She bunched both fists and nearly used them. Very nearly used them. "You're not worth it."

She turned on her heel and stalked into the women's locker room.

She kicked the wall, just because it felt good, then limped to her locker. She was just about to strip off her sports bra when Mac swung in after her.

"You turn around and march straight out of here," she ordered. "Otherwise I'm arresting you for lewd and lascivious behavior."

He didn't turn, he didn't march. He stalked, seriously surprising her, until he stood toe-to-toe with her.

"I'm entitled to an explanation of what just went on in there."

"You're not entitled to anything from me. Now beat it."

"If you think you can sashay in there, tease me half to death, punch me in the stomach-"

"It was an elbow jab. And I've never sashayed in my life."

"You deliberately came on to me with the express purpose of slapping me back. I want to know why."

"Because I don't like cheats, I don't like sneaks. And I don't like men who try to see how many women they can sleep with at one time, especially when they're trying to add me to the list."

"I haven't slept with anyone. I haven't even gone out with anyone since I've been here."

"Let's add 'I don't like liars' to that list."

He took her firmly by the elbows, lifted her straight off her toes. "I don't lie. And don't even think about spitting any magic at me."

She opened her mouth, shut it again. When she spoke, it was dead calm. "Take your hands off me."

He set her on her feet, took a full step back. "I've made it clear I'm interested in you on a personal level. It happens that I'm not interested, at the moment, in anyone else on that same level. I haven't juggled anyone. I don't have the reflexes for it."

"You bought a bottle of fancy wine and spent an evening snuggled up to Mia."

"Where the hell do you get this?" Flustered, he dragged his hands through his hair. "I went to Mia's for dinner, though that's completely my business. She's one of the main reasons I'm here. That's a professional interest. However, I also happen to like her very much. I didn't sleep with her, don't intend to sleep with her."

"Fine." Because she'd started feeling like a fool even before he'd released her, she turned to her locker. "It's your business, like you said."

"You're jealous." He paused a moment, as if to gather his wits. Or his temper. "After I get over being seriously pissed off, I might find that flattering."

She whirled back. "I'm not jealous."

"Replay that little scene," he suggested, jerking a thumb toward the gym. "See what you come up with. Now, I'm going to go soak my head. I suggest you do the same."

He strode out, sending the swinging door slapping.

CHAPTER Eight

There was onething Ripley hated more than feeling guilty. It was feeling ashamed. It took her a while to get there, as her temper wasn't of the flash-and-fade variety.

She wallowed in anger, enjoyed the way it bubbled and churned inside her and kept clear, rational thinking at bay.

She rode on that blissful annoyance most of the day, and it felt good. It felt just. The energy it gave her had her whipping through a backlog of paperwork at the station house and taking Zack's turn at cleaning the premises. She did her patrol on foot, then, still raring to go, volunteered to take her brother's cruise shift.

She drove all over the island, looking for trouble. Hoping for it.

When trouble didn't cooperate, she spent an hour at home, beating the hell out of her punching bag.

Then common sense began to trickle through. She hated when that happened. That trickle opened a crack, and through the crack she was able to view her own behavior with distressing clarity.

She'd been stupid and that was hard to swallow. She'd been wrong and that was a bigger, nastier gulp. Feeling like an idiot made her depressed, so she skulked down to the kitchen when no one was around and ate three of Nell's brownies.

She could hardly believe she'd worked herself up into that sort of astate over a man in the first place. Not that it had been jealousy, she thought, contemplating a fourth brownie. He was completely wrong about that. But she had overreacted, big time.

And she, she decided as the feeling of stupidity began to slide toward the first sticky edge of guilt, had treated him shabbily.

She'd teased him. She had no respect for women who used sex as a weapon, or a bribe. Or a reward, for that matter. But she'd used it as bait and punishment.

That shamed her.

Replaying her actions in the gym drove her to brownie number four.

Even if he had been interested in Mia, which she was now convinced he hadn't been, he was a free agent. A couple of lip locks with her didn't make them exclusive, or oblige him to fidelity.

Though she firmly believed that if you were nibbling on one cookie, you finished it off before you picked up another.

But that was neither here nor there.

The best thing to do, she thought, rubbing her now slightly unsettled stomach, was nothing. Stay out of his way, nip any personal connection in the bud, though it was probably a little late for the bud stage, she admitted.

They would just pretend nothing had ever happened-which, of course, it shouldn't have.

She crept back up to her bedroom, closed herself in, and decided it would be wise to avoid all human contact for the next eight hours.

Sleep didn't come easily, but she put that down to overdosing on chocolate and deemed it fair punishment for her crimes.

The dreams, when they came, seemed harsher than she deserved.

The winter beach was deserted. Solitude weighed like chains around her heart. The moon was full, ripely white so that its light washed over the shore and sea. It seemed you could all but count every grain of sand that glittered in that beam.

The sound of the surf drummed in her ears, a constant sound that reminded her she was alone. Would always be alone.

She flung up her hands, called out in pain, in fury. The wind answered, and spun those sparkling grains of sand. Faster. Faster.