"I know you're the one who took it," I persisted. "Which was really low of you, you know?"

"How do you know I took it?" he asked, and this time his voice had an edge to it. It made me shiver and not in a good way. I belatedly realized I was in an extremely vulnerable position. Blane had a way of getting past my suspicions and defenses and I was kicking myself for being such a stereotypically gullible female.

"I don't, I mean, you could've, but maybe not," I backtracked nervously. "I guess anyone could've broken in and taken it. Hey, what do I know?" I was babbling and forced myself to shut up. After a few moments, he responded.

"You're right," he said, "I did take the phone." Part of me exulted that my instincts had been right. The other part, the more sensible and realistic part, thought that I may have just put myself in a bad situation. Mark's warning about not trusting Blane and the firm echoed in my head. We were alone on the street, late at night. What an idiot I was. I vividly remembered Blane's hand around my throat in my car.

Blane's fingers moved in my hair again and I instinctively jerked back in fear. He towered over me and suddenly the shadows of his face no longer looked mysterious, but threatening instead. I felt a shiver run through me. He must have felt it too because his hand moved up to the back of my head, fingers entangled in my hair, and he forced me to look up at him.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said firmly. "I took that phone because I'm trying to protect you." I must not have looked convinced because he continued. "The people who killed your neighbor, they wouldn't think twice about doing the same thing to you." Many things about what he said bothered me but one stood out more than the others.

"You know who killed Sheila?" I searched his face, hoping I could tell whether he was lying. He shook his head.

"Stay out of it, Kathleen," he ordered. "Or you'll end up the same way." My temper flared again.

"Is that a threat?" I demanded, my eyes narrowing in anger. I was sick of this game. I needed to know who was my friend and, more importantly, who was my enemy.

Blane's hand fisted in my hair and my head was tugged backward, the slight pain making me gasp. He wrapped his arm around my waist and jerked me to him, until I was fully pressed against him. I dropped the bag as my hands came up to try and push against his chest, but I couldn't get any leverage. He lowered his face until it was mere inches from mine, his eyes boring into mine and they shone silver in the night.

"You're like a cornered kitten, Kathleen," he said, shaking his head. "Still hissing and pretending you can fight your way out. I'm trying to protect you. Let me." I wasn't sure I appreciated being compared to a kitten, but I suppose there were worse things. I wavered. He seemed so sincere. I could feel his heart beating in his chest and mine seemed to have taken on the same rhythm.

"But...why?" I asked, confused. It didn't make sense. Why would Blane give me a second glance much less try to protect me? What was I to him? Nothing, really.

I sucked in a jagged breath when I felt his lips touch my jaw. His hand tugged again and my head was forced further back, giving him access to my throat. I felt his mouth graze the skin on my neck and I shivered.

"I don't know," he whispered against my skin. "I can't seem to stay away." I had a hard time following his words when I felt his tongue touch the place where my neck met my shoulder. My eyes slid shut and my lips parted as my breath came in small pants. My arms slid around his neck and I buried my fingers in his hair, greedily combing through the soft locks. His mouth fastened onto the skin of my neck and he sucked lightly. The heat from his touch flashed through my entire body.

"Ma'am, are you all right?"

The sudden loud voice was like a bucket of cold water. Blane quickly released me, pushing me behind him as he turned to face the police officer a few feet away. My head was still spinning when the officer spoke again.

"Ma'am, do you need some help?" I stepped out from behind Blane and my knees felt like jelly. The policeman was watching Blane suspiciously, his hand resting lightly on his holster.

"I'm fine," I answered. "Just heading home for the night." I stole a furtive glance at Blane whose face was unreadable, save for the clenching of his jaw.

"I'll see you later, Blane," I said quietly, and walked to my car, the officer eyeing me with concern. My eyes met Blane's one more time, then with a confusing mixture of relief and disappointment, I started my car and drove home.

I reached my apartment building with no real memory of driving there. My mind was too full of Blane. What he'd said. What he'd done. I had to stop giving in to him. Obviously, he liked the chase. The problem, as it always was with men like him, was once the chase ended, they lost interest. I knew myself well enough to know I could never have a casual fling with Blane. I'd end up with a broken heart and a parting gift, no doubt thoughtfully picked out by Clarice.

It wasn't until I was walking up the stairs to my apartment that I remembered I'd dropped Tish's Britney costume and forgotten to pick it back up.

