Sam Vartann winced, and tried to lift the barbell again. The tiny five pounder still made his arm ache, and he wanted to drop it, but the knowledge that Reggie Owens was watching him stopped that wish cold. He looked over at her, and tried to make his expression pleading.

She frowned prettily, tucking a pencil behind her ear. “You need to keep going, Sam. Ten more reps at the very least, according to your physical therapist.”

“Mrs. Makolos is a slave driver,” he grumbled, pulling the barbell up again in a smooth lift. He didn’t miss the way Reggie watched his bicep flex though, and that made him grin. “You keeping tabs on me?”

“Someone has to,” she responded softly, shifting her chair at the table. The two of them were in Portia Richmond’s gym; a compact room downstairs in the mansion, tucked between the kitchen and the solarium. Before, Portia used it for her morning Yoga, and little else; currently it had been converted into a physical therapy room for Sam Vartann.

Just then a creak from the doorway made both Sam and Reggie look up; the tall form of the new bodyguard, Rafe, filled the frame. He looked at them, and spoke softly, his voice a deep rumble. “I’m taking Mrs. Richmond out to the Forum, and she’s requested your company, Miss Owens. We leave in five minutes.”

Reggie nodded, and Rafe moved away silently. When they were along again, she caught Sam’s expression of frustration, and sighed. “It’s just temporary, Sam—you know Portia’s keeping you, not him.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know—it’s not that, Reg, it’s him; Rafe. I feel like I know him from somewhere, but I can’t put my damned finger on it. Just when I think I’ve got the connection, it disappears again,” Sam muttered in frustration. He looked up at Reggie, who had risen and come over to him at the weight bench. “It’s just something that bugs me, that’s all.”

“Well we did the background check and the fingerprinting, and he comes up clean. I’m not very fond of him, but Portia does need the protection, and until you’re on your feet again, he’s on the job.”

As she spoke, Reggie timidly reached out and stroked Sam’s hair, brushing a strand back from his eyes. He smiled up at her, amused at how easily she blushed, and how nice her fingers felt.

“Well as long as you don’t have too good a time with him—“

“No way—I like you MUCH better . . . “ Reggie trailed off, the pink on her cheeks deepening. Sam felt the heat radiating off her, and impulsively caught her hand with his free one, thinking hard of a distraction.

“Thanks. Say, if you’re anywhere near a pet place, could you pick up a rawhide chew for Humph? He’s been going after the TV remote . . . “ he asked gently, knowing what a complete sucker Reggie had become for the little French Bulldog in the last two weeks.

“Of course!” she blurted happily, “anything for the little guy.”

“How about the big guy?” Sam teased, squeezing her fingers. “like dinner in front of the TV?”

“More Monday Night Football,” Reggie snorted. “I’ll sit with you again only if you eat all your vegetables.”

Sam gave a suspicious look. “What’s on the menu? Because if it’s cauliflower---“

“Green beans and corn on the cob.”

“Done deal,” he nodded, and let her fingers go after a last stroke of his thumb over her knuckles. Reggie smiled at him and headed out the door of the gym, leaving him to admire the voluptuous sway of her backside and brood once again over where he’d seen Rafe Maddox before.


Sara looked into Mr. Peppermint’s eyes and wondered how he could move so quickly and silently. He wasn’t particularly lithe, but clearly he’d picked up stalking talents from Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, because one minute ago they were just entering the Wardrobe room, and the next, here they were, against the back of door of the Wardrobe room, entwined together in a warm embrace.

“Nine,” came his husky chide.

“I know—I was checking to see if YOU were keeping count,” she whispered, just as aware as he was that people were outside in the hallway.

“Of course. You’ll find I’m meticulous on certain matters,” he assured her, then hesitated. “That is . . . if the arrangement is still . . . beneficial?”

Sara felt a more concrete response was called for and proceeded to pull Mr. Peppermint’s face to hers, kissing him in a quick deep plunge. He tasted of tea and desire; she moaned, feeling herself slump against the door as he playfully nibbled along her mouth, then deepened the kiss, abruptly stealing her very breath with his intensity. Her head thumped against the door, the sound just another noise amid the slurps and little husky growls between them.

“Missed you,” Sara panted in a whisper. Mr. Peppermint gave an answering groan and moved his mouth to lightly lip her cheekbone, his breath hot in her ear.

“Missed you as well . . . “

A hard knock on the door startled them both; Mr. Peppermint reluctantly pulled away and ran a thumb over his lower lip while Sara ducked under his arm and darted across the room, flipping frantically through a rack of women’s coats. Jaw Breaker’s voice grew louder as he stepped through the door.

“Yeah well if anyone thinks I’m gonna get naked on this one they can think again. I’m all for stopping a murderer, but I draw the line at showing off my . . . “

“--Texas assets?” Licorice drawled. “Come on, Nick—we’re strictly behind the scenes for the case.”

“Yeah, well I don’t want to be behind ANYTHING on this one. Hey Griss, looking for something to wear?” Jaw Breaker asked, finally shifting his gaze. Mr. Peppermint managed a straight face.

“I’m pretty sure I can dress myself,” he assured him, “Although a touch of fey might be called for.”

“Really?” Licorice questioned, grinning a little.  Mr. Peppermint nodded, shrugging.

“The art of blending in is very simple. Give a suggestion of what people expect, and their imaginations will do the rest.”

“That might work with people, but not with porn,” Jaw Breaker sighed. Sara cleared her throat and all three men looked at her. She batted her eyes.

