. He might not
be the flashy cop his father had been, but he was thorough. And, thank
God, less impulsive. After his years on the force, the last three in
homicide, Slade could be considered seasoned. If an undercover cop
wasn't seasoned by thirty-two, he was dead. Slade had a reputation for
being cool, perhaps a shade too cool, but his arrests were clean. Dodson
didn't need a man who looked for trouble, but one who knew what to do
once he found it.

"Slade..." He allowed a small smile to escape. "That's what you're
called, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." The familiarity made him uncomfortable; the smile made him
suspicious.

"I'm sure you've heard of Justice Lawrence Winslow."

Curiosity came first, then a quick search through his mental file.
"Presided over the New York Appellate Court before he was elected chief
justice of the Connecticut Supreme Court about fifteen years ago. Died
of a heart attack four, maybe five years ago."

Facts and figures, Dodson mused. The boy didn't waste words. "He was
also a damn fine lawyer, a judge who understood the full meaning of
justice. A good man. His wife remarried two years ago and lives in
southern France."

So what? Slade thought with fresh impatience as Dodson gazed broodingly
over his shoulder.

"I'm godfather to his daughter, Jessica." The same question zipped
through Slade's mind as Dodson focused on him again. "She lives in the
family home near Westport. Beautiful place--a stone's throw from the
beach. It's quiet, peaceful." He drummed his fingers against the desk.
"I imagine a writer would find it very appealing."

There was an uncomfortable premonition which Slade pushed aside.
"Possibly." Was the old man matchmaking? Slade almost laughed out loud.
No, that was too ridiculous.

"Over the last nine months there has been a rash of thefts throughout
Europe."

The abrupt change of subject startled Slade so much that the surprise
showed clearly on his face. Quickly he controlled it and lifted a brow,
saying nothing.

"Important thefts," Dodson continued. "Mainly from museums--gems, coins,
stamps. France, England, Spain, and Italy have all been hit. The
investigation has led the respective authorities to believe the stolen
articles have been smuggled into the States."

"Smuggling's federal," Slade said briefly. And, he thought silently, has
nothing to do with a homicide detective--or some justice's spoiled
daughter. Another uncomfortable thought came to him which he ignored.

"Smuggling's federal," Dodson repeated, a bit too amiably for Slade's
taste. He placed the tips of his neat fingers together, watching the
younger man over them. "I have a few connections in the Bureau. Because
of this case's... delicate nature, I've been consulted." He paused a
beat, long enough for Slade to comment if he chose to, then went on.
"Some substantial leads in the investigation point to a small,
well-respected antique shop. The Bureau knows there's an operator. From
the information I have, they've narrowed down the possibilities for dump
sites, and this shop is one of the... chosen few," he decided dryly.
"It's believed someone on the inside is on the take." Pausing, he
adjusted the picture frame on his desk. "They want to put an operative
on it, inside, so that the head of the organization won't slip away from
them this time. He's clever," Dodson mused, half to himself.

Again Dodson gave Slade a moment to question or comment, and again he
went on as the other man remained silent. "Allegedly, the goods are
hidden--cleverly hidden--in an antique, then exported to this shop,
retrieved, and ultimately disposed of."

"It seems the Feds have things under control." Barely masking his
impatience, Slade reached for a cigarette.

"There's one or two complications." Dodson waited for the hiss and flare
of the match. "There's no concrete evidence, nor is the identity of the
head of the organization known. A handful of accomplices, yes, but we
want him... or her," he added softly.

The tone had Slade's eyes sharpening. Don't get interested, he warned
himself. It has nothing to do with you. Swallowing the questions that
had popped into his head, he drew on his cigarette and waited.

"There's also a more delicate problem." For the first time since Slade
had walked into the room, he noticed Dodson's nerves. The commissioner
picked up his gold pen, ran it through his fingers, then stuck it back
in its slot. "The antique shop alleged to be involved is owned and
operated by my goddaughter."

Dark brows lifted, but the eyes beneath them betrayed nothing. "Justice
Winslow's daughter."

"It's generally believed that Jessica knows nothing of the illegal use
of her shop--if indeed there is illegal use." Dodson reached for the pen
again, this time holding it lengthwise between both hands. "I know she's
completely innocent. Not only because she's my goddaughter," he went on,
anticipating Slade's thoughts, "but because I know her. She's every bit
as honest as her father was. Jessica cherishes Larry's memory. And," he
added, carefully setting down the pen, "she hardly needs the money."

"Hardly," Slade muttered, picturing a spoiled heiress with too much time
and money on her hands. Smuggling for kicks, he mused. A change of pace
from shopping and parties and jet-setting.

"The Bureau's closing in," Dodson stated. "The next few weeks could
bring the whole mess down around her ears. It might be dangerous for
her." Slade controlled the snort of derision. "Even the shield of
ignorance isn't going to protect her once things come to a head if her
shop's involved. I've tried to convince her to come to New York for a
visit, but..." His voice trailed off. Amused exasperation moved over his
face. "Jessica's stubborn. Claims she's too busy. She tells me I should
come visit her." With a shake of his head, Dodson let out what passed
for a sigh. "I considered it, but my presence at this point could
jeopardize the investigation. However, I feel Jessica needs protection.
Discreet protection. Someone trained to deal with the situation, who can
stay close to her without causing speculation." A smile touched his
eyes. "Someone who could assist the investigation from the inside."

Slade frowned. He liked the conversation less and less. Taking his time,
he stubbed out his cigarette. "And how do you expect me to do that?"

Dodson smiled fully. He liked the irritation in Slade's voice as much as
the directness. "Jessica will do what I want--to a point." Leaning back
in the overstuffed leather chair, he relaxed again. "She's been
complaining lately about the mess her library's in, about not having
enough time to sort through and catalog. I'm going to call her, tell her
I'm sending the son of an old friend of mine and her father's. That's
true, by the way," he added. "Tom and Larry knew each other some years
back. Your cover's simple enough. You're a writer who needs a quiet
refuge for a few weeks, and in turn, you'll sort out her library."

Slade's eyes had darkened during Dodson's casual rundown.
"Jurisdiction--" he began.

"Some paperwork," Dodson interrupted easily. "It can be taken care of.
After all, it's the boys from the Bureau who'll make the collar when
it's time."

"I'm supposed to play librarian and baby sitter." Slade gave a snort of
disgust. "Look, Commissioner, I'm that close to wrapping up the
Bitronelli murder." He brought his thumb and forefinger together. "If--"

"You'd better be," Dodson interrupted again, but with a hint of steel in
his voice. "The press is having a great time making the NYPD look like
fools on that one. And if you're so close," he added before Slade could
toss back a furious retort, "you should be able to leave for Connecticut
in a couple of days. The Bureau is interested in having a cop on the
inside. A cop who knows how to keep his eyes and ears open. They've
checked you out and agree with my choice."

"Terrific," Slade muttered. Standing, he prowled the room. "I'm
homicide, not robbery."

"You're a cop," Dodson said shortly.

"Yeah." Baby-sitting for some snobby little heiress, Slade thought
darkly, who was either smuggling for thrills or too dizzy to see what
was going on under her nose. "Terrific," he muttered again.

Once Janice was out of college, he thought, he could quit the force and
concentrate on his writing. He was tired of it. Tired of the misery he
came in contact with almost every day of his life. Tired of the dirt,
the futility, tired of the nasty little pieces of humanity his job
forced him to deal with. And tired too of seeing the look of relief in
his mother's eyes each time he came home. With a sigh, he resigned
himself. Maybe a couple of weeks in Connecticut would be a nice change.
A change anyway.

"When?" he demanded as he turned back to face Dodson.

"Day after tomorrow," Dodson said smoothly. "I'll give you a complete
briefing, then I'll call Jessica and tell her to expect you."

With a shrug, Slade went back to his chair to listen.

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Chapter 1
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Contents - Prev | Next

Fall touched the trees and stung the air. Against a hard blue sky, the
colors were vibrant, passionate. The ribbon of road cut through the
hills and wound eastward toward the Atlantic. Whipping through the open
car windows, the wind was chilled and fragrant. Slade wondered how long
it had been since he had smelled that kind of freshness. No city smells
of sweat and exhaust. When his book was accepted, perhaps he could move
his mother and Janice out of the city--a home in the country maybe, or
near the shore. It was always when or as soon as. He couldn't afford to
think if.

Another year on the force--another year of scraping up tuition
money--and then... Shaking his head, Slade turned up the radio. It
wasn't any good thinking of next year. He wasn't in Connecticut to
appreciate the scenery. It was just another job--and one he resented.

Jessica Winslow, he mused, age twenty-seven. The only child of Justice
Lawrence Winslow and Lorraine Nordan Winslow. Graduate of Radcliffe,
senior class president. She'd probably been head cheerleader, too, he
thought with a sneer. All button-downed and pony-tailed. Ralph Lauren
sweaters and Gucci loafers.

Struggling to be open minded, he continued his catalog. Opened the House
of Winslow four years ago. Up until two years ago she did the majority
of buying herself. Good excuse to play around in Europe, he thought as
he punched in the car lighter.

Michael Adams, Jessica Winslow's assistant and current buyer.
Thirty-two, Yale graduate. Figures, Slade reflected, exhaling smoke that
rushed out of the open window. Son of Robert and Marion Adams, another
prominent Connecticut family. No firm evidence, but someone Slade was
instructed to keep his eye on. He leaned his elbow on the window as he
considered. As chief buyer, Adams would be in a perfect position to
handle the operation from overseas.

David Ryce, shop assistant for eighteen months. Twenty-three. Son of
Elizabeth Ryce, the Winslow housekeeper. Dodson had said he was often
trusted with running the shop alone. That would give him the opportunity
to handle the local operation.

Systematically, Slade ran through the list of the Winslow staff.
Gardener, cook, housekeeper, daily maid. Good God, he thought in
disgust. All that for one person. She probably wouldn't know how to boil
an egg if her life depended on it.

The gates to the Winslow estate stood open, with room enough for two
cars to pass easily. Slade turned into the long, macadam drive, lined
with bushy, bloomless azaleas. There was a burst of birdsong, then
silence. He drove nearly a quarter of a mile before pulling up in front
of the house.

It was large but, he had to admit, not oppressively so. The brick was
old, mellowed by sun and sea air. Smoke rose from one of the chimneys on
the hipped roof. The gray shutters weren't just decorative, he noted,
but could be used for practical purposes if a storm rose up off the
Sound. He smelled the chrysanthemums before he saw them.

The blossoms were huge, growing near the base of the house. They were
rust, gold, and copper, complimenting the violent red of bushes. It
charmed him, as did the lazy odor of wood-smoke. This wasn't indolence
but peace. He'd had too little of that. Shaking off the mood, Slade
walked up the steps to the front door. He lifted a fist and knocked,
hard. He hated doorbells.

In less than a minute the door opened. He had to look down, quite a
distance down, to see a tiny, middle-aged woman with a pleasantly ugly
face and gray-streaked hair. He caught a whiff of a pine-scented cleaner
that reminded him of his mother's kitchen.

"May I help you?" The accent was broad New England.

"I'm James Sladerman. Miss Winslow's expecting me."

The woman scrutinized him with cautious black eyes. "You'd be the
writer," she stated, obviously not overly impressed. Stepping back, she
allowed him to enter.

As the door closed behind him, Slade glanced around the hall. The floor
was uncarpeted, a gleaming blond oak that showed some wear under the
careful polishing. A few paintings hung on the ivory-toned wallpaper. A
pale green glass bowl sat on a high round table and overflowed with fall
flowers. There were no overt displays of wealth, but wealth was there.
He'd seen a print of the painting to his right in an art book. The blue
scarf that hung negligently over the railing of the steps was silk.

Slade started to turn back to the housekeeper when a clatter at the top
of the steps distracted him.

She came barrelling down the curved staircase in a flurry of swirling
blond hair and flying skirts. The hammer of heels on wood disrupted the
quiet of the house. Slade had a quick impression of speed, motion, and
energy.

"Betsy, you make David stay in bed until that fever's broken. Don't you
dare let him get up. Damn, damn, damn, I'm going to be late! Where are
my keys?"

Three inches away from Slade, she came to a screeching halt, almost
overbalancing. Automatically he reached for her arm to steady her.
Breathless, she brought her eyes from his shirt front to stare at him.

It was an exquisite face--fair skinned, oval, delicate, with just a hint
of cheekbone that added a rather primitive strength. Indian? Viking? he
wondered. Celtic? Her eyes were large, the color of aged whiskey, set
below brows that were lowered in curiosity. The faintest line appeared
between them. A stubborn line, Slade reflected. His sister had one. She
was small, he noted. The top of her head barely skimmed his shoulder.
Her scent was reminiscent of fall--something musky--blossoms and smoke.
The arm beneath his hand was slender under a thin wool blazer. He felt
the stir inside him--man for woman--and hastily dropped his hand.

"This is Mr. Sladerman," Betsy announced. "That writer."

"Oh yes." The smile cleared away the faint line between her brows.
"Uncle Charlie told me you were coming."

It took Slade a moment to connect Uncle Charlie with Dodson. Not knowing
if he was smothering an oath or a laugh, he accepted her extended hand.
"Charlie told me you could use some help, Miss Winslow."

"Help." She rolled her eyes and cleared her throat. "Yes, you could call
it that. The library... Look, I'm sorry to rush off the minute you get
here, but my assistant's ill and my buyer's in France." Tilting her
wrist, she grimaced at her watch. "I have a client coming to the shop
ten minutes ago."

"Don't worry about it." If this frazzled lady can run a business, I'll
volunteer to walk a beat, he decided, but gave her an easy smile. "It'll
give me a chance to get settled in."

"Fine. I'll see you at dinner then." Glancing around, she muttered again
about keys.

"In your hand," Slade told her.

"Stupid." With a sigh, Jessica uncurled her fingers and stared at the
keys in her palm. "The more I have to rush, the worse it gets." Lifting
amused eyes to his, she brushed her hair from her shoulders. "Please
don't bother with the library today. It may shock you so much that
you'll run away before I can smooth things over. Betsy..." As she dashed
for the door Jessica looked over her shoulder. "Tell David he's fired if
he gets out of bed. 'Bye."

The door slammed behind her. Betsy clucked her tongue.

Ten minutes later Slade inspected his suite of rooms. They were nearly
as large as the apartment he had grown up in. There was a faded carpet
on the bedroom floor that he recognized was not old but antique. In a
small, black marble fireplace, wood was neatly laid for burning.
Crossing to the sitting room, he saw a sturdy desk topped with a vase of
the chrysanthemums, a brass paperweight, and a feather quill. Without
hesitation, he cleared it off to make room for his typewriter.

If he had his way, his writing would be more than a cover. When he
wasn't baby-sitting, he'd get some work done. Of course, there was the
library to fool with. On an exasperated sigh, Slade turned his back on
his typewriter and went back downstairs. He roamed, filing the position
and layout of rooms in the cop's part of his mind, their descriptions in
the writer's.

In his tour of the first floor, Slade could find no fault with Jessica's
taste. It was only the nouveau riche who went in for ostentation. The
Winslow woman preferred muted colors and clean lines. In her clothes,
too, he mused, remembering how she had looked in the dun-colored blazer
and skirt. Still, the blouse she'd worn had been a deep, almost violent
green. That just might indicate something else.

Slade stopped to run his fingers over the surface of a rosewood piano.
Compared to this, he mused, the battered upright his mother treasured
was so much kindling. With a shrug, he wandered to the next door.

The library. He caught the scent of old leather and dust as he looked on
the largest private collection of books he'd ever seen. For the first
time since he had walked into Dodson's office, Slade felt a stir of
pleasure. A quick study told him that the books were well read as well
as carelessly filed. He crossed the room and mounted the two stairs to
the second level. Not filed at all, he corrected, but simply jumbled. He
ran a long finger along a row of volumes. Robert Burns tilted onto a
copy of Kurt Vonnegut.

A big job, he concluded. One he might have enjoyed if it had been his
only purpose. He took one long look around before absently pulling out a
book. There was nothing he could do about Jessica Winslow at the moment,
he thought as he settled down to read.

Jessica swerved into the parking area beside her shop, relieved to see
it empty. She was late, but her client was later. Or, she thought with a
frown, he'd grown tired of waiting and left. With a half-hearted oath,
she hurried to unlock the front door. Quickly she went from window to
window, letting the shades snap up. Without slackening pace, she headed
for the back room, tossed her purse aside, then filled a small kettle
with water. She gave the struggling ivy in the rear window a quick douse
before setting the kettle on the stove. Halfway out of the room, she
went back to turn the burner on underneath it. Satisfied, she wandered
into the main shop.

It wasn't large--but then Jessica had never intended it to be. Intimate,
personal. Yes, it was that, she thought, with her signature on it. The
shop was more than a business to her; it was an accomplishment, and a
love. The business end--invoices, filing, books--she ran meticulously.
All of her organizational efforts went into the shop, which perhaps was
the reason for her lack of order elsewhere.

The shop was the focus of her life, and had been since she'd conceived
of it. Initially she'd needed something to give some purpose to her life
after college was behind her. The idea for the shop had germinated
slowly, then had grown and developed. Jessica had too much drive, too
much energy, to drift. Once she had decided to start a business, she'd
moved quickly. Then that same drive and energy had made it work. It
turned a profit. The money itself meant little, but the fact that her
shop made it, meant everything.

She'd spent six months scouring New England, then Europe, for the right
pieces. A large inventory hadn't been her goal, but an exclusive one.
After her opening the response had begun as a small trickle, mostly
friends and friends of friends. Justice Winslow's daughter running a
shop had brought out the curiosity seekers as well. Jessica hadn't
minded. A client was a client, and a satisfied one, the best
advertising.

For the first two years she'd run the shop alone. Indeed, she had never
considered that her business would outgrow her. When it had, she'd hired
Michael Adams to handle the overseas buying. He was charming, capable,
and knowledgeable. The women customers adored him. Gradually their
relationship had mellowed from business to friendship to easy affection.

As business had continued to thrive, Jessica had hired David Ryce. He'd
been hardly more than a boy, at loose ends, bored enough to find trouble
if it got in the way. Jessica had hired him because they'd grown up
together; then she had come to depend on him. He was quick with figures
and tireless with details. He had a streak of street sense that made him
a good man to have in business.

Street sense, Jessica mused. James Sladerman. Odd that the term would
bring him back to her mind. Even in that quick exchange at the foot of
the stairs, she'd felt something in him. It told her he was a man who
would know how to handle himself--in business, maybe. In an alley,
definitely. With a half laugh, she stuck her hands in her pockets. Now
why should she think that?

The fingers that had gripped her arm had been strong. His build had been
wiry. But no, it had been his eyes, she thought. There was something...
hard in his eyes. Yet she hadn't been repelled or frightened, but drawn.
Even when he'd looked at her for those first three or four seconds, with
that intensity that seemed to creep beneath her skin, she hadn't been
afraid. Safe, she realized. He'd made her feel safe. That was odd,
Jessica decided, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. Why should
she suddenly feel safe when she had no need for protection?

The door of the shop jingled open. Pushing speculation aside, Jessica
turned.

"Miss Winslow, I apologize. I'm very late."

"Don't give it a thought, Mr. Chambers." Jessica considered telling him
that she'd also been late, then decided against it. What he didn't know
wouldn't hurt him. Behind her, the kettle whistled. "I'm just making
tea. Why don't you join me before we look over the new snuffboxes?"

Chambers removed a rather fussy hat from a balding head. "Wonderful. I
do appreciate you calling me when you get a new shipment in." He smiled,
revealing good dentures.

"You don't think I'd let anyone see the snuffboxes before you." In the
kitchen Jessica poured boiling water into cups. "Michael found these in
France. There are two I think you'll be particularly interested in."

He preferred the ornate, Jessica thought with a smile as she lifted the
tray. He loved the foolishly gaudy little boxes that men with lace cuffs
used to carry. She glanced at Chambers' stubby form and wondered if he
pictured himself as a cavalier or perhaps a Regency buck. Still, his
fascination with snuffboxes had made him a regular customer who had more
than once recommended her shop to other people. And he was rather sweet
in his fussy little way, she thought as she placed the tea tray on a
table.

"Sugar?" she asked him.

"Ah, I shouldn't." Chambers patted his ample middle. "But perhaps one
cube." His glance flicked briefly down to her legs as Jessica crossed
them. A pity, he thought with an inward sigh, that he wasn't twenty
years younger.

Later he left happily with two eighteenth-century snuffboxes. Before
Jessica could file the invoice, she heard the grumble of an engine.
Glancing up, she saw the large delivery truck pull in front of the shop.
She read the company logo on the side of the steel doors and frowned a
bit. She could have sworn the delivery that Michael was shipping wasn't
due until the following day.

When she recognized the driver, Jessica waved, then walked to the front
door to meet him.

"Hi, Miss Winslow."

"Hello, Don." She accepted the itemized list he handed her, muttering
about not expecting him until tomorrow. He shrugged.

"Mr. Adams put a rush on it."

"Mmm." She jiggled the keys in her pocket as she scanned the list.
"Well, he seems to have outdone himself this time. And another delivery
on Saturday. I don't... oh!" Her eyes lit up with pleasure as they fixed
on one item. "The writing desk. The Queen Anne. I meant to tell Michael
to keep his eyes open for one, then forgot. It must be fate." Of course,
she should uncart it first, at least take a look. No, impulses were the
best, Jessica decided. Smiling, she looked back up at the driver. "The
rest comes in here, but that goes to my home. Would you mind?"

"Well..."

It was easy to justify using the smile. Jessica could already see the
desk in the front parlor. "If it's not too much trouble," she added.

The driver shifted to his other foot. "I guess it'll be all right. Joe
won't mind." He jerked his thumb at his partner, who had opened the wide
double doors of the truck.

"Thanks. I really appreciate it. That desk is just what I've been
looking for."

Feeling triumphant, Jessica went to the back room for more tea.

As she had burst out hours before, Jessica burst in through the front
door of the house. "Betsy!" She slung her purse over the newel post.
"Did it come?" Without waiting for an answer, she dashed toward the
front parlor.

"Since you were six, I've been telling you to slow down." Betsy came
through the parlor doors, intercepting her. "At least then you wore
sensible shoes."

"Betsy." Jessica gave her a quick, hard squeeze that held as much
impatience as affection. "Did it come?"

"Yes, of course it came." The housekeeper straightened her apron with a
tug. "And it's sitting in the parlor just like you told me. It'll be
there whether you walk sensibly or run like a fool." The last of the
sentence was wasted, as Jessica was already rushing by her.

"Oh, it's lovely!" Gently, she ran a finger over the wood, then quickly
began to examine it on all sides. It was a delicate, airy little piece.
A woman's desk. Jessica opened the slant top, then sighed at the
unmarred interior. "Really lovely. Wait until David sees it." She opened
one of the inner drawers. It slid out smoothly. "It's exactly what I've
been looking for. What luck that Michael came across it." Crouching, she
ran a hand down one of its slender legs.

"It's pretty," Betsy admitted, thinking that the carving would be one
more thing to keep dust out of. "I bet you could have sold it for a
pretty penny too."

"The advantage of owning a shop is being able to cop some of the
merchandise for yourself." Rising, Jessica shut the lid again. Now all
she needed was a frivolous little inkwell, or perhaps a porcelain box to
set on top of it.

"Supper's nearly ready."

"Oh, supper." Shaking her head, Jessica brought herself back to the
moment. "Mr. Sladerman, I've neglected him all day. Is he upstairs?"

"In the library," Betsy announced grimly. "All day. Wouldn't even come
out for lunch."

"Oh boy." Jessica combed a hand through her hair. He hadn't looked like
a man who would have much patience with disorganization. "I really
wanted to ease him into that. Well, I'm going to go be charming so we
don't lose him. What's for supper?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Stuffed pork chops and mashed potatoes."

"That should help," Jessica muttered as she headed for the library door.

She opened it slowly, enough to stick her head inside. Some things, she
decided, you don't rush into. He was sitting at a long work table,
surrounded by pillars and piles of books. A thick pad was in front of
him, and the pencil in his hand was worked halfway down. His hair fell
over his forehead, but she could see his brows drawn together in
concentration. Or annoyance, she mused. She put on her best smile.

"Hi."

He looked up, eyes pinning her. Jessica could feel the little prickles
of power all over her skin. She absorbed it, intrigued by the sensation.
Without being aware of it, her smile had faded into a look of
puzzlement.

Who is this man? she wondered. It was curiosity as much as courage that
had her coming all the way into the room. The lamp on the desk slanted
across his face, highlighting his mouth and putting his eyes in shadow.
She didn't feel safe with him this time, but unsettled. She continued
toward him.

"You've got a hell of a mess here," Slade said shortly, tossing his
pencil aside. It was better to attack than let himself dwell on how
beautiful she was. "If you run your shop like this"--he gestured
widely--"it's a miracle you're not bankrupt."

The specific complaint eased the tension in her shoulders. There'd been
nothing personal in that look, she assured herself. She'd been foolish
to think there had been. "I know it's terrible," Jessica admitted,
smiling again. "I hope you're not going to do the sensible thing and
walk out." Gingerly, she lowered a hip to the table before lifting a
book at random. "Do you like challenges, Mr. Sladerman?"

She was laughing, he noted. Or her eyes were. But he sensed very clearly
that she laughed at herself. A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth as he
struggled to study her objectively. Maybe she was innocent--maybe not.
He didn't have the same blind faith as the commissioner. But she was
beautiful, and he was attracted. Slade decided the attraction was going
to be difficult to work around.

Letting out a long breath, he gazed around the room. How much choice did
he have? "I'm going to take pity on you, Miss Winslow... I have a
fondness for books."

"So do I," she began, then had to deal with another of his cool, direct
looks. "Really," she claimed with a laugh. "I'm just not neat. Do we
have a deal, Mr. Sladerman?" Solemnly, she offered her hand.

He glanced at it first. Soft and elegant, he thought, like her name and
her voice. With a quick curse at fate for making the commissioner her
godfather, Slade took her hand in his. "We have a deal, Miss Winslow."

Jessica slid from the table, keeping his hand in hers when he would have
drawn away. Somehow she'd known it would be hard and strong. "How do you
feel about stuffed pork chops?"

They were tender and delicious. Slade ate three after his stomach
remembered the lack of lunch. And, he thought after a slice of
cheesecake, this case had some advantages over the one he'd just wrapped
up. For two weeks he'd made do on cold coffee and stale sandwiches. And
his partner hadn't been as easy to look at as Jessica Winslow. She'd
guided the conversation expertly during the meal and had ended by
tucking her arm through his to lead him back to the parlor.

"Have a seat," she invited. "I'll pour you a brandy."

As he started to cross the room the desk caught his eye. "That wasn't
here this morning."

"What?" With a decanter in her hand, she glanced over her shoulder. "Oh
no, it just came this afternoon. Do you know anything about antiques?"

"No." He gave the desk a cursory study before taking a chair. "I'll
leave that to you, Miss Winslow."

"Jessica." She poured a second brandy before crossing to him. "Do I call
you James or Jim?"

"Slade," he told her as he took a snifter. "Even my mother stopped
calling me Jim when I was ten."

"You have a mother?"

The quick, unconscious surprise in her voice had him grinning.
"Everybody's entitled to one."

Feeling foolish, Jessica sat across from him. "You just seem to be
capable of arranging the whole business without one."

Both sipped brandy, and their eyes met over the snifters. Jessica felt
the moment freeze, out of time, out of place. Do minds touch? she
thought numbly. Wasn't she sensing at that moment the turbulent spin of
his thoughts? Or were they hers? Brandy slipped, hot and strong down her
throat, snapping her back. Talk, she ordered herself. Say something. "Do
you have any other family?" she managed.

Slade stared at her, wondering if he had imagined that instant of
stunning intimacy. He'd never felt that with any woman before, any
lover. It was ridiculous to imagine that he'd felt it with one he barely
knew. "A sister," he said at length. "She's in college."

"A sister." Jessica relaxed again and slipped out of her shoes. "That's
nice. I always wanted a brother or sister when I was growing up."

"Money can't buy everything." Slade shrugged with the words. Seeing the
puzzled hurt on her face, he cursed himself. If she was getting to him
already, what would it be like in a week?

"You're quick with clichés," Jessica observed. "I suppose that's because
you're a writer." After another sip of brandy, she set the glass aside.
"What do you write?"

"Unpublished novels."

She laughed as she had in the library, drawing another smile from him.
"It must be frustrating."

"Only daily," he agreed.

"Why do you do it?"

"Why do you eat?"

Jessica considered for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I suppose it's like
that, isn't it? Have you always wanted to write?"

He thought of his father, how he had bragged that his son would be the
next Sladerman on the force. He thought of his teenage years, when he
had written his stories in longhand in spiral notebooks late into the
night. He thought of his father's eyes the first time he had seen his
son in uniform. And he thought of the first time he'd had a short story
accepted.

"Yes." Perhaps it was easier to admit to her what he had never been able
to explain to his family. "Always."

"When you want something badly enough, and you don't give up," Jessica
began slowly, "you get it."

Slade gave a short laugh before he drank. "Always?"

She touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip. "Almost always. It's
all a gamble, isn't it?"

"Long odds," he murmured, frowning into his glass. "I usually play long
odds." He studied the amber liquor, which was almost exactly the shade
of her eyes. She shouldn't be so easy to talk to, he mused. He'd find
himself saying too much.

"Ah, Ulysses, I wondered where you were."

Lifting his eyes, Slade stared at a large, loping mop of fur. It lunged,
unerringly, into Jessica's lap. He heard her groan, then giggle.

"Damn it! How many times do I have to tell you you're not a lap dog.
You're breaking my ribs." She twisted her head, but the wet, pink tongue
found her cheek. "Stop!" she sputtered, pushing impotently. "Get down,"
she ordered. "Get down right this minute." Ulysses barked twice, then
continued to lap his tongue all over her face.

"What," Slade asked slowly, "is that?"

Jessica gave another mighty shove, but Ulysses only rested his head on
her shoulder. "A dog, of course."

"There's no 'of course' about that dog."

"He's a Great Pyrenees," she retorted, quickly running out of breath.
"And he flunked obedience school three times. You mangy, soft-headed
mutt, get down." Ulysses let out a long, contented breath and didn't
budge. "Give me a hand, will you?" she demanded of Slade. "I'll have
internal injuries this time. Once before I was stuck for two hours until
Betsy got home."

Rising, Slade approached the dog with a frown. "Does he bite?"

"God, I'm suffocating and the man asks if he bites."

A grin split Slade's face as he looked down at her. "Can't be too
careful about these things. He might be vicious."

Jessica narrowed her eyes. "Sic 'em, Ulysses!" Hearing his name, the dog
roused himself to lick her face again, joyfully. "Satisfied?" Jessica
demanded. "Now grab him somewhere and get me out."

Bending, Slade wrapped his arms around the bulk of fur.

The back of his hand brushed Jessica's breast as he shifted his grip.
"Sorry," he muttered, dragging at the dog. "Good God, what does he
weigh?"

"About one twenty-five, I think."

With a shake of his head, Slade put his back into it. Ulysses slid to
the floor to lay adoringly at Jessica's feet. Taking a deep gulp of air,
Jessica closed her eyes.

She was covered with loose white hair. Her own was disheveled and curled
around her shoulders, the color, Slade observed, of sun-bleached wheat.
With her face in repose, the slant of her cheekbones was more
pronounced. Her lips were just parted. Their shape was utterly
feminine--the classic cupid's bow but for the fullness in the lower lip.
It spoke of passion--hidden, quietly simmering passion. The mouth and
the cheekbones added something to the tearoom looks that had Slade's
pulse responding. He couldn't want her, he told himself. That wasn't
just irresponsible, it was stupid. He stared down at the dog again.

"You should do something about training him," he said shortly.

"I know." With a sigh, Jessica opened her brandy-colored eyes. Her
affection for Ulysses made her forget the discomfort and the mess he
usually created. "He's very sensitive really. I just haven't got the
heart to subject him to obedience school again."

"That's incredibly stupid," Slade tossed back. "He's too big not to be
trained."

"Want the job?" Jessica retorted. Straightening in the chair, she began
to brush at stray dog hair.

"I've got one, thanks."

Why should it annoy her that he hadn't once used her name? she asked
herself as she rose. Dignity had to be sacrificed as she stepped over
the now sleeping dog. "I appreciate the help," she said stiffly. "And
the advice is duly noted."

Slade shrugged off the sarcasm. "No problem. You struck me as more the
poodle type, though."

"Really?" For a moment Jessica merely studied his eyes. Yes, they were
hard, she decided. Hard and cool and cynical. "And I have the impression
you don't think much of the poodle type. Help yourself to the brandy.
I'm going up."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 2
---------
Contents - Prev | Next

For the next two days there was an uneasy truce. Perhaps it lasted that
long because Jessica made a point of staying out of Slade's way. He in
turn stayed out of hers while patiently noting her routine--which, he
discovered, was no routine at all. She simply never stopped. She didn't
take time for the social rigamarole he had expected--luncheons, clubs,
committees--but worked, apparently inexhaustibly. Most of her time was
spent at the shop. At the rate he was going, he knew he would find out
little in the house. His next move was the House of Winslow. It followed
that he needed to make peace with Jessica to get there.

From his bedroom window, he watched her drive away. It was barely eight
o'clock, a full hour before she normally left. Slade swore in
frustration. How did the commissioner expect him to watch her--or
protect her if that's what she needed--if she was always in one place
while he was in another? It was time to improvise an excuse to pay her a
visit at her place of business.

Grabbing a jacket on the way, Slade headed for the stairs. He could
always claim that he wanted to do a bit of research on antique furniture
for his novel. That would buy him a few hours, as well as give him a
reason to poke around. Before he'd rounded the last curve in the steps
he heard Betsy's voice.

"...nothing but trouble."

"Don't fuss."

Slade stopped, waiting as the footsteps came his way. There was a tall,
gangly man walking down the hall. His mop of dark blond hair was long
and straight, cut rather haphazardly just below the collar of a chambray
workshirt. He wore jeans and wire-rim glasses and stood hunched over a
bit--either from habit or fatigue. Because he was staring down at his
sneakers, he didn't see Slade. His face was pale and the eyes behind the
lenses were shadowed. David Ryce, Slade concluded, and kept silent.

"I told you she said you weren't to come in today." Betsy bustled after
him, a feather duster gripped in her hand.

"I'm fine. If I lie around in bed another day, I'm going to mold." He
coughed violently.

"Fine, fine indeed." Betsy clucked her tongue, swinging the duster at
his back.

"Mom, lay off." Exasperated, David started to turn back to her when he
spotted Slade. He frowned, choking back another cough. "Oh, you must be
the writer."

"That's right." Slade came down the last two steps. Just a boy, he
thought, taking David's measure quickly. Who hasn't completely thrown
off the youthful defiance.

"Jessie and I figured you'd be a short, stooped little guy with glasses.
I don't know why." He grinned, but Slade noted that he placed a hand on
the newel post for support. "Getting anywhere with the library?"

"Slowly."

"Better you than me," David murmured, wishing for a chair. "Has Jessica
come down yet?"

"She's already gone," Slade told him.

"There, you see." Betsy folded her arms over her chest. "And if you go
in, she'll just send you right back home. Thunder at you too."

Because his legs threatened to buckle, David gripped the newel post
harder. "She's going to need help with the new shipment. Another's due
in today."

"Lotta good you'd do," Betsy began. Catching the look in David's eye,
Slade cut in.

"I was thinking about running down there myself. I'd like to see the
place, maybe do a little research. I could give her a hand." He watched
David struggle, caught between his desire to go to the shop and his need
to lie down.

"She'll try to move everything herself," he muttered.

"That's the truth," Betsy agreed, apparently switching her annoyance
from her son to her employer. "Nothing stops that one."

"It's my job to move in the new stock, check it off. I don't--"

"Moving furniture around shouldn't require any great knowledge of
antiques," Slade put in casually. Knowing it was too perfect to let
pass, he slipped into his jacket. "And since I was heading that way
anyway..."

"There, it's settled," Betsy announced. She had her son by the elbow
before he could protest. "Mr. Sladerman will go look out for Miss
Jessica. You go back to bed."

"I'm not going back to bed. A chair, all I want's a chair." He sent
Slade a weak smile. "Hey, thanks. Tell Jessie I'm coming back on Monday.
The paperwork oh the new stock can wait over the weekend. Tell her to
humor the invalid and leave it for me."

Slade nodded slowly. "Sure, I'll tell her." Turning, he started out,
deciding that the new stock interested him very much.

