She felt a powerful surge upward as he lifted her off the sofa. He carried her into the bedroom and laid her down on his bed. The mattress was firm, like she'd expected when she first saw it, and she smiled up at him as he eased down beside her.

"You look happy," he said.

Her smile widened. She picked up his big hand and kissed the palm. He had a long, jagged scar there that she'd noticed days before, but now wasn't the time to ask about it. "I like your hands," she said instead.

He lifted an eyebrow and dipped his head down to kiss her breast. "My hands, huh?" His breath was hot against her skin, making her entire body tighten. He kissed her breasts and her collarbone and her throat. She felt the pressure building again, and she hooked her calf around the back of his knee to bring him closer. She rocked her hips against him, and felt the evidence of his immense patience. He'd made the first part all about her and she loved him for it. It seemed such a minor thing, but in her whole life, no one had done that. She'd never realized it until now.

She pulled back from the kiss and looked up into his face, at the intensity of his gaze. He looked so somber now, as if he'd sensed her seriousness, too. Whatever this was, it wasn't a joke. Beads of sweat formed at his temples, and she knew he was working to control himself. The idea made her urgent for him, and she arched against him and pulled his mouth down to hers.

His kiss became forceful, and she responded the same way. She wrestled with his T-shirt as he tugged at her bra and panties. She popped the front hook and had no idea what happened to the rest, but then they were naked except for his jeans. She raced her hands down the button fly as a drawer beside the bed scraped open. He hurried to cover himself and then pushed her thighs apart.

Tears sprang into her eyes at the shock of him. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and tried not to cry out. She wanted this, and she didn't want him to know it hurt her.

"Wrap your legs around me."

She did, and felt relieved at the fit. And then the pain was gone, and it was just him and heat and the awesome power of what he was doing to her. She never wanted to let him go. She'd never felt like this, like she was joined so completely with someone. Like they were one thing, together, and he could touch every cell of her body, and the feeling went on and on until she thought she would die.

"Courtney." His voice was hoarse. "Honey, are you...?"

She couldn't breathe, she couldn't talk, and she answered him the only way she could. Yes.

And after a final, burning moment, they collapsed together.

Alex waltzed into APD headquarters and did what she always did when she didn't belong somewhere-she faked it. She walked briskly down the corridor, stopped briefly for a drink at the water fountain, and then pretended to be taking a cell-phone call until she spotted a mid-twenties guy with some sort of tag hanging around his neck. By the scruffy, harried look of him, she decided he was a print reporter and followed him through a set of double doors to a chest-high counter. Once there, he joined several other young, newshound-looking people culling through metal trays of police reports. Alex joined them and tried to look bored. If they knew she wasn't one of their ranks, they didn't mention it. And anyway, the thing she wanted was public information.

But it wasn't in the trays. Finally, she stepped up to the Plexiglas window and cleared her throat to get the attention of the woman seated at a desk behind the counter.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for an incident report from earlier this week."

The woman stood up and stepped over. "Date and address," she intoned. "Incident number, if you got it."

"I don't."

"Date and address."

"Actually, it's a missing person's report. For a Dr. Martin Pembry? You know where I could find it?"

The woman's gaze sharpened, and she glanced over Alex's shoulder at the information junkies behind her.

"Have a seat," she said, and nodded at the bank of chairs beside the door. The woman disappeared down a hallway, and Alex wandered back over to the trays of paper. She thumbed through the reports one by one and pretended to be interested.

A trickle of unease traveled down Alex's spine, and she turned around. A dark-haired man was slouched against the nearest doorway, watching her. He stepped forward.

"Hey, there."

"Hello," she said. Did she need a press pass to be in here? She was pretty sure this room was open to the public.

"I'm Nathan Devereaux." He held out a hand, and she caught a glimpse of the holster beneath his jacket. "Alex Lovell." She shook his hand firmly, and he smiled.

"Nice to meet you, Alex." He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway. "This way."

She followed him down the long corridor and took the opportunity to check him out. He had thick, dark hair-a little shaggy around the ears-and a navy jacket that looked like it had seen better days, but that stretched nicely over a muscular back. He wasn't exceptionally tall, but he had a confident walk.

And when it led her right out a side door, to a flight of concrete stairs, she stopped in her tracks. He stopped, too, and turned casually around to face her.

"Just thought we'd get some air. A little crowded in there, don't you think?"

He had a low southern drawl, and she guessed he used it to put people at ease. It wasn't working with her, though.

"What is it you want, Mr. Devereaux?"

"Nathan. And I was thinking we could go get a drink." He nodded in the direction of Red River Street, where a neon sign advertised a dubious-looking barbecue joint.

"Why would I go get a drink with you?"

A slow smile spread across his face. "I have something you want."

It was either the worst come-on in history, or he knew something about Martin Pembry.

She shrugged. "Let's go." The place was within blocks of a police station, and she wasn't riding in a car with him. How dangerous could it be?

They walked in step, and Alex suddenly felt self-conscious about her clothes. She was wearing the same outfit she'd had on when Courtney Glass had appeared in her office-faded blue jeans, a snug ACL Fest T-shirt, and worn cross trainers. But the Smokin' Pig didn't exactly look like a five-star establishment. It smelled heavenly, though, like hickory and campfires.

He held the door for her, and she decided he wasn't just a cop, he was a detective. He looked the part, with his cheap business casual and his alert blue eyes that noticed everything but didn't react.

She picked a table for two in the bar area.

He pulled her chair out, and she smirked. "Is this a date?" she asked.

