After getting out of the shower, Dylan dried off with a thick terry-cloth towel and threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It felt good to get out of his suit and back into his normal clothes. His head felt lighter, too. The fuzziness from the drugs was finally wearing off. He was ready to attack the problem head-on.

When he reentered the bedroom Catherine was standing in front of the easel, staring at a blank canvas, a paintbrush in her hand, yet she seemed in no hurry to actually use it. The midday sun streamed through the window, adding a shine to the red highlights in her blond hair, accentuating the curves of her body, her full breasts and the soft sway of her hips.

He felt an unmistakable tingle of desire shoot down his spine that he immediately tried to quell, but his thoughts were already running amok. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to strip off her clothes and trace those curves with his hands and with his mouth. He wanted to see her blue eyes darken with need. He wanted to taste her lips. He wanted to unleash the passion that was brimming inside of her. He'd seen it in her eyes and heard it in her voice.

Catherine was a bundle of intense emotions, and usually he avoided emotional women as if they had the plague, but there was something so intriguing about her that he was tempted to throw caution to the wind. It was a reckless, dangerous attraction that he had for her. He knew that, and he had to push it away. Catherine was far too complicated a woman to get involved with. He couldn't afford to make this any more personal than it already was.

So he counted to ten, took a couple of deep breaths, and tried to get a grip on himself.

Catherine turned her head and caught him staring. Her eyes widened as she read his expression, and he couldn't help wondering how much he was giving away-probably too much. Not that it would take a rocket scientist to figure out what he was thinking, and he already knew Catherine was very perceptive.

"What are you doing?" he asked quickly, hoping to distract her.

"What? Oh." She looked down at the brush in her hand. "I thought I would try to paint, to force something out of my subconscious, but big surprise-nothing happened." She set her brush down. "Your attorney didn't call."

"Well, I'm going to operate on the idea that no news is good news for the moment. I'm sure Mark will be in touch as soon as he knows something." Pulling his laptop out of its case, Dylan set it on the desk. Opening the lid, he hit the power button and waited for it to boot up. "I was thinking in the shower that if Joseph Ravino is behind this frame, he could have easily had one of his people get to Erica and in turn to me."

"So you believe this is about revenge?"

"It sure as hell feels like it. Ravino's friends and family believe I helped send an innocent man to jail by televising inflammatory news reports and fabricating my stories. I didn't, by the way. I got a lot of hate mail right after his arrest." Dylan sat down in the chair. "The man is not only a senator; he's also a philanthropist-oh, yeah, and a murderer."

"That's an odd combination."

"Not if you consider that they're all roles involving power. He's an interesting man, Ravino. He started a cutting-edge software company about fifteen years ago, made a bundle in the stock market. Then he married into blue blood. His wife Deborah's family could trace their roots back to the Mayflower. Her family was also twice as rich as Ravino was. The two became a power couple. They were on every society guest list. And once Ravino became a state senator, his personality and his ego got even bigger. I think he began to believe in his own invincibility. He didn't think anyone could touch him. He could have everything exactly the way he wanted."

"Why would he risk it all by killing his wife?"

"For money, perhaps. Ravino's financial holdings took a hit when the stock market collapsed, so he needed Deborah's money, as well as her wifely support for his political goals. Maybe she threatened to divorce him.

She knew about his affairs. She had photographic evidence of the senator and Erica together, and she told Erica she would use it if she had to. She had the weapons to destroy his career. He couldn't let that happen." "Wouldn't she also destroy herself in the process?"

"Not if she intended to use her weapons only to keep him in the marriage. She might not have anticipated that he would try to kill her."

"Back up a little and tell me more about the murder case," Catherine said as she crossed the room to sit down on a corner of the bed near the desk. "How did you first get involved in it? And what were the details?"

"About a year ago Deborah Ravino was found dead in her very expensive home on Nob Hill in San Francisco. It was believed at first that she accidentally killed herself by quadrupling her Botox injections, which caused muscle paralysis not only in her face but also in her respiratory system. She basically suffocated herself."

"Death by Botox?" Catherine asked, a smile tugging at her lips. "Tell me that wasn't your lead."

"It was," he admitted. "It was too juicy to resist."

"Why would a doctor allow her to have too many injections?"

"Her doctor didn't. Apparently Mrs. Ravino was buying self-injection kits off the Internet because her doctor refused to give her any more, and she was obsessed with her looks."

"It wasn't her who bought the kit, but the senator," Catherine guessed. "Right?"

"That has not yet been proven. Her credit card was used for the purchase. And the only fingerprints found on the syringe were Deborah's. The senator gave a painfully touching interview about his wife's obsession with her looks, remarking how he had always loved her for more than her beauty. I didn't buy the accidental-death explanation, so I looked deeper."

"So you started digging in someone else's sandbox and pissed everyone off. Why am I not surprised?"

He tipped his head in acknowledgment of her point. "That's my job. It doesn't always make me popular, but it does make me good."