Fifteen minutes later Slade parked in the small graveled lot beside
Jessica's shop. It was a small, framed building, fronted with several
narrow windows. The shades were up. Through the glass, he could see her
tugging on a large and obviously heavy piece of furniture. Cursing women
in general, he walked to the front door and pulled it open.

At the jingle of bells she spun around. That anyone would be by the shop
at that hour surprised her--that Slade stood inside the door frowning at
her surprised Jessica more. "Well..." The physical exertion had winded
her so that she struggled to even her breathing. "I didn't expect to see
you here." She didn't add that she wasn't particularly pleased either.

She'd stripped off her jacket and pushed up the sleeves of her cashmere
sweater. Beneath it, small high breasts rose and fell agitatedly. Slade
remembered their softness against the back of his hand very clearly. He
forgot he'd come to make peace with her.

"Don't you have more sense than to push this stuff around yourself?" he
demanded. With a quick oath, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it over
a chair. Jessica stiffened her back as well as her tone.

"Well, good morning to you too."

Her annoyance rolled off of him. After crossing to her, Slade leaned
against the large piece she'd been struggling with. "Where do you want
it?" he asked shortly. "And I hope to God you're not one of those women
who changes her mind a half dozen times."

He watched her eyes narrow and darken as they had that night in the
parlor. Oddly, he found her only more attractive when she was agitated.
If it hadn't been for that, the way her chin jutted out might have
amused him. "I don't believe anyone asked for your assistance." For the
first time he was treated to the ice in her tone. "I'm capable of
arranging my stock myself."

"Don't be any more stupid than necessary," he shot back. "You're just
going to hurt yourself. Now where do you want this thing?"

"This thing," she began heatedly, "is a nineteenth-century French
secretaire."

He gave it a negligent glance. "Yeah, so? Where do you want me to put
it?"

"I'll tell you where you can put it--"

His laughter cut her off. It was very male and full of fun. It wasn't a
sound she had expected from him. With an effort, she swallowed a chuckle
of her own as she stepped back from him. The last thing she wanted was
to find anything appealing about James Sladerman. "Over there," she said
coolly, pointing. Turning away, Jessica picked up a washstand to carry
it in the opposite direction. When the sounds of wood sliding over wood
had stopped, she turned back to him.

"Thank you." The gratitude was short and cold. "Now, what can I do for
you?"

He treated himself to a lengthy look at her. She stood very straight,
her hands folded loosely, her eyes still dangerous. Two mother-of-pearl
combs swept her hair back from her face. He allowed his gaze to sweep
down briefly. She was very slender, with a hand-spanable waist and
barely any hips. The trim flannel skirt hid most of her legs, but Slade
could appreciate what was visible from the knees down. Her feet were
very small. One of them tapped the floor impatiently.

"I've thought about that from time to time," he commented as his eyes
roamed back to hers. "But I came by to see what I could do for you. Ryce
was worried that you might do just what you were trying to do a few
minutes ago."

"You've seen David?" Her cool impatience evaporated. Swiftly, Jessica
crossed the room to take Slade's arm. "Was he up? How is he?"

Suddenly he wanted to touch her--her hair, her face. She'd be soft. He
felt an almost desperate need for something soft and yielding. Her eyes
were on his, wide with concern. "He was up," he said briefly. "And not
as well as he wanted to be."

"He shouldn't have been out of bed."

"No, probably not." Did her hair carry that scent? he wondered. That
autumn-woods fragrance that was driving him mad? "He wanted to come in
this morning."

"Come in?" Jessica pounced on the two words. "I gave specific orders for
him to stay home. Why can't he do as he's told?"

Slade's eyes were suddenly keen on her face. "Does everyone do what you
tell them?"

"He's my employee," she retorted, dropping her hand from his arm. "He
damn well better do what I tell him." As quickly as she had flared up,
her mood shifted and she smiled. "He's hardly more than a boy really,
and Betsy nags at him. It's just her way. Though I appreciate his
dedication to the business, he's got to get well." Her eyes drifted to
the phone on the counter. "If I call, he'll just get defensive."

"He said he wouldn't come in until Monday." Slade leaned against the
secretaire. "He wanted you to leave the paperwork on the new shipments
for him."

Jessica stuck her hands in her pockets, obviously still toying with the
idea of phoning to lecture David. "Yes, all right. If he's going to come
in on Monday, at least he'll be sitting down. I'll get the new stock
situated in the meantime so he's not tempted." She smiled again. "He's
nearly as obsessed with this place as I am. If I so much as move a
candlestick, David knows it. Before he got sick, he was trying to talk
me into a vacation." She laughed, tossing her head so that her hair
swung behind her. "He just wanted the place to himself for a week or
two."

"A very dedicated assistant," Slade murmured.

"Oh, David's that," Jessica agreed. "What are you doing here, Slade? I
thought you'd be buried in books."

Half glad, half wary that the reserve of the last few days had vanished,
he gave her a cautious smile. "I told David I'd give you a hand."

"That was very nice." The surprise in her voice had his smile widening.

"I can be nice occasionally," he returned. "Besides, I thought I might
be able to get some information on antiques. Research."

"Oh." She accepted this with a nod. "All right. I wouldn't mind having
some help with the heavier things. What period were you interested in?"

"Period?"

"Furniture," Jessica explained as she walked to a long, low chest. "Is
there a particular century or style? Renaissance, Early American,
Italian Provincial?"

"Just a general sort of lesson today to give me the feel of it," Slade
improvised as he nudged Jessica away from the chest. "Where do you want
this?"

He lifted and carried. Jessica arranged the lighter pieces while keeping
up a running dialog on the furniture they moved. This chair was
Chippendale--see the square, tapered seat and cabriole leg. This cabinet
was French Baroque--in satinwood, gilded and carved. She ran over a
little table with a polishing cloth, explaining about Chinese influences
and tea services.

During the morning they were interrupted half a dozen times by
customers. Jessica turned from antique lover to salesperson. Slade
watched her show pieces, explain their background, then dicker over
prices. If he hadn't been sure before, he was certain now. Her shop was
no toy to her. She not only knew how to manage it, but worked harder
than he'd given her credit for. Not only did she handle people with a
deft skill he was forced to admire, but she made money--if the discreet
price tags he'd come across were any indication.

So why, he wondered, if she was dedicated to her shop, if she turned a
profit, would she risk using her business for smuggling? Now that he'd
met her and spent some time with her, it wasn't as easy for Slade to
dismiss it as kicks or thrills. Yet she wasn't lacking in brains. Was it
plausible that an operation was going on under her nose without her
knowledge?

"Slade, I hate to ask." Jessica kept her voice lowered as she came close
to his side. Touching came naturally to her, it seemed, for her hand was
already on his arm. Irresponsible or not, he discovered that he wanted
her. Turning, he trapped her effectively between the chest and himself.
Her hand remained on his arm, just below the elbow. Though they touched
in no other way, he suddenly had a very clear sensation of how her body
would feel pressed against his. His eyes brushed over her mouth, then
came to hers.

"Ask what?"

Her mind went blank. Some sound filled her head, like an echo of surf
pounding on the shore. She could have stepped back an inch and broken
the contact--stepped forward an inch to consummate it. Jessica did
neither. Dimly, she was aware of a pressure in her chest, as though
someone were pressing hard against it to cut off her air. In that
instant they both knew he had only to touch her for everything to
change.

"Slade," she murmured. Half question, half invitation.

He snapped back, retreating from the edge, from an involvement he
couldn't afford. "Did you want me to move something else?" His voice was
cool as he stepped away from her.

Shaken, Jessica backed toward the chest. She needed distance. "Mrs.
MacKenzie wants to take the chifforobe with her. She's gone out to pull
her car to the front. Would you mind putting it in the back of her
station wagon?"

"All right."

She indicated the piece with a silent gesture, not moving until he was
out the front door with it. Alone, Jessica allowed herself a long,
uneasy breath. That was not a man a woman should lose control with, she
warned herself. He wouldn't be gentle, or particularly kind. She placed
the flat of her palm on her chest as if to relieve the pressure that
lingered there. Don't overreact the next time, she advised herself.

It's the way he looks at me, Jessica decided, as if he could see what
I'm thinking. She ran an unsteady hand through her hair. I don't even
know what I'm thinking when he looks at me, so how could he? And yet...
and yet her pulse was still racing.

When the door jingled open again, she hadn't budged from her spot in
front of the chest of drawers.

"I'm starved," she improvised swiftly, then started to move. As Slade
watched she hurried from window to window, lowering shades. She hung a
sign on the door and then locked it. "You must be too," she said when he
remained silent. "It's after one, and I've had you dragging furniture
around all morning. How about a sandwich and some tea?"

Slade managed to smile and sneer at the same time. "Tea?"

Her laughter eased her own tension. "No, I suppose not. Well, David
keeps some beer." She hustled to the back of the shop and pulled open
the door of a small refrigerator. She crouched, then rummaged. "Here. I
knew I'd seen some." Straightening, Jessica turned and collided with his
chest. He took her arms briefly in reflex, then as quickly dropped them.
Heart hammering, she stepped away. "Sorry, I didn't know you were behind
me. Will this do?" Safely at arm's length, she offered the bottle.

"Fine." His expression was bland as he took it and sat at the table. The
tension had settled at the base of his neck. He'd have to be careful not
to touch her again. Or to give in to the urge to taste that subtly
passionate mouth of hers. Once he did, he'd never stop there. Desire
tightened, a hard ball in the pit of his stomach. Almost violently,
Slade twisted the cap from the beer.

"I'll fix some sandwiches." Jessica became very busy in the
refrigerator. "Roast beef all right?"

"Yeah, that's fine."

What goes on in his mind? she wondered as she kept her hands busy. It's
just not possible to tell what he's thinking. She sliced neatly through
bread and meat, prudently keeping her back to him. Looking down at her
own hands, she thought of Slade's. He had such long, lean fingers.
Strong. She'd liked the look of them. Now, she caught herself wondering
how they would feel on her body. Competent, experienced, demanding. The
flare of desire was quick, but not unexpected this time. Fighting it,
she sliced the second sandwich a bit savagely.

He watched the sunlight stream through the window onto her hair. It fell
softly on the varied hues of blue in her sweater. He liked the way the
material clung to her, enhancing the straight, slender back and narrow
waist. But he noted too the tension in her shoulders. He wasn't going to
get very far if they were both preoccupied with an attraction neither
wanted. He had to make her relax and talk. Slade knew one certain way of
accomplishing that.

"You've got quite a place here, Jessica."

He wasn't aware that it was the first time he'd said her name, but she
was. That pleased her as much as the careful compliment.

"Thank you." Belatedly she remembered to turn the burner on under the
kettle as she brought his sandwich to the table. "People have finally
stopped calling it Jessica's Little Hobby."

"Is that what it started out to be?"

"Not to me." She stretched on tiptoe to reach a cup. Slade watched the
hem of her skirt sneak up. "But to a lot of people it was just Justice
Winslow's daughter having a fling at business. Did you want a glass for
that?"

"No." Slade brought the bottle to his lips and drank. "Why antiques?"

"It was something I knew... something I loved. It's sensible to make a
career out of something you know and appreciate, don't you think?"

He thought of the standard police-issue revolver hidden in his bedroom.
"When it's possible. How'd you get started?"

"I was lucky enough to have the funds to back me up the first year while
I gathered stock and renovated this place." The kettle shrilled, then
sputtered when she switched off the heat. "Even with that, it was hard
enough. Setting up books, getting licenses, learning about taxes." She
wrinkled her nose as she brought her plate and cup to the table. "But
that's a necessary part of the whole. With that, the traveling, and the
selling, the first couple of years were killers." She bit into her
sandwich. "I loved it."

She would have, he mused. He could sense the pent-up energy even as she
sat there calmly drinking tea. "David Ryce work for you long?"

"About a year and a half. He was at that undecided point of his life I
suppose we all go through when we've finished being teenagers but
haven't quite grasped adulthood." She smiled across the table at Slade.
"Do you know what I mean?"

"More or less."

"You probably less than most," she commented easily. "As it turned out,
he resented the offer of a job and the fact that he needed one. David
and I grew up together. There's nothing harder on the ego than having
big sister give you a break." She sighed a bit, remembering his
moodiness, his grudging acceptance, his initial lack of interest.
"Anyway, within six months he stopped being resentful and became
indispensable. He's very quick, particularly with figures. David
considers the books his province now. And he's better with them than the
selling angle."

"Oh?"

Her eyes danced. "He isn't always... diplomatic with customers. He's
much better with bookkeeping and inventory. Michael and I can handle the
buying and selling."

"Michael." Before he drank again, Slade repeated the name as though it
meant nothing.

"Michael does almost all my buying, all the imports at any rate."

"You don't buy the stock yourself?"

"Not from overseas, not anymore." Jessica toyed with the last half of
her sandwich. "If I'd tried to keep up with it, I wouldn't have been
able to keep the shop open year round. Watching out for estate sales and
auctions just in the New England area takes me away from the shop enough
as it is. And Michael... Michael has a real genius for finding gems."

He wondered if her analogy was fact. Was Michael Adams shipping gems as
well as Hepplewhites across the Atlantic?

"Michael's been handling that part of the business for nearly three
years," Jessica went on. "And he's not only a good buyer, but a terrific
salesman. Particularly with my female clientele." She laughed as she
lifted her cup. "He's very smooth--both looks and manner."

Slade noted the affection in her voice and speculated. Just how much was
between owner and buyer? he wondered. If Adams was involved in
smuggling, and Jessica's lover... His thoughts trailed off as he looked
down at her hands. She wore a thin, twisted band of gold on her right
hand and a star-shaped group of opals on her left. The sun hit the
stones, shooting little flames of red into the delicate blue. It suited
her, he thought, taking another swig of beer.

"In any case, I've gotten spoiled." Jessica stretched her shoulders with
a sigh. "It's been a long time since I've had to run the shop alone.
I'll be glad to have both Michael and David back next week. I might even
take Uncle Charlie up on his invitation."

"Uncle Charlie?"

Her cup paused halfway to her lips. "Uncle Charlie," Jessica repeated,
puzzled. "He sent you."

Slade gave a quick silent oath as he shrugged. "The commissioner," he
said blandly. "I don't think of him as Uncle Charlie."

"The commissioner's awfully formal." Still frowning at him, Jessica set
down her cup.

She's not a fool, Slade concluded as he swung an arm over the back of
his chair. "I always call him that. Habit. Don't you like to travel?" He
changed the subject neatly, adding a quick, disarming smile. "I'd think
the buying end would be half the fun."

"It can be. It can also be a giant headache. Airports and auctions and
customs." The line between her brows vanished. "I have been thinking
about combining a business and pleasure trip next spring. I want to
visit my mother and her husband in France."

"Your mother remarried?"

"Yes, it's been wonderful for her. After my father died, she was so
lost. We both were," she murmured. And after nearly five years, she
mused, there was still an ache. It was dull with time, but it was still
there.

"There's nothing harder than to lose someone you loved and lived with
and depended on. Especially when you think that person is
indestructible; then he's taken away with no warning."

Her voice had thickened, touching off a chord of response in him. "I
know," he answered before he thought.

Her eyes came up and fixed on his. "Do you?"

He didn't like the emotion she stirred up in him. "My father was a cop,"
he answered curtly. "He was killed in action five years ago."

"Oh, Slade." Jessica reached for his hand. "How terrible--how terrible
for your mother."

"Wives of cops learn to live with the risk." He moved his hand back to
his beer.

Sensing withdrawal, Jessica said nothing. He wasn't a man to share
emotion of any kind easily. She rose, stacking plates. "Do you want
something else? I imagine there're cookies stashed around here
somewhere."

She wouldn't probe, he realized, wouldn't eulogize. She'd offered him
her sympathy, then had backed off when she'd seen that it wasn't wanted.
Slade sighed. It was difficult enough to deal with his attraction to her
without starting to like her as well.

"No." He rose to help her clear the table.

When they entered the shop, Jessica went straight to the door to snap up
the shade on the glass. Slade whirled sharply as he heard her quick cry
of alarm. It was immediately followed by a laugh. "Mr. Layton." Jessica
flipped the lock to admit him. "You scared the wits out of me."

He was tall, well dressed, and fiftyish. His bankerish suit was offset
by a gray silk tie the same color as his hair. The rather thin, stern
face lightened with a smile as he took Jessica's hand. "Sorry, dear, but
then, you did the same to me." Glancing past her, he gave Slade an
inquiring look.

"This is James Sladerman, Mr. Layton. He's staying with us for a while.
David's been ill."

"Oh, nothing serious, I hope."

"Just the flu," Jessica told him. "But a heavy dose of it."

She gave him a sudden shrewd smile. "You always manage to pop in on me
when I've just gotten in a shipment. I've just managed to get this one
arranged, and another's on its way."

He chuckled, a hoarse sound due to his fondness for Cuban cigars. "It's
more your predictability than chance, Miss Winslow. Your Michael's been
in Europe for three weeks. I'd asked him to keep an eye out for a piece
or two for me before he left."

"Oh, well--" The jingle of the door interrupted her. "Mr. Chambers, I
didn't expect you back so soon."

Chambers gave her a rather sheepish smile as he removed his hat. "The
box with the pearl inlay," he began. "I can't resist it."

"Go on ahead, my dear." Layton gave Jessica's shoulder a pat. "I'll just
browse for the moment."

Pretending an interest in a collection of pewter, Slade watched both
men. Layton browsed, lingering here and there to examine a piece. Once
he drew out a pair of half glasses and crouched down to study the
carving on a table. Slade could hear Jessica's quiet voice as she
discussed a snuffbox with Chambers. He choked back a snort of derision
at the idea of a rational man buying anything as ridiculous as a
snuffbox. After telling Jessica to wrap the box, Chambers turned to fuss
over a curio cabinet.

It was a simple matter for Slade to mentally note both men's
descriptions and names. Later he would commit them to paper and call
them in. Whoever they were, they appeared to have at least a basic
knowledge of antiques--at least from what he could glean from their
conversation as they both discussed the cabinet. Wandering to the
counter, Slade glanced down at the ticket Jessica was writing up. Her
handwriting was neat, feminine, and legible.

One eighteenth-century snuffbox. French with pearl inlay.

It was the price that had him doing a double take. "Are you kidding?" he
asked aloud.

"Ssh!" She glanced over at her customers, saw that they were occupied,
then sent Slade a wicked grin. "Don't you have any vices, Slade?"

"Immoral, not insane," he retorted, but the grin had appealed to him. He
leaned a bit closer. "Do you?"

She let the look hold, enjoying the easy humor in his eyes. It was the
first time she'd seen it. "No." She gave a low laugh. "Absolutely none."

For the first time he reached out to touch her voluntarily--just the tip
of her hair with the tip of his finger. The pen slipped out of Jessica's
hand. "Are you corruptible?" he murmured. He was still smiling, but she
no longer felt easy. Jessica found herself grateful that the counter was
between them and there were customers in the shop.

"I wouldn't have thought so," she managed. Layton's hoarse chuckle
distracted her. Coming around the counter, Jessica walked toward her
customers, giving Slade a wide berth.

Dangerous curves ahead, her mind warned. One wrong turn with this man
and you'd be through the guardrail and over the cliff. She'd been too
cautious for too long to be reckless now.

"It's a lovely little piece," she said to both men. "It arrived right
after you'd left the other day, Mr. Chambers." She was aware, though he
made no sound, when Slade turned his attention from her and wandered to
the far end of the room.

In the end Chambers bought the cabinet, while Layton chose what Jessica
referred to as a fauteuil and a console from the Louis XV period. Slade
saw them as a chair and a table, too ornate for the average taste. But
elegant names, he imagined, equaled elegant prices.

"With customers like that," he commented when the shop was empty, "you
could open a place twice this size."

"I could," she agreed as she filed the slips. "But it's not what I want.
And, of course, not everyone buys as freely. Those are men who know what
they like and can afford to have it. It's my good fortune that they've
taken to buying it here for the past year or so."

She watched him poke around, opening a drawer here and there until he
settled in front of a corner cabinet. Inside was a collection of
porcelain figures.

"Lovely, aren't they?" she commented as she joined him.

He kept his back to her, though that didn't prevent her scent from
creeping into his senses. "Yeah, they're nice." She caught her bottom
lip between her teeth. It wasn't often

Dresden was described as nice. "My mother likes things like this."

"I've always thought this was the best in the collection." Jessica
opened the door and drew out a small, delicate shepherdess. "I nearly
whisked her away for myself."

Slade frowned at it. "She does have a birthday."

"And a thoughtful son." Her eyes were dancing when he lifted his to
them.

"How much?" he said flatly.

Jessica ran her tongue over her teeth. It was bargaining time. There was
nothing she liked better. "Twenty dollars," she said impulsively.

He laughed shortly. "I'm not stupid, Jessica. How much?"

When she tilted her head, the stubborn line appeared between her brows.
"Twenty-two fifty. That's my last offer."

Reluctantly, he smiled. "You're crazy."

"Take it or leave it," she said with a shrug. "It's your mother's
birthday after all."

"It's worth a hell of a lot more than that."

"It certainly would be to her," Jessica agreed.

Frustrated, Slade stuck his hands in his pockets and frowned at the
figurine again. "Twenty-five," he said.

"Sold." Before he could change his mind, Jessica hustled over to the
counter and began to box it. With a deft move, she peeled the price tag
from the bottom and dropped it in the trash. "I can gift-wrap if you
like," she said. "No charge."

Slowly he walked over to the counter, watching as she laid the porcelain
in a bed of tissue paper. "Why?"

"Because it's her birthday. Birthday presents should be wrapped."

"That's not what I mean." He put a hand on the box to stop her
movements. "Why?" he repeated.

Jessica gave him a long, considering look. He didn't like favors, she
concluded, and only took this one because it was for someone he cared
for. "Because I want to."

His brow lifted and his eyes were suddenly very intense. "Do you always
do what you want?"

"I give it my best shot. Doesn't everyone?"

Before he could answer, the door opened again. "Delivery for you, Miss
Winslow."

Slade felt a stir of excitement as the delivery was offloaded. Maybe,
just maybe, there'd be something. He wanted to tie this case up quickly,
neatly, and be gone... while he still had some objectivity. Jessica
Winslow had a way of smearing the issue. They weren't a man and woman,
and he couldn't forget it. He was a cop, she was a suspect. His job was
to find out what he could, even if it meant turning evidence on her.
Listening to her steady stream of excitement as he uncarted boxes, Slade
thought he'd never known anyone who appeared less capable of dishonesty.
But that was a feeling, a hunch. He needed facts.

In his temporary position as mover and hauler, he was able to examine
each piece carefully. He caught no uneasiness from Jessica, but rather
her appreciation for helping her check for damage during shipping. The
twinge of conscience infuriated him. He was doing his job, he reminded
himself. And it was her damn Uncle Charlie that had put him there.
Another year, Slade told himself again. Another year and there'd be no
commissioner to hand him special assignments as a baby sitter cum spy
for goddaughters with amber eyes.

He found nothing. His instinct had told him he wouldn't but Slade could
have used even a crumb to justify his presence. She never stopped
moving. For the two hours it took to unload the shipment, Jessica was
everywhere, polishing, arranging, dragging out empty crates. When there
was nothing more to do, she looked around for more.

"That's it," Slade told her before she could decide that something might
be shown to a better advantage somewhere else.

"I guess you're right." Absently, she rubbed at the small of her back.
"It's a good thing those three pieces are being shipped out Monday. It's
a bit crowded. Hey, I'm starving." She turned to him with an apologetic
smile. "I didn't mean to keep you so long, Slade. It's after five."
Without giving him a chance to comment, she dashed to the back room for
their jackets. "Here, I'll close up."

"How about a hamburger and a movie?" he said impulsively. I'm just
keeping an eye on her, he told himself. That's what I'm here to do.

Surprised, Jessica glanced around as she pulled down the last shade.
From the look on his face, she thought, amused, he was already half
regretting having asked. But that was no reason to let him off the hook.
"What a romantic invitation. How can I refuse?"

"You want romance?" he countered. "We'll go to a drive-in movie."

He heard her quick gurgle of laughter as he grabbed her hand and pulled
her outside.

It was late when the phone rang. The seated figure reached for it and a
cigarette simultaneously. "Hello."

"Where's the desk?"

"The desk?" Frowning, he brought the flame to the tip and drew. "It's
with the rest of the shipment, of course."

"You're mistaken." The voice was soft and cold. "I've been to the shop
myself."

"It has to be there." A flutter of panic rose in his throat. "Jessica
just hasn't unpacked it yet."

"Possibly. You'll clear this up immediately. I want the desk and its
contents by Wednesday." The pause was slight. "You understand the
penalty for mistakes."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 3
---------
Contents - Prev | Next

Jessica woke thinking of him. She took time on the lazy Sunday morning
to ponder the very odd Saturday she had spent--most of it with Slade. A
moody man, she mused, stretching her arms toward the ceiling. By turns
she had been comfortable with him, exasperated by him, and attracted to
him. No, that wasn't quite true, she amended. Even when she'd been
comfortable or exasperated, she'd been attracted. There was something
remote about him that made her want to pry him open a bit. She'd put
quite a lot of effort into that the evening before and had come up with
nothing. He wasn't a man for divulging secrets or bothering with small
talk. He was an odd combination of the direct and the aloof.

He didn't flatter--not by looks or words. And yet she felt certain that
he wasn't indifferent to her. It wasn't possible that she'd imagined
those moments of physical pull. They'd been there, for him as well as
for her. But he had guards, she thought with quick frustration. She'd
never known a man with such guards. Those dark, intense eyes of his
clearly said "Keep back; arm's length." While the challenge of piercing
his armor appealed to her, her own instinctive awareness of what the
consequences would be held her back. Jessica enjoyed a dare, but she
usually figured the odds first. In this case, she decided, they were
stacked against her.

A nice, cautious friendship was in order, she concluded. Anything else
spelled trouble. Rising, she picked up her robe and headed for the
shower. But wouldn't it be nice, she thought, to feel that rather hard
mouth on hers. Just once.

Downstairs, Slade was closeted in the library. He'd been up since
dawn--she was crowding his mind. What crazy impulse had prompted him to
ask her out the night before? After downing his fourth cup of coffee,
Slade lit a cigarette. For God's sake, he didn't have to date the woman
to do his job. She was getting to him, he admitted as he pushed a pile
of books aside. That low, musical laugh and all that soft blond hair. It
was more than that, he thought ruefully. It was her. She was too close
to possessing all the things he'd ever wanted in a woman--warmth,
generosity, intelligence. And that steamy, almost primitive sexuality
you could sense just under the surface. If he kept thinking of her that
way, it was going to cloud his objectivity. Even now he was finding
himself trying to work out a way to keep her out of the middle.

When Slade drew on the cigarette, his eyes were hard and opaque. He'd
protect her when the time came, expose her if it came to that. But there
was no way to keep her out of it. Still, over the mix of leather and
dust and smoke, he thought he caught a lingering trace of her scent.

After evading the cook's admonishment to put something in her stomach,
Jessica drank a hurried cup of coffee. "Where's David?" she called out
when she spotted Betsy, armed with a rag and a bottle of silver polish.

"He took a walk down to the beach." His mother harrumphed a bit, but
added, "He looks better. I guess the air'll do him good."

"I'll grab a jacket and check on him."

"Long as he doesn't know that's what you're up to."

"Betsy!" Jessica feigned offense. "I'm much too good for that." As the
housekeeper snorted, the doorbell sounded. "Go ahead," Jessica told her.
"I'll get it." She made a dash for the door. "Michael!" With pleasure,
she threw her arms around his neck. "It's good to have you back."

Slade came into the hall in time to see Jessica embraced and kissed.
With that low promising laugh, she pressed her cheek against the cheek
of a slender, dark-haired man with smooth features and light green eyes.
Michael Adams, Slade concluded, after conquering the urge to stride up
to the couple and yank them apart. The description fit. He caught the
gleam of a diamond on the man's pinky as he ran his hand through
Jessica's hair. Soft hands and a sunlamp tan, Slade thought instantly.

"I've missed you, darling." Michael drew Jessica back far enough to
smile into her face.

She laughed again, touching a hand to his cheek before she stepped out
of his arms. "Knowing you, Michael, you were too busy with business
and... other things to miss anyone. How many broken hearts did you leave
in Europe?"

"I never break them," Michael claimed before brushing her lips again.
"And I did miss you."

"Come inside and tell me everything," she ordered while tucking her arm
through his. "The stock you sent back is wonderful, as always. I've
already sold... oh, hello, Slade." The moment Jessica turned, she saw
him. Quickly, potently, his eyes locked on hers. She had to use all of
her strength of will not to draw in her breath. Was there a demand in
them? she wondered. A question? Confused, she gave a slight shake of her
head. What was it he wanted from her? And why was she ready to give it
without even knowing what it was?

"Jessica." There was a faint smile on his face as he waited.

"Michael, this is James Sladerman. He's staying with us for a while and
trying to make some order out of the library."

"No small job from what I've seen of it," Michael commented. "I hope
you've got plenty of time."

"Enough."

Knowing the housekeeper would be close enough to eavesdrop, Jessica
stepped away from Michael and called her. "Betsy, could we have coffee
in the parlor? Slade, you'll join us?"

She had expected him to refuse, but he gave her a slow smile. "Sure." He
didn't have to look at Michael to see the annoyance before they walked
into the parlor.

"Why, Jessica, what's the Queen Anne doing here?"

"Fate," she told him, then laughed as she sat on the sofa. "I'd meant to
ask you to find one for me. When I saw it on the shipping list, I
wondered if you were psychic."

After studying it for a moment, he nodded. "It certainly suits this
room." He sat next to Jessica as Slade settled in an armchair. "No
problem with the shipments?"

"No, they're already unpacked. As a matter of fact, three pieces go out
tomorrow. David's been ill this past week. Slade helped me get things in
order yesterday."

"Really?" Michael took out a wafer-thin gold case, then offered Slade a
cigarette. Refusing with a shake of his head, Slade pulled out his own
pack, "Do you know antiques, Mr. Sladerman?"

"No." Slade struck a match, watching Michael over the flame. "Unless we
count the lesson Jessica gave me yesterday."

Michael sat back, tossing an arm casually over the back of the sofa.
"What do you do?" His smooth, neat fingers toyed absently with Jessica's
hair. Slade took a hard drag on his cigarette.

"I'm a writer."

"Fascinating. Would I have read any of your work?"

He gave Michael a long, steady stare. "I wouldn't think so."

"Slade is working on a novel," Jessica intervened. There were
undercurrents that made her uncomfortable. "You haven't told me yet what
it's about."

He caught the look in her eye, recognizing it as a plea for peace. Not
yet, he decided. We'll just see what we can stir up. "Smuggling," he
said flatly. There was a loud clatter of china from the doorway.

"Damn!" David took a firmer grip on the tray, then gave Jessica a
sheepish smile. "I almost dropped the whole works."

"David!" She sprang up to take the coffee tray from him. "You can hardly
carry yourself, much less all this." Slade watched him give her a
disgruntled look before he flopped into a chair.

David was still pale--or had the loss of color come when smuggling had
been mentioned? Slade wondered. There was a faint line of sweat on his
brow between his mop of hair and his glasses. After setting down the
tray, Jessica turned back to him.

"How do you feel?"

David scowled at her. "Don't fuss."

"All right." She leaned over until her face was level with his. "If I'd
known you were going to be such a bad patient, I'd have brought you some
crayons and colored paper."

Though he gave her hair a hard tug, he grinned. "Get me some coffee and
shut up."

"Oh, yes, sir," she said meekly.

When she turned, David sent Slade a quick wink. "Gotta know how to
handle these society types. Hi, Michael. Welcome back." Reaching in his
pocket, he found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. As he searched for
matches, his eyes lit on the desk. "Hey, what's this?"

"One of Michael's finds I've already laid claim to," Jessica told him as
she brought him his coffee. "You can take care of the paperwork next
week."

"Monday," he said firmly, eyeing the desk. "Queen Anne."

"It's lovely, isn't it?" She handed Slade a cup before crossing to it.
Opening the lid, she showed off the inside.

Slade felt the back of his neck prickle. There was a rise in tension, he
felt it--could nearly smell it. Shifting his eyes from Jessica, he
studied both men. Michael added cream to his coffee. David found his
match. With a half shrug, Slade told himself he was getting jumpy.

"And wait until you see the rest of the stock," Jessica told David as
she came back to the sofa. "Michael outdid himself."

Slade let the conversation hum around him, answering briefly if he was
asked a direct question. She was crazy about the kid, he concluded. It
showed in the way she teased, lightly bullied, and catered to him. Slade
remembered her comment about having wanted a brother or sister. David
was obviously her substitute. How far would she go to protect him? he
wondered. All the way flashed through his mind. If there was one firm
impression he'd gotten from Jessica Winslow, it was loyalty.

Her relationship with Michael was less defined. If they were lovers,
Slade concluded that she was very casual about it. Somehow he didn't
feel Jessica would be casual about intimacy. Passion, he thought again.
There was hot, vibrant passion smoldering in that slender little body.
If Michael was her lover, Slade would have seen some sign of it in the
kiss they had exchanged at the door.

If she had been in his arms, it would have been there, he thought as his
gaze drifted to her mouth. It was soft and unpainted. From ten feet away
he could all but taste it. Slowly, irresistibly, desire crept into him,
and with it an ache--a dull, throbbing ache he'd never felt before. If
he could have her, even once, the ache would go. Slade could almost
convince himself of that. He needed to touch that butter-soft skin,
experience that promise of passion, then he'd be free of her. He had to
be free of her.

Glancing up, Jessica found herself trapped again. His eyes imprisoned
her. She could feel herself being pulled--as physical a sensation as if
he had taken her hand. She resisted. He's quicksand, her mind flashed.
You'll never get away if you take that final step. And yet the risk
tempted her.

"Jessica."

Michael took her hand, scattering her thoughts. "Hmm, yes?"

"How about dinner tonight? The little place up the coast you like."

His calm, familiar green eyes smiled at her. Jessica felt her pulses
level. This was a man she understood. "I'd love to."

"And don't worry about getting home early," David put in. "I'm minding
the shop tomorrow; you stay home."

Jessica lifted her brow at the order. "Oh, really?"

David snorted at the dry tone. "There goes Miss Radcliffe," he told
Slade. "She forgets I was around when she was twelve and had braces on
her teeth."

"How would you like to be flat on your back again?" she invited sweetly.
"I'll be ready at seven," she told Michael, ignoring David's grin.

"Fine." Giving her a quick kiss, Michael rose. "See you tomorrow, David.
Nice to meet you, Mr. Sladerman."

As he left, Jessica set down her cup and sprang up, as if she had been
in one place too long. "I'm going to take Ulysses for a walk on the
beach."

"Don't look at me," David drawled. "I have to conserve my energy."

"I wasn't going to ask you. Slade?"

He would have liked to steer clear of her for a while. Resigned, he
rose. "Sure. I'll get a jacket."

The beach was long and rocky. From off the bay, the breeze was keen and
tinged with salt. Jessica was laughing, stooping to pick up driftwood
and toss it for the dog to chase. Ulysses bounded up the beach and back
again, running energetic circles around them until Jessica flung another
stick. To the right, water hurled itself on rocks, then rose in a misty
spray. Slade watched Jessica run to another piece of driftwood.

Doesn't she ever walk? he wondered. She laughed again, holding the stick
over her head as the dog leaped clumsily at it. Don't contact us unless
you have something useful. Slade jammed his hands in his pockets as he
remembered his orders. Watch the woman. He was watching the woman, damn
it. And she was getting to him. Watch what the sunlight does to her
hair. Watch how a pair of faded jeans cling to narrow hips. Watch how
her mouth curves when she smiles... Watch Detective Sladerman blow
everything because he can't keep his mind off a skinny woman with
brandy-colored eyes.

"What are you thinking?"

He snapped back to find Jessica a step in front of him searching his
face. Cursing himself, he realized he was going to blow more than his
cover if he wasn't careful. "That I haven't been to the beach in a long
time," he improvised.

Jessica narrowed her eyes. "No, I don't think so," she murmured. "I
wonder what it is about you that makes you so secretive." With an
impatient gesture, she pushed back her hair. The wind immediately blew
it back in her face. "But it's your business, I suppose."

Annoyed, he picked up a rock and hurled it into the breakers. "I wonder
what it is about you that makes you so suspicious."

"Curious," she corrected, a bit puzzled by his choice of word. "You're
an interesting man, Slade, perhaps because there's so much you don't
say."

"What do you want, a biography?"

"You annoy easily," she murmured.

He whirled to her. "Don't push it, Jess."

The nickname pleased her--no one but her father had ever used it. The
fury on his face pleased her too. She'd poked the first hole in his
shield. "And if I do?" she challenged.

