A male voice mumbled something unintelligible. It was Tim, she was sure of it. He sometimes sought refuge with them when, drunk and stoned, he couldn't make it back to the house he rented in Chelsea. Athena had given him a key to their flat, but of course he'd immediately lost it. Typical Tim behavior.

Max pressed the buzzer to let him in, then dove back under the covers, ready to go back to sleep.

The next thing she knew, Tim was crawling into bed next to her. Only to her horror it wasn't Tim, it was the annoying Italian photographer, Carlo.

Max let out a startled yell and scrambled from her bed, almost tripping over her own feet.

"What's the matter?" Carlo purred, seemingly unperturbed.

"What's the matter?" she shrieked, waving her arms in the air. "You're here, in my bed! Get out, you pervert!"

Carlo was way drunk. "Ah, bellissima," he crooned. "You know you want me. Do not fight it. Calma, calma."

"You stay fucking calm!" she shouted, thinking, What would Athena do? Probably screw him, then throw him out.

What would Lucky do? Well, her mom had a signature move she'd taught Max when she was seven, and that was to kick a man in the balls. It stopped them every time. However, since Carlo was now ensconced in her bed, Lucky's move didn't seem possible.

"Get out," she said through clenched teeth. "I mean it, or I'm calling the police."

"Soon, cara, very soon." And with those words Carlo closed his eyes and drifted off into a drunken sleep.

Max was outraged. What was she supposed to do now? Calling the police was not an option. The publicity would be out of control, plus it would make her look like a fool.

Athena was in Saint-Tropez, so no help there.

The only person she could think of to call was Tim.

Okay, Tim. Let's see if you can man up.

Tim arrived half an hour later and bravely attempted to wake Carlo with a timid shove. The Italian photographer did not budge.

"C'mon," Max urged, impatiently jumping up and down. "Move the fucker. Get him out of my bed!"

"He's legless," Tim offered.

"What do you mean, 'legless'?" Max said, livid that she had to deal with such a screwed-up situation.

"Drunker than a skunk," Tim opined.

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do?" Max wailed. "This is so not right."

"You could come home with me, camp out on the sofa," Tim suggested. "I wouldn't mind."

"I'm sure you wouldn't," Max sniffed. "Only there's no way I'm leaving my own apartment."

"Then may I suggest that you take Athena's bed and let him sleep it off," Tim said, stifling a yawn. "I'm going home."

"Oh no you're not," Max said adamantly. "You're not leaving me alone with this drunken Italian asshole."

"What makes you think he's an arsehole?"

"I worked with him today, and he's a total asshole."

"He obviously likes you, dear," Tim said with a knowing smirk.

"Do not call me dear," she said, thoroughly pissed off. "You sound like your freaking father."

"Methinks you have a thing for Lord Henry," Tim said, wagging a bony finger in her face. "You quite fancy him, don't you?"

"Oh puh-leeze!" Max exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "That's so gross."

"You American girls always go gaga for titles," Tim stated. "I've seen it before."

"Shut up," she said furiously. "This American girl doesn't give a fast crap."

"Ah," Tim said knowingly, "and the truth shall out."

They were having this conversation next to Max's bed, where Carlo was spread out, still fully dressed, snoring like a satisfied bull.

Max was in shock that this was happening. How had Carlo even gotten her address? And why wasn't Athena around to deal with the situation? It was quite apparent that Athena had bigger balls than her useless brother. Tim was such a loser.

"Okay," she said at last. "I'll take Athena's bed, and you can sleep on the pull-out couch."

Tim threw her a frosty look. "I never indicated that I was prepared to stay."

"I'll let you wear my Dolce and Gabbana leopard-print pajamas," Max said, tempting him the only way she knew how.

"They're Athena's."

"She gave them to me," Max lied.

Tim considered the possibilities. He was a fervent fan of designer outfits. Dolce & Gabbana had impeccable flair; even their pajamas were chic.

"Very well," he said, after a moment or two. "And for your information, I shall be expecting a hot breakfast."

"Sure," Max said, although she had no intention of cooking anything. Once Carlo was out, Tim would follow.

Saint-Tropez, here I come.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

It was almost noon and Bobby still hadn't called. Denver was inwardly steaming, although she refused to allow it to show. She sat at her desk mulling over the last time they'd spoken. The previous night, Bobby had left her a voice mail. She'd called him back and he'd blurted out a hurried, "Can't talk. Catch you later."

