"Breslow?" she asked.

"Your a.n.a.lytical skills are...very good."

As soon as we were in the elevator I told her about Breslow's lawyer-one of his many lawyers, undoubtedly-who had given me the envelope. The note inside read simply, If you ever need a place to stay...

"It also listed the addresses," I said.

She blinked a few times in disbelief. "Addresses? As in plural?"

"New York, Chicago, L.A., and Dallas. There were about a dozen more overseas. Paris, London, Rome."

"And that card opens them all?"

"Supposedly." I'd yet to use it, a fact that left Sarah even more dumbfounded as the elevator opened onto a small foyer on the penthouse level. I explained that I hadn't needed to stay in Manhattan since Breslow hired me. Or Paris, for that matter.

"Weren't you at least curious?" she asked.

"Maybe I was. But then some crazy female FBI agent showed up at my house one morning. I sort of forgot about it," I said. "Until now."

There was no need to guess which door led to the apartment. There was only one.

"Wait," whispered Sarah.

I was about to wave the card over a little box next to the door. "What is it?" I asked.

"What if someone's in there?"

"Like who?"

"Like I don't know," she said. "Breslow?"

"The same Breslow I just spoke to in London?"

"Okay, someone else. Another person who works for him. Anyone."

"You're right," I said with a straight face. "We should really turn around and head to the Bureau Hotel, which has free HBO."

"Okay, okay," she said.

Again I was about to open the door. Again she stopped me.

"Wait!" she said. "We can't do this."

"He gave me the card, Sarah. Really, it's okay."

"No, I mean we can't do this."

"Do what?"

"What I think we're about to do."

"Which is what?" I asked, playing dumb. Better she say it than me. Sure enough...

"Have...s.e.x," she said.

"Who said anything about s.e.x?"

"Well, I just did. You're a guy and we've been drinking."

"Hey, that's s.e.xist!"

"You're right. Sorry."

I smiled. "Does that mean we're going to have s.e.x now?"

That got me a big eye roll and a solid right hook to my good shoulder. She leaned forward. "You know what this is, don't you?"

"A comedy routine? Not a bad one, either."

"It's called near-death attraction," she said. "It's what happens when two people face a dangerous situation together and survive."

"You left out the tequila."

"That just greases the wheels."

"I love it when you talk dirty."

She punched me again. My good shoulder was no longer so good. "I'm just saying we shouldn't confuse our working together with being together," she said.

"You know what? You're right. That would really complicate things," I said as if coming to an epiphany. "We actually should go. We shouldn't go inside and have maybe the greatest time of our lives."

She stared at me before breaking into her goofy laugh. "Okay, despite the fact that was the weakest and most lame-a.s.s attempt at reverse psychology I've ever heard, I'm going to propose something."

"Do we have to get married again?"

As soon as I said it I immediately covered up my shoulder. Thankfully, she spared me.

"No. This is what I propose," she said. "You should kiss me."

"I should?"

"Yes. If it feels right, we go inside. If not, we leave. And never talk about this ever again."

"Wow. That's a lot of pressure on one kiss," I said. "Especially for a guy who's out of practice."

"Already you're making excuses?"

"No. Just trying to negotiate better terms."