"c.r.a.p!" I exclaimed, stopping in my tracks. I really didn't want to go back.

"What's the matter?"

I glanced up. The girl who'd moved in to Sheila's apartment was leaning against the railing outside her door. It was dark up there so I hadn't initially seen her. Now that I looked more closely, I could see she was smoking a cigar.

"Nothing," I finally replied, "just forgot something." I finished climbing the stairs and hesitated. I felt like I should say something else.

"I'm Kathleen," I said by way of introduction, holding out my hand. She looked at it for a moment and I thought maybe she wasn't going to take it, then she stuck the cigar in her teeth and shook my hand. Now that I was closer to her, I could see she was about my height. Her face looked very young.

"CJ," she said, "nice to meet you." Then she resumed leaning on the railing, puffing on the cigar. I wasn't sure I'd heard her name correctly.

"CJ?" I repeated, and she nodded. "Well, nice to meet you as well," I said formally. CJ didn't seem very talkative. I moved toward my door.

"Well, good night," I said, and thought I heard a mumbled "good night" from her general direction. Unlocking my door, I stepped inside. The day had caught up to me and I was exhausted. And, apparently, I had to find a new Britney Spears costume before Friday. I groaned and fell into bed.

Thursday was busy and I was grateful for that. It left me less time to worry about Mark and obsess about Blane. Not that I was obsessing, really, I just kept replaying his kisses over and over in my head. Not healthy, I knew, or good for my resolve to resist him. I was taken by surprise when the object of my obsession suddenly showed up in my cube around mid-afternoon.

"We need to go downtown," he said curtly. My heart had started beating double-time the minute I laid eyes on him and I could feel my face flush. His words didn't immediately register. All I could think about was when he'd said he couldn't stay away and had kissed me. He'd even left a little mark on my skin, which I refused to call a hickey. My cube, which wasn't that big to begin with, felt much too small with him standing in it.

"Why do we need to go downtown?" I finally blurted, when my mind had processed what he'd said. He was dressed for court today, full suit, gray pinstripe, with a white shirt and burgundy patterned tie. I felt rather dumpy in my khaki pants and navy sweater.

"The police want to meet with you," he answered.

"What for?"

"They wouldn't say."

He turned to leave, not giving me a chance to question him further, and I grabbed my purse and hurried after him. As we pa.s.sed Diane's office, I saw her watching us. c.r.a.p. Me leaving with Blane. Yep, I bet I knew what she was thinking. Fantastic.

Blane led me to his car and opened the door for me. I slid inside and he shut the door behind me. Then he was in and driving us towards downtown. I'd forgotten how small the interior of the car was, or maybe it was just Blane's size that made it seem small, but we were very close and I tried not to be distracted by that.

"You didn't have to come," I said. "I could have gone by myself." He glanced at me before returning his eyes to the road.

"I'm your lawyer," he said firmly. "It's my job to go with you."

"Then I need to pay you," I said stubbornly, though I wondered how I'd ever be able to afford to do so. I knew the firm charged upwards of five hundred dollars an hour for Blane's time. I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

"You can pay me by wearing what's in the back seat." Bemused, I twisted in my seat and saw my brown paper bag sitting behind me. I groaned and heard Blane chuckle softly.

"I'd hoped I'd lost it," I said, disappointed that wasn't the case. My cheeks heated thinking of how little there was to the costume.

"Dare I hope it's an example of your usual taste in non-working hours apparel?" Blane asked.

His words made b.u.t.terflies dance in my stomach. d.a.m.n. "No," I retorted, "it's not. The staff at the bar are all dressing as pop divas Friday night." I hesitated. This was embarra.s.sing. "I'm supposed to be Britney," I grumbled. I jumped in surprise when Blane laughed outright, and while I loved the sound, I felt myself turn even redder in embarra.s.sment.

"Gee, thanks," I mumbled sullenly, crossing my arms over my chest and slinking down in my seat. He managed to quell his laughter, but his grin remained.

"I just can't imagine you pretending to be Britney," he said, glancing at me. His grin made his eyes sparkle, I noticed absently. "You don't seem the type." I bristled at his impugning of my beloved pop princess.

"Hey, she's very successful," I said defensively, "especially for how young she is." In some part of my mind, I couldn't believe I was talking about Britney Spears to Blane. It seemed surreal. He laughed softly and shook his head.