"You'll get pushed back. I'm not polite."

She laughed. "No, you damn well aren't. Should that scare me?"

She was baiting him. Even knowing it didn't help. Slim and strong, she
stood in front of him, her hair whipped around her face by the wind. Her
eyes were gold and insolent. No, she wouldn't scare easily. Slade told
himself it was to prove a point. Even as he yanked her into his arms, he
told himself it was to prove a point. He saw it on her face:
anticipation, acceptance. No fear. Cursing her, he brought his mouth
down hard on hers.

It was as he thought it would be. Soft, fragrant, pliant. She melted
like wax in his arms even as his lips bruised hers. A man could drown in
her. The pounding of the surf seemed to echo in his head. There was a
sensation of standing in the surf, having it ebb and suck the sand from
under him. He dragged her closer.

Her breasts yielded against the hard line of his chest, tempting him to
explore their shape with his hands. But all his power, all his
concentration, was bound up in the pressure of mouth to mouth. Her hands
slid under his jacket, up his back, pressing, urging him to take more.
Head swimming, he drew away, struggling to separate himself. With a
long, shaky breath, Jessica dropped her head on his shoulder.

"I nearly suffocated."

His arms were still around her. He'd meant to drop them. Now, with her
snuggled close, her hair brushing his cheek, he wasn't certain he could.
Then she tilted her face to his--she was smiling.

"You're supposed to breathe through your nose," he told her.

"I think I forgot."

So did I, he mused. "Then take a deep breath," Slade suggested. "I'm not
nearly finished yet."

With no less force, with no less turbulence, his mouth returned to hers.
This time she was prepared. No longer passive, Jessica made demands of
her own. Her lips parted and her tongue met his, searching, teasing,
tasting. His flavor was as dark and unsettling as she had imagined.
Greedy, she dove deeper. She heard his moan, felt the sudden race of his
heart against her own. An urgency filled her so quickly that it took
total command. There was nothing but him--his arms, his lips. He was all
she wanted.

She had never felt this kind of need or this kind of power. Even when
his lips were brutal, she returned the same aggression. Arousal was too
tame a word, excitement too bland. Jessica felt a frenzy, a burst of
energy that could only be tamed by possession.

Touch me! she wanted to scream as her fingers gripped his hair
desperately. Take me! It's never been like this and I can't bear to lose
it. She strained against him, her gesture as much a demand as an
offering. He was stronger, she knew--the sleek, hard muscles warned
her--but his need could be no greater. No need could be greater than the
one that throbbed in her, pounded in her. Her body felt assaulted, both
helpless and invulnerable.

Oh show me, she thought dizzily. I've waited so long to really know.

A gull screamed overhead. Like a spray of ice water, it jolted Slade
back. What the hell was he doing? he demanded as he pushed Jessica away.
Or more to the point, what was she doing to him? He'd lost
everything--his purpose, his identity, his sanity--in one heady taste of
her. Now she stared at him, cheeks flushed with passion, eyes dark with
it. Her mouth was moist and swollen from his, parted, with her breath
coming rapidly.

"Slade." With his name husky on her lips, she reached for him.

Roughly, he caught her wrist before she could touch him. "You'd better
go in."

There was nothing in his eyes now. They were opaque again, unreadable.
He stared down at her with a complete lack of interest. For an instant
she was too confused to understand. He'd taken her to the edge, to that
thin, tenuous border, then had rudely shoved her back as though she
hadn't moved him in the least. Shame flooded her face with color. Anger
stole in again.

"Damn you," she whispered. Turning, she dashed for the beach steps and
took them two at a time.

Jessica dressed with care. There was nothing like the feel of silk
against the skin to salve wounded pride. Turning sideways in front of
the full-length mirror, she gave a nod of approval. The lines of the
dress were simple, except for the surprising plunge in the back that
dipped just below the waist. It didn't bother her conscience that she
had chosen the dress more with Slade in mind than Michael. And the color
suited her mood--a deep, imperial purple. She swept her hair back from
her face with two diamond-crusted pins, then let it fall as it chose.
Satisfied, Jessica grabbed her evening bag and started downstairs.

She found Slade in the parlor, tightening a screw in a Chippendale
commode. His hands were lean and competent. She remembered the feel of
them when they'd run over her body in a quick, desperate search. "Well,
aren't you handy," Jessica stated.

He glanced up, frowned, and tightened his grip on the screwdriver. Did
she have to look like that? he thought darkly. The dress clung
everywhere, and from the way she walked by him, he knew she was aware of
it. Slade turned the screw savagely. "Betsy complained that the handle
was loose," he muttered.

"Jack of all trades," she said lightly. "Drink? I'm fixing martinis."

He started to refuse, then made the mistake of looking over at her. Her
back was naked and slim and smooth. The silk shifted enticingly as she
reached for a bottle of vermouth. Desire was as breathtaking as a punch
in the solar plexus.

"Scotch," he snapped.

She smiled over her shoulder. "Rocks?"

"Straight up."

"Drink like a man, do you, Slade?" Oh, she'd get through that damned
indifference, Jessica vowed. And enjoy every minute of it. After pouring
him three fingers, she brought the glass to him. He slipped the
screwdriver into the back pocket of his jeans and rose. Keeping his eyes
on hers, Slade took a long, slow sip of Scotch.

"Dress like a woman, do you, Jess?"

Determined to rattle him, she turned a circle. "Like it?"

"Did you wear it to stir up Adams' juices or mine?" he countered.

With a provocative smile, she turned away to finish the martinis. "Do
you think women always dress to stir men up?"

"Don't they?"

"Normally I dress for myself." After pouring a drink, she turned back to
regard him over the rim. "Tonight I thought I'd test a theory."

He went to her. The challenge in her eyes and his own ego made it
imperative, just as she had anticipated. "What theory?"

Jessica met his angry gaze without faltering. "Do you have any
weaknesses, Slade? Any Achilles' heel?"

Deliberately he set down his own glass, then took hers. He felt her
stiffen, though she didn't back away. His fingers circled her neck,
coaxing her lips to within an inch of his. She felt the warm rush of his
breath on her skin.

"You could regret finding out, Jess. I won't treat you like a lady."

She tossed her head back. Though her heart was hammering, she met his
eyes with an angry dare. "Who asked you to?"

His fingers tightened; her lashes lowered. The doorbell rang. Slade
picked up his drink and downed the rest of it. "Your date," he said
shortly, then stalked out of the room.

Slade pulled his car to a halt a short distance away from the
restaurant, switched off the engine, pulled out a cigarette, then
waited. Michael's Daimler was just being parked by the valet. Slade
would have been more comfortable if he could have slipped inside to keep
a closer eye on Jessica, but that was too risky.

He saw the car pull up behind him. Tension pricked at the back of his
neck as the driver climbed out to approach his car. Slade slipped a hand
inside his jacket and gripped the butt of his gun. A badge was pressed
against the window glass. Slade relaxed as the man rounded the hood to
enter by the passenger side.

"Sladerman." Agent Brewster gave a quick nod of greeting. "You follow
the lady, I follow the man. Commissioner Dodson told you I'd be in
touch?"

"Yeah."

"Greenhart's looking after Ryce. Not a lot of action there; the guy's
been laid up for more than a week. You've got nothing yet, I take it."

"Nothing" Slade shifted to a more comfortable position. "I spent the day
at her shop Saturday, helped her uncart a new shipment. If there was
anything in it, I'd swear she didn't know it. I had my hands all over
everything in that place. She's too damn casual to be hiding anything."

"Maybe." With a weighty sigh, Brewster pulled out a worn black pipe and
began to pack it. "If that fancy little shop's the dump site, at least
one of 'em's hiding something... maybe all three. Seems Ryce is like
baby brother. As for Adams..." Brewster struck a match and sucked on his
pipe. Slade said nothing. "Well, the lady's got the justice's name
behind her and a lot of political pressure to keep her name clear, but
if she's involved, it's going to hit the fan."

"She's not," he heard himself say, then flipped his cigarette out the
window.

"You're in the majority," Brewster commented easily. "Even if she's as
pure as a mother's heart, she's in a hell of a spot right now.
Pressure's building, Sladerman. The lid's going to blow real soon, and
when it does, it's going to get ugly. Winslow might find herself right
in the middle. Dodson seems to think you're good enough to keep her out
of the way when it goes down."

"I'll take care of her," Slade muttered. "I don't like her being alone
with Adams in there."

"Well, I missed my dinner." Brewster touched his rounded stomach. "I'll
just go eat on the taxpayers' money and keep an eye on your lady."

"She's not my lady," Slade mumbled.

The restaurant was quiet and candlelit. By the table where Jessica sat
with Michael was a breathtaking view of the Sound. On the night-black
water there was moonlight and the scattered reflection of stars. The
murmur of diners was discreet--low tones, soft laughter. The scent of
fresh flowers mixed with the aroma of food and candlewax. Champagne
buzzed pleasantly in her head. If someone had told her she'd been
working too hard lately, Jessica would have laughed. But now she was
completely relaxed for the first time in over a week.

"I'm glad you thought of this, Michael."

He liked the way the light flickered over her face, throwing a mystery
of shadows under her cheekbones, enhancing the odd golden hue of her
eyes. Why was it she always seemed that much more beautiful when he'd
been away from her? And had he, for a dozen foolish reasons, waited too
long?

"Jessica." He brought her hand to his lips. "I've missed you."

The gesture and the tone of his voice surprised her. "It's good to have
you back, Michael."

Odd that he'd always been known for his smooth lines and was now unable
to think how to proceed. "Jessica... I want you to start coming with me
on the buying trips."

"Come with you?" Her brow creased. "Why, Michael? You're more than
capable of handling that end. I hate to admit it, but you're much better
at it than I."

"I don't want to be away from you again."

Puzzled, Jessica gave a quick laugh as she squeezed his hand. "Michael,
don't tell me you were lonely. I know there's nothing you like better
than zipping around Europe hunting up treasures. If you were homesick,
it's a first."

His fingers tightened on hers. "I wasn't homesick, Jessica, and there
was only one thing I was lonely for. I want you to marry me."

Surprise was a mild term; Jessica was stunned, and her face was
transparent. Marry? She nearly thought she had misunderstood him. She
could hardly conceive of Michael wanting to be married at all, but to
her? They'd been together for nearly three years, business associates,
friends, but never...

"Jessica, you must know how I feel." He placed a hand over their joined
ones. "I've loved you for years."

"Michael, I had no idea. Oh, Michael, that sounds so trite." She ran the
fingers of her free hand up and down the stem of her glass. "I don't
know what to say to you."

"Say yes."

"Michael, why now? Why all of a sudden?" She stopped the nervous
movement of her hand and studied him. "You never even hinted that you
had any feelings for me other than affection."

"Do you know how hard it's been," he asked quietly, "contenting myself
with that? Jessica, you weren't ready for my feelings. You've been so
wrapped up in making a success out of the shop. You needed to make a
success of it. And I wanted to build up my own part of it before I asked
you. We both needed to be independent."

It was true, all that he said. And yet how was she to suddenly stop
seeing him as Michael, her friend, her associate, and see him as
Michael, her lover, her husband? "I don't know."

He squeezed her hand, either in reassurance or frustration. "I didn't
expect you would so quickly. Will you think about it?"

"Yes, of course I will." And even as she promised, the memory of a
violent embrace on a windy beach ran through her mind.

In the late hours the phone rang, but it didn't wake him. He'd been
expecting it.

"You've located my property?"

He moistened his lips, then dried them again with the back of his hand.
"Yes... Jessica took the desk home. There's a small problem."

"I don't like problems."

Cold beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. "I'll get the diamonds
out. It's just that Jessica's always around. There's no way I can take
the desk apart and get them while she's in the house. I need some time
to convince her to go away for a few days."

"Twenty-four hours."

"But that's not--"

"That's all the time you have... or all the time Miss Winslow will
have."

Sweat coated his lip and he lifted a trembling hand to wipe it away.
"Don't do anything to her. I'll get them."

"For Miss Winslow's sake, be successful. Twenty-four hours," he
repeated. "If you don't have them by then, she'll be disposed of. I'll
retrieve my property myself."

"No! I'll get them. Don't hurt her. You swore she'd never have to be
involved."

"She involved herself. Twenty-four hours."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 4
---------
Contents - Prev | Next

Jessica had no answers. Alone, she sat on the beach, chin on her knees,
and watched the early sun spread streaks of pink above the water. Yards
away, Ulysses chased the surf, bounding back to the shore each time it
turned on him. He'd given up on the idea of conning Jessica into tossing
sticks for him.

She'd always liked the beach at sunrise. It helped her think. The
screech of gulls, the pound of water against rock, the burgeoning light,
always calmed her mind so that an answer could be found. Not this time.
It wasn't as if she'd never considered marriage, sharing a home, raising
a family--but she'd never had a clear picture of the man. Could it be
Michael?

She enjoyed being with him, talking to him. They shared interests.
But... oh, there was a but, she thought as she lowered her forehead to
her knees. An enormous but. And he loved her. She'd been blind to it.
Where was her sensitivity? she wondered with a surge of guilt and
frustration. How could a thing--a business--have been so important that
it blocked her vision? Worse, now that she knew, what was she to do
about it?

Slade came down the beach steps swearing. How the hell could he keep a
rein on a woman who took off before sunrise? Gone walking on the beach,
Betsy had told him. Alone on a deserted beach, Slade thought grimly,
completely vulnerable to anything and anyone. Did she always have to be
moving, doing? Why couldn't she have been the lazy halfwit he'd imagined
her to be?

Then he spotted her--head down, shoulders slumped. If it hadn't been for
the mass of wheat-colored hair, he would have sworn it was another
woman. Jessica stood straight and was always heading somewhere--usually
too fast. She didn't curl up in a ball of defeat. Uncomfortable, he
thrust his hands in his pockets and walked toward her.

She didn't hear him, but sensed the intrusion and the identity of the
intruder almost simultaneously. Slowly she straightened, then looked out
at the horizon again.

"Good morning," she said when he stood beside her. "You're up early."

"So are you."

"You worked late. I heard your typewriter."

"Sorry."

"No." A fleeting smile. "I liked it. Is the book going well?"

Slade glanced up as a gull soared over their heads, white-breasted and
silent. "It moved for a while last night." Something's wrong, he
thought. He started to sit beside her, then changed his mind and
remained standing. "What is it, Jess?"

She didn't answer immediately, but turned her head to study his face.
And what would he do, she wondered, if he wanted a woman to marry him?
Would he wait patiently, choose the best time, then be satisfied when
she asked him to wait for an answer? A ghost of a smile touched her
lips. God no.

"Have you had many lovers?" she asked.

"What!"

She didn't pay any attention to his incredulous expression but turned to
stare out at the surf again. "I imagine you have," she murmured. "You're
a very physical man." The clouds skimming over the water were shot
through with red and gold. As she spoke Jessica watched them brighten.
"I can count mine on three fingers," she continued in a tone that was
more absent than confidential. "The first was in college, a relationship
so brief it hardly seems fair to include it. He sent me carnations and
read Shelley out loud."

She laughed a little as she settled her chin back on her knees. "Later,
when I was touring Europe, there was this older man, French, very
sophisticated. I fell like a ton of bricks... then I found out he was
married and had two children." Shaking her head, Jessica gripped her
knees tighter. "After that there was an advertising executive. Oh, he
had a way with words. It was right after my father died, and I was...
groping. He borrowed ten thousand dollars from me and vanished. I
haven't been involved with a man since." She brooded out to sea. "I
didn't want to get stung again, so I've been careful. Maybe too
careful."

He wasn't overly pleased to hear about the men in her life. Forcing
himself to be objective, he listened. When she fell silent, Slade
dropped down beside her. For the space of a full minute, there was
nothing but the sound of crashing waves and calling gulls.

"Jess, why are you telling me this?"

"Maybe because I don't know you. Maybe because it seems I've known you
for years." A bit shakily, she laughed and dragged her hands through her
hair. "I don't know." Taking a deep breath, she stared straight ahead.
"Michael asked me to marry him."

It hit him hard--like a stunning blow to the back of the neck that
leaves you disoriented just for an instant before unconsciousness. Very
deliberately Slade gathered a handful of sand, then let it sift through
his fingers. "And?"

"And I don't know what to do!" She turned to him then, all turbulent
eyes and frustration. "I hate not knowing what to do."

Stop it now, he ordered himself. Tell her you're not interested in
hearing about her problems. But the words were already slipping out.
"How do you feel about him?"

"I depend on Michael," she began, talking fast. "He's part of my life.
He's important to me, very important--"

"But you don't love him," Slade finished calmly. "Then you should know
what to do."

"It's not that simple," she tossed back. With a sound of exasperation,
she started to rise, then made herself sit still. "He's in love with me.
I don't want to hurt him, and maybe..."

"Maybe you should marry him so he won't be hurt?" Slade gave a mirthless
laugh. "Don't be such an idiot."

Anger rose quickly and was as quickly suppressed. It was difficult to
argue with logic. More miserable than offended, she watched a gull swoop
low over the water. "I know marrying him would only hurt both of us in
the long run, especially if his feelings for me are as deep as he thinks
they are."

"You're not sure he's in love with you," Slade murmured, considering the
other reasons Michael might want her to marry him.

"I'm sure he thinks he is," Jessica returned. "I thought maybe if we
became lovers, then--"

"Good God!" He caught her by the shoulder roughly. "Are you considering
offering your body as some sort of consolation prize?"

"Don't!" She shut her eyes so she couldn't see the derision in his. "You
make it sound so dirty."

"What the hell are you thinking of?" he demanded.

In an uncharacteristic gesture of futility she lifted her hands. "My
track record with men has been so poor, I thought... well, given a
little time he'd change his mind."

"Imbecile," Slade said shortly. "Just tell him no."

"Now you make it sound so easy."

"You're making it complicated, Jess."

"Am I?" For a moment she lowered her forehead to her knees again. His
hand was halfway to her hair before he stopped himself. "You're so sure
of yourself, Slade. Nothing makes a coward of me more than people I care
about. The idea of facing him again, knowing what I have to do, makes me
want to run."

He was responding to the fragility she so rarely showed. Deep inside
him, something struggled to be free to comfort her. He banked it down an
instant before it was too late. "He won't be the first man who's had a
proposal turned down."

She sighed. Nothing she'd said had made sense once it had been spoken
aloud--everything he said had. Some of the burden lifted. With a half
smile, she turned to him. "Have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Had a proposal turned down."

He grinned, pleased that the lost look had left her eyes. "No... but
then, marriage didn't figure in any of them."

She gave her quick gurgle of laughter. "What did?"

Reaching over, he grabbed a handful of her hair. "Is this color real?"

"That's an abominably rude question."

"One deserves another," he countered.

"If I answer yours will you answer mine?"

"No."

"Then I suppose we'll both have to use our imagination." Jessica laughed
again and started to rise, but the hand on her hair stopped her.

The quizzical smile she gave him faded quickly. His eyes were fixed on
hers, dark, intense, and for once readable. Desire. Hot, electric,
restless desire. And she was drawn to him, already aroused by a look.
For the first time she was afraid. He was going to take something from
her she wouldn't easily get back, if she managed to get it back at all.
He pulled her closer, and she resisted. In an instinctive defense
against a nebulous fear, Jessica put her hands to his chest.

"No. This isn't what I want." Yes, yes, it is, her eyes told him even
while her hands pushed him away.

In one move she was under him on the sand. "I warned you, I wouldn't
treat you like a lady."

His mouth lowered, took, and enticed. Fear was buried in an avalanche of
passion. At the first taste of him, response overwhelmed her, wild and
free. Jessica forgot what she stood to lose and simply experienced. His
tongue probed, slowly searching, expertly seducing, while his lips
crushed hers in an endless, exquisite demand. She answered, mindlessly
willing, desperately wanting. Then he tore his mouth from hers to move
over her face, as if to absorb the texture of her skin through the sense
of taste alone.

She fretted to have his lips on hers, turning her head in search. Then
suddenly, fiercely, he buried his lips at her throat, wrenching a moan
from her. The sand made whispering sounds as she shifted, wanting the
agonized delight he was causing to go on and on.

Her hands found their way under his sweater, up the planes and muscles
of his back, down the hard line of ribs to a lean waist. The moist air
smelled of salt and the sea, and faintly, of the musky scent of passion.
His mouth found hers again, unerringly, as water crashed like thunder on
the rocks nearby. She felt his lips move against hers, though the
meaning of his murmur was lost to her. Only the tone--a hint of angry
desperation--came through. Then his hands began to search, with bruising
meticulousness, from her hips to her breasts, lingering there as if
trapped by the softness. She was unaware of the sun beating down on her
closed lids, of the coarse sand under her back. There was only his lips
and hands now.

Calloused fingers ran over her skin, scraping, kindling fresh fires
while feeding those already ablaze. Roughly he caught her bottom lip
between his teem, drawing it into his mouth to suck and nibble until her
sighs were moans. In a sudden frenzy Jessica arched against him, center
to throbbing center. Denim strained against denim in a thin, frustrating
barrier.

On a groan, Slade buried his face in her hair, immersed in the scent of
it as he groped for control. But there'd be no control, he knew, with
the taste and scent and feel of her overpowering him.

With a muffled oath he rolled from her, springing up before she could
touch him and make him forget all reason.

Slade drew air into his lungs harshly, letting it cool the heat that
radiated through him. He had to be out of his mind, he thought, to have
come that close to taking her. Seconds passed. He could tick them off by
the sound of her unsteady breathing behind him. And his own.

"Jess--"

"No, don't say anything. I get the picture." Her voice was thick and
wavering. When he turned back, she had risen to brush off the clinging
sand. The glint of the morning sun haloed the crown of her head even
while the breeze tossed the ends up and back. "You changed your mind.
Everyone's entitled." When she started to walk by him, Slade gripped her
arm. Jessica jerked against his hold, found it firm, then threw up her
chin.

Hurt. Slade could see it all too well beneath the anger in her eyes. It
was better that way, he told himself. Smarter. But the words came out of
his mouth before he could stop them. "Would you prefer that we'd made
love on the beach like a couple of teenagers?"

She'd forgotten where they'd been. Place and time hadn't mattered when
the need to love had been paramount. It only cut deeper into her pride
that he had remembered and had maintained enough control to stop. "I'd
prefer you didn't touch me again," she returned coolly. She lowered her
eyes to his restraining hand, then lifted them again, slowly. "Starting
now."

Slade's grip only tightened. "I warned you once not to push me."

"Push you?" Jessica retorted. "I didn't start this, I didn't want this."

"No, you didn't start it." He took her shoulders now, giving her three
hard shakes. "And I didn't want it either, so back off."

Her teeth snapped together on the final shake. If hurt had outweighed
anger before, now the tide was turned. Enraged, Jessica knocked both of
his hands away. "Don't you dare shout at me!" she yelled, outdoing him
in volume. Behind them water hurled itself against rock, then lifted in
a tumultuous spray. "And don't intimate that I've thrown myself at you
because I haven't." With her arms pinned, she had to toss her head to
free it of blowing hair. Her eyes glinted behind the dancing strands.
"I'd have you crawling on your hands and knees if I wanted!"

His eyes became gray slits. Anger mixed with an uncomfortable certainty
that she probably could. "I don't crawl for any woman, much less some
snotty little twit who uses perfume as a weapon."

"Snotty little--" She broke off, sputtering. "Twit!" she managed after
an outraged moment. "Why, you simple-minded, egotistical ass." Unable to
think of a better defense, she shoved a hand against his chest. "I hope
you haven't put a woman in that novel of yours because you know zip! I'm
not even wearing any perfume. And I wouldn't need--" Breathing hard,
Jessica trailed off. "What the hell are you grinning at?"

"Your face is pink," he told her. "It's cute."

Her eyes flashed, golden fury. The intent for violence was clear in the
step she took toward him. Lifting his hands aloft, palms out, Slade
stepped back.

"Truce?" He wasn't sure when or how, but sometime during her diatribe
his anger had simply vanished. He was almost sorry. Fighting with her
was nearly as stimulating as kissing her. Nearly.

Jessica hesitated. Her temper hadn't run its course, but there was
something very appealing about the way he smiled at her. It was friendly
and a shade admiring. She had the quick notion that it was the first
absolutely sincere smile he'd given her. And it was more important than
her anger.

"Maybe," she said, not willing to be too forgiving too quickly.

"State your terms."

After a moment's consideration she placed her hands on her hips. "Take
back the snotty little twit."

The gleam of pure humor in his eyes pleased her. "For the simple-minded,
egotistical ass."

Bargaining was her biggest vice. Jessica curled her fingers and
contemplated her nails'. "Just the simple-minded. The rest stands."

He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. "You're a tough
lady."

"You got it."

When he held out his hand, they shook solemnly. "One more thing." Since
they'd dealt with the anger, Slade wanted to deal with the hurt. "I
didn't change my mind."

She didn't speak. After a moment he slipped an arm around her shoulders
and began to lead her back toward the beach steps. Without too much
effort, he blocked out the nagging voice that told him he was making a
mistake.

"Slade."

He glanced down at her as they skirted the small grove at the top of the
steps. "What?"

"Michael's coming to dinner tonight."

"Okay, I'll stay out of the way."

"No." She spoke too quickly, then bit her lip. "No, actually, I was
wondering if you could..."

"Play chaperone?" he finished shortly. "Careful, Jess, you're coming
close to being a twit again."

Refusing to be angry, she stopped in the center of the lawn and turned
to him. "Slade, everything you said on the beach is true. I'd said the
same to myself. But I love Michael--almost the same way I love David."
When he only frowned at her, she sighed. "What I have to do tonight
hurts. I'd just like some moral support. It would be a little easier if
you were there during dinner. Afterward I'll handle it."

Reluctant and resigned, Slade let out a long breath. "Just through
dinner. And you're going to owe me one."

Hours later Jessica paced the parlor. Her heels clicked on the hardwood
floor, fell silent over the Persian carpet, then clicked again. She was
grateful that David had a date. It would have been impossible to have
hidden her mood from him, and just as impossible to have confided in
him. The business relationship was bound to be strained now between her
and Michael. Jessica didn't want to add more problems. Perhaps Michael
would even decide to resign. She hated the thought of it.

Oh, it would always be possible to replace a buyer, she thought, but
they'd been so close, such a good team. Shutting her eyes, she cursed
herself. She couldn't help thinking of Michael in conjunction with the
shop. It had always been that way. Maybe if they had known each other
before the partnership, like she and David, her feelings would be
different. Jessica clasped her hands together again. No, there simply
wasn't that... spark. If there had been, the shop would never have
interfered.

She'd felt the spark once or twice in her life--that quick jolt that
says maybe, just maybe. There'd been no spark with Slade, she mused.
There'd been an eruption. Annoyed, Jessica shook her head. She shouldn't
be thinking of Slade now, or of the two turbulent times she'd been in
his arms. It was only right that she concentrate on Michael, on how to
say no without hurting him.

Before coming into the room, Slade stopped to watch her. Always moving,
he thought, but this time there were nerves beneath the energy. She was
wearing a very simple, very sophisticated black dress with her hair
caught in a braid over one shoulder. Looking at her, Slade had a
moment's sympathy for Michael. It wouldn't be easy to love a woman like
that and lose. Unless Michael was a total fool, one glance at her face
was going to give him her answer. She'd never have to open her mouth.

"He's going to survive, Jess." When she whirled, Slade strode over to
the liquor cabinet. "There are other women, you know." He was
deliberately off-hand, deliberately cynical, knowing what her reaction
would be. Even with his back to her, he thought he could feel the sudden
blaze of heat from her eyes.

"I hope you fall hard one day, Slade," Jessica retorted. "And I hope she
thumbs her nose at you."

He poured himself a Scotch. "Not a chance," he said lightly. "Want a
drink?"

"I'll have some of that." She walked over and snatched the glass from
his hand, then took a long sip.

"Dutch courage?" he asked when she swallowed, controlling a grimace.

She gave him a narrow look while the liquor burned her throat. "You're
being purposely horrid."

"Yeah. Don't you feel better?"

With a helpless laugh, she shoved the glass back in his hand. "You're a
hard man, Slade."

"You're a beautiful woman, Jessica."

The quiet words threw her completely off balance. She'd heard them
dozens of times from dozens of people, but they hadn't made the blood
hum under her skin. But then, compliments wouldn't roll easily off the
tongue of a man like Slade, she thought. And somehow she felt he wasn't
only speaking of physical beauty. No, he was a man who'd look beyond
what could be seen and into what could only be felt.

Their eyes held, a moment too long for comfort. It occurred to her that
she was closer to losing something vital to him now than she had been on
the beach that morning.

"You must be a very good writer," she murmured as she stepped away to
pour a glass of vermouth.

"Why?"

"You're very frugal with words, and your timing with them is uncanny."
Because her back was to him, she allowed herself to moisten her lips
nervously. The clock on the mantel gave the melodious chime that
signaled the hour. "I don't suppose you'd like to write me a speech
before Michael gets here."

"I'll pass, thanks."

"Slade..." Hesitating only briefly, Jessica turned to him. "I shouldn't
have told you everything I did out on the beach this morning. It really
isn't fair to Michael for you to know, and it isn't fair to you that I
dropped my life's history on you that way. You're an easy person to
confide in because you listen a bit too well."

"Part of my job," he muttered and thought of the endless stream of
interviews with suspects, witnesses, victims.

"I'm trying to thank you," Jessica said shortly. "Can't you take it
graciously?"

"Don't be grateful until I've done something," he tossed back.

"I'd choke before I'd thank you again." She dumped a splat of vermouth
in her glass as the doorbell rang.

Neither man was pleased to be sharing a meal with the other, but they
made the best of it. The general conversation eased slowly toward talk
of the shop.

"I'm glad you went by for a few hours, Michael." Jessica poked at the
shrimp Dijon rather than eating it. "I don't think David's really up to
a full day's work yet."

"He seemed well enough. And Mondays are usually slow in any case." He
swirled his wine, giving his dinner little more attention than Jessica.
"You worry too much, darling."

"You weren't here last week." She shredded a roll into tiny pieces.

Saying nothing, Slade passed her the butter. Glancing down, Jessica saw
the mess she'd made and picked up her wine.

"He was well enough today to sell the Connecticut chest to Mrs.
Donnigan," Michael commented after noting the exchange.

"David made a sale to Mrs. Donnigan?" Initial surprise turned to humor.
"You'd have to know the lady, Slade. She's a died-in-the-wool Yankee who
can stretch a dollar like a piece of elastic. Michael sells to her. On a
rare occasion I do, but David..." Trailing off, she smiled. "How did he
manage it?"

"By being very reluctant to part with it. When I came in he was nudging
her toward the pecan hope chest, telling her he'd all but promised the
other to another customer."

She gave a quick spurt of laughter. "Well, it looks like our boy's
learning. I'm going to have to give in and let him go to Europe with you
next time."

Briefly, Michael frowned down at his plate, then very deliberately
stabbed a shrimp. "If that's what you want."

Her distress was immediate. Before Jessica could fumble for a new line
of conversation, Slade intervened by asking what a Connecticut chest
was. She threw him a swift glance of appreciation and let Michael take
over.

Why did I say that? she demanded of herself. How could I be insensitive
enough to forget that he'd asked me to go to Europe with him the next
time? On an inward sigh, Jessica toyed with her dinner. I'm not going to
handle this well, she thought. I'm simply not going to handle it well at
all.

How different they are. It occurred to her all at once as she watched
the two men talk casually. Michael, with his smooth gestures, was well
groomed in voice and manner, sleekly dressed. Jessica reflected that
she'd never seen him in anything more casual than a polo shirt and golf
pants. He was all civilized charm and sophisticated sexuality.

Slade rarely gestured at all. It was as if he knew that body language
could give his thoughts away. No, he had a strange capacity for
stillness. And she wouldn't term him rugged though he favored jeans and
sweaters. Not charming but disarming, she decided. And his sexuality was
anything but sophisticated. Animal.

Slade asked questions on antiques when he couldn't have cared less. This
would give Jessica a few moments to regain the composure she had so
nearly lost. It might also give him the opportunity to form a more
concrete opinion of Michael. He seemed harmless enough, Slade reflected.
A pretty boy with enough brains to make it his profession. Or enough
brains to be one of the rungs on the smuggling ladder. Not the top one,
Slade thought instinctively. Not enough guts.

He was the type of man Slade might have matched Jessica with. Polished,
intelligent. And he was good looking enough, if you liked that type.
Apparently Jessica didn't. They hadn't been lovers. Slade pondered this
as he listened to Michael. What sort of man, he wondered, could be
around that woman day after day and not make love to her--or go mad?
Michael had managed to keep himself in check for nearly three years.
Slade calculated that he hadn't been able to do so for as many days.
Michael Adams was either madly in love with her or more clever than he
looked. Catching the way Michael's eyes would drift to her occasionally,
Slade felt a stir of sympathy. Madly in love or not, he wasn't
indifferent.

Michael took another sip of wine and tried to continue a conversation he
was beginning to detest. He knew Jessica. Oh yes, he thought
fatalistically, he knew Jessica. He'd seen her answer in her eyes. The
one woman who mattered to him was never going to be his.

All three of them were relieved when Betsy brought in the coffee tray.
"Miss Jessica, if you don't start eating more than that, Cook's going to
quit again."

"If she didn't quit once a month, she'd throw the entire household off
schedule," Jessica said lightly. Food was something she could do without
until after she had settled things with Michael.

"I'll just take a cup to the library." Slade was up and pouring his own
before Betsy could object. "I've got some things to finish up tonight."

"Fine." Jessica took care not to look at him. "Let's have ours in the
parlor, Michael. No, no, Betsy, I'll carry it," she continued as the
housekeeper started to mutter. Slade disappeared before she could lift
the tray. "Help yourself to the brandy," she told Michael as they
entered the parlor. "I'll just have the coffee."

He poured a generous amount, placing the crystal stopper back in the
decanter before turning. Betsy had lit the fire while they were eating.
It crackled with a cheer neither Jessica nor Michael were feeling.
Remaining across the room, he watched her pour coffee from the china pot
into china cups. The set had a delicate pattern of violets on an ivory
background. Michael counted each petal before he spoke.

"Jessica." Her fingers tightened on the handle of the creamer and he
swore silently. Strange that he'd never wanted her more than at the
moment he was sure he'd never have her. He'd been too confident that
when the time was right, everything would simply fall into place. "I
didn't mean to make you unhappy."

Her eyes lifted to meet his. "Michael--"

"No, you don't have to say anything, it's written all over your face.
The one thing you've never been able to do well is hide your feelings."
He took a long swallow of brandy. "You're not going to marry me."

Say it quick, she ordered herself. "No, I can't." Rising, she walked
over to stand with him. "I wish I felt differently, Michael. I wish I'd
known what your feelings were sooner."

He looked into his brandy--the same color as her eyes and just as
intoxicating. He set the snifter down. "Would it have made any
difference if I'd asked you a year ago? Two years ago?"

"I don't know." Helplessly, she lifted her shoulders. "But as we're
basically the same people we were then, I don't think so." She touched
his arm, wishing she had better words, kinder words. "I care, Michael,
you must know that I do. But I can't give you what you want."

Lifting a hand, he circled the back of her neck. "I can't tell you I
won't try to change your mind."

"Michael--"

"No, I'm not going to pressure you now." He gave her neck a gentle
squeeze. "But I have the advantage of knowing you well--what you like,
what you don't like." Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss in her palm. "I
also love you enough not to hound you." With a smile, he released her
hand. "I'll see you at the shop tomorrow."

"Yes, all right." Jessica pressed her hands together. She'd felt nothing
but regret when he'd pressed his lips to her palm. "Good night,
Michael."

When the front door closed behind him, she stood where she was. She had
no taste for coffee now, nor the energy to carry the tray to the kitchen
and deal with Betsy or the cook. Leaving things as they were, Jessica
headed for the stairs.

"Jess?" Slade stopped her with a word. He came down the hall as she
paused on the second step. "Okay?"

All of a sudden she wanted badly to cry--to turn, run into his arms, and
weep. Instead she snapped at him. "No, it's not okay. Why the hell
should it be?"

"You did what you had to do," he said calmly. "He's not going to drive
off a cliff."

"What do you know about it?" she tossed back. "You haven't got any
feelings. You don't know what it's like to care for someone. You have to
have a heart to be hurt." Whirling, she dashed up the stairs, making it
almost halfway before she stopped. Shutting her eyes tight, Jessica
slammed a fist onto the railing. After a deep breath, she turned and
walked back down. He stood at the bottom, waiting.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" Because her words had cut deeper than he liked, he shrugged. "You
were on target."

