"Although I have to say," she added as she got closer, "I'm tempted. It sounds just too gallant for words.

"Besides, the water is cold."

As soon as I stepped out of the van in past my ankles she gave me a febrile grin and sprang at me. I braced myself just in time to catch her without falling over backward.

One arm under her knees, the other around her back, I held her above the lake. She kissed me quickly, then flung one arm outward like a command.

"That way, Sir Knight," she ordered imperiously.

"To the elevator, and at once. I need a drink. And you" she slapped my shoulder "need to get out of those clothes."

She hadn't dropped her purse. I've never understood how women do that.

Ginny had the same gift. She could fall down a logging flume, and when she splashed out the end she'd still have her purse. Hell, it probably wouldn't even be damp.

Awkwardly I reached back into the van to retrieve my phone. I had to release one arm to do it, but she compensated by clinging to my neck.

Once I'd settled my arms under her again, I leaned against the door to close it and headed for the elevator, high-stepping to avoid concealed obstacles.

She was right the water was cold, bitter as a serpent's tooth. Soon the clenched concentration of driving caught up with me, and I started to shiver.

"Brew!" Deborah protested at once.

"Put me down. You're freezing. We should hurry."

I didn't obey.

"Forget it." Chills shuddered through me.

"Right now you're the only warmth I've got."

I wanted her in my arms. The cold wasn't the only thing that made me shiver Nevertheless I tried to take longer strides. She hugged herself against me, ignoring the possibility that she might ruin her blouse.

At the elevator, rainwater no longer drained into the shaft. It was already full. If the elevator's motor and wiring were in the bottom of the shaft, and they weren't insulated I didn't know how many stairs I could climb in my condition.

But when Deborah hit the call button, lights over the door showed the elevator descending from fifteen floors above us.

Fortunately the car came straight down. When the doors opened, water flooded in. But it leaked back out as we rose. By the time we reached her floor, my shoes were no longer submerged.

Carefully I set Deborah on her feet. Waves of shivering undermined my balance. Holding my arm, she supported me into the hallway.

The hall gave off an impression of muted gentility framed prints in soft colors interspersed with ornamental lighting fixtures along the walls, a carpet with a comfortable pattern. Four or five doors down from the elevator, she produced her keys, undid the lock, and hustled me inside. Then she hurried away.

"Take off those clothes," she ordered over her shoulder.

"I'm going to turn on the shower and start some water boiling."

Take off those clothes. Ha. Would've been a good idea if my hands weren't shaking so badly.

I stood in a short entryway like a mini-foyer, complete with a delicate side table and I assumed a coat closet. A light blue carpet several shades richer than the one outside led to a living room on the left and a kitchen on the right, with half-open walls between them above a sideboard for the living room, counters for the kitchen. The room she'd disappeared into beyond the kitchen must've been the bathroom.

Presumably the doorway opposite it led to her bedroom.

A nice apartment for a woman living alone. Not quite wealthy, but definitely upper-middle-class. Maybe Watchdog paid well. Maybe she'd inherited money, or struck gold on the stock market, or won a modest lottery. Or maybe I still held my phone. I put it down on the side table. Fighting shivers, I managed to work my jacket off my shoulders and down my arms. The holster came next. That was harder. While I fumbled at the straps, I wondered distantly whether the .45 would still fire. Probably it would. I'd used enough gun oil to make the damn bullets waterproof.

Shirt buttons? How?

Deborah bustled out of the bathroom, leaving the door open. I heard water running, glimpsed a wisp of steam. She started for the kitchen, then veered toward me instead.

"Let me," she instructed firmly as she tackled the buttons. With matter-of-fact efficiency, she undid them all, loosened my belt, bent down to tug off my shoes. She'd had practice, apparently.

Finally she worked my shirt off and dropped it on my jacket. The skin of my chest looked like I'd spent a week underwater. Pointing at the bathroom, she said, "Leave the rest of your clothes on the floor. I'll put everything in the dryer. I'm going to have a drink. Do you want coffee or tea?"

"Coffee," I mumbled. I sounded like I had frostbite in my mouth.

With a nod, she nudged me into motion.

I shut the bathroom door behind me, mainly to keep the steam in. That warmth restored enough sanity to get me undressed the rest of the way and to make me test the temperature before I stepped into the shower.

I'd already had more water than I knew what to do with. But this was hot, and it stung my skin like needles of bliss.

While I soaked away my chills, I heard the door open and close as Deborah retrieved my clothes. When I finally emerged with a parboiled blush on my skin and a towel clamped around my waist, she had a steaming cup ready for me. The coffee smelled like nectar.

On an ordinary day Ginny's coffee was sludge. On a bad day it tasted like turpentine. I'd done most of the cooking so that we wouldn't have to get our stomachs pumped after every meal.

If Deborah wanted to seduce me out of my senses, render me too stupid to think, she had the right approach.

She appraised me frankly for a moment, then nodded approval.

"That's a definite improvement." Her mouth twitched into a grin.

"Lose the towel, and it'll be flawless."

Luxurious amber filled the glass in her hand. It smelled like Macallan's, an old revered single-malt Scotch, more costly than blood.

Against the stifled backdrop of the storm, I heard a dryer rumble softly.

Sipping coffee to disguise my yearning, I tightened my grip on the towel.

"Don't rush me. Us Knights Errant are supposed to be shy. It's in the manual." Unsteadily I added, "You didn't finish answering my question."

She treated me to a perplexed frown, as beguiling as a summer's day.

"Did you ask me a question? The last thing I remember you saying was about warmth."

"Back at the restaurant," I explained.

"I asked you where you and Lacone and Sternway were standing. In the lobby on Saturday. I want to know what you remember."

If she resisted, it would mean I didn't know what. Surely it would mean something or other.

"That's right." She seemed to give herself a shake.