His hand lingered, his fingers splaying against her skin.

She breathed deeply, forcing air from her lungs. She sat down abruptly, jerking her hand away from his.

He looked at her with veiled eyes and a small twist of his lips as he shut the door and strolled to the driver's side. Once inside, he started the car, all his attention on backing up and driving out of the lot. She saw his quick glances to the left and right and to the rearview window.

The glances reminded her too much of the last few days, of the terror and the fear. She turned her thoughts, instead, to the car. The interior was clean and neat. She'd noticed a briefcase in the back as she'd stepped in.

He reached over and turned on the CD player, and the low, soft sound of plaintive blues filled the interior.

The sultry music flowed through the car, increasing the intimacy levels substantially.

She didn't need more intimacy. His proximity was intimate enough. His large frame dominated the vehicle as did his sure, confident control of the straight shift. A tangy scent told her he had recently shaved. Darn, but it was enticing.

She sat closer to the door than to him. The better to observe him, she told herself. But really it was cowardice. She didn't want that electricity to grow any stronger.

She looked outside. Dusk was settling around the city and traffic was moving steadily. She checked behind them.

"No one is following us," he said, as if reading her mind.

"I wonder if I will ever stop looking back now."

"When we catch him, you will."

"Are you so confident?"

"It's not my case, but yes, I am. Your intruder wanted something. If he or she wanted something, then there's a clue."

"You don't think the attack on me was just anger?"

"It could have been timed to delay you. Someone might have wanted to search your house. He certainly wanted to make an impression. The more I think of how your house looked, the less I think it was personal, committed out of rage against you specifically."

"Why?"

"It was mechanical destruction. No pa.s.sion in it. No writing on the walls or mirrors. Things were sliced neatly, not in the jagged stabs that usually accompany rage. There was a purpose. A sane purpose."

She shuddered slightly. "And the anonymous calls?"

His shoulders shrugged. "Perhaps someone is trying to tell you to stop doing something you're doing. Do you have any active cases that you think might irritate someone?"

"Every legal case irritates someone," she observed dryly.

He grinned. "Dumb question on my part," he admitted. "What about more irritating than usual?"

"That's hard to judge. I do a lot of domestic violence cases. I also volunteer at the women's shelter and advise women on their legal rights. I suspect you know how insane some of their husbands or boyfriends become."

"A volunteer?" He sounded so surprised that she took it as an insult.

"You didn't think I would volunteer?"

"No, ah, I know your mother did. But you have a legal practice and ... h.e.l.l, I'm just digging a deeper hole, aren't I?"

"Almost to China, Detective."

"Maybe I should be quiet."

"Maybe you can tell me something about yourself."

"What?" Suspicion punctuated his word.

"Where do you live?"

"I have a camelback house in the Garden District."

Camelback. She smiled at the term and the fact that he lived in one. It was a housing style unique to New Orleans. Tucked among the Garden District's mansions were more modest streets with camelback and shotgun houses. The camelback featured a second floor but only at the back of the house, a design that at one time helped residents finagle out of a tax levied on homes with complete second floors.

Somehow she had imagined him in a cabin on stilts in a bayou rather than a camelback in the Garden District. He must have purchased it in the early 1990s when the city was in a housing slump. Those houses were expensive now. Anything in the Garden District was.

"Any family?" she asked. The question had plagued her. He didn't wear a ring but...

He threw her a quick glance, taking his gaze off the road for only a fraction of an instant. His gaze immediately turned back to the road. "Only one brother now. I suppose you know about that."

So he remembered their conversations. "Yes. Is he still--?"

"In prison? Yes. He's up for parole in the next few weeks."

She had her answer. 'Only one brother now'. She wasn't sure whether the fact that he had no wife or children was comforting or not.

"That must be difficult for you."

"More for him," he said shortly, his tone cutting off the conversation.

She said nothing else until they drove into the restaurant parking lot. The restaurant was crowded but she was recognized. She often brought clients here. The atmosphere was comfortable and nonthreatening, and the food was good.

In a few moments they had a table. "Influence," he remarked. "I like it."

"I come here often."

They both ordered barbecue shrimp.

"Tell me what happened with Rick Fuller," he said after they each ordered a gla.s.s of wine.

"Nan saw him at her children's school. He parked where she always picks up the boys. She thinks he made sure she saw him. Of course, he would just say he wanted to see his sons. But it terrified her. She took precautions driving back to the shelter, though she believes he knows exactly where she is. She's agreed to file for divorce but she doesn't want the house because she's afraid he will come after her."

He worried with his gla.s.s of wine. "I talked to him. He didn't like it. I'm not sure how far I can push him without his taking it out on Nan and the children."

She knew the same fear. Perhaps she'd hoped he had a magic bullet to solve the problem. "Surely his job--"

"If I talk to him again, he might well think his job is in jeopardy. He has to know that chances of promotion are slim now."