"Nah, I don't date other detectives." He took the seat across from her.

"What makes you think I'm a detective?"

"You're not a PI?"

She tipped her head to the side. "I asked what makes you think that?"

He shrugged. "Experience. You've got that bad-ass, don't-follow-the-rules look about you. And you've got a purse full of gadgets."

She jerked her head back, amazed. "How do you know what's in my purse?"

"I'm psychic."

A waitress stopped by their table, and Devereaux smiled up at her. "Two Shiner Bocks, please. A glass for the lady."

Alex crossed her arms. This guy was too cocky for her tastes. "I don't drink beer, thanks."

He leaned back in his chair. "Charlie on the X-ray machine's a buddy a mine. He saw you come in."

Okay, this was getting creepy. Charlie on X-ray was sharing the contents of her purse with some detective? And they'd sent him down to talk to her about Martin Pembry? She was starting to believe Courtney Glass was right-there was a major conspiracy going on here. She'd thought the woman's story sounded over the top, but now she had to wonder.

"What do you know about Martin Pembry?" she asked.

"I know that he's missing. And the press hasn't caught wind of it yet, which makes me wonder how you found out."

"If the guy's missing, why isn't his family sounding some alarms? He's a UT professor, right? It should be all over the news."

Their beers arrived, and he waited for her to take a sip before tipping back his bottle. Old-fashioned manners seemed ingrained in the guy. She wondered if he was a true southern gentleman, or if the accent was just his shtick.

"He's divorced," he told her. "Plus, he's on sabbatical. He was supposed to leave for England next week, as a matter of fact. Wasn't putting in face time at the university."

Alex sipped her beer again and wondered why he was telling her all this. In her experience cops didn't share information just for the heck of it, and certainly not with outsiders. He must think she knew something.

"I have a client who thinks she's in danger from the same people who may have made Pembry disappear. She seems legit, but I'm trying to check out her story."

"You're a skeptic, huh?"

Alex shrugged. "It's standard." She'd had people try to hire her to help them flee the police, or kidnap their children, or get money out of the country. She didn't take those clients. And she didn't break the law.

Sometimes she just bent it a little.

"So this client wants you to run security for her?"

"Sort of."

His gaze traveled over her, taking in her petite frame. Alex's curly, dark hair was in a ponytail today, which she knew made her look even younger than she normally did.

"You employ bodyguards, I take it?"

"I'm not going into any more detail about my client," she said. "I just need to know if this Pembry thing is real. She also gave me the name of some woman she thinks was killed in a staged bike accident."

"Eve Caldwell."

Her surprise must have been visible on her face.

"Your client isn't crazy," he said. "We just reclassified that incident today as a homicide."

Alex suppressed a shudder. Courtney Glass wasn't nuts. This wasn't some wild story.

Which meant her life really was in jeopardy. And Alex would have to make good on her promise to help protect her from whoever it was who wanted her dead.

Devereaux leaned forward on his elbows. "Listen, Alex. I need to know who your client is."

"I can't say."

"Can't or won't?"

"Won't."

He didn't react to this, except to lean back in his chair. He watched her for a long moment, and she started to get uncomfortable.

"I'd like to show you something," he said. "I can almost guarantee it will be of interest to your client. But if I do, I need you to tell me who that person is. I can't protect someone if I don't even know they're in harm's way."

Alex sipped her beer and considered the offer. She didn't want to reveal her client's identity, but this was an unusual case. The timeline was short. She needed all the information she could get, and she needed it now.

"Okay," she said. What did she have to lose? If everything went as planned, Courtney Glass would be long gone by tomorrow morning anyway. Who cared what APD knew about her? With Alex's help, she'd be invisible.

"Don't go anywhere." Devereaux got to his feet. "I'll be back before you finish that beer you didn't want."

Courtney lay against him, her hair still damp from the shower. He twisted and untwisted a lock of it around his finger. He'd figured it out finally. It wasn't perfume that made her smell so good-it was something she put in her hair.

She shifted, sliding her thigh higher up on his body, and tipped her head up to look at him. "Hi."

"Hi."

"You're really quiet."

"I'm recovering," he said, although that was a gross understatement. He felt like a bomb had gone off in his bed. He'd never be the same.

"Are you in trouble now?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, is there supposed to be some kind of line between you and me because of the case?"

He slid his hand over her hip, up the length of her thigh, then back down again. "I'm so far over the line, I can't see it from here."

She propped up on an elbow, and his attention was drawn to her plump, white breasts.

"Are you sorry I came over?"

"I don't know." It wasn't the nicest thing to say, but it was the truth. He could lose his job for this, a job he'd spent years earning the chance to do. "We just made everything a lot more complicated."

She gazed down at him, and he was relieved she didn't look hurt. She stroked her hand over his chest, tracing the muscles. She seemed to like touching him, and she could do it until the cows came home, as far as he was concerned.

"I'm not sorry," she said.

She settled back down against his side, all curves and heat, and he decided he wasn't sorry, either. No matter what happened. But he wasn't ready to tell her that.

She lifted his hand and turned it palm up, and he knew what she was going to say.

"What happened to your hand?"

"Stupid accident," he said. "Drunk at a party. Tripped and fell on a glass bottle."

"Hmm." She traced the silvery scar with her index finger. Her finger trailed over his wrist to another scar on his forearm. "And this?"

He tensed as her finger sought out yet a third faint scar near his elbow. He started to say something, then stopped himself. It felt strange, lying to her. She'd lied to him over and over, but he felt like they were past that now. Some sort of trust had developed between them, and it seemed wrong to break it.