"Eighteen," she answered. "He's with some girl, but check him out anyway." I finished the gin and tonic, squeezing a lime into it before setting it on the tray as well. Order complete, Tish took the tray and I looked toward table eighteen. My jaw dropped in surprise.

Blane was sitting at the table, a leggy brunette wearing a sc.r.a.p of a dress at his side. Another couple sat across from them. As if he felt my gaze on him, Blane turned toward me and our eyes met. I saw surprise in his before I turned away.

Orders were waiting to be filled and I was glad to be busy. It's not like I cared that he was here with another woman. What did I expect? That was his lifestyle. Last night had been a mere blip on his radar. Unlike what it had been for me. I shoved that thought away and busied myself putting more martini gla.s.ses in the freezer under the bar.

I tried not to look back at table eighteen as I worked but I couldn't seem to help glancing that way. They looked like they were having a good time, laughing and talking. The brunette was so close to him you couldn't have fit a piece of paper between them. She kept touching his arm, her breast brushing against him. I was feeling something too similar to jealousy for me to be wholly comfortable with it.

"You all right?" I heard Scott ask, and I turned to see him watching me with concern.

"Yeah," I answered. "Why?"

He motioned to the drink I was pouring and I looked down to see that I'd filled it to overflowing.

"c.r.a.p," I said, mopping up the mess with a towel. After that, I determinedly did not look at Blane again as I worked. A bachelorette party had just come in and they kept me busy for some time as they ordered innuendo-laden drinks for the bride-to-be - s.e.x on the Beach, an o.r.g.a.s.m and b.l.o.w. .j.o.b shots. I smiled at their teasing, vicariously enjoying their fun.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone sit down at an empty stool at the bar. I turned to take their order and froze. It was Blane.

"So you work here, too," he said, and it was more a statement than a question.

"A few nights a week," I answered stiffly, unsure how to act with him after last night. It wasn't like I had dinner on a regular basis with men like him, not to mention the fact that he was my boss. "Can I get you something? Dewars and water?" He smiled slightly and I was absurdly pleased that I'd remembered what he drank.

"Yes," he said, "and something called an Appletini, please." Ah. That must be for the brunette. She looked like an Appletini kind of girl. I put more juice than booze in her drink before mixing his. Setting them down on the bar, I took a deep breath.

"Thank you for getting my car fixed," I said, trying to sound grateful. Manners were manners and he'd done me a huge favor. It wasn't his fault that a tiny part of me wished I was the brunette waiting at the table for him to return.

He was wearing a sports jacket and tie tonight and he'd loosened the tie. The color of the jacket was a deep gray and seemed to bring out the gray in his eyes.

"No problem," he said, his smile widening. I felt my breath catch slightly. It should really be a sin to look that good. He tossed some money down on the bar and I watched him retreat to his table, drinks in hand.

I looked down at the money. He'd left a fifty dollar bill on the bar. My eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. Trying to pay me off again. But tonight, I didn't care. Money was money. I scooped it up, ran his tab through the register and pocketed the hefty tip.

I didn't see when they left and I tried not to think about what they were probably doing at this very moment as I scrubbed down the bar and took gla.s.ses back to the dishwasher. What I really needed to do was just forget Blane Kirk. Period. An infatuation with my boss was really the last thing I needed.

It was late when I finally got home and my feet ached. I smelled like booze and couldn't wait to take a shower. It had been a good night though. I'd pulled in nearly a hundred and fifty dollars in tips. Of course, nearly a third of that had been from Blane, but I ignored that fact.

Sheila's light was still on and I smiled. That boded well for her and Mark. I flipped on the lights in my apartment as I kicked off my shoes. Ten minutes and a steaming shower later and I was feeling almost human again.

Pulling on a t-shirt and underwear, I crawled under my blankets and let out a contented sigh. I was asleep before I could even dwell on anything related to Blane.

I was jerked awake a short while later and I sat up with a start. I was disoriented and didn't know what had woken me. Then I heard it - loud voices coming from Sheila's apartment. Shouting and arguing, it sounded like. I lay back down. I felt bad for her. I guessed it hadn't gone so well with Mark after all.

The arguing went on for a while and then it got quiet. I turned over to go back to sleep but couldn't. I squirmed around for a bit, but finally admitted that I should just get up and go check on Sheila. If Mark and she had gotten in a big fight, chances were she would be pretty upset.

I got up and pulled on my knit shorts. The temperature had dropped but I was only going next door. I dragged a brush through my hair and grimaced at the dark circles under my eyes. I glanced at the clock. Three thirty.

The night was cold and silent when I stepped outside and I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. A light was still burning in Sheila's apartment so I knew she was awake. I wondered if maybe they'd talked it out. If so, I would be interrupting rather than helping. I stood outside my door, unable to decide what to do. The concrete under my bare feet was like ice and helped me make my decision. I would just knock once and if no one answered, I'd take that as confirmation that I was interrupting make up s.e.x.

