"Another time, I think. Since the weather's turning, I think I'll head down to the library. I've been meaning to start some sort of volunteer work in the community. A lot of organizations post fliers on the library bulletin boards looking for volunteers."

"I can save you a trip. Monday nights I teach a cla.s.s in self-defense for women. Interested in helping out?"He nodded avidly. "I was thinking about doing some work with beach or wetlands maintenance, but that's good, too. How are you running the cla.s.s?"

"Not much talk, demos as needed, lots of drills. I've had them practicing in pairs."

"But you want them to get used to employing these techniques against males. That's smart."

"Problem is, they're just starting out. And they're, you know, girly."

He grinned. "You say that like it's a bad thing. Tell you what: Let's head back to Frank's place, and you show me the holds and escapes you'll be using."

She consulted her watch. "I've got a little time. Sure, let's do that."

An hour later, Gwen was in Jason's backyard, barefoot and disheveled, and grinning like a kid in a video arcade.

She circled, moving opposite Jason, her eyes on his. Usually she could tell what an opponent was going to do by watching his face. Most people telegraphed their intentions in a hundred little ways. But Jason was nearly impossible to read, and Gwen had ended up flat on the gra.s.s a dozen times.

He lunged for her, cat-quick. Gwen slapped away his hand and pivoted on her left foot, leaning away and snapping off a kick with her right foot.

She fully expected him to block. To her surprise, Jason grabbed her ankle and tugged in the direction she was already moving. The added momentum threw off her balance, and suddenly she was heading for the gra.s.s again. Twisting on the way down, she caught herself with both hands and kicked out with her free foot- And met only air. Jason had already released her and moved aside.

She flopped down on the ground and immediately flipped onto her back, pulling her knees up to her chest. When Jason dove at her, she planted both feet on his torso and pushed out hard. He soared over her.

It was a near-perfect throw. It would have been perfect if Jason hadn't somehow managed to land on his feet rather than his back.

Gwen rolled up to a sitting position. Before she could scramble to her feet, Jason dropped to one knee and got her in a headlock, pulling her in tight against his chest.

Since she was several inches shorter than Jason, her b.u.t.t fitted firmly against his lower body. To her surprise, he was very happy to have her there.

Normally this sort of thing didn't surprise her. The male psyche held few mysteries for Gwen. Men, in her observation, were driven primarily by a desire for s.e.x and territory. Modern life lent a veneer of complication to these basis instincts, but most masculine responses boiled down to the three C's: curiosity, compet.i.tion, and conquest. The thing was, Gwen had never picked up even a hint of s.e.xual interest from Jason, not even during the physical contact of their mock sparring. But something was definitely happening now.

Jason splayed his hand on her stomach and pulled her closer still, making her aware that her tee shirt had ridden up, exposing everything that wasn't covered by her skimpy excuse for a bra. His hand suddenlyfelt very warm against her bare skin. A rush of pure, primal l.u.s.t was coming off him in waves.

He relaxed his hold on her neck. Before Gwen could pull away, Jason turned her to face him so they knelt together, thigh to thigh. He buried both hands in her hair and tipped her head back for a kiss.

He lowered his head until they were nearly touching, until Gwen could see her face reflected in his chocolate-brown eyes.

Jason stopped suddenly, a breath away from her lips. Chagrin washed over his face. Apparently he'd glimpsed his reflection in her eyes, too, and didn't like what he saw.

Even before he released her, the palpable sense of desire switched off, as abruptly and completely as a door shutting between them. He eased away, then rose and put several paces between them, hands thrust in his pockets as if he didn't trust them to be out on their own recognizance.

"That wasn't planned," he said quietly, his back still to her. "In fact, I have no earthly notion why I just did that."

"You Tarzan, me Jane?" she suggested.

"That's not it." He turned to face her. "It's not my style to jump a woman just because she happens to be there and female. Especially not you."

Gwen rose to her feet. "Okay," she said cautiously. "But just out of curiosity, what did I do to rate 'especially'?"

"We're sort of like family, once removed. I'm not saying I look at you as a sister, but maybe-I don't know-a cousin or something."

"And as far as you're concerned, this isn't Appalachia."

"Not even close." He studied her face. "Are we on the same page with this?"

Gwen thought that over. "Being in a clinch felt a little strange to me, too. I don't know about the cousin thing, though. Never having had any family, I don't know how that works."

"Okay, sc.r.a.p that a.n.a.logy. You've got one that works better?"

"I'll give it some thought." She glanced at her watch. "Listen, I've got to go."