"No, I wasn't." Wearily, she rubbed a hand over her forehead. "And I
haven't any right to use you for a punching bag. You gave me a lot of
support today, and I'm grateful."

"Save it," he advised as he turned away.

This time it was her turn to stop him. "Slade." He took two more steps,
swore, then turned back to her. His eyes were dark, smolderingly angry,
as if her apology had flamed his temper more than her insults. "I
realize you might think differently, but you don't go to hell for being
kind."

With that, she left him staring after her as she continued up the
stairs.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 5
---------
Contents - Prev | Next

Two A.M. Jessica heard the old Seth Thomas clock in the hall strike two
musical bongs. Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to settle.
Slade's spurts of stop-and-go typing had silenced over an hour before.
He could sleep, she thought in disgust as she rolled to her back to
stare, again, at the ceiling. But then, he wasn't in an emotional whirl.

Thoughts of Michael drifted to her and she sighed. No, let's be honest,
Jessica, she ordered herself. It isn't Michael who's keeping you awake,
it's the man two doors down on the left.

Alone in the dark, in the tangle of soft linen sheets, Jessica could
feel the scrape of sand against her back, the heat of the sun and bite
of the wind on her face. The press of his body against hers. Desire
churned in her tired body, awakening pulses she struggled to calm. She
felt the ache move slowly from her stomach to her breasts. Quickly she
sprang out of bed and tugged on a robe. All she needed was a hot drink
to settle her, she decided, almost frantically. If that didn't work,
she'd switch on the television until some old movie lulled her to sleep.
In the morning she'd have herself in order again. She'd go back to work,
stay out of Slade's way until he finished the library and went back to
where he came from.

Jessica slipped out of the room and moved on silent bare feet down the
hall. She paused in front of Slade's door, even reached for the handle
before she caught herself. Good God, what was she thinking of! Moving
quickly, she headed for the stairs. Maybe a brandy would be a better
idea than the hot drink, she decided.

Out of habit, she went quietly down the steps, avoiding the spots that
creaked and groaned. Brandy and an old movie, she told herself. If that
didn't put her to sleep, nothing would. Seeing that the parlor doors
were closed, she frowned. Now who would have done that? she wondered.
They were never closed. With a shrug, she decided Slade had shut them
before coming up to write. She crossed the hall and pulled one open.

A light blinded her. It shone straight in her eyes, forcing her to throw
up a hand to shield them. Shock came first. She stepped back, stunned by
the glare, confused by its source. Before she could speak, Jessica
froze. A flashlight. No one should be in the closed parlor with a
flashlight in the middle of the night. Fear ran coolly over her skin,
then lodged like a fist in her throat. Without a second's thought, she
turned and raced back up the stairs.

Slade snapped fully awake the moment his door was flung open. A shadow
darted toward his bed and instinctively he grabbed it, twisted it, and
pinned it underneath him. It gave a quiet whoosh of air as it slammed
onto the mattress. At the moment of contact he knew he held Jessica.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded as his fingers clamped over
her wrists. Her scent flooded his senses; instant desire roughened his
voice.

With the wind knocked out of her, Jessica struggled to speak. Fear had
her body shuddering under his. "Downstairs," she managed. "Someone's
downstairs."

He tensed, but schooled his voice to casualness. "A servant."

"At two o'clock in the morning?" she hissed as anger began to take over.
It suddenly seeped into her that he was naked, and that her robe had
parted when he had yanked her into bed. Swallowing, she struggled
beneath him. "With a flashlight?"

He rolled from her quickly. "Where?"

"The parlor." Snatching her robe together, Jessica tried to pretend that
she hadn't been weakened, not for a minute, by desire. She watched his
shadow as he tugged on jeans. "You're not going down there?"

"Isn't that what you expected me to do when you came in here?" he
countered. He opened a drawer and found his gun.

"No, I didn't think at all. The police." Reaching over, she switched on
the light. "We have to call..." The sentence died as she saw what he
held in his hand. A new bubble of terror rose in her throat. "Where did
you get that?"

"Stay here."

He was nearly at the door before Jessica could propel her numb body from
the bed. "No! You can't go down there with a gun. Slade, how--"

He stopped her with a hard, bruising grip on her shoulder. When they
fixed on her, his eyes were ice cold and expressionless. "Stay put," he
ordered, then closed the door firmly in her face.

Too shocked to do otherwise, Jessica stared at the blank wood. What in
God's name was going on? she demanded as she pressed her hands to her
cheeks. It was crazy. Someone sneaking around the parlor in the middle
of the night. Slade handling a big ugly gun as if he'd been born with it
in his hand. Nerves jumping, she began to pace the room. It was too
quiet, she thought as her fingers laced and unlaced. Just too quiet. She
couldn't just stand there.

Slade had just finished a quick, thorough tour of the first floor when
the creak on the steps had him whirling. He saw Jessica stagger back
against the wall, eyes wide as he turned the gun on her.

"Goddammit!" The word exploded at her as he lowered the gun. "I told you
to stay upstairs."

She had enough time to register that she'd seen the stance he'd taken
with the gun on a hundred television police shows. Then the trembling
started. "I couldn't. Is he gone?"

"Looks that way." Seizing her hand, Slade dragged her into the parlor.
"Stay in here. I'm going to check outside."

Jessica sank into a chair and waited. It was dark; the thin, shifting
moonlight tossed wavering shadows around the room. Defensively, she
curled her feet under her and cupped her elbows with her hands. Fear,
she realized, was something she'd rarely dealt with. She wasn't doing a
good job of it now. Shutting her eyes a moment, Jessica forced herself
to take deep, even breaths.

As the shuddering calmed, her thoughts began to focus. What was a writer
doing with a revolver? Why hadn't he called the police? A suspicion rose
out of nowhere and she shook it off. No, that was ridiculous... Wasn't
it?

When Slade returned to the parlor ten minutes later, she hadn't moved
from the chair.

With a flick of the wrist, he hit the switch, flooding the room with
light. "Nothing," he said shortly though she hadn't spoken. "There's no
sign of anyone, or any sign of a break-in."

"I saw someone," she began indignantly.

"I didn't say you didn't." Then he was gone again, leaving her next
retort sputtering on her lips. He came back without the gun. "What did
you see?" As he asked he began a more careful search of the room.

Brows drawn together, she watched his practiced movements. "The parlor
doors were closed. When I opened them, a light hit my eyes. A
flashlight. I didn't see anything."

"Anything out of place in here?"

She continued to watch his deft, professional search as he roamed around
the room. No, the suspicion wasn't ridiculous, she realized as her
stomach tightened. It was all too pat. He's done this before. He's used
that gun before.

"Who are you?"

He heard the chill in her voice as he crouched in front of the liquor
cabinet. None of the crystal had been disturbed. He didn't turn. "You
know who I am, Jess."

"You're not a writer."

"Yes, I am."

"What is it?" she asked flatly. "Sergeant? Lieutenant?"

He took the brandy decanter and poured liquor into a snifter. His brain
was perfectly cool. He walked to her and held out the glass. "Sergeant.
Drink this."

Her eyes stayed level on his. "Go to hell."

With a shrug, Slade set the snifter beside her. A deadly calm washed
over her, dulling the sting of betrayal. "I want you out of my house.
But before you leave," Jessica said quietly, "I want you to tell me why
you came. Uncle Charlie did send you, didn't he? Orders from the
commissioner?" The last sentence was full of carefully calculated
disgust.

Slade said nothing, debating just how much he'd have to tell her to
satisfy her. She was pale, but not with fear now. She was spitting mad.

"Fine." Keeping her eyes on his, she rose. "Then I'll call your
commissioner myself. You can pack your typewriter and your gun,
Sergeant."

She was going to have to have it all, he decided and wished fleetingly
for a cigarette. "Sit down, Jess." When she made no move to obey, he
gave her a helpful shove back into the chair. "Just shut up and listen,"
he suggested as she opened her mouth to yell at him. "Your shop's
suspected in connection with a major smuggling operation. It's believed
that stolen goods are hidden in some of your imports, then transferred
to a contact on this side, probably through the sale of the whole
article." She wasn't attempting to speak now, but simply staring at him
as if he'd lost his mind. "Interpol wants the head man rather than the
few underlings already under observation. He's managed to slip away from
them before; they don't want it to happen again. You, your shop, the
people who work for you, are under observation until he's in custody or
the investigation leads elsewhere. In the meantime the commissioner
wants you safe."

"I don't believe a word of it."

But her voice shook. Slade thrust his hands in his pockets. "My
information as well as my orders come from the commissioner."

"It's ridiculous." Her voice was stronger now, touched with scorn. "Do
you think something like that could go on in my shop without my knowing
about it?" Even as she reached for the brandy, she caught the look in
his eyes. Jessica's hand froze on the glass, then dropped away. "I see,"
she said quietly. The pain was dull in her stomach. Briefly, she pressed
a hand to it before linking her fingers together. "Did you bring your
handcuffs along, Sergeant?"

"Cut it out, Jess." Because he couldn't handle the way she looked at
him, Slade turned to prowl the room. "I said the commissioner wanted you
protected."

"Was it part of your job to attract me enough so that I might be
indiscreet?" When he whirled back, she sprang to her feet to meet his
fury with her own. "Is making love to me all in a day's work?"

"I haven't begun to make love to you." Infuriated, he grabbed the lapels
of her robe, nearly hauling her off her feet. "And I wouldn't have taken
the damn assignment if I'd known you were going to tie me up in knots
every time I looked at you. The Bureau thinks you're clean. Don't you
understand that only puts you in a more dangerous position?"

"How can I understand anything when I'm not told anything?" she tossed
back. "What kind of danger could I possibly be in?"

"This isn't a game, Jess." Frustrated, he shook her. "An agent was
killed in London last week. He was close, too close, to finding out
who's pulling the strings. His last report mentioned a quarter of a
million dollars' worth of diamonds."

"What does that have to do with me!" Jessica jerked away from him. "If
they think there're diamonds stashed away in one of my imports, let them
come in. They can take the furniture apart piece by piece."

"And tip off the number one man," Slade returned.

"How do you know I'm not in charge?" A raging headache was added to the
sickness in her stomach. Wearily, Jessica rubbed at her temple. "I run
the shop."

He watched her slender fingers knead at the ache. "Not alone."

All movement stopped. Very slowly, Jessica lowered her hand. "David and
Michael?" she whispered. Incredulity gave way to anger. "No! I won't
have you accusing them."

"No one's accusing anyone yet."

"No, you're here to spy on us."

"I don't like it any better than you."

"Then why are you here?"

The deliberate scorn in her tone made him want to strangle her. He spoke
slowly, brutally. "Because the commissioner didn't want his goddaughter
to end up with her beautiful throat slit."

Her color drained at that, but she kept her eyes level. "Who would hurt
me--David, Michael? Even you must see how absurd that is."

"You'd be surprised what people do to survive," he said tersely. "In any
case, there are other people involved--the kind who wouldn't think of
you as any more than an expendable obstacle."

She didn't want to think about that--couldn't if she wanted to stop
herself from having a bout of hysteria. Be practical, she ordered
herself. Be logical. This time she lifted the brandy and drank deeply
before speaking. "If you're with the NYPD you have no jurisdiction
here."

"The commissioner has a lot of clout." The hint of color that seeped
back into her cheeks relieved him. She was tougher than she looked. "In
any case I'm not here about the smuggling, not officially."

"Why are you here--officially?"

"To keep you out of trouble."

"Uncle Charlie should have told me."

Slade lifted his shoulders in a half shrug as he looked around the room.
"Yeah, maybe. There's no way of telling if he was after something in
here, or slipping through this room to another. Not with the way this
house is set up." With a frown, he ran a hand absently over his bare
chest. "Do you see anything out of place in here?"

Jessica followed the sweep of his eyes. "No. I don't think he could have
been around very long. You didn't stop typing until one. Wouldn't it
make sense for him to wait until all the lights were out before he broke
in?"

He started to remind her that no one had broken in, then changed his
mind. If it helped her to believe it had been a stranger, she might
sleep better. He thought of David, who had a room on the east wing of
the first floor. "I've got to call in my report. Go on to bed."

"No." Unwilling to admit that she couldn't bring herself to go upstairs
alone, Jessica lifted the brandy again. "I'll wait."

She sat as he went out to the phone in the hall. Purposely, she tuned
out his conversation, though it was carried on in such quiet tones that
she would have had to strain to hear. Her shop, she thought. How was it
possible for her shop to be tangled up in something as fantastic as
international smuggling? If it hadn't been so frightening, she would
have laughed.

Michael and David. With a brisk shake of her head, she shut her eyes.
No, that part she wouldn't believe. There was a mistake somewhere, and
in time the police or the FBI or whoever was haunting her would realize
it.

A burglar had been in the parlor. It was as simple as that. Hadn't Betsy
grumbled a dozen times about her not using the alarm system? The image
of Slade with the gun in his hand came back to her too clearly. That was
something she couldn't shut out.

When he came back into the room, Jessica was sitting very still, eyes
closed. There were shadows under them. What he'd just learned on the
phone wasn't going to make them go away, but perhaps a good night's
sleep would.

"Come on," he said briskly, trying not to soften as her eyes shot open
in alarm at his voice. "You're tired. Go up and take a pill if you can't
sleep. And you're not going in to the shop tomorrow."

"But I have to," she began.

"You have to do as you're told from here on," he corrected. "You'll be
safer here where I can keep an eye on you. Starting now, you don't leave
the house without me. Don't argue." Taking her hand, he hauled her to
her feet. "You haven't got any choice at this point; you have to trust
me."

She did. Jessica realized as he pulled her up the steps that if
everything else was a maze of confusion, that was clear. That very quick
first impression she'd gotten when she'd all but run into him at the
bottom of the staircase had been viable. With him she was safe.

"I don't like knowing you're a cop," she murmured.

"Yeah, I'm not always crazy about it myself. Go to bed, Jess." He
dropped her arm as they came to her door. Before he could move on,
Jessica grabbed his hand.

"Slade..." She hated what she was going to ask, hated admitting to
herself, much less him, that she was terrified of being alone. "I..."
She looked away from the impatience in his eyes and glanced into her
darkened room. "Could you stay?"

"I told you, I've got my orders from the commissioner."

"No, I don't mean..." She moistened her lips. "I mean with me--tonight."

She looked up at him, pale, soft, vulnerable. He felt the blood start to
pound in his chest. In defense, his voice was blunt and cold. "When I go
to bed with a woman, I tend to give her my complete attention. I haven't
got time for that now."

She felt a flutter that was both panic and excitement. "I'm not asking
you to make love with me, just not to leave me alone."

He allowed his eyes to rake down her. Warm flesh, soft curves, and
ice-blue silk. "Do you think I'd spend the night with you and not have
you?"

"No." The answer came quick and quiet. The flutter became a throb.

In a quick move calculated to frighten her, Slade backed her up against
the door. "You haven't the experience to deal with me, lady." Not quite
gently, his hand closed over her throat. Beneath his palm he felt the
wild scramble of her pulse, but her eyes... her eyes were tawny and
unafraid. He wanted her with a desperation that threatened to drive
everything else aside. "I'm not one of your polite country club men,
Jess," he told her in a dangerously quiet voice. "You don't know the
places I've been, the things I've done. I could show you tricks that
would make your French lover look like a Boy Scout. If I decided I
wanted you, you couldn't run fast enough."

She could barely hear him over the dull thud of her heart. Her eyes had
misted over with desire. "Which of us is running, Slade?" Her arms were
already heavy, but she lifted them. In one long slow stroke, she ran her
hands up his naked back. He stiffened. The fingers on her throat
tightened swiftly. She pressed her body to his.

"Damn you, Jess." On a groan, his mouth came down to savage hers.

Her senses whirled from the onslaught, but she clung. This was what she
wanted--the mindless passion he could bring her on the instant of
contact. The kiss wasn't loverlike; it wasn't the worshipful merging of
lips, the gentle teasing of tongues. It was madness. Jessica abdicated
her sanity without a second thought. Let him teach her what he would.

He ripped the robe from her where they stood, then gave into the driving
need to let his hands mold every inch of her.

Softer, inconceivably softer than he imagined, her skin seemed to flow
under his fingers. Within seconds he had her trembling, one wracking,
convulsive shudder after another. Her thighs were slim and strong.
Running a hand up them, he found her, then took her gasping to a
staggering peak until she swayed helplessly in his arms.

Slade swore again, knowing he couldn't stop. He had told himself he
would treat her callously and then walk away--to save her... to save
himself. Now she was moist and warm and pliant in his arms. Her
fragrance clung to the air, seducing him. He shook his head, struggling
to clear it, but she pressed her lips to his throat, huskily murmuring
his name.

He was with her in bed, not even aware if he had dragged or carried her
there.

Jessica twisted under him, answering his kiss deliriously as his hands
moved everywhere. He gave her no chance to orient herself. There was a
tangle of sheets under her, the soft fabric of his jeans against her
legs, but she was only aware of the hurricane. That's where he took
her--all speeding wind and black sky. His ragged breathing shivered into
her ear before his tongue darted inside.

In a zigzagging journey that had her mind spinning, he ran open-mouthed,
nibbling kisses down her throat to the hollow between her breasts. She
arched, her nipples hard with need, but he continued down and ran his
tongue along the line of her ribs. Half mad, she dug her fingers into
his hair, wanting him to take her before she exploded, wanting the
agonizing pleasure to go on forever.

Greedily, he came back to her breast, the moist trail his tongue left
causing her to shudder with fire and ice by turns. His teeth nipped into
the soft swell of flesh while with a fingertip he began a slow,
torturous path around the other. Lips and finger circled in until she
was writhing beneath him. He drew her nipple into his mouth, catching
the other arching point between his thumb and finger. Jessica cried out
as the dual pleasure exploded, then was lost in wave after wave of
sensation as his teasing became rampant hunger.

She was tugging at his jeans, but he shifted away from her seeking
hands. Without the restriction he knew he'd take her instantly. He was
far from ready. He'd sensed her passion, knew it lay smoldering, but now
it was engulfing him in a heat he hadn't foreseen. She was wildly
responsive, like a thoroughbred mare given her head. He wanted to drive
her--drive them both--to the breaking point.

The musky, woodsy scent seemed to emanate from her skin wherever he
buried his lips. Her body was slender, almost too slender, but with a
seductive womanly softness that made him want to go on touching and
tasting until there was no inch of her he didn't know. When his mouth
brushed low over her stomach, she moaned, nails digging into his
shoulders as she urged him down. He could hear his name trembling out of
her lips between raw, gasping breaths. But when his tongue sought and
found the center of her pleasure, he lost everything else.

He drove her to peak after peak. Exhausted, Jessica hungered for more.
Her skin was fused to his, both hot and damp with desire. Her body was
stunningly alive, throbbing from thousands of minute pulses he had
discovered and exploited. Even his name wouldn't form on her lips any
longer. Together they struggled with the last barrier of clothing that
kept them apart. She found his hips, lean and long-boned; his thighs,
firm and muscled.

They came together savagely, each gasping from the shock of power.

She couldn't stop the shudders. They continued to race through her long
after Slade lay beside her, silent. Her body ached. And glowed. Did we
make love or war? Jessica wondered dizzily. Whatever had happened
between them had never happened to her before, and she knew with a
certainty that it would never happen with any other man.

None of her inhibitions had surfaced--he wouldn't have allowed them to.
Was there another man with his strength, his intensity, his... savagery?
Not for her, Jessica realized, instinctively rolling to him. There had
never been, nor would there ever be anyone else for her. She'd lost that
vital part of herself to him long before they had ever gone to bed--her
heart.

Oh, I love you, she thought, whoever, whatever you are. And the surest
way to turn you away from me now is to tell you. Closing her eyes,
Jessica rested her head on his shoulder.

You're already wondering how you lost control enough to take me to bed,
she concluded with instinctive accuracy. Already wondering how to
prevent this from happening again. But I'm not going to lose you. The
vow formed firmly as she ran a hand over his chest. You're not getting
away, Slade; struggle all you want. Lightly, she ran a trail of kisses
over his shoulder to his throat.

"Jess." Slade put up a hand to stop her. He'd never be able to think
clearly with her touching him. If he was going to find his way out of
the quicksand he was rapidly sinking in, he had to think.

Jessica merely kissed the fingers that got in her way, then trailed her
lips to his cheek. "Hold me," she murmured. "I want your arms around
me."

With an effort, Slade resisted the husky demand and the soft lips that
insisted on clouding his brain. "Jessica, this isn't smart. We've got--"

"I don't want to be smart, Slade," she interrupted. She shifted so that
her head was just above his, her lips just above his. "Don't talk, not
tonight." When her fingers ran down his side, she had the satisfaction
of feeling his quick, involuntary tremor. "I want you." Her tongue
traced his lips. She felt the sudden thunder of his heart against her
breast. "You want me. That's all there is tonight."

In the darkness he could see the pale clouds of hair, the moonlit skin
shadowed by the slash of cheekbone. He saw the amber fire of her eyes
before her mouth took his and captured him.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 6
---------
Contents - Prev | Next

Slade woke beside her. She was deep in an exhausted sleep, her breathing
slow and regular. There were shadows under the sweep of lashes, dark
smudges against pale skin. His arm was around her slim waist; in sleep
he'd betrayed himself by wanting her close. They shared the same pillow.
He spent several minutes cursing himself before he rolled out of bed.
Jessica didn't even stir. He grabbed up his jeans and went to his own
room and straight to the shower.

Deliberately, Slade turned the cold on full. Hadn't he saturated himself
enough with her last night? he asked himself furiously as the icy spray
hit his body like sharp pinpricks. Did he have to wake up wanting her?
Need for her, this kind of consuming need, was going to interfere with
his job. Slade had to remind himself again and again that Jessica was a
job, only a job.

And in the brief phone conversation the night before, he had been told
enough to make him realize that her position had become only more
delicate. Someone wanted something in her house--someone she trusted.
Knowing who it was wouldn't be enough. Slade had to find out what it
was. Or rather the Feds had to find out what, he corrected grimly. He
had to stick to her like glue until it was all over.

Why the hell don't they let me get her out of here? he thought on a
fresh burst of fury. The order over the phone had been firm and
unarguable. Jessica stayed. The investigation couldn't be jeopardized by
letting her walk. She stayed, Slade repeated silently. And he wasn't to
let her out of his sight for the next forty-eight hours. That didn't
include sleeping with her, he reminded himself as he let the cold water
sluice over his head. It didn't include getting so caught up in her that
he forgot what he was doing there in the first place. And how the hell
was he supposed to live in the same house with her now and not touch
her?

He grabbed the soap and lathered himself roughly. Maybe it would wash
away the woodsy scent that seemed to have crept into his own skin.

Waking, Jessica reached for him. He was gone, and so, instantly, was her
peace. The few hours of sleep had left her tightly strung instead of
relaxed. If he had been there, if she could have turned to him on
wakening, she wouldn't have felt the sick sense of loss.

David and Michael. No, she couldn't even allow herself to think it.
Covering her face with her hands, Jessica struggled to block it out. But
then she could see the icy look in Slade's eyes when he had aimed the
gun on her. It's madness, it's a mistake. A quarter of a million in
diamonds. Interpol. David and Michael. -

Unable to bear it, she sprang out of bed. She needed to clear her brain,
to think. The house felt like an airless prison. She threw on her
clothes and headed for the beach.

When he came by her room to check on her ten minutes later, Slade found
the bed empty. The quick panic was as uncharacteristic as it was
unprofessional. Hurriedly, he checked the bath and her sitting room
before going downstairs. He didn't find Jessica in the dining room, but
Betsy.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

Betsy cleared off the place she had set for Jessica, then scowled at
him. "So you're in a chipper mood too."

"Where's Jessica?"

Betsy sent him a shrewd look. "Looks sick this morning, wonder if she
caught David's flu. Down at the beach," she continued before he could
snap at her.

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone. Didn't even take that overgrown mutt with her.

Said she's not going into work today, and..." Betsy placed her hands on
her hips and scowled at his retreating back. "Well," she muttered and
clucked her tongue.

It was cold. Concealing his shoulder holster under his jacket was
simple. By the time Slade had reached the beach steps, he'd nearly run
out of curses. Hadn't anything he'd said to her the night before gotten
through? He spotted her standing near the breakers and tore down the
steps and across the sand.

Jessica heard his approach and turned. Whatever she might have said
slipped back down her throat as he grabbed her by the shoulders and
shook her.

"You idiot! What are you doing down here alone? Don't you know the
position you're in?"

Her hand swung out, connecting sharply with his cheek. The slap stunned
both of them, causing angry eyes to meet angry eyes in quick surprise.
His grip loosened enough for Jessica to step back. "Don't you shout at
me," she ordered, automatically soothing the flesh his hands had
bruised. "I don't have to take that from anyone."

"You'll take it from me," he said evenly. "I'll give you that one, Jess,
but remember, I hit back. What are you doing out here?"

"I'm taking a walk," she snapped. "I arranged for David to take over the
shop today, as per your orders, Sergeant."

So we're back to that, he reflected and dug his hands into his pockets.
His hair whipped unheeded around his face. "Fine. My next order is that
you're not to leave the house until I say so."

The fire in her eyes was suddenly misted with tears. Hugging herself,
she spun away from him. She'd show him anger, she'd show him passion,
but she refused to show him weakness. "House arrest?" she said thickly.

He'd rather have had her slap him again than cry. "Protective custody,"
he countered. With a sigh, he placed his hands on her shoulders.
"Jess..."

Swiftly she shook her head, knowing that kind words would undermine her
completely. When she felt his brow drop to the top of her head, she
squeezed her eyes tight.

"Don't fall apart now," he murmured. "It won't be for very long. When
it's over--"

"When it's over, what?" she interrupted in swift despair. "Will one of
the people closest to me be in jail? Am I supposed to look forward to
that?" On a long breath, she opened her eyes and looked out to sea. The
water was choppy, white-capped and gray. A storm was coming in, she
thought dispassionately. The sky was beginning to boil with it.

"You're supposed to get through today," he told her, tightening his
grip. "Then you're supposed to get through tomorrow."

Life, she mused. Is that really how life's supposed to be? Is that how
he felt about his? "Why did you leave me alone this morning?"

His hands dropped away from her shoulders. Without turning, Jessica knew
he'd stepped back. Gathering her courage, she faced him. All the guards
were back. If her body had not still ached from the fury of lovemaking,
she might have thought she'd imagined all of the night before. The man
staring at her showed no hint of emotion.

"You're going to tell me it was a mistake," she managed after a moment.
"Something that shouldn't have happened and won't happen again." Her
chin came up as love warred with pride. "Please don't bother."

He should have let her go. He intended to let her go. Before he could
stop himself, Slade took her arm, carefully wrapping his fingers around
it as if measuring its size and strength. "I'm going to tell you it was
a mistake," he said slowly. "Something that shouldn't have happened. But
I can't tell you it won't happen again. I can't be near you and not want
you."

The man shifted his position in the cover of trees. With businesslike
movements, he opened the briefcase and began to fit the pieces of the
rifle together. For the moment he paid little attention to the two
figures down on the beach. One thing at a time. That was one of the
reasons for his success in his field. He'd only had the contract for
four hours and was relatively pleased that it would take him little more
than that to complete it.

After snapping on the sight, he pulled out a handkerchief.

The brisk wind wasn't doing his head cold any good. But then, ten
thousand dollars bought a lot of antihistamines. After sneezing softly,
he replaced his handkerchief, then drew a bead on the figures on the
beach.

Jessica felt some of her strength returning. "Why was it a mistake
then?"

Slade let out an impatient breath. Because I'm a cop from the Lower East
Side who's seen things I could never tell you about. Because I want you
so much--not just now, this minute, but tomorrow, twenty years from
now--and that scares me.

"Oil and water, Jess, it's as simple as that. You wanted to walk, we'll
walk." Slipping his hand from her arm, he interlaced his fingers with
hers, then turned away from the shore.

He lowered his rifle as Slade blocked his clear shot of Jessica. The
contract was for the woman only, and business was business. The wind
fluttered at his drab-colored overcoat and snuck underneath it.
Sniffling, he brought his handkerchief out again, then settled down to
wait.

Jessica kicked a pebble into a clump of rocks. "You are a writer, aren't
you?"

"So I tell myself."

"Then why do you do this? You don't like it--it shows." It wasn't
supposed to show. The fact that she could see what he'd successfully
concealed from everyone--including himself from time to time--infuriated
Slade. "Look, I do what I have to, what I know. Not everybody has a
choice."

"No," she disagreed. "Everyone has a choice."

"I've got a mother waiting tables and living off a dead cop's pension."
The words exploded from him, stopping her.

"I've got a sister in her third year of college who's got a chance to be
something. You don't pay tuition with rejection slips."

Jessica lifted both hands to his face. Her palms were cool and soft.
"Then you made your choice, Slade. Not every man would have made the
same one. When the time comes, and you publish, you'll have everything."

"Jess." He took her wrists, but held them a moment instead of pulling
her hands from his face. Her pulse speeded instantly at his touch,
drawing an unwilling response from him. "You get to me," he muttered.

"And you don't like it." She leaned toward him, lashes lowering.

He crushed her to him, devouring the willing mouth. It was as cool as
her hands but heated quickly beneath his. Already frantic, he grabbed
her hair, drawing her head back farther so he could plunder all the
sweet, moist recesses. Her arms went around his neck, imprisoning him in
the softness, the fragrance, the need.

The back of his head was caught in the crosshairs of the scope of a
high-powered rifle with a sophisticated silencer.

"Jess." His lips moved against hers with the sound of her name. He broke
away only to catch her close to his chest, holding her there while he
tried to steady himself. "You're tired," he said when he heard her sigh.
"We'll go in. You should get some more sleep."

She allowed him to shift her to his side. Patience, she told herself.
This isn't a man who gives himself easily. "I'm not tired," she lied,
matching her steps to his. "Why don't I give you a hand in the library?"

"That's all I need," he muttered, casting his eyes up. In his peripheral
vision, he caught a quick flutter of white among the thinning leaves in
the grove. He tensed, muscles tightening as he strained to see. There
was nothing more than a rustling, easily caused by the wind. Then the
flutter of white again.

"I'm terrific at organizing if I put my mind to it," Jessica claimed as
she stepped in front of him. "And I--" The breath was knocked out of her
as Slade shoved her to the ground in back of a small outcropping of
rock. She heard a quick ping, as if stone had struck stone. Before she
could fill her lungs with air, he'd drawn out his gun. "What is it?
What's wrong?"

"Don't move." He didn't even look at her, but kept her pinned beneath
him as his eyes swept the beach. Jessica's eyes were locked on his gun.

"Slade?"

"He's in the grove, about ten feet to the right of where we are now," he
calculated, thinking out loud. "It's a good position; he won't move--at
least for a while."

"Who?" she demanded. "What are you talking about?"

He brought his eyes to hers briefly, chilling her with the hard, cold
look she'd seen before. "The man who just took a shot at you."

She went as still and stiff as a statue. "No one did, I didn't hear--"

"He's got it silenced." Slade shifted just enough to get a clearer view
of the beach steps. "He's a pro, he'll wait us out."

Jessica remembered the odd sound she'd heard just as Slade had shoved
her to the ground. Stone hitting stone. Bullet hitting rock. A wave of
dizziness swept over her, clouding her vision until she saw nothing but
a gray mist. From a distance she heard Slade's voice and struggled
against the faintness. Heart pounding in her ears, she focused on him
again. He was still looking beyond her to the beach steps.

"...that we know he's there."

"What?"

Impatiently, Slade looked down at her. There wasn't a trace of color in
her face. Against the pallor, her eyes were dull and unfocused. He
couldn't allow her the luxury of going into shock. "Snap out of it and
listen to me," he said harshly, catching her face in his hand. "Odds are
he doesn't know we've made him. He probably thinks we're back here
making love. If my cover was blown, he'd have taken care of me instead
of waiting to get a clear shot at you. Now you've only got to do one
thing, Jess, understand?"

"One thing," she repeated with a nod.

"Stay put."

She nearly gave way to a hysterical giggle. "That sounds like a good
idea. How long do you think we'll have to stay here?"

"You stay until I get back."

Her arms came around him quickly and with desperate strength. "You're
not going out there! He'll kill you."

"It's you he wants," Slade said flatly as he pried her arms away from
his neck. "I want you to do exactly as I say."

He wriggled on top of her and managed to shrug out of his jacket, then
the shoulder holster. After tugging his shirt out of his jeans, he
tucked the gun in the back waistband. "I'm going to stand up, and after
a minute I'll walk over to the steps. He'll either think you wouldn't
play games or that we're finished and you're staying out for a while."

She didn't hold on to him because she knew it was useless. He was going
to do it his own way. "What if he shoots you?" she asked dully. "A hell
of a bodyguard you'd make dead."

"If he's going to, he'll do it the minute I stand up," Slade told her,
cupping her face again. "Then you'll still have the gun, won't you?" He
kissed her, hard and quick, before she could speak. "Stay put, Jess.
I'll be back."

He rose nonchalantly, still looking down at her. Jessica counted ten
long, silent seconds. Everything in her system seemed to be on slow
motion. Her brain, her heart, her lungs. If she breathed at all, she was
unaware of it. She lay in a vacuum of fear. Slade grinned at her, a
flash of reassurance that didn't reach his eyes. Numbly she wondered if
the smile was for her benefit or for the man in the grove.

"No matter what, you stay where you are." With this he turned away from
her and strolled easily to the beach steps. He hooked his thumbs lazily
in his pockets as if every muscle in his body wasn't tensed, waiting. A
thin stream of sweat rolled down his back.

A hell of a bodyguard you'd make dead. Jessica's words played back to
him as he forced himself to take the steps slowly. He knew how close
that one silent bullet had come. He was taking a chance coming out in
the open, not only with himself, but with Jessica.

Calculated risk, Slade reminded himself. Sometimes you played the odds.
He counted the steps off. Five, six, seven... It wasn't likely the
gunman had the rifle trained on him now. He'd be waiting for Jessica to
make a move from behind the clump of rocks. Ten, eleven, twelve... Did
she listen this time? he thought with a quick flash of panic. Don't look
back. For God's sake don't look back. There was only one way left to
keep her safe.

The moment he reached the top, Slade drew out his gun and dashed for the
trees.

The carpet of dried leaves would betray him. Slade counted it a mixed
blessing. It would distract the man's mind from Jessica. He took a
zigzagging pattern toward the place where he had spotted the flutter of
white. Just as he dashed behind an oak, he heard the dull thud.
Dispassionately he saw splinters of bark fly out, inches from his
shoulder.

Close, he thought. Very close. But his brain was cool now. The man would
know he'd botched the contract. Just as he'd know, if Slade's luck ran
out, that the police were involved. Slade's gun and his shield would
tell the pro all he needed to know.

Patiently, Slade waited. Five eternal minutes became ten. The sweat was
drying cold on his back. Neither man could move soundlessly, so neither
moved at all, one laying siege to the other. A bird, frightened off by
Slade's mad rush into the grove, came back to settle on a limb and sing
joyfully. A squirrel hunted acorns not ten feet away from where he
stood. Slade didn't think at all, but waited. The storm-brewing clouds
closed in, completely blocking out the sun. Now the grove was cold and
gloomy. Wind whipped through his loose shirt.

There was a muffled sneeze and a rustle of leaves. Instantly Slade
sprang out toward the sound, hitting the ground and rolling when he
caught a quick glimpse of the man and the rifle. Prone, he fired three
times.

Jessica lay numbed by a fear icier than the wind off the Sound. That was
all she could hear--the wind and the water. Once she had loved the sound
of it, the howling wind, the passionate crash of water against rock.
Staring up at the sky, she watched the clouds boil. With one hand she
clutched Slade's discarded jacket. The leather was smooth and cold, but
she could just smell him. She concentrated on that. If she could smell
him, he was alive. If she willed it hard enough for long enough, he'd
stay alive.

Too long! her mind shouted. It's been too long! Her fingers tightened on
the leather. He'd said he'd be back. She was going to believe that. With
her fingertips, she touched her lips and found them cold. The warmth
he'd left there had long since faded.

I should have told him I love him, she thought desperately. I should
have told him before he left. What if... No, she wouldn't let herself
think it. He was coming back. Painfully, she shifted enough so that she
could watch the beach steps.

She heard the three rapid shots and froze. The pain in her chest snapped
her out of it. Her lungs were screaming for air. Dimly, Jessica ordered
herself to breathe before she scrambled up and ran. Fear made her
clumsy. Twice she stumbled on her way up the steps, only to haul herself
up and force more speed into her legs. She broke into the grove,
skidding on cracked leaves and branches.

