Sarah waited again, then pressed, "Who?"

"Detective Gaynor."

Sarah started to grin. "The Lone Ranger strikes again. You must have made an impact at court."

"Lone Ranger?"

"Some of us at the department started calling him that after the Teller case."

"Why the Lone Ranger?"

"He took on the blue wall of silence by himself. Believe me, he suffered for it."

"Didn't appear to be suffering to me."

"He did," Sarah said. "I have a friend who was a secretary in his division. He was completely shunned. Except by the secretaries. The unmarried ones. They all thought he was hot."

"Do you?"

"Not my type. I lean toward the safe accountant type."

"Well, he's not my type, either."

"Who is?" Sarah asked after she clicked the mouse again, saving more files.

Meredith shrugged. "I just wish he'd picked another day. I'm not thinking well today."

"You have reason. Why don't you go home? I'll back up the info on all the computers here and get the compact disks to the safe deposit box."

She wanted to. G.o.d, how she wanted to.

No, she wouldn't. She 'said' she would be here. She 'would' be here. She hated the good little girl who always did the right thing, but neither could she shake it off because it 'was' the right thing. She would backtrack ten miles if she discovered she received more change than she should. She sighed and mentally devised a game plan. She would cut the discussion short, take the CDs to a safe deposit box, and head home to start the cleaning process. She would stop by the hospital later. The list for the police would have to wait.

She wouldn't take any guff from Gaynor this time. He would answer her questions before she answered his. She paced the floor, waiting for him, too restless to be of any value to Sarah or Becky. Her mind could not sort the events, much less prioritize what needed to be done.

Nor could it conquer the lingering fear, the sense of being violated. She'd been trying to forget it, to bury it, to cloak it all day. But the bandage on her arm continually reminded her of last night's terror.

She would 'not' let it take over her life.

The door to the office opened, and Gaynor entered, carefully balancing two large sacks. The impact of his presence was more than she had expected. He'd made her feel that way before, but then she'd been armored by the rumors circulating about him.

She detested crooked cops, and some officers had pointed fingers at Gaynor during the Teller investigation. That had been her first introduction to him, and she'd never learned the truth of it.

He was still with the department, though. And now he dominated her small reception area with his presence. Perhaps it was his sheer size. He had to be six-foot-three or more, and had a wide-shouldered, rangy body. But it was the confidence she'd noted before, the self-a.s.surance that was in every movement, that seized her attention.

He had immediately filled the room, crowding it with male energy. His eyes a.s.sessed her openly, frankly, and a dizzying current raced through her. Dammit, she didn't know why--or how--he always affected her in such a sensuous way. It was ... disconcerting. More than that. Maddening.

"Five m.u.f.falettas as ordered," he said after a brief pause. She wondered whether he felt that same odd electric awareness.

"Five?"

"Two for me."

"The sandwiches were huge. She could usually eat only half of one, if that much.

"I burn a lot of fuel," he said, obviously reading her mind. His gaze went to the bandage on her arm.

"From last night?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"Why? You didn't have anything to do with it."

He shrugged. "It's my city."

"Mine, too."

"You're not protecting it any longer." It was a little bit of an accusation.

She was mesmerized by those green eyes. They weren't icy now. Something flared in them, and she suddenly knew he felt the same infuriating attraction. And didn't like it any better than she.

She forced herself to take one of the bags, place it on the table in front of the sofa and start taking out sandwiches. He took six tall cups from the second bag. "I have three of ice tea and three of cola."

Meredith called Becky and Sarah to get some food, then took an iced tea and m.u.f.faletta. "My office?" she suggested to him.

"Sure."

He took two of the sandwiches and a cola and followed her down the short hall into her office, his gaze sliding past the law books, the license and the degrees hanging on the walls and lingering on her untidy desk.

"Sit down," she said, clearing off a s.p.a.ce for the food. "Sorry about the desk." She'd been going through recent cases, looking for names, as requested by the police.

"I have a theory about that," he said with a grin.

Several seconds went by. She wondered whether he was baiting her. "What?" she said.

"If a cluttered desk suggests a cluttered mind, then what does an empty desk suggest?"

She smiled at that. She'd needed a distraction, and he'd apparently known that. She suspected he was a very good interrogator. Despite their earlier sparks, he had immediately put her at ease.

At least he would have, had the attraction not radiated between them. His very presence shrunk the room and raised the temperature considerably. At least for her.

She forced her attention back to the food. She was hungrier than she'd thought, and the m.u.f.faletta looked wonderful. She loved the things, but seldom indulged. The huge freshly baked loaves, still hot from the oven, held layers of ham garnished with a spicy olive dressing.