I crossed over to her door quickly, my feet freezing, and rapped lightly on it. To my surprise, it opened. The door hadn't been closed all the way. That struck me as strange. Sheila knew as well as I did that this part of town wasn't one where you left your door unlocked, especially in the dead of night. Cautiously, I stepped inside.

"Sheila?" I called out. The apartment was eerily quiet and I felt the hairs stand up on my arms. There were dirty dishes on the kitchen counter and two empty wine gla.s.ses. I let out a squeak and nearly jumped a foot when I felt something brush my legs. I looked down. It was Tigger. He meowed and brushed against me again. I tried to breathe normally as my heart pounded in my chest.

"Sheila?" I tried again. No answer. I peeked into the bathroom but it was empty. The bedroom door was closed and I walked toward it. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I turned the handle and swung the door open. What I saw made my blood run cold. My knees turned to jelly and I slid down the wall to collapse on the floor.

Chapter Three.

Blood was everywhere. I could smell it and it made me want to retch. I could see a leg on the bed but I couldn't move. My hands were shaking and I couldn't hear properly for the blood rushing in my ears. The only thing that propelled me to my feet was the fact that Sheila might still be alive.

I stumbled further into the room, carefully avoiding the b.l.o.o.d.y streaks on the floor. Moving slowly to the bed, I could see her clearly now and I wished I hadn't. It was obvious she was no longer alive, her eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. She was naked and her throat had been violently slashed. Her once white sheets were now bathed in crimson. Red smeared her stomach and thighs as well.

I could feel a scream coming and I clapped my hand over my mouth in horror. Turning, I sprinted from the apartment into my own. Slamming and locking the door behind me, I tried desperately to think.

Who to call? Grabbing the phone, I tried to dial 911. My hands were shaking so badly, I dropped the phone. Finally able to punch in the numbers, I waited. My breath was coming in gasps and my heart was pounding. When the operator answered, I haltingly gave her the address and told her my neighbor had been hurt very badly. I hung up, then wished I hadn't. My aloneness pressed on me like a physical weight, ominous and threatening. I hesitated, then picked up the phone again.

Clarice answered on the third ring.

"Clarice?" I asked, my voice a thin thread.

"Kathleen? Is that you? Are you all right?" Her voice had been groggy, but now I could hear the worry as she came fully awake.

"I...I'm not sure," I said shakily. "My neighbor. Her name is Sheila. She's...dead. Murdered." The words made it more real and I could feel myself become lightheaded. I sank down onto the couch.

"What?! Oh my G.o.d, Kathleen," Clarice sounded shocked.

"I called 911," I hesitated. I hated to ask but I didn't know what else to do. "I know the cops are coming, but I'm by myself and...I'm scared. I didn't have anyone else to call." It sounded pathetic even to me.

"Don't worry," Clarice said confidently. "If the police are coming and there's been a murder, you'll need a lawyer more than anything else. I'm going to call Blane. He'll take care of you."

"No!" I said frantically, appalled that she wanted to call Blane. "Not him! What about Derrick?" Anyone else, really, would do.

"Blane's the best, Kathleen," Clarice insisted. "I'm hanging up now and calling him. You just sit tight." The line went dead before I could utter another word and I hung up the phone.

I don't know how much time had pa.s.sed before I heard a knock on my door. Jerking in fear, it took me a moment to gather myself and go to the door. Peering through the peephole, I saw Blane standing there. I was surprised at how quickly he had come, arriving even before the police.

Opening the door, I stepped back to allow him to enter. He shut the door behind him and I noticed he was still wearing the tie and jacket from earlier this evening. I wondered if he had left the brunette waiting for him somewhere.

He gripped my arm gently and led me to the couch. I sat down and he sat beside me. He took my hands in his and rubbed them.

"Your hands are like ice, Kathleen," he said. "Tell me what happened." I looked up from our joined hands to his face.

"I was asleep," I said haltingly. "Something woke me. I heard arguing. I thought it was Sheila and her boyfriend, Mark. Then it stopped."

Blane stayed quiet and listened as I talked, his hands still rubbing soothingly over mine.

"I couldn't go back to sleep. I was worried about her. So I got up and went over to her place." The images that I had carefully been keeping at the back of my mind sprang to the fore and I felt tears slipping down my face.

"The door was open so I went in. And she was in her bed. And blood was everywhere." I started crying in earnest now and couldn't continue. Blane gathered me into his arms and I sobbed on his shoulder.

After a few moments, I was able to control myself and stop crying. Blane was rubbing my back as though soothing a small child. When he sensed that I was in control again, he spoke.

"You went into the apartment by yourself?" he asked, and I nodded, still leaning against him.

"Did you see anyone?"

"No," I answered. Not that I had been looking.

"So the person who did this could have still been there when you walked in?" That thought had not occurred to me. A shiver ran down my spine and Blane must have felt it for his grip tightened on me.

"I'm going to go check things out," he said, easing me from him. My eyes widened.

"No!" I said, gripping his jacket. "They might still be out there!"

"It's all right," Blane a.s.sured me, and I watched in stunned surprise as he removed a gun from the back of his pants.

"Why do you have a gun?" I asked.

"Have you met our clients?" he replied dryly. "Don't worry. I know how to use it."