"Are you sure you're okay with this? You're not p.i.s.sed off at me for grabbing you?"

He looked so contrite, even worried. Gwen sent him a rea.s.suring smile. "We're okay. Listen, you want to take the boat out this weekend? We might as well take advantage of it before you sell it."

Jason greeted this suggestion with obvious relief. "Sure. How about Sat.u.r.day morning?"

"Sounds good. You make the coffee, and I'll bring a dozen donuts."

"Make sure you bring something for me, too."

Gwen paused in the act of putting on her boots and shot a sidelong glance at him. "Smart-a.s.s."

He chuckled, obviously rea.s.sured by this exchange. Gwen waved good-bye and jogged to her car.

Rush-hour traffic clogged the streets as she drove toward Marcy's condo in downtown Providence.Impromptu visits weren't usually their style, but Gwen figured it couldn't hurt to check in. Marcy had been shaken by Kyle Radcliff's reappearance in her life, and Gwen wasn't about to see her friend lose hard-won ground.

She parked in the lot across from the condo and dashed across the street, dodging a small crowd of canvas-toting art students released from late-afternoon cla.s.ses. When the intercom hummed into life, she gave her name and grabbed the door when the buzzer sounded.

Trudy Wa.s.serman met her at the door to the condo, a steaming mug in hand. She was wearing a sleeveless tunic of some silky fabric in swirling, watercolor shades of blue and green over black leggings-sort of an updated, upscale version of a tie-dye tee shirt. It suited Trudy, who was one of those people who definitely would have gone to Woodstock if she hadn't been in diapers at the time.

She'd done something different to her sleek red hair, crimping it so that it fell nearly to her shoulder in a soft, wavy triangle. Her bangs were cut straight across. To Gwen, the look said Cleopatra with a henna rinse and a bad perm. Or maybe early Tina Turner.

"Marcy's not home," Trudy said without preamble.

Gwen rocked back on her heels, surprised by the edge in the woman's voice. Trudy had always been a little wary of Gwen. Every now and then a little jealousy showed through, but never had Trudy been so openly hostile.

"I'll come back another time," Gwen said.

Something flickered in Trudy's eyes, and the resentful expression dropped off her face. In fact, her whole demeanor changed so suddenly that Gwen could envision a switch being flipped.

"Don't go. I'm glad you're here, really. Please, come in." She seized Gwen's arm and all but dragged her into the room.

Gwen disengaged and took a step back. "Let me guess: you want know what's going on with Kyle Radcliff."

Her hostess blinked, clearly surprised by her own transparency. She quickly gathered her composure and sank gracefully into one of the white leather chairs, then took a sip from her mug before answering.

"Of course I'm concerned that Kyle has come back into March's life. I don't trust him."

"Neither do I, but I'm a. private investigator, as in, no, I'm not going to discuss the case with you."

"Did I ask you to?"

"I figured you'd get around it. Just like you pumped me for details about Jeff Monroe, not to mention Marcy's three a.s.sistants before Jeff."

Trudy set aside her mug with exaggerated care. "Marcy is the single most important thing in my life. Of course I'm interested in her job and the people she deals with on a day-to-day basis. It's only natural."

"I don't know about that. It's 'only natural' for people to keep having a life after they get a relationship.

Not every aspect of Marcos life revolves around you. Deal with it."

Trudy's gray eyes narrowed. "Really, Gwen, let me know what you really think."

"Okay, I think it's insulting that you expect me to talk about a friend behind her back. I think you need toget over yourself and get a life of your own. And I think I should leave right now and come back when Marcy's home."

"And I think you don't know the first thing about a real relationship," Trudy shot back. "Look at you-jumping into bed with anyone who catches your eye, never willing to commit. Your vocabulary includes every four-letter word but 'love.' You're-you're as bad as a man!"

In Trudy's lexicon, those were fighting words, but Gwen had to fight back a grin. "Yeah, I can be a real b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

The redhead threw up her hands in exasperation. "Is it any wonder people talk about you and Marcy?

You're more of a man than that husband of hers ever was!"

"Yeah, but so are you," Gwen pointed out, "and you're the poster girl for lipstick lesbians."

Without warning, Trudy launched herself from the chair and came at Gwen, swinging a handful of manicure at her face. Gwen leaned out of reach, grabbed her wrist, and yanked it hard to one side.

When Trudy spun away, Gwen planted one foot on the woman's rump and shoved her toward one of the sofas. She plunged forward and sprawled facedown on the white leather.