She took a bite and sighed with pleasure, then put it down. "Can we get on with it? I want to get home, then to the hospital."

"You're not going home alone?"

"The detective last night had the locks replaced."

He shrugged. "There's not a lock that can't be breached by someone who really wants to get in. I could probably break into any house in this city. And I'm not nearly as good as some of the burglars who operate here."

"That's encouraging," she said dryly.

"The detective should have explained the facts of city life."

"Perhaps he thought I should have realized them."

"I'll have to have a talk with Morris."

She raised her eyes and met his. "How did you know it was Detective Morris?"

"I checked," he said equably.

"Did he meet your approval?" she said, unable to prevent a twitch of a smile.

"He's okay."

From the sound of his voice, that was probably his highest praise.

"I'm glad you approve."

It was a snippy reply, but she reacted to the arrogant a.s.sumption that she couldn't take care of herself. She'd always prided herself on handling her own problems. Mixed with that was a traitorous jolt of pleasure that he had taken the trouble.

Faint amus.e.m.e.nt crossed his face. "Except I would have explained about the locks," he added.

"I didn't give him a chance. I was somewhat rattled."

"I would have been more than rattled," he replied.

That unexpected admission really 'did' rattle her. "I'm sorry. I'm really tired and--" It was intended as a brush-off.

He didn't take the subtle invitation to leave.

"Why don't you stay with a family member? Or a friend?"

Because she didn't have anyone? She wasn't going to admit that to him. "That's not your concern."

He raised an eyebrow and she wondered why she was so short with him. Possibly because his presence was so strong, even overwhelming.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm tired. In any event, I thought you wanted to talk about the Prescott case."

He took a big bite of sandwich, chewed slowly, then sat back in his chair. "Do you remember him?"

"Barely. He was a friend of my father."

"Do you recall where you were when he was killed?"

"I was on a cla.s.s trip to Washington, but I don't understand why--"

"I'm just talking to everyone who saw him during the days before his murder," he said. "Your father couldn't see me today. I thought you might remember something."

"I was only sixteen."

"Sometimes you don't realize that you do know something."

She didn't reply, choosing to take another bite of sandwich instead.

"Was Prescott at your home frequently?"

"I truly don't know. I was usually studying and avoided most of the social gatherings at my house. I remember seeing him. I don't remember anything more than that."

"Your impressions of him?"

"I didn't like him," she said flatly, "but then, to be honest, I didn't care for many of my father's friends."

A startled look crossed his face, then a slow, appreciative grin that sparked a frisson of pleasure in her before he continued, "Did you hear your father say anything about his murder?"

"No. He didn't talk to me about things like that."

"What 'did' he talk to you about?"

"I think that's between him and me," she said tartly, wishing he would smile again. It transformed his stark face. She remembered when she had questioned Gaynor years ago and realized how he'd probably felt--like a b.u.t.terfly on a pin--even though there was nothing to hide.

She knew he was fishing. She also knew that's what detectives did on cold cases. And it was logical to start with her father, who had been a close friend of Prescott's and seen him last. Still, she couldn't imagine her father having any knowledge of a murder. He was too rigid about proper behavior, and murder certainly wasn't proper behavior. He was also too concerned with his public image.

Yet in the back of her mind there was a seed of doubt. It was around that time that he had dropped his attempts to win a federal judgeship, a position she'd known he wanted. Badly.

She dismissed the disloyal thought, took another bite, then rose. "I have to go, Detective."

"Are you going home now?"

"Yes."

"I'll go with you." His gaze dueled with hers, warming her with the attention, the perusal that seemed to peel her layers back one at a time. Wanting to study him in the same way--too much--she dragged her gaze away. She distrusted the sparks that streaked between them. He was everything she disliked, a macho man who felt he should always be in charge.

"No." She wanted to be alone when she surveyed the ruin again. She wanted to replace the underwear and bring some semblance of order to her home before anyone saw it. It was her life that lay in shambles there.

Or perhaps she didn't want Detective Gaynor in particular to see her vulnerability. Of all people, he was the last one she wanted to see the house as it was.

He rose with a lazy grace that belied his size. "Thanks for the time. If you think of anything else--"

"I'll call you," she said quickly. "Why is the Prescott case being opened now?" she asked after a pause.

"I'm the low man on the totem pole now," he said. "I get what they a.s.sign, and right now it's a few of the cold cases. I'm sure you know that many of them are being reopened because of technology advances."

"But isn't there a separate cold case unit?"