Slade sprang around the moment he heard her. He was quick, but not quick
enough to prevent her from seeing what he'd been determined she wouldn't
see. Jessica stopped her headlong rush into his arms, relief turning to
shock and shock to trembling.

Cursing, he stepped in front of her, blocking her view. "Don't you ever
listen?" he demanded, then pulled her into his arms.

"Is he... did you..." Unable to finish, she shut her eyes. She wouldn't
be sick, she ordered herself. She wouldn't faint. One of his shirt
buttons ground into her cheek and she concentrated on the pain. "You're
not hurt?"

"No," he said shortly. This aspect of his life should never have touched
her, he berated himself. He should have seen to it. "Why didn't you stay
on the beach?"

"I heard the shots. I thought he'd killed you."

"Then you'd have done us both a lot of good rushing in here." He pulled
her away, took one look at her face, and yanked her back into his arms.
"It's all right now."

For the first time his tone was gentle, loving. It broke her down as his
shouting and anger would never have done. She began to weep in raw,
harsh sobs, the fingers of one hand digging into his shirt, the fingers
of the other still holding his jacket.

Without a word he led her to the edge of the grove. He sat on the grass,
then drew her down into his lap and let her cry it out. Not knowing what
else to do, he rocked, stroked, and murmured.

"I'm sorry," she managed, still weeping. "I can't stop."

"Get it all out, Jess." His lips brushed her hot temple. "You don't have
to be strong this time."

Burying her face against his chest, she let the tears come until she was
empty. Even when she quieted, he stroked the hair from her damp face,
rocking her with a gentle rhythm. The need to protect had long since
stopped being professional. If he could have found the way, Slade would
have blocked the morning from her mind--taken her away somewhere,
someplace where no ugliness could touch her.

"I couldn't stay on the beach when I heard the shots."

"No." He kissed her hair. "I suppose not."

"I thought you were dead."

"Ssh." He took her lips this time with a tenderness neither of them had
known he possessed. "You should have more faith in the good guys."

She wanted to smile for him but threw her arms around his neck instead.
The contact was another reassurance that he was whole and safe. "Oh,
Slade. I'm not sure I could live through something like that again. Why?
Why would anyone want to kill me? It just doesn't make sense."

He drew her away so that their eyes met. Hers were red and swollen from
weeping, his cool and direct. "Maybe you know something and don't even
realize it. The pressure's on, and whoever's in charge of this business
is smart enough to know it. You've become a liability."

"But I don't know anything!" she insisted, pressing the heels of her
hands to her temples. "Someone wants to kill me and I don't even know
who it is or why. You said that... that man was a professional. Someone
paid him to kill me."

"Let's go inside." He pulled her to her feet, but she jerked away. The
helpless weeping was over and the strength was back, though it had the
dangerous edge of hysteria.

"How much was I worth?" she demanded.

"That's enough, Jess." He took her by the shoulders for one quick shake.
"Enough. You're going to go in and pack a bag. I'll take you to New
York."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"The hell you aren't," he muttered as he started to pull her toward the
house.

Jessica yanked out of his grip for the second time. "You listen to me.
It's my life, my shop, my friends. I'm staying right here until it's
over. I'll do what you tell me to a point, Slade, but I won't run."

He measured her slowly. "I've got to call this business in. You're to go
straight to your room and wait for me."

She nodded, not trusting his easy acceptance. "All right."

He nodded, not trusting hers.

The moment she stepped into her room, Jessica began to peel off her
clothes. It was suddenly of paramount importance that she scrub off
every grain of sand, every lingering trace of the time she had spent on
the beach. She turned the hot water in the tub on full until the room
was misted with steam. Plunging in, she gasped at the shock of the heat
against her chilled skin, but took the soap and lathered again and again
until she could no longer smell the scent of salt water--the scent of
her own fear.

It had been a nightmare, she told herself. This was normalcy. The cool
green tile on the walls, the leafy fern at the window, the ivory towels
with the pale green border she had chosen herself only the month before.

A month ago, she thought, when her life had been simple. There'd been no
man then coolly attempting to kill her for a fee. David had still been
the brother she'd never had. Michael had been her friend, her partner.
She hadn't even heard of a man named James Sladerman.

She closed her eyes, and pressed hot, damp fingers to them. No, it
wasn't a nightmare. It was real. She had lain curled behind a pile of
rocks while a man she barely knew--and loved--had risked his life to
protect hers. It was horribly, horribly real. And she had to face it.
The time was over when she could try to pass off what Slade had told her
as a mistake. While she had been blindly trusting, someone she loved had
deceived her, involved her. Used her.

Which one? she asked herself. Which one could she believe it of? Would
either David or Michael have stood passively by while someone arranged
to have her killed? Lowering her hands, Jessica forced herself to be
calm. No, whatever else she would believe, she wouldn't believe that.

Slade thought she might know something without being aware of it. If
that was true, she was no closer to the solution than she had been
before. Jessica slid her body down in the tub and closed her eyes again.
There was nothing for her to do but wait.

Anything but satisfied with his conversation with his contact, Slade put
a call through directly to the commissioner.

"Sergeant, what have you got for me?"

"Someone tried to kill Jessica this morning," he answered curtly.

For a moment there was dead silence on the wire. "Give me the details,"
Dodson demanded.

Briefly, emotionlessly, Slade reported while his knuckles turned white
on the receiver. "She won't leave voluntarily," he finished. "I want her
out, today. Now. I need you to officially give me the right to put her
in protective custody. I can have her in New York in less than two
hours."

"I take it you've already checked in with this."

"Your friends in the Bureau want her to stay." This time he didn't
attempt to disguise the bitterness in his voice. "They don't want
anything to interfere with the investigation at this delicate state," he
quoted, jamming a cigarette between his lips. "As long as she's willing
to cooperate, they won't move her."

"And Jessica's willing to cooperate."

"She's a stubborn, thick-headed fool who's too busy thinking about Adams
and Ryce and that precious shop of hers."

"You've gotten to know her, I see," the commissioner commented. "Does
she trust you?"

Slade expelled a stream of smoke. "She trusts me."

"Keep her in the house, Slade. In her room if you think it's necessary.
The servants can think she's ill."

"I want--"

"What you want isn't the issue," Dodson cut him off curtly. "Or what I
want," he added more calmly. "If it's gone far enough that a pro was
hired, she'll be safer there, with you, than anyplace else. We've got to
nail this down fast, with luck, before it's known that the contract on
her is no longer operable."

"She's nothing more than bait," Slade said bitterly.

"Just make sure she isn't swallowed," Dodson retorted. "You've got your
orders."

"Yeah. I've got them." Disgusted, Slade slammed down the receiver.
Looking down at his hands, he realized, frustrated, that they were as
good as tied. He was up against a solid wall of refusal from Jessica
right on down. The investigation, the justice of it, didn't matter to
him any longer. She was all that mattered. That in itself destroyed his
objectivity, and by doing so, made her vulnerable. He cared too much to
think logically.

His hands curled into fists. No, cared wasn't the right word, he
admitted slowly. He was in love with her. When or how, he didn't have
the faintest idea. Maybe it had started that first day she had come
tearing down the steps toward him. And it was stupid.

He scraped his hands roughly over his face. Even without the mess they
were in, it was stupid. They'd been born on opposite sides of the fence,
had lived their entire lives on opposite sides of the fence. He didn't
have any right to love her, even less to want her to love him. She
needed him now, professionally as well as emotionally. That would change
when it was over.

Right now he couldn't afford to think of how he would deal with his
feelings once Jessica was safe again. First he had to make certain she
would be. With slow, deliberate force he crushed out his cigarette, then
went upstairs to her.

They came into the bedroom together, Jessica from the bath, Slade from
the hall. She was wrapped in one of the ivory towels with the pale green
border. Her hair fell wet around her shoulders while the clean, sharp
scent of soap surrounded her. Her skin was flushed and glowing from the
heat of her bath.

For a moment they stood still, watching each other. She could feel the
frustration, the anger in him, as he turned to close the door behind
him.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes." She sighed a little because it was nearly the truth. "I'm better.
Don't be angry with me, Slade."

"Don't ask for the impossible."

"All right." Needing something to do, she went to the dresser and picked
up her brush. "What do we do now?"

"We wait." Straining against impotence, he jammed his fists in his
pockets. "You're to stay in the house, let the servants think you're ill
or tired or just plain lazy. You're not to answer the door, or the
phone, or see anyone unless I'm with you."

She slammed the brush back down, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. "I
won't be jailed in my own home."

"Either that or a cell," he improvised, adding a shrug. "Either way you
want it."

"You can't put me in a cell."

"Don't bet on it." Leaning back against the door, he ordered his muscles
to relax. "You're going to play this my way, Jess. Starting now."

Her automatic rebellion was instantly quelled as she remembered those
agonizing minutes on the beach. She wasn't only risking her own life,
she realized, but his as well. "You're right," she murmured. "I'm
sorry." Abruptly she whirled around. "I hate this! I hate all of it."

"I told Betsy you didn't want to be disturbed," he answered calmly.
"She's got it into her head that you've caught a touch of David's flu.
We'll let her go on thinking it. Why don't you get some sleep?"

"Don't go," she said quickly as he reached for the doorknob.

"I'll just be down in the library. You need to rest, Jess, you're worn
out."

"I need you," she corrected and walked to him. "Make love to me,
Slade... as if we were just a man and a woman who wanted to be
together." Lifting her arms, she circled his neck. "Can't we believe
that it's true for just a few hours? Let's give each other the rest of
the morning."

He lifted the back of his hand to her cheek in a gesture they both found
uncharacteristic. Slade wondered if she knew that his need was as great
as hers--to touch, to lose himself in lovemaking. So close, he thought
as he ran his knuckles over the line of her cheekbone. He'd come so
close to losing her.

"Your eyes are shadowed." His voice was rough with emotion. "You should
rest." But his lips were already lowering to seek hers.

The brush of mouth on mouth--gentle, caring, comforting. Jessica melted
against him, overpowered by the tenderness she'd drawn out of him. His
hand was still on her face, gliding over her features as if to memorize
them. On a sigh, her lips parted, softening under his until he thought
he would sink into them.

They had stood there only the night before, locked in an embrace that
had been turbulent with passion, almost brutal with desire. The soothing
quality of his kiss was no less arousing.

The pulse at the base of her throat beat thickly as Slade's fingertip
slid down to it. She needed, he needed. Thinking only of this, he
brought his hand to the loose knot of the towel to draw the material
from her before he carried her to bed.

Jessica saw his eyes, dark and intense, sweep over her as she began to
unbutton his shirt. Then her fingers were trapped between their bodies,
his mouth fixed on hers again. The night before, he'd made her soar; now
he made her float. Soft kisses, soft words, both unexpected, rained over
her. His fingers combed through her damp hair, spreading it out on the
pillow, lingering in its silk as if he would touch each individual
strand.

Her hands were free again and, trembling, they dealt with the last
buttons on his shirt. She felt a quiver race after her exploring hands,
heard his incoherent murmur as she worked the rest of his clothes from
him. Flesh to heated flesh, they began the journey. Rain began to patter
against the windows.

He'd never been a gentle lover--intense, yes, passionate, yes, but never
gentle. She unlocked something in him, something giving and tender. No
less desperately than the night before, he wanted her, but with the
hunger came the sweet calming breath of love. The peaceful emotion
guided them both to meet the unspoken needs of the other. Touch me here.
Let me taste. Look at me. There was no need for words when hearts and
minds were attuned.

He wandered over the body he already knew so well. In the gray, gloomy
light he worshiped her with hands, lips, and eyes. Naked, heavy eyed,
skin flushed with desire, Jessica lay quietly as he took his gaze over
her with the slow intensity she recognized. She was a willing prisoner
in the thick, humming world conceived by pleasure and sensation. The
rain grew loud, the room dimmer.

Lifting a hand to either side of his face, she drew him back to her.
With her tongue, she slowly traced the shape of his mouth, then probed
inside to drink up all the tastes of him. Flavors musky and sharp seeped
into her, deep into her, until she hungered for more. Desire rose to the
next plane.

Not so gentle now, nor so calmly, they sought each other. Kisses became
possessive, caresses urgent. Under the sound of the rain she heard his
breath shudder. Under the pressure of her hands, she felt his muscles
tighten. The liquefying pleasure that had ruled her became a hot, torrid
need, catapulting her beyond the gray, insular room into a place of
white light and golden fire.

Searing, searching, seducing, his mouth veered down her, over her, until
her skin was molten. With a strength only recently discovered, she
rolled on top of him to complete a crazed journey of her own. They
tangled and untangled in a wildly choreographed dance of passion. The
light wasn't white now, but red; the fire flamed blue.

She heard her name rip from his lips before they crushed down on hers.
Whatever madness he spoke was muffled against her in his urgency. Desire
spun into delirium as they came together. There was speed and strength
and desperation. Faster and faster they climbed while his mouth clung to
hers, swallowing her gasps, mixing them with his own.

Spent, she lay beneath him. His mouth was pressed to her throat, his
hands tangled in her hair. The rain drummed against the windows now,
hurled by the wind. His body was warm and damp and heavy on hers. A
feeling of security drifted over her, followed by a weariness that
reached her bones. Slade lifted his head to see her eyes glazed over
with fatigue.

"You'll sleep now." It wasn't a question. He tempered the command with a
kiss.

"You'll stay?" The words were thick as she fought off sleep long enough
to hear his answer.

"I'll start the fire." Rising, Slade walked to the white brick hearth
and added paper to the kindling. The long match hissed as he struck it.
Crouched, he watched the flames lick, then catch.

Minutes passed, but he remained, staring steadily at the fire without
seeing it. He knew what was happening to him. No, what had happened to
him, Slade corrected. He was in love with a woman he should never have
touched. A woman he had no business loving. A woman, he reminded himself
grimly, whose life depended on him. Until she was out of danger, he
couldn't afford to think of his own feelings, or of their consequences.
For her sake, the cop had to come first, the man second.

Straightening, he turned back to her. The shock of the morning had taken
its toll in exhaustion, he noted. She lay on her stomach, one hand
balled loosely on the pillow. Her hair fanned out, dry now, her face
pale beneath its disorder. Her eyes were shadowed, her breathing heavy.
The fire brought flickers of light into the room to play over her skin.

She was too small, he thought, too slender, to deal with what had
happened; to deal with the threat of what could happen. And how much
good would he do her? he asked himself as his eyes passed over her. Love
clouded his judgment, slowed his reflexes. If he'd been an instant
slower that morning... Shaking his head, Slade began to dress. It
wouldn't happen again. He'd keep her in the house if he had to chain
her. He'd see her through this, keep her safe, and then...

Then he'd get out of her life, he promised himself. And get her out of
his.

He drew the sheet over her, allowing his hand to linger on her hair
briefly before he left the room.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 7
---------
Contents - Prev | Next

Late, late in the morning, while Jessica slept, Slade stood at the
library window that faced the garden. Watery sunlight struggled through
the clouds to fall on the wet shrubs and grass. Rosebushes were naked
and thorny. Fall flowers hung heavy-headed and dripping, their petals
scattered. The storm had stripped the leaves away from the trees so that
they lay soggy and dull on the ground. The wind had died.

Someone had let Ulysses out. The dog lumbered along on the wet ground,
sniffing here and there without any apparent interest. Finding a likely
branch, he clamped it between his teeth, then trotted off toward the
beach. Hell of a watchdog, Slade thought in disgust. But then, who could
blame the dog for not barking at someone he knew--someone he'd seen in
the house for years?

Scrubbing his face with his hands, Slade turned away from the window.
The waiting was eating at him--another sign that he was losing his
objectivity. By rights he should have taken this part of the assignment
in his stride. As long as Jessica did what she was told, there was
virtually no way for anyone on the outside to get to her. The man who
had been in the parlor the night before was running scared and for that
reason wouldn't test his luck during the day in a house full of active
servants. If everything went according to plan, it was simply a matter
of holding tight until the FBI made its move. If, Slade thought tightly,
everything went according to plan.

Plans had a way of veering off course when the human element was
involved.

A glance at his watch told him that Jessica had been asleep for half an
hour. With luck, she'd sleep through the day. When she slept, she was
safe--and every hour that she was safe brought them closer to the
finish.

Idly, he picked up one of the books from a pile he'd begun to organize.
She'd have to get someone to take care of this mess, he thought--once
her life was settled again. Once her life was settled, he repeated
silently, and he was back in New York, away from her. With an oath, he
tossed the book aside. Was he ever going to get away from her? he
wondered with something uncomfortably close to fear. Oh, he could put
the distance between them--miles of distance. All he had to do was to
get into his car and head it in the right direction. But how long would
it take him to chase her out of his head? That was for tomorrow, he
reminded himself and was suddenly, abominably tired. He knew better than
to think of tomorrows.

"Slade?"

Turning, he saw Jessica in the doorway. It annoyed him that she was
there, infuriated him that her face was still pale, her eyes still
shadowed. "What are you doing up?" he demanded. "You look like hell."

Jessica managed a weak smile. "Thanks. You know how to boost a woman's
morale, Sergeant."

"You're supposed to be resting," he reminded her.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Take a pill."

"I never take pills." Because her hands were clammy, she linked them
together. She wouldn't tell him of the nightmare that had woken her--of
the sharp, sweating fear that had had her choking back a scream as she
fought off sleep. Nor would Jessica tell him how she had reached for him
only to find him gone. "Are you working?"

Slade frowned, then followed her gaze to the pile of books beside him.
"I might as well clear up some of this," he said with a shrug. "I've got
nothing but time now."

"I could help." Uncomfortably aware that her movements were jerky,
Jessica walked farther into the room. "And don't make one of those snide
remarks," she continued hurriedly. "I know the library's a disgrace and
the finger points at me, but I do have a knack for organizing once I get
started. If nothing else I can fetch and carry for you until--"

He cut off her stream of hasty words by putting his hand over hers as
she reached for a book. Her skin was ice cold. Instinctively he
tightened his grip, wanting to warm her. "Jess, go back to bed. Get some
sleep. I'll have Betsy bring you up a tray later."

"I'm not sick!" The words erupted from her as she yanked her hand away.

"You're going to be," Slade returned evenly, "if you don't take care of
yourself."

"Stop treating me like a child," she ordered, enunciating each word
carefully. "I don't need a baby sitter."

"No?" He gave a quick laugh, remembering his early conception of his
assignment. "Then tell me, how much sleep have you had in the last two
days? When's the last time you've had a meal?"

"I had dinner last night," she began.

"You pushed your dinner around your plate last night," he corrected.
"Keep it up. You'll pass out and make my job easier."

"I'm not going to pass out," she said quietly. Her eyes had darkened,
that much more of a contrast to her skin.

Because he wanted to rage at her, Slade withdrew. "I wouldn't count on
it but suit yourself," he said carelessly. "Overall it doesn't matter
whether you're conscious or unconscious." In dismissal, he turned back
to the stack of books.

"I'm sorry I'm not as accustomed to this sort of thing as you are,"
Jessica began in a tone that started off calm, then became more and more
agitated. "It isn't every day I'm investigated by the FBI and shot at by
a professional gunman. The next time I'm sure I'll be able to enjoy a
banquet after I see a dead body on my property. All in a day's work for
you, isn't it, Slade? Killing a man?"

A hard knot lodged in his stomach, another in his chest. Casually, he
pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

Chest heaving with the emotion of her words, she watched him. "Don't you
feel anything?" Jessica demanded.

He made himself take a long slow drag, made himself speak calmly. "What
do you want me to feel? If I'd been slower, I'd be dead."

Swiftly, she turned away, then pressed her forehead to the window glass.
The few clinging raindrops blurred and seemed to multiply until she shut
her eyes. And so would you, she reminded herself. What he did, he did
for you. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" His voice was as cool as the pane she rested upon. And just as
hard. "You were on target again."

Taking a deep breath, Jessica turned to face him. Yes, the guards were
there, but she knew him better now. What he had done that morning hadn't
been done coldly. "You hate being reminded that you're just as human as
the rest of us, don't you? It infuriates you that you're haunted by
feelings, emotions, needs." Slowly she walked to him. "I wonder if
that's why you won't stay with me after we've made love. Are you afraid
I'll find a weakness, Slade? A little crack I might be able to widen?"

"Watch how far you go," he warned softly. "You won't like the trip
back."

"You hate wanting me, don't you?"

In a deliberately controlled movement, Slade crushed out his cigarette.
"Yes."

As she opened her mouth to speak again, the door to the library swung
open. Both she and Slade turned to see David stride in. He took a long
look at Jessica, then pushed his glasses back up on his nose.

"You look like hell. Why aren't you in bed?"

"David." She couldn't control the tremor in her voice or the sudden urge
that had her racing into his arms to hug him fiercely. David sent Slade
a surprised look over her shoulder as he awkwardly patted her back.

"What's all this? You got a fever? Come on, Jessie."

Not him, she thought desperately. Please, God, not David. Through sheer
force of will, Jessica controlled the tears that burned in her eyes.

In silence, Slade watched the exchange. Jessica clung to David's thin
frame as if it were an anchor while he looked puzzled, concerned, and
embarrassed all at once. Speculating, Slade dipped his hands into his
pockets.

"Hey, what's all this? Is she delirious?" David tossed the question at
Slade, but managed to nudge Jessica back enough to peer into her face.
"You look ready to drop," he stated and tested her forehead with his
palm. "Mom called me at the shop, giving me all kinds of grief about
passing on my germs." Drawing her away, he grimaced at the memory.
"That's what you get for coming into my room and shoving that chicken
soup down my throat."

"I'm all right," she managed. "Just a little tired."

"Sure, tell that to someone who didn't spend last week flat on his back
moaning."

Jessica wanted to cling to him again, to pour out everything that was
inside her. Instead she took a step back, smiled, and hated herself.
"I'll be fine. I'm just going to take it easy for a couple of days."

"Have you called the doctor?"

"David--"

The annoyance in her tone pleased him. "It's great having the situation
reversed," he told Slade. "She did nothing but nag for two weeks. Have
you?" he demanded of Jessica again.

"When I need one, I'll call one. Why aren't you at the shop?"

"Don't worry, I'm heading right back." David shot her a grin, relieved
by the question and the brisk tone. That was more like Jessica. "After
Mom called and read me the riot act, I wanted to check on you. The
deliveries went out yesterday without any problem. Traffic's been light,
but I've made enough sales to earn my keep." He gave her hair a quick
tug. "I don't want to see you in the shop until next week, babe. Michael
and I can handle it. In fact, you look like you could use a vacation."

"If you tell me how terrible I look again, you're not going to get that
raise you've been hinting about."

"That's what happens when you work for a woman," he told Slade. Turning,
David headed back for the door. "Mom says for you two to come in to
lunch. This time you're getting the chicken soup." With a satisfied grin
tossed over his shoulder, he left them.

The moment the door closed, Jessica pressed both hands to her mouth.
What ran through her wasn't pain, not even an ache, but a bloodless kind
of hurt that left her numb in the vital areas of heart and mind. She
didn't move or make any sound. For a moment she felt that she had simply
ceased to exist.

"Not David." Her own whispered words jolted her. With them came a
torrent of emotion. "Not David!" she repeated, whirling on Slade. "I
won't believe it. Nothing you can say will make me believe he'd do
anything to hurt me. He isn't capable, any more than Michael is."

"In a couple of days it'll be over." Slade kept his tone neutral. "Then
you'll know one way or the other."

"I know now!" Spinning around, she dashed for the door. Slade's hand
clamped down on hers on the handle.

"You're not going after him," he said evenly. When she tried to jerk
free, he took her by the shoulders with more gentleness than he was
feeling. He hated to see her like this, tormented, desperate--hating
knowing it was him she would turn against. But he had no choice. "You're
not going after him," he said again, spacing the words precisely.
"Unless I have your word, I'll cuff you to the bed and lock you in." He
narrowed his eyes as her hand struggled beneath his. "I mean it, Jess."

She didn't turn against him, but to him. And that, Slade discovered, was
worse. "Not David," she murmured, crumpling into his arms. "Slade, I
can't bear it. I think I could stand anything but knowing either one of
them was involved with what--with what happened this morning."

She seemed so fragile. He was almost afraid she would shatter if he
applied the least pressure. What do I do with her now? he wondered as he
laid his cheek on her hair. He knew how to handle her when she was
furious. He could even manage her when she dissolved into stormy tears.
But what did he do when she was simply limp and totally dependent on
him? She was asking him for reassurance he couldn't give, emotion he was
terrified to offer.

"Jess, don't do this to yourself. Block it out, a couple of days." He
tilted up her chin until their eyes met. He saw trust, and a plea. "Let
me take care of you," he heard himself say. "I want to take care of
you." He wasn't aware of moving until his lips found hers. Her
vulnerability undermined him. To keep her from harm, to shield her from
hurt, seemed his only purpose. "Think of me," he murmured, unconsciously
speaking the thoughts that raced around in his head. "Only think of me."
Slade drew her closer, changing the angle for more soft, nibbling
kisses. "Tell me you want me. Let me hear you say it."

"Yes, I want you." Breathless and pliant, she allowed him to give and to
take while she remained passive. For the moment Jessica had no strength
to offer anything but surrender in return, but it was enough for both of
them. In his arms she could almost forget the nightmare, and the
reality.

He took her hands and buried his lips in the palm of one, then the
other. It surprised her enough to steady rather than arouse her. Slade
wasn't a man for endearments, or for typically romantic gestures. Even
as the tingle ran up her arms, it occurred to Jessica that her weakness,
her despair, only made his difficult job impossible. He'd been wiser
than he knew to ask her to think of him. Drawing on her reserves of
strength, she straightened her shoulders and smiled at him.

"Betsy has a nasty temper when she has to keep meals waiting."

Gratified, he answered the smile. "Hungry?"

"Yes," she lied.

Jessica managed to eat a little, though the food threatened to stick in
her throat. Knowing Slade watched her, she made an effort to appear as
though she were enjoying the meal. She talked--rambled--about anything
but what was foremost on her mind. Too many topics of conversation could
lead back to the shop, to David, to Michael. To the man in the grove.
Jessica found herself fighting the inclination to look out the window.
To look out only reminded her that she was imprisoned in her own home.

"Tell me about your family," she demanded, almost desperately.

Deciding that it would be better to go along with her pretense than
insist she eat or rest, Slade passed her cream for the coffee she was
allowing to grow cold. "My mother's a quiet woman--the kind of person
who talks only when she has something to say. She likes little things
like the figure I bought in your shop and fussy glass. She plays the
piano--started taking lessons again last year. The only thing she ever
insisted on was that Janice and I learn to play."

"Do you?"

Slade heard the surprise in her voice and gave her a mild scowl.
"Badly," he admitted. "She finally gave up on me."

"How does she feel about..." Jessica hesitated, then picked up her spoon
to stir her coffee. "About what you do?"

"She doesn't say." Slade watched her move the spoon around and around
until a tiny whirlpool formed in the cup. "I wouldn't think it any
easier to be the mother of a cop than the wife of one. But she manages.
She's always managed."

With a nod, Jessica pushed the untouched coffee aside. "And your sister,
Janice... you said she was in college."

"She wants to be a chemist." He gave a quick mystified laugh. "She said
so after her first day in high school chemistry. You should see her
mixing all those potions. This tall skinny girl with soft eyes and
beautiful hands--not your average mad scientist. She blew up our
bathroom when she was sixteen."

Jessica laughed--perhaps her first genuine laugh in twenty-four hours.
"Did she really?"

"A minor explosion." Slade passed it off, pleased to hear the low gurgle
that had been so much a part of her until the day before. "The super
wasn't too impressed with her explanation of unstable compounds."

"One can see his point," Jessica mused. "Where does she go to school?"

"Princeton. She got a partial scholarship."

And even with that, Jessica reflected, the cost of tuition must devour
his income. How much did a cop make? she wondered. Not enough, she
thought instantly. Not nearly enough to compensate for the risk. His
writing takes a back seat to his sister's education. Jessica studied the
cold coffee in her cup and wondered if Janice Sladerman realized how
much her brother was willing to sacrifice for her.

"You must love her very much," she murmured. "And your mother."

Slade lifted a brow. It wasn't something he thought of, it simply was.
"Yes, I do. Things haven't been easy on either of them. They never
complain, never expect."

"And you?" Lifting her eyes, Jessica gave him a long, quiet look. "How
have you managed to hide from them what you really want?" Sensing his
instant withdrawal, she reached out to take his hand. "You really hate
anyone knowing what a nice person you are, don't you, Slade? Doesn't
suit the tough cop image." She grinned, pleased to see that she'd
embarrassed him. "You can always tell me how you knock suspects around
until they beg to confess."

"You've been watching too many old movies." Linking his fingers with
hers, Slade drew her to her feet.

"They're one of my vices," she confessed. "I can't tell you how many
times I've seen The Big Sleep."

"That's about a private detective, not a cop," he pointed out as he
walked her back to the library.

"What's the difference?"

He shot her a look. "How much time do you have?"

"Well." She considered, glad to forget the outside world for a few
moments. "It might be interesting to learn why one's called a flatfoot
and the other a gumshoe."

He stopped, turning to her with an expression between amusement and
exasperation. "Very old movies," he decided.

"Classics," she corrected. "I only watch them for their cultural value."

Slade only lifted a brow at that. It was a gesture Jessica had learned
he used in lieu of dozens of words. "Since you want to help, you can do
the cataloging." He gestured toward the pile of books littering the work
table. "Your handwriting has to be better than mine."

"All right." Grateful for any task, Jessica plucked one of a neat stack
of index files. "I suppose you'll want to reference and cross-reference
and all that sort of thing."

"Something like that."

"Slade." She put the card back down before she turned to him. "You'd
rather be working on your book than doing this. Why don't you take a
couple of hours for yourself?"

He thought of the novel, nearly finished, waiting for him on the desk
upstairs. Then he thought of the way Jessica had looked when she had
walked through the library doors an hour before.

"This kind of mess drives me crazy," he told her. "While I'm here, I
might as well point you in the right direction. How many books are in
here?" he asked before she could voice another objection.

Momentarily distracted, Jessica looked around. "I don't have any idea.
Most of these were my father's. He loved to read." A smile touched her
lips, then her eyes. "His taste was eclectic to say the least but I
think he had a preference for hard-boiled whodunits." The thought
occurred to her quite suddenly. "What's your book about? Is it a
detective novel?"

"The one I'm working on now?" He grinned. "No."

"Well?" She lowered a hip to the table. "What then?"

He began to make a clear space for her to work. "It's about a family,
beginning in the postwar forties and working through modern day.
Changes, adjustments, disappointments, victories."

"Let me read it," she demanded impulsively. His words, she knew
instinctively, would reveal much of the inner man.

"It's not finished."

"I'll read what is."

Searching for a pencil, Slade stalled. He wanted his words read. It was
a dream he'd lived with for too many years to count. But Jessica was
different; she wasn't the nameless, faceless public. Her opinion, good
or bad, held too much weight. "Maybe," he muttered. "If you're going to
help, you'd better sit down."

"Slade." Wrapping her arms around his waist, Jessica rested her cheek on
his back. "I'll just bother you until you say yes. It's a talent of
mine."

Something about the casually intimate embrace stirred him beyond belief.
Her breasts pressed lightly against his back; her hands linked loosely
at his waist. In that moment, for that moment, he surrendered completely
to the love he felt for her. It was deeper than need, sharper than
longing.

Didn't she see that there was nothing he could refuse her? Slade thought
as he brought his hands down to cover hers.

Couldn't she see that she'd become woman and dream and vulnerability,
all in the space of days? If they were to pretend--for her sake--that
there was no threat beyond the walls, perhaps they could pretend for his
that she belonged to him.

"Bother me," he invited, turning so that he could gather her into his
arms. "But I warn you, I'm no pushover."

With a low laugh, Jessica rose on her toes until her lips brushed his.
"I can only hope my work's cut out for me." Deepening the kiss, she slid
her hands under his shirt to run them up the firm planes of his back,
along the ridge of muscle.

"That might get you a couple of pages," he murmured. "Want to try for a
chapter?"

She allowed her tongue to trace his lips lazily, giving them a quick
teasing nip as she slid a finger up and down his spine. She sensed his
response, just as she sensed his reluctance to show it to her.
"Bargaining is my forte," she told him quietly. She gave him a slow,
lingering kiss, retreating just as she felt him increase the pressure.
"Just how many chapters are in this book?"

Slade closed his eyes, the better to enjoy the sensation of being
seduced when no seduction was necessary. "About twenty-five."

"Hmmm." He felt her lips curve as they touched his again. "This could
take all day."

"Count on it." Unexpectedly, he drew her away, then framed her face with
his hands. "We can start negotiations right after we do some work in
here."

"Oh." Catching her tongue between her teeth, Jessica looked around at
the disordered books. "After?"

"After," Slade said firmly, nudging her down in a chair. "Start
writing."

Jessica was hardly aware of the hours that passed--one, then two, then
three. He worked quietly, systematically, and with a patience she could
never hope to emulate. Slade knew the books a great deal better than
she. Jessica saved reading for the rare times when her physical energy
lagged behind her mental energy. She enjoyed books. He loved them. She
found this small realization another step in the ladder to discovering
him.

It was easier in the quiet, cluttered library to get him to talk. Have
you read this? Yes. What did you think of it? And he would tell her,
easily and in depth, without ever stopping his work. How her father
would have liked him, Jessica thought. He would have admired Slade's
mind, his strength, his sudden flashes of humor. He would have seen the
goodness Slade took such care to keep hidden.

She doubted Slade realized that, by letting her work with him here, he
was revealing his other side. The dreamer. Perhaps she'd always known it
was there, even when she had recognized the streak of hard street sense.
It was a complex man who could carry a gun and discuss Byron's Don Juan
with equal ease. That afternoon she needed the dreamer. Perhaps he knew
it.

The light began to fade to a soft gray. Shadows gathered in the corners
of the room. Jessica had forgotten her tension and had become involved
with the mindless task of copying titles and names onto the index cards.
When the phone rang, she scattered two dozen of them on the floor.
Quickly she began to retrieve them.

"It just startled me," she said when Slade remained silent. She cursed
her trembling hands as she gathered the cards back into a pile. "It's
been so quiet, that's all." Furious with herself, she let the cards fall
again. "Damn it, don't sit there looking at me like that! I'd rather you
swore at me."

He rose and went to her, then crouched in front of her. "You made a hell
of a mess," he murmured. "If you can't do better, I'll have to get
myself a new assistant."

With a sound that was part sigh, part laugh, she leaned her forehead
against his. "Give me a break, it's my first day on the job."

Betsy opened the door, then lifted her brows and pursed her lips. Well,
she always figured where there was smoke there was fire, and she'd
smelled smoke the minute those two had set eyes on each other. She gave
a quick harrumph and watched Jessica jump as though she'd been scalded.

"Mr. Adams is on the phone," Betsy said regally, then closed the door
again.

Slade closed his hand over Jessica's. "Call her back," he said quietly.
"Have her tell him you're resting."

"No." With a quick shake of the head, she rose. "Don't keep asking me to
run, Slade, because I might do it. Then I'd hate myself." Turning, she
picked up the phone. "Hello, Michael."

Slowly Slade straightened, tucked his hands in his pockets, and watched
her.

"No, it's nothing really, just a little touch of the flu." Jessica spoke
in quiet tones while she wrapped the phone cord around and around her
fingers. "David's just feeling guilty because he thinks I caught it from
him. He shouldn't have worried you. I am taking care of myself." She
shut her eyes tightly a moment, but her voice remained light and steady.
"No, I won't be in tomorrow." The cord of the phone dug into her skin.
Carefully Jessica unwound it. "That's not necessary, Michael... No,
really. I promise--don't worry. I'll be--I'll be fine in a couple of
days. Yes, I will... Good-bye."

After replacing the receiver, Jessica stood for a moment, staring down
at her empty hands. "He was concerned," she murmured. "I'm never ill. He
wanted to come over and see me, but I put him off."

"Good." Sympathy wouldn't help her now, Slade decided. "We've done
enough in here for today. Why don't we go upstairs?" He walked to the
door, as if taking her agreement for granted. He opened it, then paused
and looked back. She still hadn't moved. "Come on, Jess."

She crossed to him, but stopped at the door. "Michael would do nothing
to hurt me," she said without looking at him. "I just want you to
understand that."

"As long as you understand that I have to look at everyone as a
potential threat," he returned evenly. "You're not to see either one of
them--or anyone else--unless I'm with you." Spotting the light of
defiance in her eyes, he continued. "If he and David are innocent, the
next couple of days won't do them any harm. If you really believe it,"
he went on, shrugging off the look of fury she sent him, "you should be
able to handle all this."