"I'm not saying she isn't," he said, and I could hear the amus.e.m.e.nt lacing his voice. "I'm sure she's a very talented young woman." I harrumphed at this, but at least he'd respected my Britney-love.

We arrived at the station all too soon. I'd been enjoying the rare tension-free moments between Blane and me. Taking my elbow, he hustled me inside. Blane gave our names to the officer sitting behind the front counter and he told us to have a seat in the waiting area. We obediently sat in the blue plastic chairs and waited in silence.

A few minutes later, a man stepped through the doorway and walked over to us. He was about five-ten and looked to be in his early forties. His hair was brown and thinning on top and he wore non-descript brown pants, a white shirt and too short tie.

"Kathleen Turner?" he asked, as Blane and I stood. I nodded and he extended his hand.

"Detective Frank Milano," he said, shaking my hand firmly. Blane introduced himself as well and they also shook hands.

"What's this about?" Blane asked. He'd told me in the car to let him do the talking.

"We'd like Miss Turner to help us identify a body," Detective Milano replied. My mouth dropped open in shock.

"A body?" I repeated and Blane gave me a look. I shut my mouth with a snap.

"Yes," the Detective ignored Blane and answered me. "We think we may have found the person who killed your neighbor, Sheila Montgomery, but need to make sure. We thought you might know him."

I was surprised for a moment, but then realized that this was good news. Maybe Mark had been wrong about shadowy people being after him and Sheila. But I didn't know why the police would think I knew who it was.

"We'll need to take you down to the morgue," he continued, and I nodded.

"Okay." The detective turned and led the way, Blane and I falling into step behind him.

"Have you ever seen a dead body before?" Blane asked me quietly. I thought of my mom and dad and nodded.

"Have you seen a dead body that hasn't been prepared by a mortician?" Blane persisted. I could see where he was going. I knew dead bodies were awful, but I thought I had a pretty strong disposition.

"I'm not going to get sick or pa.s.s out, if that's what you're wondering," I hissed in exasperation, rolling my eyes. Please. It's not like I was some kind of fragile flower. Blane didn't say anything more and I hoped I'd made my point.

A few minutes later we were in a chilly room that smelled strongly of antiseptic and something else. My imagination said it was death and decay. I told my imagination to shut the h.e.l.l up.

A tech met us and took us to an even colder room where the cabinets were. It looked eerily familiar. Not because I'd been in a morgue before, but because it looked just like what you'd see on TV. I shivered and I didn't think it was just because of the cold.

The tech and Detective Milano stood on one side of the cabinet and Blane and I on the other. My earlier bravado to Blane was fading quickly and I shifted nervously from one foot to the other. When the tech opened the door and pulled out the body tray, I started to feel a little lightheaded.

There was a very still figure on the tray, covered with a white sheet. I couldn't look away from it. The smell was much stronger now and my stomach rolled. I swallowed heavily, determined not to throw up.

The tech pulled down the sheet. It was Mark. He looked perfectly peaceful, as if he could be sleeping. Except the entire back of his head was missing.

The room seemed to grow dim before my eyes. I stumbled backward, needing to get away from the horrifying remains of Mark's body. I reached out blindly for Blane, unable to tear my gaze away from the gruesome sight.

The next thing I became aware of was the sound of angry voices. They seemed to come from far away, like my ears were full of cotton. I felt very floaty. And cold. Cold and floaty. The voices were louder now and I could make out the words.

"...the f.u.c.k you think you're doing, Detective," Blane was saying, and the fury in his voice made me want to cringe. "Some warning would have been nice." I couldn't hear the detective's response.

I realized I was moving. Opening my eyes, I looked up into Blane's face and realized he was carrying me. I squeezed my eyes shut, immediately wishing I could pa.s.s out again just to spare myself the humiliation of being carried by Blane.

Before I could ask to be put down, he was laying me carefully on a sofa. Behind him I could see Milano hovering, a somewhat anxious expression on his face. No doubt he was wondering if I was going to throw up as well. I took a mental inventory but didn't hurt anywhere which struck me as odd.

"Didn't I hit the floor?" I asked Blane, confused. He'd taken off his suit coat and laid it over me. Since I was still shivering, I was grateful for it. His face was set in anger, his lips pressed together in a thin line. At my question, though, they softened.

"You think I'd let you fall?" he replied in a soft, teasing voice that only I could hear. "I have to keep you uninjured so I can remind you that you were quite sure you wouldn't pa.s.s out." Okay, I had that coming.