"Go on with the story."

"Senator Ravino played the grieving widower very well. He was photographed going to church every Sunday with his elderly parents and his sister and brother-in-law and their kids. He was also seen down at a homeless shelter, serving up soup to the poor. There was something about the guy that didn't feel right to me. He was too good to be true, you know what I mean?"

"I think I do."

"So I started looking into everything about him. I checked out the Metro Club, where he allegedly spent the evening while his wife was killing herself with Botox. The Metro Club is an exclusive and very private men's club in San Francisco that has been around since the early nineteen hundreds, a place where men can be men, discuss politics, et cetera. The club also has a back room where the gentlemen, as they like to call themselves, can spend some time with some very attractive female hostesses. I knew I had to get in there and see what it was all about. Unfortunately you have to be a member to gain access, and I wasn't."

"So what did you do?"

"I used the one connection I had-my father. Although he didn't know I was using him. I stopped by his house when he wasn't home and swiped his membership card. I made a reservation for the two of us for dinner on a night when my father would be out of town. I figured by the time he got back, I would have what I needed."

"So what happened after you got into the club?"

"To make a long story short, I found Erica. She was one of the hostesses. At first she didn't want to talk to me. I could tell she was scared that I was trying to connect her to Ravino. In the end I convinced her that if she knew something, and if her pal Ravino had killed his wife, then she could be in danger, too. After all, a man like Ravino would not want any of his dirty little secrets-and Erica was certainly one of them-to come out. Eventually she broke down and confessed that she and Ravino had been having an affair and that she was afraid she'd slept with a murderer. I convinced her to help me prove it."

"Surely she knew it would put her in danger to reveal something damaging about a state senator."

"I can be very persuasive when I want to be," he said with a shrug.

"I'll bet. I'm surprised you waited until you'd finished the story to go to bed with her."

"I didn't have to use sex to get the information out of her."

"But you would have, right?"

"What are you asking me, Catherine? Wondering just how low I'll go?" he challenged.

"Maybe I am. I don't know you, Dylan. You've asked me to be your partner, your ally. I need to know where your boundaries are."

"I don't have any boundaries." He didn't particularly like the impression she seemed to be forming of him, but he couldn't deny that he could be ruthless in his pursuit of the story. "I do what it takes to get the truth."

"Are there lines you won't cross?"

"I haven't seen any yet."

She tilted her head to one side as she gave him a thoughtful look. "I don't believe you, Dylan. I think you have a conscience, even if you won't admit it. I also believe that you're worried about Erica, not just because of what she did to you last night, but for her own sake."

"I don't know where you'd get that idea. Right now I'd like to wring her neck."

"Fine. You're a tough, ruthless guy-I get it. Let's go back to the Ravino case."

"Erica told me that Deborah had known about the affair because she came and confronted Erica at her apartment. Erica, who thinks very well on her feet, decided to tape the conversation, unbeknownst to Deborah. She thought she might need the tape for some reason. In their conversation Deborah reveals that she told the senator she knew about the affair, that she had photos of him and Erica together, and that she would give them to the press if he didn't stop seeing Erica immediately. She would also divorce him, and under their prenuptial agreement a proven affair would cost him millions. Apparently her reason for going to Erica was to try to gain her cooperation. She offered Erica a sizable chunk of money to cut off contact with the senator."

"Did Erica take it?"

"She was still thinking about it when Mrs. Ravino was killed. The taped conversation, however, gave the senator a motive for murder. But it wasn't enough. There was no proof that the senator injected his wife with too much Botox until I came up with some."

Dylan had a difficult time keeping the boastful note out of his voice. He was damn proud of his accomplishment. "I discovered that when the senator made a trip to Mexico with several other members from the state congress to discuss trade and immigration problems, he also made a side trip to a Mexican doctor who offered up his own version of discounted Botox. With my new information, the coroner's office reran the tissue tests and toxicology screening and discovered that the substance offered by that physician matched what was in Deborah's bloodstream."

"Very impressive," Catherine said. "Since Deborah wasn't in Mexico, then her husband was the one who brought the poison home."

"But that still wasn't enough, because the senator claimed his wife simply asked him to pick up the discounted medication. Unfortunately for him, I discovered a money trail that revealed that the senator had paid the Mexican physician five times the going rate. I also located a female friend of Deborah's who was willing to testify that there was no way Deborah would have used any medication from Mexico, because a friend of theirs had almost died from a diet pill obtained from the same doctor."

"And is that where the senator got his idea?" Catherine asked.

Dylan nodded. "That's my guess."

"It's a pretty good way to kill your wife, because even with all your evidence, it wouldn't be easy to prove beyond a reasonable doubt."

"I agree. It's not a slam dunk, but when you lay everything out the picture is pretty clear as to what happened. Whether or not the DA can get a conviction is still to be determined."