She remembered what Gage had said a few days ago. 'If Fuller lost his job, he might well snap'. For the first time, she saw some uncertainty in his eyes. She liked it far more than a bluff a.s.surance. It meant he cared about Nan Fuller. Really cared. It wasn't just his job. That, she knew, was over. He was off Public Integrity. But he still cared. Something shifted inside her. "Perhaps you shouldn't do anything now," she said. "Nan is going to move. We're asking the court to limit his access to the children. I'll talk to his lawyer."

He nodded. "Go through him. Don't talk to Fuller on your own."

"Why? Do you think he's the one--?"

"He's not the one who tried to run you down or tossed your home," he said. "I checked again on his movements that night. He was on duty. In fact he was booking a suspect at the time of your attack." He hesitated, then added, "But he might have taken advantage of the attack on you and made the anonymous calls. And if he's taken that first step, it could lead do something else. He could take his rage out on either you or Nan. He has a lot of it inside."

"Should he be on the force?"

"No," he said.

"Then why is he?"

"Years ago, I partnered with a man. I often went to his home. I liked his wife tremendously. I never saw the signs. Not until I visited her in the hospital and realized he'd badly beaten her. I told my superior and advised his wife to press charges. He was suspended. The next day he killed her." His fingers fumbled with his gla.s.s, and when she met his gaze, she saw a hint of dampness in his eyes. Gage Gaynor. 'The tough cop'. So that was why he had been at the hearing.

"You're that worried about Nan?"

"Yes," he said shortly.

She took a sip of wine. "There has to be something...."

"I'll watch him. Perhaps we can get something on him that has nothing to do with Nan."

That was obviously the best he could do. Much more than she had expected. She changed the subject. She had to, before she became lost in those green eyes that were no longer cool, or icy, but intense with emotion.

"How is the Prescott case coming? Have you contacted my father yet?" Then she realized how telling that question was. She should know. Her father should have told her if the police had contacted him.

If he caught the implication, he ignored it. "I've been taken off the case," he said. "I'm now on active homicides."

"You weren't on it very long, were you?"

"Nope."

"Can you tell me why?"

"No. Not because I won't, but because I can't. I really wasn't given a reason other than I'm needed elsewhere."

"Why didn't someone realize that earlier?"

"That's an excellent question, Counselor."

At first, she'd been annoyed by his use of "Counselor," almost as if it were an insult. Now it sounded more like respect. "I don't understand."

"I was given the case by one superior and it was taken away by another," he said. "Not only that, I was taken off cold cases altogether and moved to active homicides. That's not only unusual, it's unheard of. It has to be the shortest tour of duty in departmental history."

He was telling her something other than the main recital of facts. "Someone called you off."

"Looks that way."

"Who?"

His gaze bore into hers.

"No," she said. "My father wouldn't do that." But even she heard the doubt in her voice.

"But is it possible?"

She searched his face for a long time. "He was never implicated in the slightest way."

"He was the last person known to see Prescott. The case was closed too quickly and was never investigated thoroughly. And now this closure. Could your father have that kind of influence?"

She shook her head, sharp edges of disappointment cutting into what had been a growing pleasure at being with him. "My father would not be involved with anything as messy as a cover-up," she said. "Much less a murder. I suggest you look elsewhere."

He took a roll from the basket just delivered to their table. "Well, I'm off it anyway. Tell me more about Meredith Rawson."

She was cautious this time. "Not much to tell."

"What do you like to do in your spare time?"

"What spare time?"

The left side of his lips turned up slightly. "A workaholic?"

"A private practice with one attorney requires it."

"Okay, what about the rare occasions when you do have time?"

"A good book. Good music. Theater."

"No significant other?"

"That's a personal question."

"Maybe I have a personal interest."

His voice had lowered, his drawl deepened. The air of expectancy thickened between them. She had to keep telling herself he had just practically accused her father of conspiracy. He wanted something from her, just as her father had always wanted something from her.

"No," she said.

"That's hard to believe. You're a very attractive woman."

Not beautiful. Not lovely. Both terms that applied to her mother. Yet his gaze told her he did think her attractive. And desirable. She felt as if she could get lost in those eyes. How had she ever thought them cold? They were green fire now.

She was saved from having to reply by the server who delivered two steaming plates of barbecue shrimp, a Louisiana delicacy that required extremely indelicate eating. The sh.e.l.led shrimp rested in a b.u.t.ter barbeque sauce. Several packages of wet towels accompanied the meal.

Directing her gaze toward the food and away from the very disturbing man across from her, she picked up a shrimp with her fingers, sauce dripping from it, and tasted it slowly, savoring every flavor.

Then she made the mistake of looking up. He was watching her with amus.e.m.e.nt in his face though his eyes still glittered with something close to l.u.s.t.