He wasn't going to give her an inch, Jessica concluded as she fought
both tears and rage. Perhaps it was best if he didn't. She took a long
steadying breath. "You're right. And I will handle it. Are you going to
work on your book now?"

Slade gave no sign that the change of subject made any difference to
him. "I thought I might."

Jessica was determined to be just as practical as he--at least on the
surface. "Fine. Go on up then and I'll bring some coffee for both of us.
You can trust me," she went on before he could object. "I'll do exactly
what you tell me to do so I can prove you wrong. I am going to prove you
wrong, Slade," she told him with quiet, concrete determination.

"Fine, as long as you stick to the rules."

Finding herself more at ease with a goal in mind, Jessica smiled. "Then
I'll bring up the coffee. While I'm reading your book, you can
concentrate on finishing it. It's one sure way to keep me occupied for
the rest of the day."

He pinched the lobe of her ear. "Is that a bribe?"

"If you don't know one when you hear one," she countered, "you must be a
pretty lousy cop."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 8
---------
Contents - Prev | Next

Jessica's coffee grew cold again. She sat up against the headboard of
Slade's bed with a pile of manuscript on either side of her. The stack
of pages she had read was rapidly outgrowing the pile she had yet to
read. Engrossed, she had been able to pass off Betsy's nagging when the
housekeeper had brought up a tray of soup and sandwiches. Jessica had
given her an absent promise to eat which she had forgotten the moment
the door was closed again. She'd forgotten, too, though he had scrawled
notes and revisions in the margins, that she was reading Slade's work.
The story, the people, had completely taken her over.

She traveled with an ordinary family through the postwar forties,
through the simplicities and complexities of the fifties, into the
sixties with their turbulence and fluctuating mores. Children grew up,
values changed. There were deaths and births, the realization of some
dreams and the destruction of others. Through it all, as a new
generation coped with the pressures of the seventies, Jessica came to
know them. They were people she might have met--undeniably people she
would have cared for.

The words flowed, at times gently, at other times with a grittiness that
made her stomach tighten. It wasn't an easy story--his characters were
too genuine for that. He showed her things she didn't always want to be
shown, but she never considered setting the pages aside.

At the end of a chapter Jessica reached automatically for the next page.
Confused, she glanced down to see that there were no more. Annoyed with
the interruption, she then realized she had read all he had given her.
For the first time in almost three hours, the sound of Slade's typing
penetrated her concentration.

There was a full moon. That, too, came to her abruptly. The light flowed
into the room to vie with the stream of the bedside lamp. The fire Slade
had lit when they'd come upstairs had burned down to glowing embers.
Jessica stretched her cramped muscles, wanting to give herself a moment
before she went into Slade.

When she had insisted on reading his work, Jessica hadn't been certain
how she would feel or what she would say to him when she was finished.
Knowing herself too easily influenced by emotion, she had been certain
that she would find some merit in his writing. Now she wanted time to
decide how much her feelings for Slade had to do with her feelings about
the story she had just read.

None, she realized. Before she had completed the first chapter Jessica
had forgotten why she was reading it even though her main purpose had
been accomplished. She knew Slade better now.

He had a depth of perception she had only sensed, an insight into people
she envied as well as admired. In his writing as well as his speech, he
was frugal with words--but in the writing, his inner thoughts surfaced.
He might be sparing with his own emotions, but his characters had a
range to them that were rooted in their creator.

And, Jessica mused, she'd been wrong when she had once told him he
didn't know women. He knew them--almost too well, she thought as she
fingered the tip of a page. How much did he see, when he looked at her,
that she had been confident was private? How much did he understand,
when he touched her, that she had been certain she could keep hidden?

Did he know she loved him? Instinctively Jessica glanced at the doorway
that separated the bedroom and the sitting room. Slade's typing
continued. No, she was certain he had no idea how deep her feelings ran.
Or, she thought with a small smile, that she was determined not to let
him walk out of her life whenever, or however, things were resolved. If
he knew, she mused, he'd put her at arm's length. A cautious man, she
reflected. Slade was a very cautious man--one who saw himself suited for
the solitary life. Jessica decided that he had some surprises coming.
When she felt her life was her own again, she was going to deal him a
few.

She rose and went to the doorway. His back was to her, the light falling
on his hands as they moved over the keys. From the set of his shoulders,
the angle of his head, she could tell his concentration was deep. Not
wanting to disturb him, she waited, resting against the doorjamb. The
ashtray at his elbow was half full, with a lit cigarette smoldering and
forgotten. His coffee cup was empty, but his dinner tray hadn't been
touched. She felt a Betsy-like urge to scold him for neglecting to eat.

This is how it could be, she realized abruptly, if the nightmare was
behind us. He could work here, and I'd hear the sound of his typing when
I came home. There'd be times he'd get up in the middle of the night and
close the door so the noise wouldn't wake me. We'd walk on the beach on
Sunday mornings... watch the fire on rainy afternoons. One day, she
thought and closed her eyes. It could happen one day.

With an exasperated sigh, Slade stopped typing. One hand reached up to
rub at the stiffness in his neck. Whatever impetus had driven him for
three hours had suddenly dried up, and he wasn't ready. Automatically he
reached for his coffee, only to find the cup empty. Maybe if he went
down for some more, the flow would come back. Even as he considered it,
Jessica came to him.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she rested her cheek on top of his
head. Love was coursing through her swiftly, too swiftly. She squeezed
him tightly, forcing back the words she was afraid he wasn't ready to
hear. There were others she wanted to say first.

"Slade, don't ever stop doing what you were meant to do."

Not sure of her meaning, he frowned down at the words he'd just written.
"How much did you read?"

"All you gave me--not enough. When will you finish? Oh, Slade, it's
wonderful!" Jessica continued before he could speak. "It's a beautiful
piece of work. Everything: the words, the feeling, the people."

Slade turned so that he could see her face. He didn't want platitudes,
not from her. Her eyes were lit with enthusiasm while his remained cool
and guarded. "Why?"

"Because you told a story with depth, about people all of us have met or
have been." She spread her fingers, searching for words that would
satisfy him. "Because it made me cry, and cringe, and laugh. There were
parts--that scene in the parking lot in the seventh chapter--I didn't
want to read. It was hard, savage. But I had to read it even when it
hurt. Slade, no one that reads that is going to be untouched." She laid
her hands back on his shoulders. "And isn't that why a writer writes?"

His eyes never left hers. He waited, weighing what he saw there with her
words. "You know," he said slowly, "I don't think I realized until just
now what a chance I was taking by letting you read it."

"A chance," she repeated. "Why?"

"If you hadn't been touched, I'm not sure I could have finished it."

Nothing he could have said would have meant more. Jessica brought his
hand up to her cheek, wondering if he realized how much he'd said in one
sentence. "I was touched, Slade," she said quietly. "When it's
published, and I read it, I'm going to remember that part of it was
written right here."

"Going to erect a monument?" he asked with a smile.

"Just a discreet plaque." Leaning over, she kissed him. "I wouldn't want
it to go to your head. What about an agent?" she asked suddenly. "Do you
have one?"

Chuckling, he drew her down into his lap. "Yes, I have one. so far we
haven't done each other much good, but he's marketed some short stories,
and he's doing whatever it is agents do to sell my other novel."

"The other one." Jessica drew away as Slade began to nibble on her ear.
"It's finished then?"

"Mmm-hmm. Come back here," he demanded, wanting to taste that soft,
sensitive spot at the curve of her shoulder.

"What's it about?" she demanded, eluding him. "When can I read it? Is it
as good as this one?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?" His hand
slipped under her sweater to cup her breast. With his thumb, he flicked
lazily over the point, feeling it harden as her heartbeat went from
steady to erratic. "I like that," he murmured, nipping at the cord of
her neck. "I can feel your pulse go crazy everywhere I touch." In one
long stroke, he moved down her rib cage to her waist. "You're losing
weight," he said with a frown. "You're already too thin. Did you eat any
dinner?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?" Jessica asked before
she pressed her lips to his.

His answer was a low sound of pleasure. She tasted warm--more pungent
than sweet--as the tip of her tongue slipped to his to tantalize, then
retreated to provoke. He thought he heard her laugh, low and husky,
before he gripped the back of her neck in his hand and plunged deep. Her
scent and her taste were the same so that he felt himself surrounded by
her. Before Slade could rise to carry her to the bed, Jessica was
pulling him to the floor.

There was a sudden urgency in her, a flash of fire. The habitual energy
that had been lacking in her all day abruptly surfaced in a torrent of
passion. She tugged at the buttons of his shirt, impatient to have his
flesh against hers while her mouth was already making wild passes over
his face and throat. Her aggression both unbalanced and aroused him.
Because he understood that part of it came from a need to block out her
fears, Slade let her lead. The pace was hers--and it was frantic.

Within moments he was too caught up in her to think at all. She was
undressing him swiftly, her lips following the path of her busy hands
until his mind was totally centered on her. Shivering thoughts, quick
tastes, maddening touches--she gave him no time to focus on only one,
but insisted he experience all in an enervating haze of sensation.

Vulnerability was something new to him, but he found himself trapped in
a sultry, viscous world where he had no guards, no defense. She was
driving him beyond the point of reason, but still he couldn't find the
will to stop her and take command. This time there was only response. It
poured from him, increasing her strength and depleting his.

When her mouth fixed on his again, he fumbled with her sweater. He,
whose hands were always sure, found them damp and trembling when at last
he could touch her. Though her flesh was as hot as his, she allowed him
to linger nowhere, moving over him with a speed and agility that left
his hands frustrated and his body throbbing. Skin slid over skin, her
moist, hungry mouth ravaging, her soft hands greedy.

Knowing he was helpless excited her. This strong man, this hard man, was
completely powerless under her spell. But Jessica had no spells, only
needs. And love. She realized that she loved him more on finding that he
could be weak. His body was firm and muscled, but it shuddered now--for
her.

The light from the desk lamp slanted across his face so that she could
see his eyes, opaque with passion, on hers. His mouth was tempting, and
she took it, tasting all the hot, heady flavors that sprang from desire.
His breath was warm and ragged as it trembled into her open mouth. With
sudden clarity, she smelled the lemon and beeswax polish from the desk.
In some sane portion of her mind, Jessica knew the scent would come back
to her whenever she thought of the first time he fully gave himself to
her. For she had him now--mind, emotion, and body. Even when he took
them back, she would have had this one instant in time when he held
nothing away from her.

So she gave herself to him, taking him into her on a flash of sharp
silvery pleasure. Her strength soared, driving both of them fast and
hard, until it crested, suspending them. When it ebbed, she seemed to
dissolve into him so that they lay entwined, joined and sated.

Slade struggled to clear his mind but found that she filled it, consumed
it. The power that had driven her was depleted, her body nearly
weightless on his, but he discovered that she still dominated him. He
wanted to draw away, perhaps to prove to both of them that he could,
that he had a choice. His hands only tangled deeper into her hair until
he found the soft, slender neck. Though she lay passive, hardly
breathing, he could feel the hammer of her heart against his. No force
of will could make his pulses level though his physical need was fully
satisfied. He wanted her--but his wants were only to have her near.

"Jess." He lifted her face to his without any idea what thoughts would
spill out into words. Her eyes were huge and heavy and shadowed. Her
face was soft, with the afterglow of passion and with weariness. He'd
had no right, he thought on a quick rage of guilt, no right to allow her
to use up all her reserves of energy and strength to satisfy his needs.

"No, don't." Jessica could see the change in his face. Already, she
thought, he was taking back what he had so briefly given her. "Don't
shut me out," she said quietly. "Don't shut me out so soon."

Without realizing he was doing so, he traced her lips with his thumb.
"Sleep with me tonight" was all he said.

Slade waited until he was certain she slept before he eased from the
bed. Watching Jessica, he dressed in silence. Thin moonlight washed over
her face and bare shoulders, shifting with shadows as a cloud passed
over the moon. With any luck, he calculated that he could give the first
floor a thorough check, stake out the parlor for a couple of hours, then
be back without her ever knowing he had gone. Giving her one last look,
he slipped from the room.

With the soundless efficiency that came from years of experience, Slade
tested the multitude of doors and windows. He noted with disgust the
simple locks that would keep out only the rankest of amateurs.

The house is full of silver and small, portable valuables, he reflected.
A burglar's paradise--and she seals it off with dime-store locks. A
credit card and a hairpin, Slade decided as he examined the rear kitchen
door. He'd have to see that Jessica installed something less flimsy
before he left.

In a mound of white fur, Ulysses slept on the cool tile floor, snoring
lightly. He never stirred as Slade stepped over him. Testing, Slade
rattled the knob on the back door. Ulysses' rhythm never altered.

"Wake up, you good-for-nothing mutt."

At the command, the dog opened one glazed eye, thumped his tail twice,
then went back to sleep.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Slade reminded himself that a
run-of-the-mill burglar wasn't the immediate problem. He stepped over
the dog again and left him snoring.

Cautiously, he moved through the servants' wing. There was a pale light
under one door and the muffled laughter of a late-night talk show. The
rest were silent. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just past
midnight. Slade went back to the parlor to wait.

He sat in a wingback chair, lost in the shadows. Watch and wait. There
was little more he could do. And he was itching to do
something--anything to move the investigation along. Maybe the
commissioner picked the wrong man after all, he mused. This time Slade
wanted to look for trouble--and he wanted to find it. Whoever had hired
the man in the grove was going to pay, he had little doubt of that. But
he wanted to collect personally.

The woman upstairs in his bed was all that mattered. The diamonds were
incidental--they were just rocks, after all, with a market value.
Jessica was priceless. With a silent laugh, he stretched out his legs.
Dodson could hardly have foreseen that his hand-picked bodyguard would
fall in love with his assignment. Slade knew his own reputation:
thorough, precise, and cool.

Well, he thought, he'd lost his cool almost from the instant he'd seen
the little blond whirlwind with the Viking cheekbones. He wasn't
thinking like a cop but like a man--a man who wanted revenge. And that
was dangerous. As long as he remained on the force, he had to play by
the rules. The first rule was no personal involvement.

Slade nearly laughed aloud at that. Rule one down the tubes, he decided
as he dragged a hand through his hair. How could he be more personally
involved? He was already in love with her, already her lover. If they
were any more personal they'd be married and having children.

That thought stopped him cold. He couldn't permit his mind to run in
that direction. He wasn't for her. They'd drift apart once the
investigation was over. Naturally that's what he wanted, Slade told
himself, but the frown remained in his eyes. He had his own life to deal
with--the demands of his profession, his responsibilities, his writing.
Even if there was room in his life for a woman, their paths ran in
opposite directions. They weren't about to cross again. It was only
chance that had brought them together this time, circumstances that had
brought about an intimacy that had led to emotional attachment. He'd get
over her. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and
forefinger. The hell he would.

Wasn't a man allowed a few dreams? he demanded of himself, when he sat
alone in the dark in a room that smelled of lemon wax and fall flowers.
Wasn't he allowed to weave some sort of future when a woman lay soft and
warm in his bed? He was entitled to some basic selfishness, wasn't he?
With a half sigh, Slade settled against the back of the chair. Maybe the
man was, but the cop wasn't. And, he reminded himself, Jessica needed
the cop more whether she believed it or not.

Blanking out his mind, Slade waited in the dark for just under three
hours. Instinct told him he was wasting his time. Some sleep was
essential if he was to be alert enough to keep her safe and occupied
during the daylight hours. Stiff from sitting, he absently worked out
the kinks as he headed back to the stairs. Another day, he mused, two at
the most--if Agent Brewster was as close as he'd led Slade to believe.

Fatigue settled over him the moment he allowed his muscles to relax.
Four hours' sleep would recharge his system--he'd gotten by on less.
Quietly, he turned the knob of his bedroom door.

Jessica was sitting in the middle of the bed, curled into a tight ball.
She took the deep, tearing breaths of a drowning woman fighting for air.
Moonlight pooled over her as she shuddered.

"Jess?"

There was a scream rising in her throat. When her head jerked up, Slade
saw the wild sheen of fear in her eyes before she focused on him. She
could hold back the cry by digging her teeth into her lip, but the
shudders went on. Slade went to her swiftly. Her skin was clammy as he
took her shoulders; her face damp with a mixture of tears and
perspiration. It ran through his mind that someone had slipped past him
and gotten to her, then the idea was as quickly dismissed.

"What is it?" he demanded. "What's the matter?"

"It's nothing." Desperately she fought to control the tremors. The
nightmare had come back, horridly vivid, to attack all of her senses.
Cold wind, the smell of salt spray, the roar of the surf--and someone's
heavy footsteps as they ran after her, the shifting shadows as clouds
blocked out the sun, the iron taste of her own terror. And worse, much
worse, she had been afraid to turn, afraid she would see the face of
someone she loved on the man who pursued her.

"I woke up," she managed. "I guess I panicked when you weren't here." It
was partially true and difficult enough to confess. She couldn't bring
herself to admit she could be terrorized by a dream.

"I was just downstairs." He brushed sweat-dampened hair from her cheeks.
"I wanted to make sure everything was locked up."

"Professional habit?" She nearly managed a smile before she dropped her
head to his shoulder.

"Yeah." Even as he gathered her close, she trembled. It wasn't the
moment, he decided, to lecture her on flimsy locks and thin chains.
"I'll go down and get you a brandy."

"No!" She bit her lip again as the refusal came out too forcefully. "No,
please, I already feel like an idiot."

"You're entitled to be jumpy, Jess." Softly, he brushed a kiss over her
hair.

She wanted to cling, to beg him not to leave her alone for an instant.
She wanted to pour out every fear and fantasy and dread. But she
couldn't, and the denial was as much for her own sake as his. "With a
policeman in the house?" she countered. Tilting back her head, she
looked up at him. A strong face, she mused. Strong arms and serious
eyes. "Just come to bed; you must be tired." Making the effort, she
forced away the nerves and gave him a smile. "How does one man cope with
two careers, Sergeant?"

He shrugged as he kneaded her tense shoulders. "I manage. How can a
woman look so beautiful at three o'clock in the morning?"

"My mother claims it's bone structure." Her smile warmed a bit as she
willed herself to relax under his hands. "I prefer to think it's
something less scientific... like being born during a lunar eclipse."

Nuzzling her neck, he chuckled. "Were you?"

"Yes. My father said that's why I had cat's eyes--to help me see in the
dark."

Slade kissed her lightly before he set her away from him and rose. "If
you don't get some sleep, they're going to be bloodshot."

"What a gallant thing to say." Jessica frowned at him as he undressed.
"What about you?"

"I can get by on three or four hours when I have to."

She gave a quick snort. "Your machismo's surfacing, Slade."

When he turned his head, the moonlight streamed over his face,
illuminating the lightning-fast grin. Jessica felt her heart flutter up
to her throat. Shouldn't she be used to him by now? she wondered. The
mercurial moods, the streaks of boyish good humor in the sometimes
overly serious man? His body was sleek and limber, streamlined like a
Channel swimmer's, muscled like a lightweight boxer's. His face mirrored
both of his professions--the intellect and the action.

He'll take care of you, her mind comforted. Just trust. But there were
lines of fatigue and strain that the moonlight accented as well. And you
take care of him, her thoughts added. Smiling, she held out her arms to
him.

"Come to bed," she ordered.

Lying down beside her, Slade drew her close. There was no driving
physical need to possess her. Instead he felt a simple serenity, all the
more precious for its rarity. For the next few hours they would be any
man and woman sharing the intimacy of sleep. She curled warmly into him,
as much to soothe as be soothed. There were no more words.

Jessica lay still, schooling her breathing so that it was deep and even
until she felt him drift off. With her eyes open and fear threatening on
the verges of her mind, she watched the moonlight play on his shoulder
as it rose and fell. The light was misty with predawn before she slept.

When the phone rang, he jolted out of a restless sleep. Sweat pearled on
his forehead. Afraid to answer, more afraid not to, he lifted the
receiver. "Yes, hello."

"Your time's up."

"I need more," he said quickly. Knowing that weakness would never be
tolerated, he swallowed the tremor in his voice. "Just a few days... It
isn't easy to get to them with the house full of people."

"Must I remind you that you aren't paid to do only what's easy?"

"I tried to get to them last night... I was nearly caught."

"Then you were careless. I've no use for carelessness."

Less for carelessness than weakness, he thought rapidly and moistened
his lips. "Jessica--Jessica's not feeling well." He reached for a
cigarette to steady his nerves. He had to think quickly and calmly if he
wanted to stay alive. "She isn't planning on coming into the shop. In a
couple of days I should be able to convince her to take a long weekend.
She'll listen to me." He took a greedy drag of his cigarette, praying
that he spoke the truth. "With her out of the house, I can get to the
diamonds without taking any chances." Moisture beaded on his top lip and
he wiped the back of his hand across it. "You'll have them this weekend.
A couple of days won't matter."

A sigh breathed through the phone, chilling him. "You're mistaken
again--too many mistakes, my young friend. Remember my associate in
Paris? He made mistakes."

The phone slid wetly in his hand. He remembered the man found floating
in the Seine. "Tonight," he said desperately. "I'll have them for you
tonight."

"Ten o'clock at the shop." He paused to make certain the weapon of fear
had done its work. The soft, jerky breathing pleased him. "If you fail
this time, I won't be so... understanding. You've done very well since
you started to work for me. I'd hate to lose you."

"I'll bring them. Then I--then I want out."

"We'll discuss it. Ten o'clock." With a gentle click, the connection was
broken.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 9
---------
Contents - Prev | Next

Slade's mind and body awoke at the same instant. The luxury of drifting
slowly awake was something he had forfeited years before. He had had to
perfect the ability to sleep quickly and lightly and to awake just as
quickly, ready to function. It was a habit he looked forward to breaking
without really believing he ever would.

He saw from the slant of the sun that it was still early, but he shifted
his gaze to check the mantel clock nonetheless. Just past seven. The
four hours' rest had done all it needed to do.

Turning his head, he looked down at Jessica. The pale blue smudges under
her eyes made him frown. Though by his calculations she had slept nearly
eight hours, the smudges were deeper than they had been the day before.
Today he'd make certain she rested more--if he had to slip a sleeping
pill into her coffee. And ate something--if he had to force-feed her. He
could all but feel the pounds slipping off her.

Though he barely shifted the mattress as he moved away from her, her
hand tightened on his arm. Her eyes flew open. "Get some more sleep," he
ordered, touching his lips to hers.

"What time is it?" Her voice was husky and thick, but her hand stayed
firm on his arm.

"Early."

Jessica relaxed, muscle by muscle, but didn't release him. "How early?"

"Too early." He bent to give her another brief kiss before he rose, but
she pulled him closer.

"Too early for what?"

She felt his lips curve against hers. "You're not even awake yet."

"Wanna bet?" Running a hand down, she trailed her fingers over his flat
stomach. The sleepy kiss smoldered with burgeoning passion. "Maybe you
can't get by on three or four hours' sleep after all."

Cocking his brow, he lifted his head. "Wanna bet?"

Her answering laugh was smothered by his lips.

It had never been like this for her. Each time they made love it stunned
her, enticed her, then consumed her. In his arms, with his hands and
lips running wild and free over her body, she could lose herself. And
how she needed to lose herself.

He'd known from the first how to play her. Each time they came together
he found new variations, giving her no opportunity to become familiar
with a touch or to anticipate a demand. He could dominate her mind so
effortlessly, plunge her back into a world that was all keen emotion and
sharp sensation.

Everything would magnetize, from the bare brush of a fingertip to the
bruising pressure of lips. Jessica thought she could feel the individual
threads of the sheet against the naked flesh of her back. The whispering
tick of the clock was like thunder. Pale sunlight danced, gray and
ghostly. She could see it fall over his hair, accenting its dark
confusion as she dove her hands into it.

In her ear he whispered something poetic and foolish about the texture
of her skin. Though the tone was almost reverent, his hands were
aggressive--arousing and drugging in turns. Murmuring, she told him what
she wanted. Shifting, she offered what he needed.

When he took her, Slade took her slowly, watching the flickers of
pleasure and passion on her face in the thin morning light. Savoring the
sensations that rippled through him as she moved, he nibbled on her
parted lips. He tasted her, and himself, before he roamed over her
closed lids.

Fragile, he thought, her skin was so fragile. Yet all the while her hips
urged him to take, to take quickly. With iron control he kept the rhythm
easy, prolonging the ultimate delight.

"Jess." He could hardly form her name between labored breaths. "Open
your eyes, Jess. I want to see your eyes." The lids fluttered, as if
weighed down by the pale gold lashes. "Open your eyes, love, and look at
me."

He wasn't a man for endearments. Even through the haze of needs and
sensations, Jessica recognized it. A new warmth filled her--pure
emotion--to double the physical ecstasy. She opened them.

The irises were opaque, rich amber filmed over with passion. As he moved
inside her, the lashes flickered, threatening to lower again. "No, look
at me." His voice had dropped to a rough whisper. Their lips were close
so that their breath merged, shudder for shudder. Jessica saw that his
eyes were dark, dark gray and intense, as if he would look into her mind
and read whatever frantic thoughts raced inside. "Tell me that you need
me," he demanded. "I have to hear you say it, just once."

Jessica struggled to form words as she climbed higher toward delirium.
"I need you, Slade... you're the only one."

His lips crushed down on hers to muffle her cry as he drove her swiftly
to the peak. His last rational thought was almost a prayer--that the
words he had demanded would be enough for him.

Strange that his body felt more rested, more relaxed now than it had
upon waking. Slade slid down to press a kiss at the hollow between her
breasts before he shifted from her. "Now, get some more sleep," he
ordered, but before he could rise, Jessica had her arms locked around
his neck.

"I've never been more awake in my life. What're you going to do with me
today, Slade? Make me fill out more of those silly cards?"

"Those silly cards," he said as he slipped a hand under her knees, "are
a necessary part of any organized library."

"They're boring," she said defiantly when he lifted her.

"Spoiled," he decided, carrying her into the bathroom.

"I certainly am not." The line appeared between her brows as he switched
on the shower.

"You certainly are," he corrected genially. "But that's all right, I
kind of like you that way."

"Oh well, thanks a lot."

He grinned, kissed her, then set her down in the shower stall. Jessica
let out one long surprised scream. "Slade! It's freezing!"

"Best way to get the blood moving in the morning." He stepped in with
her, partially blocking the spray. "Well, second best," he amended, then
cut off a stream of abuse with his lips.

"Turn on the hot water," she demanded when he let her breathe again.
"I'm turning blue."

He picked up her arm, giving it a light pinch. "No, not yet," he
disagreed. "Want the soap?"

"I'll go take my own shower, thanks." Huffily, she tried to climb out
only to find herself tangled with him under the icy spray. "Let go! This
is police brutality." She lifted her face to glare at him and got struck
fully with the cold needle spray. "Slade!" Sputtering, she blinked her
eyes to clear them. Her body was pressed against his, frigid and
tingling. "You're going to pay for this, I swear you are."

Blinded by the water and her own streaming hair, she struggled to free
herself. With one arm keeping her prisoner, Slade took his free hand
over her, lavishly soaping her skin.

"Stop it!" Infuriated and aroused, Jessica fought against him. When his
hand passed intimately over her bottom, she grew more desperate. Then
she heard him chuckle. Temper had her head snapping back up though the
spray made her vision vague and watery.

"You listen to me," she began. Soapy fingers passed over her nipple.
"Slade, don't." With a moan, she arched away. His palm slipped between
her thighs. "No."

But her mouth blindly sought his. Jessica no longer felt the cold.

When she left the shower, she was glowing. Some color had seeped back
into her cheeks. Slade noted it with a mixture of relief and pleasure
though Jessica did her best to maintain outward indignance.

"I'm going to go get dressed," she informed him as she wrapped her wet
hair in a towel. Because she was still naked, Slade found it hard to be
offended by her haughty tone. Refreshed, he hooked his own towel around
his waist.

"Okay, I'll meet you downstairs for breakfast in ten minutes."

"I'll be there," she told him grandly as she stooped to pick up his
shirt, "when I get there."

Grinning, he watched her slip into his shirt and button it. "I could get
used to seeing you like that," he commented. When she sent him an arch
look, his grin only widened. "Wet and half naked," he explained.

"It's that machismo again," Jessica muttered, holding back the smile.
Turning, she flounced to the door.

"Ten minutes," he reminded her.

Jessica cast a baleful look over her shoulder, then slammed the door
behind her. Her grin quickly escaped, then almost as quickly faded.
David stood directly outside her own bedroom door, his hand already
poised to knock. His head had turned at the sound of the slam, but he
hadn't moved. His eyes roamed over her, taking in Slade's shirt, the
damp, glowing skin and sleep-starved eyes.

"Well." His tone, like his eyes, turned cool. "I guess you're already
up."

Jessica felt more color flow into her cheeks. As close as she and David
had been, living in the same house, they had never chanced upon each
other under these circumstances. Both had always been extremely private
about that area of their lives.

We're both adults, Jessica reminded herself as she walked toward
him--but they'd been children together.

"Yes, I'm up. Did you want me?" Part of her wanted to run to him as she
had the day before; part of her no longer trusted so unconditionally.
Guilt gave her a reserve toward him nothing else could have. Sensing it,
he became only more distant and disapproving.

"Thought I'd check with you before I went in, that's all." He gave her
another brief, telling look. "Since you're busy..."

"I'm not busy, David. Come in." Coolly polite, Jessica opened the
bedroom door, then gestured him inside. It never occurred to her that
she was breaking one of Slade's rules by talking to David alone. Even if
it had, she would have done no differently. "Were there any problems
yesterday I should know about?"

"No..." His eyes rested on the bed, which hadn't been slept in. His
voice tightened. "Nothing to worry about. Obviously you've got enough to
keep you busy."

"Don't be sarcastic, David. It doesn't suit you." She took the towel
from her hair and flung it aside. "If you have something to say to me,
come out with it." She plucked up a comb and began to drag it through
her hair.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he blurted out.

Jessica's hand paused in midstroke. Slowly she lowered the comb to place
it back on the dresser. She caught a glimpse of herself--pale,
shadow-eyed, damp--and inadequately covered in Slade's wrinkled shirt.
"Be specific."

"You're sleeping with the writer." Shoving up his glasses, he took a
step toward her.

"And if I am?" she countered tightly. "Why should you object?"

"What do you know about him?" David demanded with such sudden heat that
she was rendered speechless. "He comes out of nowhere, probably without
two nickels to rub together. It's a nice setup here, big house, free
meals, a willing woman."

"Be careful, David." She stiffened as the anger in her eyes met his.

"How do you know he's not just a sponge? A couple million dollars is a
hell of a target."

The angry color paled with hurt. "And, of course, what else could he be
interested in, other than my money."

When she would have turned away, he took her shoulders. "Come on,
Jessie." The eyes behind the glasses softened. "You know I didn't mean
it that way. But he's a stranger and you're... well, you're just too
trusting."

"Am I, David?" She swallowed the sudden rise of tears as she studied his
well-known face. "Have I made a mistake by trusting?"

"I don't want you to get hurt." He squeezed her shoulders before he
dropped his hands. "You know I love you." The admission seemed to make
him uncomfortable. With a shrug, he stuck his hands in his pockets. "And
damn it, Jessica, you must know how crazy Michael is about you. He's
been in love with you for years."

"But I'm not in love with him," she said quietly. "I'm in love with
Slade."

"In love with him? Jeez, Jessie, you hardly know the guy."

The use of the silly exclamation brought a quick laugh from her as she
dragged a hand through her hair. "Oh, David, I know him better than you
think."

"Look, let me check into him a little bit, maybe find out--

"No!" Swiftly, Jessica cut him off. "No, David, I won't permit that.
Slade is my business."

"So was that creep from Madison Avenue who soaked you for ten thousand,"
he muttered.

Turning away, she covered her face with her hands. It was funny, she
thought. She should be able to laugh. Two of the most important people
in her life were warning her about each other.

"Hey, Jessica, I'm sorry." Awkwardly, David patted her wet hair. "That
was a dumb thing to say. I'll butt out, just... well, just be careful,
okay?" He shifted from one foot to the other, wondering why she was
suddenly so emotional. "You're not going to cry or anything, are you?"

"No." That did nudge a small laugh from her. He sounded suspiciously as
he had when he'd been twelve and she'd come home after fighting with her
current boyfriend. Loyalty came full circle, overlapping everything
else. "David..." Turning, Jessica laid her hands on his shoulders,
looking beyond the lenses and deep into his eyes. "If you were in
trouble--if you'd gotten in over your head and made a mistake, a serious
one--would you tell me?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, but she couldn't tell if it was from
curiosity or guilt. "I don't know. I guess it would depend."

"It wouldn't matter what you'd done, David, I'd always be on your side."

The tone was too serious. Uncomfortable, he shrugged his thin shoulders
and tried to lighten it. "I'm going to remind you of that the next time
you jump me for making a mistake in the books. Jessie, you really don't
look good. You ought to think about getting away for a few days."

"I'll be fine." Sensing an argument, she continued. "But I'll give it
some thought."

"Good. I've got to go, I told Michael I'd open up today." He gave her a
quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm sorry if I came on too strong before. I
still think..." Hesitating, he shifted his shoulders again. "Well, we've
all got to do things our own way."

"Yes," she murmured as she watched him walk to the door. "Yes, we do.
David... if you or Michael need money..."

"Are we going to get a raise?" he asked with a quick grin as he turned
the knob.

Forcing a smile, Jessica picked up her comb again. "We'll see about it
when I come back to work."

"Hurry back," he said, then left her alone.

Jessica stared at the closed door, then down at the comb in her hand. On
a sudden spurt of rage, she hurled it across the room. Look at what
she'd been doing! Pumping him, half hoping he'd confess so that she
could see an end to things. She'd watched him, searching for some sign
of guilt. And she wouldn't be able to prevent herself from doing the
same with Michael. Her own lack of trust appalled her.

Dropping onto the stool of her vanity, she stared at her reflection. It
wasn't right that she should feel this way--alienated from the two
people she'd felt closest to. Watching for signs, waiting for them to
make a mistake. Worse, she thought, worse, wanting them to make one so
that she could stop the watching and waiting.

She took a long, hard look at herself. Her hair was wet and tangled
around an unnaturally pale face. The pallor only accented the smudges
under her eyes. She looked frail, already half beaten. That she could
put an end to with a few basic practicalities. Stiffening her spine,
Jessica began to dab makeup on the smudges. If an illusion of strength
was all she had left, she'd make the best of it.

When the phone rang across the room, she jolted, knocking a small china
vase to the floor. Helplessly, she stared at the shattered pieces that
could never be put back together.

Betsy answered the phone as Slade reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Yes, he's here. May I say who's calling?" She stopped Slade with an
arch look as she held out the receiver. "It's a Mrs. Sladerman," she
said primly.

Frowning, Slade took the receiver. "Mom?" Betsy sniffed at that and
walked away. "Why are you calling me here? You know I'm working. Is
anything wrong?" he demanded as annoyance turned to concern. "Is Janice
all right?"

"Nothing's wrong and Janice is fine," his mother put in the moment he
let her speak. "And how are you?"

Annoyance returned swiftly. "Mom, you know you're not supposed to call
when I'm working unless it's important. If the plumbing's gone again,
just call the super."

"I could probably have figured that one out all by myself," Mrs.
Sladerman considered.

"Look, I should be home in a couple of days. Just put whatever it is on
hold until I get there."

"All right," she said mildly. "But you did tell me to let you know if I
heard anything from your agent. We'll talk about it when you get home.
Good-bye, Slade."

"Wait a minute." Letting out an impatient breath, he shifted the phone
to his other hand. "You didn't have to call to pass on another
rejection."

"No," she agreed. "But I thought maybe I should call with an
acceptance."

He started to speak, then stopped himself. Anticipation only led to
disappointment. "On the new short story for Mirror?"

"Now, he did mention something about that too..." She let the sentence
trail off until Slade was ready to shout at her. "But he was so excited
about selling the novel that I didn't take it all in."

Slade felt the blood pounding in his ears. "What novel?"

"Your novel, idiot," she said with a laugh. "Second Chance by James
Sladerman, soon to be published by Fullbright and Company."

Emotion raced through him too swiftly. Resting his forehead against the
receiver, he closed his eyes. He'd waited all of his life for this one
moment; now nothing seemed ready to function. He tried to speak, found
his throat closed, then cleared it.

"Are you sure?"

"Am I sure," she muttered. "Slade, do you think I can't understand
English, even if it's fancy agent talk? He said they're working up a
contract and he'll be in touch with the details. Business about film
rights and serial rights and clauses with numbers. Of course," she added
when her son remained silent, "it's up to you. If you don't want the
fifty-thousand-dollar advance..." She waited, then gave a maternal sigh.
"You always were a quiet one, Slade, but this is ridiculous. Doesn't a
man say something when he finally has what he's always wanted?"