Trudy scrambled up and tensed for another spring, but something in Gwen's face froze her in place.

"You're just dying to haul off and punch me, aren't you?" she hissed. "You'd just love that, would you?"

"Now that you mention it," Gwen said dryly. "But this isn't about you and me, fingernails versus fists.

Bottom line: Kyle Radcliff is a waste of skin. Marcy knows that. You've got nothing to worry about from him, and your only problems are the ones you're causing. Tell Marcy I was here, would you?"

She spun on her heel and left Trudy to fume and sputter. Enough time wasted-Damian was expecting to meet her at the park in less than an hour.

Suddenly, the prospect of a drug bust was actually sort of inviting. People were so much easier to deal with when you were allowed to kick their a.s.ses.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Later that evening, Gwen sauntered into the park on stiletto heels, one hand tucked in the back pocket of Damian's jeans. The dealer would a.s.sume that Damian had brought a girl along to help him test out the drug's supposed aphrodisiac effect, so she figured she should start acting the part. They'd come early to check out the area, but most likely their contact was doing the same thing.

After a quick stroll around the park they headed for the designated meeting spot-a bench tucked back among several old maples. Once they sat down, Gwen noticed that the trees blocked out the lamplight, leaving them in a deeply shadowed alcove. No pa.s.sersby would see what happened in this place.

The minutes ticked by. Unseen cars swished past. A big man with sheepishly hunched shoulders skulked down the path behind a tiny dog, a toy breed of some sort with a prancing, mincing gait and a pink ribbon on its head. Gwen wondered if the sensitivity points the guy was racking up with his wife or girlfriend outweighed the humiliation of being seen walking the little mutt. Moments after the unmatched pair pa.s.sed out of view, a shrill soprano yapping gave challenge to some pa.s.serby.Damian nudged an elbow into her ribs, warning her to be alert.

She saw the man approaching before he did, and her heart began to race.

She leaned in as if to nip playfully at Damian's earlobe. "It's one of the blond kids who trashed the DNA lab," she whispered. "If he recognizes us, he'll run. Don't let him see your face until he's close enough for me to grab him."

"Why do you get to do the grabbing? Whose bust is this, anyway?" he whispered back. But he lifted a hand to play with her hair, shielding her face from view.

Gwen pulled her knees up so that her feet were braced against the edge of the bench. She nuzzled at Damian's neck and murmured, "Give me an ETA."

"Counting down: ten, nine, eight."

She completed the rest of the countdown silently, trusting Damian's ability to judge the timing of the blond man's approach. She didn't have much choice-the guy approached with ghostly silence. When she figured the moment was right, Gwen pushed off the bench with both feet, launching herself off into a flying tackle.

The blond guy went down with Gwen on top of him. Before he could move, she had her gun out of her thigh holster and pressed against his temple.

"Remember me?" she inquired sweetly. "And surely you recall my friend, Officer O'Riley?"

The young man's blue eyes darted toward Damian then returned to Gwen. "You're the police?"

He spoke softly, but his light tenor voice had a resonance that suggested a theatre background. His accent was more p.r.o.nounced than Ian's, not to mention crisper and harder to place. The closest thing Gwen had ever heard was the accent of a short-term boyfriend, an Hungarian grad student whose English had a slight British flavor.

"Are you going to arrest me?" continued Gwen's captive.

"That's the plan, yeah."

"You can't do that," he stated, more calmly than most people could have managed under the circ.u.mstances. "Not if you expect to live until the next full moon."

"Don't be threatening her," Damian warned. "That's a real bad idea."

Gwen sent the cop a quelling glance. She slowly rose to her feet and stepped away, keeping her gun on the man.

"You know," she said conversationally, "not many people can pull off snooty when they're flat on their backs. I admire your style."

"And I your speed and agility. May I rise?"

"Do it slowly," she warned.

He got to his feet in a fluid sweep of motion that was absurdly graceful and impossibly slow: ballet played back half-speed."d.a.m.n," Damian muttered. "The man can move."

"As can you," the blond man told Gwen. "The first time I saw you, I knew what you were from the way you moved. Given your heritage, surely you know that turning me in to the authorities would mean a death sentence for me."

As much as she hated to admit it, there was a certain grim logic to that. It would be hard to keep a collective low profile if the police started taking too close a look at individuals. Most likely one of the Elder Folk who landed in jail had about the same life expectancy as a Mafia informer.

"I've heard that killing each other is a big no-no," Gwen said. "So the deal is, if you die because of me, I die, too?"