Only he hadn't caught her later, and she'd then left him two messages that he'd failed to return. It wasn't as if she was some needy girlfriend craving his attention. However, not getting back to her was so unlike Bobby.

Before he'd left for Chicago, he'd accused her of being obsessed with the Diego case. Unfortunately, it was true. She didn't feel guilty, because it was her job. Besides, he was equally obsessed with opening his clubs across America, and lately he'd been talking about building a chain of boutique hotels. Great! Something else to take all his time.

Things were not so good. A month ago she'd lost her beloved dog, Amy Winehouse-named after the legendary singer. Bobby had promised her they would visit the pound and pick out a rescue dog, only so far he'd been too busy. If he was in town on the weekend, all he seemed to want to do was sit in front of the TV and watch endless sports.

What was it with men and sports? Why were they so obsessed? Could it be that they were all frustrated ballplayers?

Was their relationship becoming mundane? Had she made a mistake moving in with him? Well, Carolyn certainly hadn't helped matters with her "all men cheat" comments.

Denver made up her mind that if she found out that Bobby had cheated on her, she would pack up and move out. No hesitation. It was about time he realized that she was an independent working woman, not a girl he could screw around on.

Apart from the Bobby situation, the news from her boss was hardly what she'd hoped to hear. According to the DA, they needed stone-cold evidence to indict Alejandro. They needed Frankie Romano to start talking.

If that was the case, she'd damn well put a deal on the table that would lure Frankie into talking. As for Alejandro, he wasn't exactly low-key; he was always front and center at his club, always hooking up with different women, and no doubt passing out drugs like candy.

The DA decided that their next move was to put in place a female undercover agent. It sounded like a plan.

And so the chase continued. Only it wasn't a chase, more like a game of cat and mouse.

Her cell buzzed. Bobby?

No. It read "Unknown caller."

She answered anyway with a tentative "Yes?"

"Denver?" said a male voice.

"That's me."

"Guess who?"

Was there anything more tedious than playing guessing games about who was on the other end of the phone?

"Obama," she said drily.

"Close."

"Ryan Gosling."

"You're getting warmer."

"I don't have time for this."

"Busy as always. Surprise, surprise-it's Sam."

Sam Slade. An ex. Well, not really an ex-more like a one-night stand before she'd met Bobby. He'd rescued her when she'd been on a difficult assignment in New York back in her defense attorney days. They'd spent one very pleasant night together. After that she'd hooked up with Bobby, and she and Sam had remained friends, although they hadn't spoken in months.

Sam was a successful screenwriter whose name had appeared on two hit movies. He was hardworking, self-deprecating, and interesting to hang out with. When she'd first met him, he'd been struggling. Now, in Hollywood-speak, he was red-hot.

Sam Slade. Tall, slightly gawky, with curly hair, brown eyes, and crooked teeth.

She couldn't help wondering if he'd had his teeth fixed. She hoped not, his crooked-toothed smile was one of his most endearing qualities.

"I saw your latest movie," she said, smiling because she was genuinely pleased to hear from him. "Too much violence, although I have to admit it was very entertaining."

"That's the way they like 'em."

"At least it wasn't aimed at teenage boys. Not one fart joke, if I remember correctly."

"Thanks for the compliment. Coming from you it means a lot."

"You know me-I say what I think. I'm not full of crap."

"You never were."

She took a long deep breath. "Okay, Sam," she said. "What exactly can I do for you?"

"You can dump Bobby and move in with me."

His words startled her. "Seriously?"

"I'm joking," he said, laughing. "How's it going with you and Bobby anyway? Married? Pregnant? Still madly in love?"

What did he have, ESP? He was catching her at a time when she had no answers.

"Everything's great," she lied. "How's your love life?"

"Sad."

"Sad?"

"Believe me, it's not easy searching for another you."

"Oh, c'mon..." she replied, secretly flattered. "You must be surrounded with gorgeous young starlets dying to jump your body."

"Actresses don't do it for me. They're way too obsessed with projecting the right image. All they want to talk about is themselves, and that gets tired very fast."

"How about actors?" she teased. "You could change tracks."

"Ha-ha. I'm not that desperate."

What do you want, Sam? she thought. Why are you coming back into my life when I'm feeling hurt and vulnerable?

"Listen, here's the thing," he said, turning all businesslike. "I've been commissioned to write a script about a tough, beautiful female DA, and I was figuring you could supply me with some special inside info."

"Who exactly is going to be playing this tough, beautiful DA?"

"Not cast until I'm done with the script. The powers that be are thinking Scarlett or Jessica Chastain."