Always wanted, he thought numbly. Of course she'd known. How could he
have ever deceived himself into thinking he'd concealed it from her. The
money hadn't sunk in. He was still hearing the magic word published. "I
can't think," he said finally.

"Well, when you can, get the one you're working on now together. They
want to see it. Seems they think they've got a tiger by the tail.
Slade... I wonder if I've told you often enough that I'm proud of you."

"Yeah." He let out a long breath. "You have. Thanks."

Her chuckle was warm in his ear. "That's right, darling, save your words
for your stories. I have a few hundred phone calls to make now; I love
to brag. Congratulations."

"Thanks," he said again, inadequately. "Mom..."

"Yes?"

"Buy a new piano."

She laughed. "Good-bye, Slade."

He listened to the dial tone for nearly a full minute.

"Excuse me, Mr. Sladerman, would you like your breakfast now?"

Confused, Slade turned to stare at Betsy. She stood behind him--little
black eyes, wrinkled skin, and graying hair on short sturdy legs. She
smelled faintly of silver polish and lavendar sachet. The smile Slade
gave her had her taking a cautious step back. It looked a bit crazed.

"You're beautiful."

She backed up another step. "Sir?"

"Absolutely beautiful." Swooping her up, he spun her in a fast circle,
then kissed her full on the mouth. Betsy managed one muffled shriek. Her
lips tingled for the first time in ten years.

"Put me down and behave yourself," she ordered, clinging to her dignity.

"Betsy, I'm crazy about you."

"Crazy, period," she corrected, refusing to be charmed by the gleam in
his eye. "Just like a writer to be nipping at the brandy before
breakfast. Put me down and I'll fix you some nice black coffee."

"I'm a writer," he told her with something like wonder in his voice.

"Yes, indeed," she said soothingly. "Put me down like a good boy."

Jessica stopped halfway down the steps to stare. Was that Slade grinning
like a madman and holding her housekeeper two feet off the ground? Her
mouth dropped open as he planted another kiss on Betsy's staunch,
unpainted lips.

"Slade?"

Taking Betsy with him, he turned. It flashed through Jessica's mind that
it was the first time she had seen him fully, completely happy. "You're
next," he announced as he set Betsy back on her feet.

"Pixilated," Betsy told Jessica with a knowing nod. "Before breakfast."

"Published," Slade corrected as he swung Jessica from the stairs.
"Before breakfast." His mouth crushed hers before she had a chance to
speak. She felt the emotion coming from him in sparks; hard, clean
emotion without eddies or undercurrents. The joy transferred into her so
that she was laughing even as her mouth was freed.

"Published? Your novel? When? How?"

"Yes. Yes." He kissed her again before continuing to answer her
questions in turn. "I just got a call. Fullbright and Company accepted
my manuscript and want to see the one

I'm working on." Something changed in his eyes as he drew her back
against him. She saw it only briefly. It wasn't a loss of happiness, but
a full dawning of realization. "My life's my own," he murmured. "It's
finally mine."

"Oh, Slade." Jessica clung to him, needing to share the moment. "I'm so
happy for you." Lifting her face, she framed his in her hands. "It's
just the beginning. Nothing will stop you now, I can feel it. Betsy, we
need champagne," she said as she wrapped her arms around Slade's neck
again.

"At nine o'clock in the morning?" The sentence trembled with righteous
shock.

"We need champagne at nine o'clock on this morning," Jessica told her.
"Right away in the parlor. We're celebrating."

With her tongue clucking rapidly, Betsy moved down the hall. Writers,
she reminded herself, were hardly better than artists. And everyone knew
the sort of lives they led. Still, he was a charming devil. She allowed
herself one undignified chuckle before she went into the kitchen to
report the goings-on to the cook.

"Come inside," Jessica ordered. "Tell me everything."

"That's everything," Slade told her as she pulled him into the parlor.
"They want the book, that's the important thing. I'll have to get the
details from my agent." The figure of fifty thousand finally registered
fully. "I'll get an advance," he added with a half laugh. "Enough to
keep me going until I sell the second one."

"That won't be long--I read it, remember?" On a sudden burst of energy,
she grabbed his hand. "What a movie it would make! Think of it, Slade,
you could do the screenplay. You'll have to be careful with the film
rights, make sure you don't sign away something you shouldn't. Or a
miniseries," she decided. "Yes, that's better, then you could--"

"Ever thought about giving up antiques and opening an agency?" he asked
mildly.

"Negotiating's negotiating," she countered, then smiled. "And I'm an
artist."

With her face set in lines of disapproval, Betsy entered carrying a
tray. "Will there be anything else, Miss Winslow?"

When Betsy used such formal address, Jessica knew she had sunk beyond
reproach. "No, nothing, thank you, Betsy." She waited until the
housekeeper had disappeared before casting Slade a baleful glance.
"That's your fault really," she informed him. "She'll be polite and
long-suffering all day now because you molested her and I joined you in
champagne depravity before breakfast."

"We could ask her to have a glass," he suggested as he worked the cork
from the bottle.

"You really do want me to be in trouble." Jessica lifted both glasses as
the cork popped out. "To writing 'James Sladerman' on one of those
necessary cards in my library," she said when both glasses were full.

Laughing, he clinked his rim against hers. "You'll have the first copy,"
he promised, then drained his glass.

"How do you feel, Slade?" Sipping more cautiously, Jessica watched him
refill his glass. "How do you feel really?"

He studied the bubbles in the wine as if searching for the word. "Free,"
he said quietly. "I feel free." Shaking his head, he began to wander the
room. "After all these years of doing what I had to, I'll have the
chance to do what I want to. The money just means that I won't starve
doing it even after this last year's tuition is paid. But now the door's
open. It's open," he repeated, "and I can walk through it."

Jessica moistened her lips and swallowed. "You'll quit the force now?"

"I intended to next year." He toyed with the wick of a candle on the
piano. A restlessness crept into the other feelings--a restlessness he
hadn't permitted himself to acknowledge before. "This means it can be
sooner--much sooner. I'll be a civilian."

She thought of the gun he secreted somewhere in his rooms upstairs.
Relief flowed through her to be immediately followed by anxiety. "I
guess it'll take some getting used to."

"I'll manage."

"You'll... resign right away?"

"No need to wait," he considered. "I've got enough to get by on until
the contract's signed. I'll need time if they want rewrites. Then
there's this novel to finish and another I've been kicking around. I
wonder how it'll feel to write full-time instead of grabbing snatches."

"It's what you were meant to do," she murmured.

"As soon as this is over, I'm going to find out."

"Over?" Her eyes fixed on his, but he wasn't looking at her. "You're
staying?"

"What?" Distracted, he brought his gaze back to her. The expression on
her face made him frown. "What did you say?"

"I thought you'd turn over the assignment to someone else." Jessica
reached for the bottle to add champagne to a glass that was already
full. "You'll want to get back to New York right away."

With deliberate care, Slade set down his glass. "I don't leave things
until they're finished."

"No." She set the bottle back down. "No, of course you wouldn't."

"You think I'd walk out of here and leave you?"

The anger in his voice had her taking a quick sip of champagne. "I
think," she said slowly, "when someone's about to get what they've
worked for, waited for, they shouldn't take any chances."

He went to her and took the glass from her hand, then set it beside the
half-filled bottle. "I think you should shut the hell up." When she
started to speak, he cupped her face in one strong hand. "I mean it,
Jess."

"You're a fool to stay when you have a choice," she blurted out.

His eyes narrowed with temper before he brought his mouth to hers for
one brief, hard kiss. "You're a fool to think I have one."

"But you do," Jessica corrected more calmly. "I told you once before, we
always have a choice."

"All right." Slade nodded, never taking his eyes off hers. "Say the word
and I'll go back to New York today... if you'll go with me," he added
when she started to speak. Her answer was a quick, defiant shake of the
head. "Then we're in this together until the finish."

Jessica went into his arms and clung. She needed him to stay as badly as
she wanted him to go. For now, she would only think of tomorrows. "Just
remember, I gave you your chance. You won't get another one." Tilting
her head back, she smiled at him. "One day I'm going to remind you of
it. We're in this together."

He nodded again, not noting that she had edited his phrase. "Okay, let's
get some breakfast to go with this champagne before Betsy completely
writes you off."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 10
----------
Contents - Prev | Next

For Jessica, the day crawled. The confinement alone would have been
torture to her. She hated seeing the sun pour through the windows while
she remained trapped inside. Even the beach was off limits, so she was
prevented from learning if she could walk there again without looking
over her shoulder.

Thinking of her shop only brought on a dull, nagging headache. The one
thing she'd conceived and built by herself had been taken out of her
hands. Perhaps she would never feel the same pride in it, the same
dedication to making it the best she was capable of. Worse, her own
weariness was taking her to the point where she no longer cared.

Jessica detested being ill. Her usual defense against a physical
weakness was to ignore it and go on. It was something she couldn't--or
wouldn't--change. Now, however, she had no outlet. The quiet library and
monotonous tasks Slade gave her were grating on already taut nerves.
Finally she tossed her pen across the table and sprang up.

"I can't stand this anymore!" She gestured widely to encompass the
library at large. "Slade, if I write one more word, I'll go crazy. Isn't
there something we can do? Anything? This waiting is unbearable."

Slade leaned back in his chair, listening calmly to her complaints. He'd
watched her fidget throughout the morning, fighting off boredom,
tension, and exhaustion. The only surprise he felt was that she'd
managed to go so long without exploding. Sitting still, he mused, was
not Jess Winslow's forte. He pushed aside a pile of books.

"Gin," he stated mildly.

Jessica plunged her hands into the pockets of her trousers. "Damn it,
Slade, I don't want a drink. I need to do something."

"Rummy," he finished as he rose.

"Rummy?" For a moment she looked puzzled, then gave a gusty sigh.
"Cards? I'm ready to beat my head against the wall and you want to play
cards?"

"Yeah. Got any?"

"I suppose." Jessica dragged a hand through her hair, holding it back
from her face a moment before she dropped her arm to her side. "Is that
the best you can come up with?"

"No." Slade came to her to run his thumb along the shadows under her
eyes. "But I think we've given Betsy enough shocks for today."

With a half length, Jessica gave in. "All right then, cards." She went
to a table and pulled open a drawer. "What stakes?" she asked as she
rummaged around in the drawer.

"Your capital's a bit bigger than mine," Slade said dryly. "Half a penny
a point."

"Okay, big spender." Jessica located a pack of cards, then flourished
them. "Prepare to lose."

And he did--resoundingly. At Slade's suggestion, they had settled in the
parlor. His thoughts had been that the sofa and a quiet fire would relax
her, and a steady, boring game might put her to sleep. He'd already
concluded that asleep was the only way Jessica could handle the waiting
without losing her mind.

He hadn't expected her to know a great deal about the game, any more
than he had expected to be trounced.

"Gin," Jessica announced again.

He looked down in disgust at the cards she spread. "I've never seen
anyone with that kind of luck."

"Skill," she corrected, picking up the cards to shuffle them.

His opinion was a brief four-letter word. "I've worked vice," he told
her while she dealt. "I know a hustle when I see one."

"Vice?" Jessica poked her tongue in her cheek. "I'm sure that was very
interesting."

"It had its moments," he muttered, scowling at the cards she'd dealt
him.

"What department are you with now?"

"Homicide."

"Oh." She swallowed, but managed to keep her voice light. "I suppose
that has its moments too."

He gave her a grunt that might have been agreement as he discarded.
Jessica plucked it up and slipped it into her own hand. When Slade
narrowed his eyes, she only smiled.

"You must have met a lot of people in your work." She contemplated her
hand, then tossed out a card. "That's why your characters have such
depth."

Briefly he thought of the street people; dealers and prostitutes, petty
thieves and victims. Still, she was right in her way. By the time he'd
hit thirty, Slade had thought he'd seen all there was to see. He was
constantly finding out there was more.

"Yeah, I meet a lot of people." He discarded again, and again Jessica
plucked it up. "Busted a few professional card sharks."

Jessica sent him an innocent look. "Really?"

"One was a great-looking redhead," he improvised. "Ran a portable game
in some of the best hotels in New York. Soft southern accent, white
hands, and a marked deck." Experimentally, he held a card to the light
before he discarded it. "She went up for three years."

"Is that so?" Jessica shook her head as she reached for the card. "Gin."

"Come on, Jess, there's no way--"

Apologetically, she spread her cards. "There seems to be."

After a quick scan of her cards, he swore. "Okay, that's it." Slade
tossed in his hand. "Figure up my losses. I'm finished."

"Well, let's see." Jessica chewed on the end of a pencil as she scanned
the notepad dotted with numbers from previous hands. "You got caught
with a bundle that time, didn't you?" Not bothering to wait for his
reply, she scribbled on the pad. "The way I figure it, you owe me eight
dollars and fifty-seven and a half cents." Setting down the pad, she
smiled at him. "Let's just make it eight dollars and fifty-seven, even."

"You're all heart, Jess."

"Just pay up." She held out a hand, palm up. "Unless you want to go for
double or nothing."

"Not a chance." Slade reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet.
He tossed a ten onto the table. "I haven't got any change. You owe me a
buck forty-three."

With a smirk, Jessica rose to retrieve her purse from the hall closet.
"One dollar," she said, rummaging through her billfold as she came back
into the parlor. "And... twenty-five, thirty, forty-three." She dropped
the change into his hand, then grinned. "We're even."

"Not by a long shot." Slade grabbed her and gave her a long, thorough
kiss. "If you're going to fleece me," he murmured, gathering her hair in
one hand, "the least you can do is make it worth my while."

"Seems reasonable," she agreed as she offered her lips again.

God, how he wanted her. Not just for a moment or a day or a year, he
thought as he lost himself in the taste of her. For always. Forever. All
those terms he never allowed himself to think. There was a wall between
them--the thin glass wall of status he forgot when she was in his arms.
He had no business feeling what he felt or asking what he wanted to ask.
But she was warm and soft, and her lips moved willingly under his.

"Jess--"

"Don't talk." She wrapped her arms tighter around him. "Just kiss me
again." Her mouth clung to his, smothering the words that begged to be
said. And the longer the kiss went on, the thinner the wall between them
became. Slade thought he could feel it crack, then shatter without a
sound.

"Jess," he murmured again as he buried his face in her hair. "I want--"

She jolted and Slade swore when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," she said.

"No, let Betsy." He held her another minute, feeling the hammer of her
heart against his chest.

More than willing, Jessica nodded. When Slade released her, she sank
into a chair. "It's silly," she began, then Michael walked into the
parlor.

"Jessica." Ignoring Slade, Michael went to her to take her hand. "You're
so pale--you should be in bed."

She smiled, but couldn't prevent her fingers from tightening on his.
"You know I'd go crazy if I stayed in bed. I told you not to worry,
Michael."

"How could I help it?" He lifted her hand to brush his fingers over the
knuckles. "Especially with David muttering all afternoon about you not
knowing how to take care of yourself."

"That was--" She broke off, casting a quick look at Slade. "That was
just a small disagreement we had. I'm fine, really."

"You don't look fine, you look exhausted." Frowning, Michael followed
the direction of her gaze until he too looked at Slade. Understanding
was followed by anger, resentment, then weary acceptance. "She should be
in bed," he told Slade curtly, "not entertaining guests."

Slade shrugged as he eased himself into a chair. "It's not my place to
tell Jess how to run her life."

"And what exactly is your place?"

"Michael, please." Jessica cut off Slade's answer and rose hastily.
"I'll be going up soon, I am tired." With a silent plea, she turned to
Slade. "I've kept you from your work too long. You haven't written all
day."

"No problem." He pulled out a cigarette. "I'll make it up this evening."

Michael stood between them, obviously not wanting to leave--and knowing
there was no point in staying. "I'll go now," he said at length, "if you
promise to go up to bed."

"Yes, I will. Michael..." She put her arms around him, feeling the
familiar trim build, smelling the light, sea-breeze scent of his
after-shave. "You and David mean so much to me. I wish I could tell
you."

"David and I," he said quietly and brushed a hand down her hair. "Yes, I
know." He cast Slade a last look before he drew her away. "Good night,
Jessica."

"Good night, Michael."

Slade waited until he heard the front door close. "What kind of
disagreement did you have with David?"

"It was nothing to do with this--it was personal."

"Nothing's personal right now."

"This was." Turning, she fixed him with weary eyes, but he saw the
stubborn crease between her brows. "I have a right to some privacy,
Slade."

"I told you not to see either of them alone," he reminded her.

"Book me," she snapped.

"Don't tempt me." He met her angry eyes directly. "And don't do it
again."

"Yes, Sergeant." On a disgusted sigh, Jessica dragged a hand through her
hair. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he told her briefly. "Just do what you're told."

"I think I will go up. I'm tired," she added, not looking at Slade.

"Good." He didn't get up, nor did he take his eyes off her. "Get some
sleep."

"Yes, yes, I will. Good night, Slade."

He listened to her go up the steps, then tossed his cigarette into the
fire and swore.

Upstairs, Jessica filled the tub. That was what she needed, she told
herself--an aspirin for the headache, a hot tub for the tension. Then
she would sleep. She had to sleep--her body was crying for it. For the
first time in her life Jessica felt the near weightlessness of true
exhaustion. She waited until the bathroom was steamy, then lowered
herself into the tub.

She knew she hadn't deceived Slade. Jessica wasn't fool enough to
believe that he'd taken her excuse of being tired at face value. He was
just as cognizant of what was going on inside her head as she was. The
visit from Michael had been the last straw in a day filled with unspoken
fears and rippling tension.

Nothing had happened, she thought in frustration as she let the water
lap over her. How much longer would she have to wait? Another day? A
week? Two weeks? On a long, quiet sigh she shut her eyes. Jessica
understood her own personality too well. She would be lucky to get
through the night much less another week of waiting and wondering.

Take an hour at a time, she advised herself. It was seven o'clock. She'd
concentrate on getting through until eight.

At twenty past eight Slade went systematically through the first floor,
checking locks. He'd waited, throughout an unbearably long day, for the
phone call that would tell him his assignment was over. Silently he
cursed Interpol, the FBI, and Dodson. As far as he was concerned, they
were all equally to blame. Jessica wouldn't be able to take much
more--that had been made abundantly clear during Michael's visit.

Another thing had been made abundantly clear. Slade had found himself
entirely too close to stepping over the last boundary. If the doorbell
hadn't rung, he would have said things best left unsaid, asked things he
had no right to ask of a vulnerable woman.

She might have said yes. Would have said yes, he corrected as he stepped
past a snoring Ulysses. And would have regretted it, he reflected, when
the situation changed and her life was back to normal. What if he had
asked her, then they'd been married before she'd had time to readjust? A
good way to mess up two lives, Slade, he told himself. It was better to
make the break now, draw back until they were just cop and assignment
again.

At least she was upstairs resting, not beside him, tempting him to cross
the line again. When she wasn't there where he could see her, touch her,
it was easier to keep things in perspective.

The servants were settled in their wing. He could hear the low murmur of
a television and the settling of boards. After he'd finished checking
the locks, he'd go upstairs and write. Slade rubbed a hand over the back
of his neck where the tension concentrated. Then he'd sleep in his own
bed, alone.

As he walked toward the kitchen door, Slade saw the knob slowly turn.
Muscles tensed, he stepped back into the shadows and waited.

Eight-thirty. Jessica glanced at the clock again as she roamed her
bedroom. Neither the bath nor the aspirin had relaxed her enough to
bring sleep any closer. If Slade would come up, she thought, then shook
her head. She was becoming too dependent, and that wasn't like her.
Still, she felt that her nerves would calm somewhat if she could just
hear the sound of his typewriter.

An hour at a time, she reminded herself, glancing at the clock yet
again. Well, she'd made it from seven to eight, but she wasn't going to
make it until nine. Giving up, Jessica started back downstairs.

If he's annoyed, she mused, she'd just have to make the best of it.
Being confined in the house was bad enough without restricting herself
to her rooms. She'd almost be willing to fill out some more of those
silly cards--anything to keep her hands busy until...

Her thoughts broke off as she came to the foot of the stairs. For the
second time the parlor doors were closed. A tremor ran up her back,
urging her to turn around, go to her room, and pretend she'd never left
it. She'd taken the first step in retreat before she stopped herself.

Hadn't she told Slade not to tell her to run? This was her home, Jessica
reminded herself as she stepped forward. Whatever happened in it was
hers to deal with. Taking a deep breath, she opened the parlor doors and
flicked on the light switch.

Slade waited as the rear door opened quietly. At first there was only a
shadow, but the build was familiar. Relaxing, he stepped forward into
the moonlight. Startled, David whirled around and swore.

"You scared the hell out of me," David complained as he let the door
swing shut behind him. "What're you doing standing around in the dark?"

"Just checking the locks," Slade said easily.

"Moving right in," David muttered. After turning on the lights, he went
over to the stove. "Want some coffee?" he asked grudgingly.

"Thanks." Slade straddled a chair and waited for David to come out with
whatever was on his mind.

The last report Slade had received from Brewster had put David in the
clear. His name and face and fingerprints had been run through the most
sophisticated computers. His every movement had been under surveillance
for over a month.

David Ryce was exactly what he seemed--a young, faintly defiant man who
had a knack for figures and an affection for antiques. He was also
having what he thought was a discreet affair with a pre-med student.
Slade recalled Brewster's almost paternal amusement with David's
infatuation.

Though he'd felt an initial twinge of guilt at keeping the knowledge of
David's clean slate from Jessica, Slade had decided she had enough
trouble keeping herself under control. Better that she suspected both
men than for her to be certain that Michael Adams was up to his neck in
the smuggling operation.

"Michael." Jessica stared, facing the truth and not wanting to believe
it.

"Jessica." He stood with pieces of the desk in his hand, frantically
searching for some viable excuse for his presence and his actions. "I
didn't want to disturb you. I'd hoped you'd be asleep."

"Yes, I'm sure you did." With a quiet, resigned sigh, she shut the
parlor doors at her back.

"There was a problem with this piece," Michael began. "I wanted to--"

"Please don't." Jessica crossed the room, poured two fingers of brandy,
and drank it down. "I know about the smuggling, Michael," she told him
in a flat voice. "I know you've been using the shop."

"Smuggling? Really, Jessica--"

"I said don't!" She whirled sharply, pushed by anger and despair. "I
know, Michael. And so do the police."

"Oh God." As his color drained, he looked around wildly. Was there
anyplace left to run?

"I want to know why." Her voice was low and steady. "You owe me that."

"I was trapped." He let the pieces of the desk fall to the floor, then
groped for a cigarette. "Jessica, I was trapped. He promised you
wouldn't be involved--that you'd never have to know. You have to believe
that I'd never have gotten you mixed up in this if there'd been any
choice."

"Choice," she murmured, thinking of Slade. "We all have our choices,
Michael. What was yours?"

"In Europe a couple of years ago, I..." He took a greedy drag of his
cigarette. "I lost some money... a lot of money. More than I had to
lose, and to the wrong person." He sent her a swift, pleading look. "He
had me worked over--you might remember when I took those extra two weeks
in Rome." He drew in and expelled smoke quickly. "They were pros... It
was days before I could walk. When he gave me an alternative to
crippling me permanently, I took it."

Dragging a hand through his hair, Michael walked over to the bar. He
poured bourbon neat, splattering drops, then downed it in one swallow.
"He knew who I was, of course, my family, my connection with your
shop--your unimpeachable reputation." The liquor gave him temporary
strength. His voice steadied. "It worked beautifully for him. It wasn't
for the money, Jessica, I just wanted to stay alive. And then... I was
in too deep."

She felt something soften inside her and quickly pushed it aside. No
pity, she ordered herself. He wouldn't drag pity from her now. "Who is
he, Michael?"

"No." Shaking his head, he turned to face her. "I won't tell you that.
If he found out you had his name, you'd never be safe."

"Safe?" She laughed shortly. "If you were concerned for my safety, you
might have told me not to walk on the beach when someone was going to
shoot at me."

"Sh-shoot... good God, Jessica, I didn't think he'd... He threatened,
but I never believed he'd actually try to hurt you. I would have done
something." His hand trembled, spilling ash onto the carpet. With a
jerky movement of his arm, Michael tossed the cigarette into the fire.
"I begged him not to involve you, swore I'd do anything he wanted if
he'd leave you out of it. I love you, Jessica."

"Don't talk about loving to me." With more control than she was feeling,
Jessica bent over to pick up one of the pieces he had dropped. It was
part of the inner molding. "What's in the desk, Michael?"

"Diamonds," he said and swallowed. "A quarter of a million. If I don't
take them to him tonight--"

"Where?" she interrupted.

"To the shop, ten o'clock."

"Let me see them."

She watched him separate one of the partitions of a cubbyhole from the
space where a drawer had been. Lifting a thin piece of wood, he revealed
a false bottom. He drew out a small padded bag. "It's the last time," he
began, clutching the bag in his palm. "I've already told him I'm
through. As soon as I deliver these, I'm going to leave the country."

"It is the last time," Jessica agreed, then held out her hand. "But
you're not delivering anything. I'm taking the diamonds, Michael.
They're going back where they came from, and you're going to the
police."

"You might as well hold a gun to my head!" He swiped an unsteady hand
over his mouth. "He'll kill me, Jessica. If he finds out I went to the
police, I wouldn't even be safe in a cell. He'll kill me, and if he
knows what you've done, he'll kill you too."

"Don't be a fool." Eyes glittering, she grabbed the bag from his hand.
"He'll kill you anyway, and me. Is he stupid enough not to know the
police are closing in?" she demanded. "Is he stupid enough to leave you
alive as a liability? Think!" she ordered impatiently. "Your only chance
is with the police, Michael."

Her words touched off a fear he'd buried. Deep inside his mind, Michael
had always known his involvement in the operation could only end one
way. That fear, much more than money, had kept him loyal. "Not the
police." Again, his eyes darted around the room. "I have to get away.
Don't you see, Jessica, someplace where he won't find me! Let me have
the diamonds, I can use them."

"No." Her hand tightened on the bag. "You used me, no more."

"For God's sake, Jessica, do you want to see me dead?" His breathing was
raw and jerky as the words tumbled out. "I don't have time to raise the
money I'll need. If I leave now, I'll have a start."

She stared at him. A thin film of sweat covered his face, beading over
lips that trembled. His eyes were glazed with terror. He'd used her, she
thought, but that didn't kill the feelings she had for him. If he was
determined to run, she'd give him what he wanted. Jessica crossed to a
painting of a

French landscape and swung it out on hidden hinges, revealing a wall
safe. Quickly she twirled the tumblers and opened it.

"Take this." She offered Michael a stack of bills. "It's not worth what
the diamonds are, but cash should be safer in any case. It won't take
you far enough, Michael," she said quietly as he reached for the money.
"But you have to make your own decision."

"There's only one I can make." He slipped the bills inside his jacket,
then finally met her eyes. "I'm sorry, Jessica."

Nodding, she turned away. She heard his footsteps as he crossed to the
doors. "Michael, was David involved in this?"

"No, David did nothing but take what he thought were routine orders." He
saw everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd ever cared about,
slipping through his hands. "Jessica--"

"Just go, Michael. When you run, you have to run fast."

She listened for the click of the doors before she opened the padded
bag. A cold, sparkling stream of diamonds fell into her palm. "So this
is what my life's worth," she murmured. Carefully, she replaced them,
then stared at the remains of the Queen Anne desk. "All for a whim," she
whispered. If she hadn't had that impulse to bring the desk home then...

With a fierce shake of her head, Jessica broke off the thought. There
were no if's. She needed to see Slade, but she needed a moment to
herself first. On a sigh, she sank into a chair, letting the bag of
diamonds fall into her lap.

"I guess Jessica told you about this morning." As the coffee heated on
the stove, David reached for cups.

Slade lifted a brow. What was this, he wondered. "Shouldn't she have?"
he countered.

"Look, I don't have anything against you--I don't even know you." David
turned, tossing back the hair that fell over his brow. "But Jessie's
important to me. When I saw her come out of your room this morning, I
didn't like it." He measured the man across the room and knew he was
outmatched. "I still don't like it."

Slade watched the eyes behind the lenses. So this was her private
disagreement. Jessica had the loyalty she expected here, he mused. "I'd
say you don't have to like it," Slade said slowly, "but Jess wouldn't
feel that way."

Uncomfortable under the direct stare, David shifted a bit. "I don't want
her to get hurt."

"Neither do I."

David frowned. Something about the way Slade said it made him believe
it. "She's a soft touch."

Temper leaped into the gray eyes so quickly, David nearly backed away.
When Slade spoke, the words were soft and deadly controlled. "I'm not
interested in her money."

"Okay. Sorry." Relaxing a bit, David shrugged. "It's just that she's
gotten stung before. She trusts everybody. She's really smart, you
know--for a scatterbrain who forgets what she's doing because she's
doing twenty things at once. But with people, Jessica wears blinders."
The coffee began to boil over behind him. David spun around and turned
off the burner. "Look, forget I said anything. She told me this morning
it was none of my business, and it isn't. Except that... well, I love
her, you know," he mumbled. "How's she feeling?"

"She'll be better soon."

"Boy, I hope so," he said fervently as he brought the coffee to the
table. "I wouldn't want her to hear me say it, but I could use her at
the shop. Between getting the new stock checked in and Michael's
moodiness..." David grimaced and dumped milk into his coffee.

"Michael?" Slade prompted casually.

"Yeah, well, I guess everybody's entitled to a few temper tantrums.
Michael just never seems to have a temper at all." He flashed Slade a
grin. "Jessica would call it breeding."

"Maybe he has something on his mind."

David moved his shoulders absently before he drank. "Still, I haven't
seen him this unraveled since the mix-up on the Chippendale cabinet last
year."

"Oh?" Some wells, Slade mused, took no priming at all.

"It was my fault," David went on, "but I didn't know he'd bought it for
a specific customer. We do that sometimes, but he always lets Jessie or
me know. It was a beauty," David remembered. "Dark kingwood, great
marquetry decoration. Mrs. Leeman bought it the minute it was uncarted.
She was standing in the shop when the shipment came in, took one look,
and wrote out a check. Michael got back from Europe the day we were
packing it for delivery and had a fit. He said it had already been sold,
that he'd had a cash advance." David took a quick sip of his coffee,
discovered it was bitter, and drank again resignedly.

"The paperwork had been mislaid, I guess," he went on. "That was odd
because Jessie's a fiend for keeping the invoices in order. Mrs. Leeman
wasn't too pleased about the mix-up either," he recalled with a grin.
"Jessie sold her a side table at cost to soothe her feathers."

"Who bought it?" Slade demanded.

"What, the cabinet?" David adjusted his glasses. "Lord, I don't know. I
don't think Michael ever told me, and with the mood he was in, I didn't
like to ask."

"You have the receipt?"

"Yeah, sure." Puzzled, David focused on him again. "At the shop. Why?"

"I have to go out." Slade rose swiftly and headed for the rear stairs.
"Don't go anywhere until I get back."

"What are you--" David broke off as Slade disappeared upstairs. Maybe he
was a nut after all, David mused as he frowned at Slade's empty chair.
You're having a casual conversation with a guy and all of a sudden
he's...

"Make sure Jess stays put," Slade ordered as he came down again. His
jacket was already zipped over his revolver.

"Stays put?"

"Don't let anyone in the house." Slade paused long enough to aim hard,
direct eyes at David. "No one comes in, got it?"

Something in the eyes had David nodding without question.

Slade grabbed a napkin and scrawled a number on it. "If I'm not back in
an hour, call this number. Tell the man who answers the story about the
cabinet. He'll understand."

"The cabinet?" David stared dumbly at the napkin Slade thrust into his
hand. "I don't understand."

"You don't have to, just do it." The back door slammed behind him.

"Yeah, sure," David grumbled. "Why should I understand anything?" A
loony tune, he decided as he stuffed the napkin into his pocket. Maybe
writers were supposed to be loony tunes. Jessica sure knew how to pick
them. With a glance at his watch, he decided to check on her. Maybe the
writer was a little loose upstairs, maybe not, but he'd managed to
unsettle him. When David was halfway down the hall, the parlor doors
opened.

"David!" Jessica closed the distance between them at a run, then
launched herself into his arms.

"Hey, what gives!" He managed to struggle out of her hold and take her
by the shoulders. "Is there a different strain of flu running around
that affects the brain?"

"I love you, David." Close to tears, Jessica framed his face with her
hands.

He flushed and shifted his weight. "Yeah, I love you too. Look, I'm
sorry about this morning--"

"We'll talk about that later. There's a lot I have to tell you, but I
need to see Slade first."

"He went out."

"Out?" Her fingers dug into David's thin arms. "Where?"

"I don't know." Intently, he studied her face. "Jessie, you're really
sick. Let me take you upstairs."

"No, David, it's important." Her voice changed from frantic to
stern--the one he always responded to. "You must have some idea where he
went."

"I don't," he returned a bit indignantly. "We were sitting there talking
one minute, and he was up and heading out the next."

"About what?" Impatient, Jessica gave him a quick shake. "What were you
talking about?"

"Just this and that. I mentioned that Michael'd been moody--like he'd
been when we'd had that mix-up on the Chippendale cabinet last year."

"The Chippendale..." Jessica pressed her hands to her cheeks. "Oh God,
yes, of course!"

"Slade gave me some business about not letting anyone in the house and
calling some number if he didn't get back in an hour. Hey, where are you
going?"

Jessica had swung her purse from the newel post and was rummaging
through it. "He's gone to the shop. To the shop and it's nearly ten!
Where are my keys! Call--call the shop, see if he answers." In a quick
move, she dumped the contents of her purse on the floor. "Call!" she
repeated when David gaped at her.

"Okay, take it easy."

While Jessica made a frantic search through the items on the floor,
David dialed the phone. "I can't find them. I can't--they're in my
coat!" she remembered and dashed for the hall closet.

"He doesn't answer," David told her. "Probably hasn't had time to get
there yet if that's where he was going in the first place. Which doesn't
make any sense because it's closed and... Jessie, where are you going?
He said you weren't to go out. Damn it, you forgot your coat. Will you
wait a minute!"

But she was already racing down the front steps toward her car.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 11
----------
Contents - Prev | Next

It took Slade only a few moments to pick the lock on the front door of
the shop. If there was one thing he was going to see to before he left,
he decided, it would be to get Jessica to a decent locksmith. A miracle
she hasn't been cleaned out, he mused as he moved through the main shop
into the back room. Blind luck, Slade concluded, then tossed his jacket
over a chair. Moving in the dark, he passed through the kitchen into
what served as an office.

There was a large mahogany desk with neat stacks of papers, a blotter
with names and numbers scribbled on it, and a Tiffany lamp. Slade
switched it on. He caught the boldly printed ULYSSES NEEDS FOOD on the
blotter right beneath the scrawled "New mop hndl--Betsy annoyed." With a
half grin, Slade shook his head. Jessica's idea of organization was
beyond him. Turning away, he walked to the file cabinet set in the rear
corner.

The top drawer seemed to be her personal items. He found a receipt for a
blouse she had bought two years before in a file marked INSURANCE
POLICIES--SHOP. Between two file folders was a wrinkled grocery list. On
a sound of annoyance, he pulled out the second drawer.

It was the other side of the coin. The files were neat, legible, and in
perfect order. A quick flip through them showed Slade they were receipts
for the current year, arranged chronologically, delivery bills, also
current and chronological, and business correspondence. Each section was
a study in organized filing. He thought of the top drawer and shook his
head.

In the third drawer he found what he was looking for--receipts from the
previous year. Slade drew out the first file folder and took it to the
desk. Methodically, he scanned each one, beginning in January. He
learned nothing else, when he had completed the first quarter's
receipts, other than the fact that Jessica did a thriving business.

Slade replaced the first folder and drew out the second. Time ticked
away as he examined each paper. He drew out a cigarette and worked
patiently from month to month. He found it in June. One Chippendale
cabinet--kingwood with marquetry decoration. His brow rose slightly at
the price.

"Not a bad deal, I imagine," he murmured. Noting the name of the
purchaser, he smiled. "Everyone makes a tidy little profit." After
pocketing the receipt, Slade reached for the phone. Brewster might find
David's little story very interesting. Before he had punched two
numbers, Slade heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Swiftly he
turned out the light. As he moved from the desk he drew out his gun.

Jessica sped along the winding back road that led to her shop. If she'd
had an ounce of sense, she berated herself, she would have told David to
call the number Slade had given him. Why hadn't she at least told him to
keep calling the shop until he reached Slade?

Nervously, she glanced at her watch. Ten o'clock. Oh God, if only the
man coming to meet Michael were late! Slade would be in the back room,
she concluded, searching through the old receipts. What would the man do
when he got to the shop and found Slade there instead of Michael?
Jessica pressed down harder on the gas and flew around a turn.