"It certainly sounds like the senator has a good reason to hate you, since he was getting away with murder before you got involved. If he killed his wife, then he probably wouldn't hesitate to kill again. But wouldn't he hate Erica just as much as you-if not more? She betrayed him as well. Why would he use her to set you up? Why wouldn't he set you both up?"

Catherine made a good point. It was something he'd been thinking about as well.

"Maybe that's what he did," Catherine mused, continuing. "Perhaps Erica thought she was setting you up, but in actuality . . ."

"Ravino was setting her up, too," Dylan finished. "If that's the case, then Erica could be . . . in danger." He couldn't bring himself to use the word dead. He hoped to God she was still alive, but he couldn't deny that the facts were leading in the other direction. And if that was the case, it was his fault. He was the one who'd found her, who'd made her talk, who'd told her she'd be safer going to the police with her tape than keeping her mouth shut.

"Dylan, don't go there," Catherine said. "You're not to blame."

"Shit," he swore in annoyance. "Are you reading my mind now?"

"I'm reading your expression. It's obvious you're starting to feel guilty. But you should at least wait until you have your precious facts and see what they add up to."

"Unfortunately, I don't have very many facts," he grumbled.

She paused, tipping her head toward his computer. "What are you looking for now?"

"I'm not sure. First I'd just like to see if anyone has been on my computer or opened any of my files. That might lead me in a specific direction. I also want to refresh my memory on what I know about Erica. If she's still alive and on the run, I need to figure out where she might hide."

"If she was meant to disappear and make it look like murder, she'd have to go far," Catherine said. "She'd have to vanish in a very complete way, no contact with her friends, no use of her credit cards, no trips to her apartment. She would have had to plan her next stop after this before she ever came here."

Catherine's reasoning was right on the money. She wasn't just a quirky psychic painter with a smoking-hot body; she also had a very good brain. And she seemed to understand how people thought. Smart, pretty, and mysterious-a dangerous combination.

"You're going to have to think like Erica," Catherine continued. "Where would you go if you were in her shoes?"

"Probably some remote island in the South Pacific."

Catherine smiled. "That sounds good to me, too."

He grinned back at her. "A few rum drinks with umbrellas in 'em and I could hide out for a while. I'm sure whoever convinced Erica to participate in this plot persuaded her that she could lead a very luxurious life with enough money to make her happy, and all she had to do was put something in my drink and take me into the woods. Easy as pie."

"Then the double cross," Catherine said. "I would have expected that."

"You're smarter than Erica, but to be fair, we don't know that she didn't anticipate the double cross."

"What I felt at her cabin was surprise. Something unexpected happened last night. Someone showed up at her door who wasn't part of the plan."

Catherine's analysis made sense, but he still didn't have any hard facts to back up her theory.

Catherine shook her head, her gaze meeting his. "You're such a skeptic, Dylan. Haven't you ever had an intuition about something, an instinct that you couldn't explain, but it came true?"

"I suppose," he conceded. "Don't take it personally. It's just the way I am." He turned toward his computer, then paused. "Before I do anything else, I want to call Erica."

"Why? She's not going to answer, and won't that raise even more suspicion when the cops get her telephone records, which they might do if she stays missing?"

"Exactly why I should call. I can argue that why would I try to contact her if I knew she was dead?" As he'd expected, Erica's voice mail picked up. He waited for the beep and then said, "Erica, it's Dylan. Hope you're all right. Call me back, would you? I'm very worried about you, and I want to know why you drugged me and left me in the woods."

"You're pretty clever," Catherine commented.

"I've spent a fair amount of time on criminal cases the past year. I've picked up a few things. You seem to know a lot about the police as well, for a woman who lives a quiet life in a seaside town," he said pointedly, knowing there was far more to her past than she'd revealed.

"It's no secret that I grew up in foster care and on the streets. I'm not naive when it comes to law enforcement. Like you, I've picked up a few tricks over the years. What about Erica's work? Her colleagues might know where she would stay if she wasn't at home."

"I'll call them tomorrow. Her modeling agency won't be open on a Sunday, and she hasn't worked at the Metro Club since the Ravino case broke."

"What about Erica's friends?" Catherine asked as she got to her feet. "Do you know any of them?"

"No."

"Family?"

"We talked mostly about Ravino."

"When you talked," she said dryly.

"I'm not going to try to pretty up my one-night stand, Catherine," he said bluntly. "It was what it was."

"At least you're honest about it," she said with a sigh. "Most men pretend they have deeper intentions when they don't."

"Are you speaking from experience?"

"Perhaps."

"You don't seem the type to have had many casual affairs."

"What type is that?" she asked.

"The easy-come, easy-go kind of woman. Nothing is easy about you, as far as I can tell."

"You don't know me very well."

She was right. He didn't know her, but he wanted to. She was different from anyone he'd ever met, and he was a sucker for secrets. Finding the truth was the driving mantra of his life. He couldn't walk past a mystery without trying to solve it, and Catherine was definitely a puzzle to him.