"But...how?" I couldn't fathom how a blue-blood like Blane would come to know how to use a gun.

"Military," he said shortly, and he rose from the couch. "Stay here," he ordered.

I obeyed wordlessly. Watching him as he slipped out the door, I tried to absorb the fact that, at some point, Blane had been in the military and he was now stalking a possible killer next door. I could hardly wrap my mind around Sheila's death and this completely different side of Blane.

After a few agonizing minutes, he returned.

"No one's around," he told me, tucking the gun back into the small of his back. "They're probably long gone by now."

I could hear sirens now coming progressively closer. Blane looked at me, concern etched on his face.

"Are you going to be able to talk to the police?" he asked kindly. I'd regained a semblance of calm, the hysteria and panic now receded, and took a deep breath. I nodded and stood, shoving my feet into a pair of flip flops and following Blane to the door. We reached the parking lot as an ambulance and two police cars pulled up.

One of the policemen saw us and walked over. Motioning to me, he asked, "Are you the 911 caller?" I nodded.

"There's been a homicide upstairs," Blane said.

"And you are?" the cop asked Blane.

"Blane Kirk," he answered. "This is Kathleen Turner. I'm her lawyer."

The cop looked surprised at the presence of a lawyer. "Where's the victim?" he asked.

Blane pointed him in the direction of Sheila's apartment and we watched them climb the stairs. I didn't follow, remaining next to Blane while I waited. When they returned, one headed to the car and began talking on the radio while the other cop we'd spoken to earlier came back to us.

He took my name and contact information and I repeated what I had told Blane. When I got to the part about finding Sheila, my voice faltered. I felt Blane slide his arm around my waist and I was grateful for the support. I finished explaining what I had seen.

"So you were only in the apartment for a minute or two?" the cop asked me.

"Probably a bit longer," I said, "but I didn't see anyone."

"Do you know of anyone else that had been with her tonight?"

"She had a boyfriend," I said. "His name is Mark. I don't know his last name. He was some kind of computer guy. He was supposed to come over tonight. She was going to make him dinner." At that, I remembered my earlier conversation with Sheila and how she'd joked that she was going to put restaurant food on her plates, and I felt tears on my cheeks again. The cop seemed sympathetic but didn't stop his questions.

"Is there anyone else you know of that might have wanted to hurt Sheila?" he asked, and I thought for a moment, blinking back my tears.

"She worked as an escort," I said.

The cop looked mightily interested at this.

"Did she say who she worked for?" he asked.

"No," I answered, "she never said."

"Did she tell you anything else about this escort service?"

Before I could answer, I felt Blane's fingers bite into my waist. I flinched. That was obviously some kind of signal, but I didn't know why he'd want me to stop talking. I hesitated. I felt I should tell the police everything, but also knew that Clarice had been right, Blane was the best at what he did. I should heed his advice.

I shook my head. "No. That's all I know." Blane's fingers relaxed marginally.

Movement on the stairs distracted me and I saw the EMT's hauling a stretcher down the stairs, the figure on it covered completely with a white sheet. I bit my lip as I felt tears forming again. Blane turned me toward him, away from the scene, and I pressed my head against his chest. I allowed myself, for just a moment, to savor the feeling of someone else being strong so I didn't have to be. I hadn't had that feeling in a very long time.

The shock of Sheila's murder weighed on me as I tried to get a grip. Taking a deep breath, I stepped back from Blane. I seriously doubted he wanted a crying female hanging on him, no matter what the cause, and I reluctantly released him. A flash of orange caught my eye.

"Tigger!" I exclaimed and rushed forward. The cat had been behind some bushes, but poked his head out when I called. He trotted over and leapt up into my waiting arms. I nuzzled his thick fur and squeezed my eyes shut.

The police were ignoring me now as they went about their jobs and I saw a photographer head upstairs to take pictures of the crime scene. I went up as well, holding Tigger. Blane followed.

"Why did you want me to stop talking?" I asked Blane, sitting down on my couch with Tigger in my lap.

"You didn't tell me she was a prost.i.tute," Blane answered, sounding irritated. That got my dander up.

"Why should it matter?" I retorted. "She was my friend and someone killed her. It doesn't make her death any more acceptable because of what she did for a living."

"No, but it does make things more dangerous," Blane said firmly. He sat down next to me and rubbed a weary hand over his face. I felt a pang of guilt. He didn't have to be here at all and here I was going into b.i.t.c.h mode on him.

"What do you mean?" I asked in a lot less defensive tone.

"There's only one escort service in Indy and, if that's who she worked for, the last thing they're going to want is for that fact to get out. Or any information on who her Johns were." He looked pointedly at me. "I want you to keep quiet about what you know or else you could become a target."

I hadn't thought of that. Absently, I petted Tigger while I mulled this over. It seemed inherently wrong to me not to do everything I could to help the police catch Sheila's killer just because I was afraid.

"I don't know if I can do that," I said honestly. I had been brought up with a deep sense of justice, thanks to my father, and it went against everything I'd been taught to look the other way, even if it was for my own safety.