I sat up and Blane moved his jacket behind me to rest over my shoulders. Looking up, I saw Milano. I glared at him accusingly.

"Why didn't you tell me it was Mark?" I demanded. He looked uncomfortable at my accusation.

"We weren't sure he was the same person as the one you said was Sheila's boyfriend," he answered defensively. "We needed you to identify him as the same man."

"What happened to him?" Blane asked. He had been crouched in front of me, but now he moved to sit beside me on the small sofa. Glancing around, I saw we were in what looked like an employee break room. Besides the sofa and a few mismatched chairs, there was a refrigerator, microwave and TV.

"Neighbors found him," Milano said. "He wrote a suicide note confessing to the murder before he shot himself." The image of Mark's poor head came back to me and the room seemed to tilt. Blane must have sensed my distress because he slid his arm around my back and gripped me tightly.

"Breathe slow," he said in my ear. "Breathe deep." I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing. I felt the world right itself again after a few moments. When I opened my eyes again, I saw Milano was watching us suspiciously. I knew what he probably thought, seeing Blane's arm around me, but didn't care.

"You're saying he killed himself?" I asked. That just didn't make sense. Mark had been scared and trying to keep himself alive yesterday. He had not seemed like a man in the throes of depression and guilt.

"That's how it appears," he answered.

"You've got it wrong," I said firmly. "There's no way he could have murdered Sheila and he didn't kill himself either. He was murdered, too." I could see the skepticism in Milano's eyes, then pity, which just infuriated me.

"Believe me," I insisted. "You've got to find whoever did this. They killed Sheila and now Mark." Milano was already shaking his head.

"I'm sorry but the case has been closed. Mark was her boyfriend. You yourself said they argued that night, which places him at the scene of the crime. His note was his confession."

"But you're wrong!" My voice was getting shrill and Blane pulled me tighter against his side. Whether to comfort me or quiet me, I didn't know.

"I'm sorry," Milano said, and to his credit, he seemed sincere, "there's nothing more I can do." With a last look at Blane and me, he left.

"Are you all right?" Blane asked. I sniffed. My eyes were wet and my nose had begun to run. Angrily, I swiped at my eyes with my sleeve.

"Fine," I said curtly. "Can we go?" In answer, Blane stood and helped me to my feet. I shrugged off his coat and handed it back to him. We headed to the car and I crossed my arms over my chest. The sunlight was fading and the wind had picked up. After we'd gotten in the car, Blane turned up the heat.

"Don't you ever wear a coat?" he asked. I grimaced. I hated wearing coats. Usually, I wore layers and sweaters until there was snow on the ground. Then I conceded to winter and wore a coat.

"Not usually," I answered. It wasn't until we were halfway there that I realized we weren't going back to the firm, but were headed to my apartment.

"Why are you taking me home?"

"You've had a shock," Blane said matter-of-factly. "You're taking the rest of the day off. You need to rest." I opened my mouth to protest, but a glance from him made me close it. It was nearly five anyway. It wasn't worth arguing about.

We pulled into my parking lot as dusk was falling. I turned toward Blane to thank him, but he was already getting out of the car. In a moment, he was opening my door and helping me out of the car. We climbed the stairs in silence. I hated to admit it, but he was right. I felt sh.e.l.l-shocked.

Pulling my keys from my purse, I went to unlock the door and froze. It wasn't locked. Blane, standing behind me, noticed something was wrong.

"What is it?" he asked. I turned toward him, my eyes wide.

"I always lock my door," I said. Understanding dawned immediately in his eyes and he abruptly pulled me away from the door, pushing me behind him. Reaching for his back, he pulled out his gun. I blanched. I hadn't even seen him put that on in the car.

"Stay here," he ordered. I nodded obediently, but I was thinking "Fat chance, buddy." My cat was in there.

Quickly pushing open the door, Blane took a glance inside. If anyone was waiting on the other side, they didn't show themselves. Carefully stepping into the apartment, he held the gun out in front of him. He disappeared from my view and I counted to ten, okay five, before following him. The scene that met my eyes made me gasp.

My apartment had been thoroughly trashed. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. My couch was flipped over, the cushions shredded. The gla.s.s of my television screen had been smashed. The few potted plants I'd managed to not yet kill had been dumped on my carpet.