The beams of approaching headlights blinded her. Overreacting, she
swerved, skidding the left rear wheel on the shoulder of the road. Heart
in her throat, she fishtailed, spun on gravel, then righted the car.

That's right, she thought with her heart pumping, wreck the car. That'll
do everybody a lot of good. Cursing herself, Jessica wiped a damp palm
on her slacks. Don't think, she ordered herself. Just drive--it's less
than a mile now. Even as she said it, the car sputtered, then bucked.
Frustrated, Jessica pressed down hard on the accelerator only to have
the Audi stall, then die.

"No!" Infuriated, she slammed both hands against the steering wheel. The
needle on the gas gauge stayed stubbornly on empty. How many times! she
demanded. How many times had she told herself to stop and fill up?
Knowing it wasn't the time for self-lectures, she slammed out of the
car, leaving it in the middle of the road, lights beaming. She started
to run.

Slade stood pressed behind the doorway that led to the back room. He
heard the quiet click of the doorknob, then the cheery jingle of bells.
He waited, listening to the soft footsteps and gentle breathing. Then
there was a coldly patient sigh.

"Don't be childish, Michael. It hardly pays to hide when you leave a car
out front in plain view. And you should know," he added softly, "there's
no place you can hide from me."

Slade hit the overhead lights as he turned into the room. "Chambers,
isn't it?" he said mildly. "With the fetish for snuffboxes." He leveled
the gun. "We're closed."

With no change of expression, Chambers removed his hat. "You're the
stockboy, aren't you?" He gave a wheezy chuckle. "How foolish of Michael
to send you. But then, he hasn't the stomach for violence."

"I don't have that problem. Rippeon's in the morgue." When Chambers gave
him a pleasantly blank look, Slade continued, "Or don't you catch the
names of the pros you hire?"

"Death is an occupational hazard," Chambers said with an elegant shrug.
He never bothered to glance at the gun leveled at his chest. He knew a
man was the real weapon, so he watched Slade's eyes. "What has Michael
promised you, Mr..."

"Sergeant," Slade corrected, "Sladerman, NYPD, temporarily attached to
the FBI." Slade caught the faint flicker in Chambers' eyes. "The only
deal I have with Adams is a quiet... talk in the near future involving
Jessica Winslow." The thought gave Slade a moment's grim pleasure.
"Game's up, Chambers. We've had Adams under surveillance for some time,
along with a few other members of your team. You were all that was
missing."

"A slight miscalculation on my part," Chambers murmured as he glanced
around the shop. "Normally I don't involve myself directly with any of
the transports. But then, Miss Winslow has such a charming shop, I
couldn't resist. A pity." He looked back at Slade again. "You don't look
to be the type who'll take a bribe... even a lucrative one."

"You seem to be a good judge of character." Keeping the gun steady,
Slade reached for the phone on the counter.

With the breath tearing in her lungs, Jessica dashed the last yards
toward the shop. She could see the lights glowing behind the drawn
shades. Her thoughts centered solely on Slade, she hit the door at a
full run.

At a speed unexpected in a man of his bulk, Chambers grabbed her the
moment she stumbled inside. His arms slid around her throat. Before fear
could register, Jessica felt cold steel against her temple. Slade's
forward motion stopped with a jerk.

"Put down your gun, Sergeant. It seems the game isn't quite over after
all." When Slade hesitated, Chambers merely smiled. "I assure you,
though the gun is small, it works very well. And at this range..." He
trailed off delicately.

Casting a furious look into Jessica's stunned eyes, Slade let the gun
drop. "Okay." He held up empty hands. "Let her go."

Chambers gave him a mild smile. "Oh, I don't think so. It seems I need
an insurance policy--momentarily."

"Mr. Chambers." Jessica put a hand to the arm that was constricting her
air.

"The Sergeant doesn't appreciate your timing, Miss Win-slow," he said
pleasantly. "However, I do, very much. This, shall we say, puts a
different aspect on things."

Slade shot a quick glance at the clock on his right. By his
calculations, David should be calling his contact within moments. The
name of the game now was stall. "You won't have to put a bullet in her,"
he commented, "if you keep choking her."

"Oh, I beg your pardon." Chambers loosened his hold fractionally. The
gun stayed lodged at her temple. Greedy for air, Jessica gasped it in.
"A beautiful creature, isn't she?" he asked Slade. "I often wished I
were twenty years younger. Such a woman looks her best on a man's arm,
don't you agree?"

"Mr. Chambers, what are you doing here this time of night?" It was a
weak ploy, but the best Jessica could think of. "Let me go and put that
thing away."

"Oh, my dear, we all know I can't do that. I would like to for your
sake," he continued as Jessica, too, shifted her eyes to the clock. How
much time do we have? she wondered frantically.

"She could be useful to you," Slade commented. "You'll need a shield to
get out of this."

"I have my... escape routes plotted, Sergeant." He smiled. "I always
leave a back door open."

"You can't expect to get away, Mr. Chambers." Jessica's eyes met
Slade's, then shifted meaningfully to the clock. "Slade must have told
you that the police know everything."

"He mentioned it." Keeping his arm firm, he patted her shoulder. "You
became a small weakness of mine. I enjoyed those pleasant chats we had,
those pleasant cups of tea. I felt badly that this was to be my last
shipment before moving on. Oh yes," he said to Slade, "I was aware the
authorities were getting close, though I confess I miscalculated just
how close. And though it would seem the diamonds are temporarily lost,
I'll find Michael eventually."

"He doesn't have them," Jessica said quickly, then grabbed Chambers' arm
as it cut off her breath again.

"No?" The word was soft and silky. Even as Slade anticipated moving
forward, Chambers shot him a warning look. "Where are they?"

Jessica swallowed, straining to hear the sound of sirens. Why don't they
come! "I'll show you." Perhaps she could bargain for Slade's life. If
she could keep him alive, then get Chambers out of the shop, even for a
little while...

"Oh no, that won't do." He tightened his grip again. 'Tell me."

"No." Jessica managed to whisper the word. "I'll take you."

Without speaking, Chambers took the gun from her temple and aimed it at
Slade.

"No, don't! I have them at home," she said frantically. "I have them in
the wall safe in the parlor. Don't hurt him, please. I'll give you the
combination. Thirty-five to the right, twelve to the left, five right,
and left to twenty-three. They're all there, I wouldn't let Michael take
them."

"Honest," Chambers commented. "And trusting. I am fond of you, my dear,
so I suggest you close your eyes. When it comes to your turn, I promise
to make it as painless as possible."

Even as Slade made his move, Jessica screamed in protest. "No!" Using
all of her weight and the adrenaline of terror, she flung herself on the
arm holding the gun. She heard the shot echoing in her head as she
stumbled, then was shoved roughly aside.

Jessica landed in a heap. She felt the pain in her shoulder as it
connected with the floor, tasted the iron flavor of blood or fear in her
mouth as she scrambled up. As she pushed the hair out of her eyes she
saw Slade's fist fly toward Chambers' face. The portly man seemed to
crumble layer by layer on his way to the floor.

So quickly, she thought numbly. It was all over so quickly. One moment
they were both at the edge of their lives, and then it was over. She'd
never take her life for granted again--not a second of it. Weakly, she
leaned back against a highboy.

"Slade..."

"Get me some rope or cord from the back room, you idiot."

She pressed her fingers between her brows and stifled a hysterical
giggle. So much for romantic endings, she thought as she stumbled
blindly toward the storeroom. Blinking away the haze that covered her
eyes, Jessica found some packing cord. She stared at it a moment, losing
track of why she needed it.

"Will you hurry up!" Slade shouted at her.

Responding automatically, she brought it out to him. Ten-fifteen, she
thought as she passed the clock. How could it only be ten-fifteen? Could
people come so close to death and escape all in ten minutes? Slade
ripped the cord out of her hand without looking up.

"Damn it, Jess, of all the stupid things to do! What the hell do you
mean by bursting in here like that? You know you weren't to leave the
house." Binding the unconscious Chambers, Slade let out a steady stream
of curses.

"Michael told me ten o'clock," she murmured. "And I thought--"

"If you'd had a thought in your head you would have stayed put like you
were told. What did you think you could do, racing out here like this.
Damn it, I had him before you came barrelling through the door. That's
not even enough for you." He secured the knot, then pushed passed her on
the way to the phone. "Then you throw yourself on the gun." He wrenched
off the receiver and started to dial. "You could've been shot."

"Yes." In dumb fascination, Jessica stared down at the stain spreading
on the arm of her sweater. "I think I was."

"What?" Annoyed, he turned back to her, then dropped the phone out of
suddenly nerveless hands. "Oh my God." In two strides he was back beside
her, ripping the arm of the sweater off by the seam. "Jess, you're hit!"

Brows lowered in concentration, she stared at the wound. "Yes, I am,"
she said in the deliberately steady voice of a drunk. "I don't feel it.
Should it hurt? There's a lot of blood."

"Shut up, damn it, just shut up!" He examined the wound quickly, seeing
that the bullet had gone cleanly through the flesh. Jess's flesh, he
thought. His stomach rolled. He stripped off his shirt and tore it into
a tourniquet. "Stupid fool, you're lucky it wasn't your head." His hands
trembled, causing him to fumble with the knot and curse her more
violently.

"It was a little gun," she managed.

He shot her a look, ripe with conflicting emotions, but her vision was
blurred. "A bullet's a bullet," he muttered. Feeling the warmth of her
blood on his hands, he swallowed. A line of sweat ran down his naked
back. "Damn it, Jess, what were you trying to do, jumping out that way?
I knew what I was doing."

"Terribly sorry." Her head lolled a bit as she tilted it back and tried
to focus on him. "How rude of me to intercept a bullet with your name on
it."

"Don't get cute now," he said between his teeth. "If you weren't
bleeding, I swear, I'd deck you." He wanted to hold her and was
terrified she'd dissolve in his arms. His throat was dry from the
rawness of his own breathing as he forced himself to treat her arm as an
object, not part of her. When he'd finished binding the wound, Slade
held her steady with one hand. "You probably saw that move on one of
your stupid movies. Is that why you threw yourself at the gun?"

"No." She felt as if she were floating as he started to lead her to a
chair. "Actually, Sergeant, it was because I thought he would kill you.
Since I'm in love with you, I couldn't allow that."

He stopped dead at her words and stared down at her. When he opened his
mouth to speak, he found he couldn't form a sound, much less a word. His
hand dropped away from her uninjured arm.

"I'm really sorry," Jessica said in a thick voice. "But I think I'm
going to faint."

The last thing she heard over the buzzing in her head was a stream of
curses.

Jessica floated toward consciousness to a blur of white. She felt as
though her body were drifting, apart from her mind. Even the steady
throb in her shoulder seemed separate from her. The white dimmed to
gray, then gradually lightened again until she focused on what was a
wall. Perplexed, she stared at it.

With an interest dulled by medication, she shifted her gaze. All the
walls were white, she noted. There were horizontal blinds at the window
that showed hints of night between their slants. The blinds were white,
too, as was the bandage around the arm that didn't feel like part of
her. She remembered.

Letting out a sigh, she focused on a blue plastic pitcher and a clear
plastic glass. Hospital, she thought with an absent grimace. She hated
hospitals. A face bent over her, obscuring her line of vision. Amber
eyes studied pale blue. They were nice enough eyes, she decided, in a
round smooth face with a hint of jowl. She spotted the white coat and
stethoscope.

"Doctor," she said in a whispery voice that made her frown.

"Miss Winslow, how are you feeling?"

She thought about it seriously for a moment. "Like I've been shot."

He gave a pleasant chuckle as he took her pulse. "A sensible answer," he
concluded. "You'll do."

"How long..." She moistened dry lips and tried again. "How long have I
been here?"

"Just over an hour." Taking out a slim flashlight, he aimed the beam at
her right eye, then her left.

"It feels like days."

"The medication makes you sluggish. Any pain?"

"Just a throb--it doesn't feel like my arm."

He smiled and patted her hand. "It's yours."

"Slade. Where's Slade?"

His brow creased, then cleared. "The sergeant? He's spent most of his
time pacing the corridors like a madman. He wouldn't wait in the lounge
when I ordered him to."

"He's better at giving orders." Jessica lifted her head off the pillow,
letting it fall back again when the room whirled around.

"Lie still," he told her firmly. "You'll be spending a little time with
us."

The line appeared between her brows. "I don't like hospitals."

He only patted her hand again. "A pity."

"Let me see Slade," she demanded in the best authoritative voice she
could muster. Her eyelids threatened to droop and she forced them open.
"Please," she added.

"I don't think you take orders any better than he does."

"No." She managed a smile. "I don't."

"I'll let him come in, a few minutes only." Then, he thought as he
studied her eyes, you'll sleep for the next twenty-four hours.

"Thanks."

With an absent nod, he murmured something to the nurse who entered.

Slade paced up and down the hospital corridor. Dozens of thoughts,
dozens of fears, raced through his mind. A headache pulsed behind his
right temple. She'd been so pale--no, it was just shock, she'd be fine.
She'd been unconscious through the ambulance ride. It was better that
way--she might have been in pain. God, where was the doctor? If anything
happened to her... His stomach convulsed again. Swallowing, Slade forced
the muscles to relax, turned fear to anger. The headache spread to the
back of his neck. If they didn't let him see her soon, he was going
to...

"Sergeant?"

Whirling, Slade caught the doctor by the lapel of his coat. "Jess? How
is she? I want to see her now. Can I take her home?"

Well versed in dealing with frantic spouses, parents, and lovers, the
doctor spoke calmly without bothering to struggle out of the hold.
"She's awake," he said simply. "Why don't we sit down?"

Slade's fingers tightened. "Why?"

"Because I've been on my feet since eight o'clock this morning." With a
sigh, he decided it was best to treat this one standing up. "Miss
Winslow is as well as can be expected."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Exactly what it says," the doctor returned evenly. "You did a good job
of emergency first aid. As to your second question, you can see her in a
moment, and no, you can't take her home. Does she have any family?"

Slade felt the color drain from his face. "Family? What do you mean
family? The wound wasn't that bad, the bullet went clean through. I had
her here inside a half hour."

"You did very well," the doctor told him. "I simply want to keep her
here for a few days under observation. I need to know who to notify."

"Observation?" Terrifying visions ran through his mind. "What's wrong
with her?"

"To put it simply, exhaustion and shock. Would you like more complicated
medical terms?"

Shaking his head, Slade released him and turned away. "No." He rubbed
his hands over his face. "That's all it is, then? She's going to be all
right?"

"With rest and care. Now, her family?"

"There isn't anyone." For lack of something to do with his hands, Slade
stuck them in his pockets. A sensation of utter helplessness covered
him, sapping the strength that tension and anger had given him. "I'll
take the responsibility."

"I know this is a police matter, Sergeant, but what exactly is your
relationship to Miss Winslow?"

Slade gave a short laugh. "Baby sitter," he muttered. "I'll take the
responsibility," he repeated with more force. "Call Commissioner Dodson,
NYPD--he'll verify it." Turning back, he fixed the doctor with a steady
look. "I want to see her. Now."

Jessica was watching the door when Slade opened it. Her lips curved. "I
knew you'd find a way to get past the guards. Can you bust me out of
this place?"

Keeping his hands in his pockets, he crossed to her. She was as white as
the sheets she lay on. Only her eyes gave a hint of color. He thought of
the first day he had seen her--vibrant, rushing. A feeling of total
inadequacy swept over him so that the hands in his pockets balled into
fists.

"How do you feel?"

"I told the doctor I felt like I'd been shot." Gingerly, she touched the
bandaged arm. "Actually I feel like I've drunk a half dozen martinis and
fallen off a cliff." She sighed, closing her eyes briefly. "You're not
going to get me out of here, are you?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." Resigned, she opened her eyes again to stare at the
blue plastic pitcher. "Slade, I lied about the diamonds. I tossed them
under the seat in my car. It's in the middle of the road on the way to
the shop. I forgot to get gas." She looked at him then. "It's not even
locked. And..." Jessica moistened her lips when he remained silent. "I
gave Michael money to get away. That's accessory after the fact or
something, isn't it? I suppose I'm in trouble."

"I'll take care of it."

Even through her drugged haze, she felt surprise. "Aren't you going to
shout at me?"

"No."

Fighting to keep her eyes open, Jessica laughed. "I'll have to get shot
more often." She held out a hand, not noticing his hesitation to take
it. "David wasn't involved. Michael told me everything. David had no
idea what was going on."

"I know."

"It seems I was half right," she murmured.

"Jess..." Her hand felt so fragile. "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Jessica found that it took much too much effort to keep her
eyes open. The world was soft and gray when she closed them. She thought
she felt his fingers lace with hers but couldn't be sure. "You didn't do
anything."

"No." Slade looked down at her hand. It was limp now; he had only to
release it for it to fall back on the bed. "That's what I'm sorry for."

"It's all over now, isn't it, Slade?"

Her breathing was deep and even before he answered. "It's all over now,
Jess." Bending, he pressed his lips to hers, then walked away.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 12
----------
Contents - Prev | Next

Slade banked down the uncomfortable sensation of deja vu as he waited in
the commissioner's outer office. His scowl was a bit more pronounced
than it had been the first time he had sat there. Three weeks had passed
since he had left Jessica's bedside.

He'd gone directly back to her home on leaving the hospital. There, he'd
had to deal with a puzzled, then furious, then frantic David.

"Shot, what do you mean shot!" Slade could still visualize the pale,
strained look on David's face, still hear the trembling, angry words.
"If you're a cop, why didn't you protect her?"

He'd had no answer for that. Slade had gone up to pack even as David had
dialed the number of the hospital. Then he'd driven home, taking the
miles to New York in a numbed weariness.

Slade had told himself to cross Jessica off, as he crossed off what he
considered the final assignment in his police career. She'd get the care
and the rest she needed. When she was ready to go home, the nightmare
would be behind her. And so, he told himself, would he.

Then fatigue, the bone-deep exhaustion that comes after a long, intense
period of tension, did the rest for him. He collapsed into bed and slept
around the clock. But she had been the first thing in his mind when he
woke.

He'd called the hospital daily, telling himself he was just tying up
loose ends. The reports were always the same--resting comfortably. There
were days when Slade had to fight the urge to get into his car and go
back to her. Then she was released. He told himself that was the end of
it.

Slade had plunged into an orgy of work. The novel was finished in a
marathon sixteen-hour stint while he kept his door locked and his phone
off the hook. With his resignation turned in, there were only a few
necessary visits to the station house. More loose ends. He signed his
contract and mailed his agent a copy of his second novel.

The reports and debriefings on the smuggling case brought Jessica back
too vividly. Slade filled out his papers and answered questions with a
brevity that bordered on curtness. He took the professional praise for
his work in stony silence. He wanted it over--completed. He reminded
himself that his life was his own for the first time in thirty-three
years. But she wouldn't leave him alone.

She was there at night when he lay awake and restless. She was there in
the afternoon when he poured his concentration into the outline of his
next novel. She was there, always there, whether he walked the streets
alone or surrounded himself with people.

He could see her on the beach, laughing, the wind grabbing at her hair
as she tossed driftwood for the dog to chase. He could see her in the
kitchen of the shop, slicing sandwiches while the sun dappled over her
skin. Though he tried to block it out, he could hear the way she
murmured his name when she lay in his arms, soft and warm and eager.
Then he would see her white and unconscious--and her blood was on his
hands.

The guilt would overwhelm him until he threw himself into work again,
using the characters he developed to dilute her memory. But they all
seemed to have pieces of her--a gesture, a phrase, an expression. How
could he escape someone who seemed to know where he would run, how fast,
and how far?

Now, sitting again in Dodson's outer office, Slade told himself this
would be the end of it. He'd known all along that Dodson would want a
personal meeting. Once it was done, all ties would be severed.

"Sergeant?"

He glanced up at the secretary, oblivious this time to the slow,
inviting smile she sent him. Without a word, he rose to follow her into
Dodson's office.

"Slade." Dodson leaned back in his chair as Slade entered, then gave his
secretary a brief nod. "No calls," he ordered. "Have a seat."

Silently, Slade obeyed while the commissioner sucked pleasurably on a
cigar until the tip glowed. Smoke wafted to the ceiling in a spiraling
column which Dodson watched with apparent fascination.

"So, congratulations are in order." When Slade gave him nothing but the
same silent stare, Dodson continued. "On your book," he said. Absently,
he fingered his small, scrolled tie pin. "We're sorry to lose you."
Saying nothing, Slade waited for the pleasantries to be over. "In any
event"--Dodson leaned forward to tap his cigar ash--"your last case is
wrapped up, by all accounts tightly. I don't doubt we'll get a
conviction. You're aware that Michael Adams had made a full confession?"

He sent Slade an arch look and got no reply. "The domino theory seems to
be working very well in this case--one name leads to another. As far as
Chambers himself goes, we've got enough on him to put him away.
Conspiracy to commit murder, accessory to murder, attempted
murder--perhaps murder one on that business in Paris--not to mention the
robberies and smuggling. No..." Dodson regarded the tip of his cigar
with interest. "I don't think we need worry about him for quite some
time."

He waited for a full thirty seconds, then went on as if he were engaged
in a two-way conversation. "You'll give your evidence, naturally, when
the time comes, but it shouldn't interfere too much with your new
career." Stubborn young fool, he thought as he puffed on his cigar. He
decided to test the younger man's iron control by saying a name.
"Jessica told me she gave Michael several thousand dollars to aid in his
escape."

Watching for a reaction, he caught the faintest flicker in Slade's
eyes--here then gone. It was all he needed to confirm the notion that
had seeded in his mind when he had seen his goddaughter. "She felt that
made her an accessory. Strange, Michael never mentioned her giving him
any money--and I spoke with him myself. There's a rumor that you saw him
too, right after he was brought in..." Dodson let the sentence trail off
suggestively. When Slade didn't rise to the bait, Dodson went on,
undaunted. He'd cracked a few tough eggs in his own career, on the
street and behind a desk.

"I imagine a few choice words were sufficient to keep Michael quiet, and
of course, Jessica can afford to lose a few thousand. We might have a
bit of trouble keeping her quiet, though." He smiled. "That conscience
of hers, you know."

"How is she?" The words were out before Slade could stop them. Though he
swore under his breath, Dodson gave no sign of hearing.

"She's looking very well." He swiveled gently in his chair. "I'll tell
you, Slade, I was shaken when I visited her in the hospital. I've never
known Jessica to be ill in her life, and... well, it was quite a shock."
Slade pulled out a cigarette, lighting a match with sharp, controlled
violence. "She's bounced back," the commissioner continued, pleased with
the reaction. "Drove the doctor crazy until he'd let her out, then she
went right back to work.

"That shop of hers." He gave Slade a quick grin. "I don't suppose the
notoriety will do her business any harm." Noting the tension in the set
of Slade's shoulders, Dodson paused long enough to tap out his cigar.
"She speaks very highly of you."

"Really?" Slade expelled a long stream of smoke. "My assignment was to
keep her safe--I did a remarkably poor job of it."

"She is safe," Dodson corrected. "And as stubborn as ever. David and I
both tried to persuade her to go to Europe, take a little time off to
get her bearings. She won't hear of it." He settled back in his chair as
a faint smile flickered on his lips. "Says she's going to stay put."

Slade's eyes flew from the view out the window to pin Dodson's. Emotions
smoldered in them, fiercely, quickly, then were suppressed. "Hard to
believe," he managed. "She never did before."

"So she tells me." Dodson steeped his fingers. "She's given me a full
report--with a great many details you omitted from yours. Apparently,"
Dodson commented as Slade narrowed his eyes, "you had your hands full."

"Full enough," Slade returned.

Dodson pursed his lips, in speculation or agreement, Slade couldn't
tell. "Jessica seems to think she handled the entire business badly."

"She handled it too well," Slade disagreed in a mutter. "If she'd fallen
apart, I could have gotten her out."

"Yes, well... differing points of view, of course." Dodson's gaze fell
on the triple-framed photos of his wife and children. He'd had a few...
differing points of view with that lady from time to time. He remembered
the look in Jessica's eyes when she'd asked for Slade. "Of course, now
that it's over," he ventured, "I'm not entirely sure she won't fall
apart--delayed reaction."

Slade smothered the instant urge to protect and prevent. "She'll get
through the aftermath all right. There're enough people in that house to
take care of her."

Dodson laughed. "That's usually the other way around. Half the time
Jessica serves her staff. Of course, Betsy will cluck around her for a
time until Jessica's ready to scream. And of course, Jessica won't.
Betsy's been with her for twenty years. Then there's the cook, she's
been there nearly as long. Makes great biscuits." He paused
reminiscently. "I guess it was about three years ago that Jessica picked
up all her medical bills when she had a stroke. I suppose you saw old
Joe, the gardener."

Slade grunted, crushing out his cigarette. "He must be ninety years
old."

"Ninety-two if memory serves me. She doesn't have the heart to let him
go, so she hires a young boy during the summer to do the heavy work. The
little maid, Carol, is the daughter of her father's chauffeur. Jessica
took her on when the girl's father died. That's Jessica." He sighed
gustily. "Loyal. Her loyalty's one of her most endearing traits and one
of her most frustrating." Now, Dodson concluded, was the time to drop
the bomb. "She's hired a lawyer for Michael."

This time the reaction was fast and furious. "She did what?"

While he lifted his hands, palms up, in a gesture of helplessness,
Dodson struggled with a smile. "She tells me she feels it's her
responsibility."

"Just how does she come by that?" Slade demanded. His control deserted
him so that he sprang up and paced the office.

"If he hadn't been working for her, he wouldn't have gotten tangled up
in this mess..." Dodson shrugged. "You know how her mind works as well
as I do."

"Yeah. When it works at all. Adams is the one who got her involved. He's
responsible for everything that happened to her. She was nearly killed
twice because he didn't have the spine to protect her."

"Yes," Dodson agreed quietly. "He's responsible." The emphasis on the
pronoun was slight, but full of meaning. Slade turned back at that.
Dodson met his eyes with a look that was too understanding and too
knowledgeable. He thought Slade looked like his father for a
moment--impulsive, emotional, hot-headed. But Tom, Dodson mused, would
never have been able to struggle with such turbulent feelings and win.
Slade turned away from him again.

"If she wants to hire a lawyer for him," he murmured, "that's her
business. It's got nothing to do with me."

"No?"

"Look, Commissioner." On a spurt of fury, Slade whirled around. "I took
the assignment, I finished the assignment. I've written my report and
been debriefed. I've also turned in my resignation. I'm finished."

Let's see how long you can convince yourself of that, Dodson mused.
Smiling, he extended his hand. "Yes, as I said, we're sorry to lose
you."

The air smelled of snow when Slade climbed out of his car. He glanced up
at the sky--no moon, no stars. There was a keen night wind that made low
howling noises through the naked trees. He shifted his gaze to the
house. Lights glowed here and there; in the parlor, in Jessica's
bedroom. Even as he watched, the upstairs light winked out.

Maybe she's gone to bed, he thought, hunching his shoulders against the
cold. I should go--I shouldn't even be here. Even as he told himself so,
he walked up the steps to the front door. He told himself he should turn
around, get back in the car, and drive away. He cursed whatever demon
had prompted him to make the trip in the first place. He lifted his hand
to knock.

Before Slade's fist connected with the wood, the door flew open. He
heard Jessica's breezy laugh, felt the quick brush of fur against his
legs, then caught her as she raced out after Ulysses and collided with
his chest.

Everything, everything he had tried to forget, came back to him in that
one instant--the feel of her, the scent, the taste of her skin under his
lips. Then Jessica tilted back her head and looked him fully in the
face.

Her eyes were bright and alive, her skin flushed with laughter. As he
stood tense, her lips curved for him in a smile that made his legs weak.

"Hello, Slade. I'm sorry, we almost knocked you flat."

Her words were truer than she knew, he thought. Quickly he released her
and took a step back. "You're going out?"

"Just for a run with Ulysses." Jessica looked beyond his shoulder. "And
he's gone now." Looking back at Slade, Jessica offered her hand. "It's
good to see you. Come in and have a drink."

Warily, Slade stepped inside, but evaded the offered hand. She turned
away to fling her jacket over the newel post, shutting her eyes tightly
a moment when her back was to him. "Let's go in the parlor," she said
brightly when she faced him again. "There's a nice fire in there."

Without waiting for his answer, Jessica dashed away. She was moving,
Slade observed, at her usual speed. And the shadows were gone from under
her eyes--gone as if they had never existed. She was as she had been in
the beginning--a woman with boundless energy. He followed her more
slowly into the parlor. She was already pouring Scotch into a glass.

"I'm so glad you came, the house is too quiet." Jessica picked up a
decanter of vermouth with no idea what was inside. As she poured she
continued to talk. "It was wonderful for a few days, but now I almost
regret that I sent everyone away. Of course, I had to lie to get them
out of here." You're talking too fast, too fast, she told herself, but
couldn't stop. "I told David and the staff I was going to Jamaica to lie
in the sun for a week, then I bought them all airline tickets and shoved
them out of the house."

"You shouldn't be alone." He was frowning at her when she handed him his
drink.

"Why not?" With a laugh, Jessica tossed back her hair. "I couldn't stand
being treated like an invalid. I got enough of that in the hospital."
Sipping her drink, she turned to the fire. She wouldn't let him see the
hurt. Every day that she'd been confined in that sterile white room she
had waited for his call, watched the door for his visit. Nothing. He'd
cut himself out of her life when she'd been too weak to prevent it.
Slade stared at her slim, straight back and wondered how he could leave
without touching her.

"How are you?" The question was curt and brief.

Jessica's fingers tightened on her glass. Do you care? she wondered. She
sipped the vermouth, making the words slip back down her throat.
Turning, she smiled at him. "How do I look?"

He stared at her until the need was a hard ball in his stomach. "You
need to gain some weight."

She laughed shortly. "Thank you very much." Needing to do something,
Jessica wandered over to toy with the keys of the piano. "Did you finish
your book?"

"Yes."

"Then everything's going well for you?"

"Everything's going just dandy." He drank, willing the liquor to dull
the ache.

"Your mother liked the figure?"

Confused, he drew his brows together. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, she liked it."

They lapsed into silence, accented by the crackling wood and drifting
notes. There was too much to say, Slade thought. And nothing to say.
Again, he cursed himself for not being strong enough to stay away.

"You've gone back to work?" he asked.

"Yes. We've had a stream of customers since the publicity. I suppose
it'll taper off. Have you resigned from the force?"

"Yes."

Silence fell again, more thickly. Jessica stared down at the piano keys
as if she were about to compose a symphony. "You'd want to tie up loose
ends, wouldn't you?" she murmured. "Am I a loose end, Slade?"

"Something like that," he muttered. Her head came up at that, and her
eyes fixed on his once, searingly. Turning away, she walked to the
window. "Well then," she whispered. With her finger, she drew a maze on
the glass. "I think I've told every proper authority every proper thing.
There was a steady stream of men in dark suits in my hospital room." She
dropped her hand to her side. "Why didn't you come to see me... or
call?" Her voice steadied as she stared at the reflection of the lamp in
the window. "Shouldn't there have been a final interview for your
report--or is that why you came tonight?"

"I don't know why the hell I came," he tossed back, then slammed down
his empty glass. "I didn't come to see you because I didn't want to see
you. I didn't call because I didn't want to talk to you."

"Well, that certainly clears that up."

He took a step toward her, stopped himself, then thrust his hands in his
pockets. "How's your arm?"

"It's fine." Absently, she reached up to touch the wound that had healed
while she thought of the one that hadn't. "The doctor says I won't even
have a scar."

"Great. That's just great." Slade pulled out a pack of cigarettes, then
tossed it on a table.

"I like the idea," Jessica returned calmly. "I'm not fond of scars."

"Did you mean what you said?" It rushed out of him before he could think
to prevent it.

"About the scar?"

"No, not about the damn scar." Frustrated, he dragged a hand through his
hair.

"I try to mean what I say," she murmured. Her heart was in her throat
now, so that she forced herself to say each word carefully.

"You said you were in love with me." Every muscle in his body tensed.
"Did you mean it?"

Taking a deep breath, Jessica turned back to him. Her face was composed,
her eyes calm. "Yes, I meant it."

"It's your warped sense of gratitude," he told her, then paced to the
fire and back again.

Something began to warm in her. Jessica felt simultaneous sensations of
relief and amusement. "I think I could tell the difference," she
considered. "Sometimes I'm very grateful to the butcher for a good cut
of meat, but I haven't fallen in love with him... yet."

"Oh, you're funny." Slade shot her a furious glance. "Don't you see it
was just circumstance, just the situation?"

"Was it?" Jessica smiled as she crossed to him. Slade backed away.

"I don't want any part of you," he told her heatedly. "I want you to
understand that."

"I think I understand." She lifted a hand to his cheek. "I think I
understand very well."

He caught her wrist, but couldn't force himself to toss it aside. "Do
you know how I felt, having you unconscious--your blood on my hands? Do
you know what it did to me, seeing you in that hospital bed? I've seen
corpses with more color." She felt his fingers tremble lightly before
they dropped her wrist. "Damn it, Jess," he breathed before he spun away
to pour himself another drink.

"Slade." Jessica wrapped her arms around his waist. Why hadn't she
thought of that? she demanded of herself. Why hadn't she realized that
he would blame himself? "I was the one who was in the wrong place at the
wrong time."

"Don't." He put his hands on hers, firmly pushing them away. "I've,got
nothing for you, can't you understand? Nothing. Different poles, Jess.
We barely speak the same language."

If he had faced her, he would have seen the line form between her brows.
"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Look at this place!" He gestured around the room as he whirled to her.
"Where you live, how you live. It's got nothing to do with me."

"Oh." Pursing her lips, she considered. "I see, you're a snob."

"Damn you, can't you see anything?" Infuriated, he grabbed her
shoulders. "I don't want you."

"Try again," she suggested.

He opened his mouth, then relieved his frustration by shaking her.
"You've no right--no right to get inside my head this way. I want you
out. Once and for all I want you out!"

"Slade," she said quietly, "why don't you stop hating it so much and
give in? I'm not going anywhere."

How his hands found their way into her hair, he didn't know. But they
were sunk deep, and so was he. Struggling all the way, he gave in. "I
love you, damn it. I'd like to choke you for it." His eyes grew dark and
stormy. "You worked on me," he accused as she gazed up at him, calm and
composed. "Right from the beginning you worked on me until I can't
function without you. For God's sake, I could smell you down at the
station house."

Pushed as much by fury as by need, he dragged her into his arms. "I
thought I'd go mad unless I could taste you again." His lips covered
hers, not gently. But then Jessica wasn't looking for gentleness. Here
was the hard, bruising contact she had longed to feel again. Her
response came in an explosion of heart, body, and mind so that her
demand met his and fulminated. They clung for one long shimmering
instant, then they were tangled together on the hearth rug.

"I need you." The words shuddered from him as two pairs of hands
struggled with clothes. "Now." He found her naked breast and groaned.
"It's been so long."

"Too long."

Words were no longer possible. Beside them the fire sizzled, new flames
licking at wood. Wind rattled at the windows. They heard nothing, felt
nothing, but each other. Lips sought, then devoured; hands explored,
then possessed. There was no time for a slow reacquaintance. Hungry,
they came together swiftly, letting sharp pleasure cleanse all doubts.
They remained close, body to body and mouth to mouth, until need drifted
to contentment.

Jessica held him against her when he would have shifted to her side.
"No, don't move," she murmured.

"I'm crushing you."

"Only a little."

Slade lifted his head to grin at her and found himself lost in the
cloudy amber of her eyes. Slowly, he traced the slanted line of her
cheekbone. "I love you, Jess."

"Still angry about it?" she asked.

Before he buried his face at her throat, she caught the grin.
"Resigned."

On a small gasp, she punched his shoulder. "Resigned, huh? That's very
flattering. Well, let me tell you, I didn't picture myself falling in
love with a bad-tempered ex-cop who tries to order me around."

That musky, woodsy fragrance of her skin distracted him. He began to
nuzzle at her neck, wallowing in it. "Who did you picture yourself
falling in love with?"

"A cross between Albert Schweitzer and Clark Gable," she told him.

Slade gave a snort before raising his head again. "Yeah? Well, you came
close. Are you going to marry me?"

Jessica lifted a brow. "Do I have a choice?"

Bending, he nibbled on her lips. "Aren't you the one who says a person
always has a choice?"

"Mmm, so I am." She pulled him closer for one long, satisfying kiss. "I
suppose we both have one to make, don't we?"

Their eyes met, then they spoke together. "You."

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