“At least you guys have a clean slate to work from whereas I have to do a passable imitation of a woman I don’t know.”

“You’ll have a file, and photos, and since this is a new production, you won’t run into anyone out at Tia Carumba who actually knows Ms. MacDonald,” Mr. Peppermint assured her. Jaw Breaker beat her to the question.

“Tia Carumba?”

“Yes.”

“Man, I thought that place was made up! You’re telling me there’s a REAL Tia Carumba?” Jaw Breaker looked stunned, and Licorice slightly startled. Mr. Peppermint nodded, and pulled a soft green Hawaiian print shirt down, eyeing it as he spoke again.

“Tia Carumba is off of the 95 in Lincoln County, about fifteen miles from Alamo. It has an unmarked dirt road turnoff from the highway, and a manned security gate. Four seedy motor courts and motels out in the middle of nowhere now turned into little independent adult film studios on a full-time basis, complete with location sets, film processing labs and laundry services.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about it,” Licorice ventured. Mr. Peppermint gave a bland smile.

“Research is a useful thing; the better prepared one is, the more likely the mission will go well. Miss Chocolate and I will go out tomorrow and negotiate for a few sites and sets. I suggest you two take some time to study the snuff film and take notes on the background and any details that might help us figure out where it was filmed.”

“You think it was filmed at Tia Carumba?” Sara asked intently. Grissom sighed.

“Possibly. The adult film industry—the professional one anyway—is actually a pretty small community, and we have a good chance of running into someone there who knows something about it.”

Jaw Breaker looked over at Licorice and made a pained face. “Guess it would be tacky to make popcorn, huh?”

“Extremely,” Licorice shot back, looking no more enthusiastic than his partner did. He let his glance sweep over the other three people in the Wardrobe room and sighed. “But the sooner we get started, the sooner we can find something to bring to the cops. Where should we meet tomorrow?”

“My shop would be fine,” Mr. Peppermint offered. “We can look over the script too, and start putting out ads for auditions. And you may want to brush up on your basic carpentry and electronic skills as well.”

“Power tools—THAT I can do.” Jaw Breaker breathed a sigh of relief.


Miss Lollipop sat across the restaurant table from her date and smiled prettily. The lovely scents of curry and lamb lingered in the air, and the atmosphere lent itself to a hint of romance. The soft wail of sitars in the background added to the mystique, as did the grilled walls and tapestries.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he directed in that gentle voice she’d come to love. This was what he did best: ask and listen.  Miss Lollipop dropped her gaze and said nothing for a moment, letting the words form across her thoughts before she spoke them.

“Tell ME . . . is it right; it is fair for us to play the puppet masters? Not in the professional sense—but in people’s private lives? To move them in ways they’re not aware of just because . . . we can?”

She waited for his reply, feeling a little vulnerable. His opinion mattered a great deal to her; they’d been through a lot together and between them had built the Candy Shop from the ground up, carefully recruiting confectioners along the way. He smiled, and reached over to pat her hand.

“People don’t always know what’s best for them, Heather. Sometimes they need a nudge in the right direction; a nudge in ANY direction to get them start making choices. If they fall or get hurt, that’s a part of life, but in the end, it’s much better than sitting the status quo until old age or insanity settles in. You’re worried about Peppermint?”

“Yes,” she confessed. “It’s a risk, setting him up with Chocolate; if he ever suspects the partnership is . . . therapeutic—“

“I doubt he’s even considered that. To be honest, Gil can be amazingly blind to personal issues. No, our pairing him up with Sara has already paid off, Heather—she’s won his trust and he’s taking her under his wing without any suggestion from you.” came her companion’s soft rumble.

 For a moment, Miss Lollipop considered his words, then smiled, reassured. “Yes, I HAD noticed that. I suppose the next move would be to split them up and see what they do.”

“After this next mission,” he agreed, “a little test, just to make sure our instincts about them are right. And if they are . . . then we may be looking at the beginnings of a very interesting dynamic. Shall we order?”



A few hours later, when Miss Lollipop and her date came out of the restaurant, Sugar Daddy watched them from across the street. He fought the low, sad pangs in his chest as he watched her kiss the cheek of the older man leaning on his aluminum crutches; saw him accept her affection with a pleased smile before a black limousine pulled up to the curb.

The man climbed in, awkwardly, but Miss Lollipop made no moved to join him. Curious now, Sugar Daddy kept watching as the limo pulled away, leaving her standing outside the restaurant. She waited until she was alone once more, the pulled out her cell phone. A few seconds later, the soft buzzing against his hip announced a call. He checked the ID and debated answering it, but in the end let the voice mail catch her message.

It was only a small consolation to see her shoulders slump slightly as she turned and walked to the parking lot of the restaurant, her steps slow. Sugar Daddy sighed and started the engine of his car, nosing it out of the parking lot and turning towards the Strip. He already knew the limo’s license would yield nothing, and that no one at the restaurant would remember much about the man on crutches other than he had been a good tipper.

Sugar Daddy turned on the radio, hoping the sounds of Sinatra would drown out the hopeless longing rising through him.


The soft hum of the Tohatsu outboard engine carried over the dark water, and gliding majestically, the Boston Bohemian arrived at the dock. A few of the diners out on the deck watched as Miss Chocolate maneuvered the yacht alongside the restaurant under the bright lights at the end of the pier. She held the throttle and Grissom climbed out, towing the tie off rope with him. A decent half hitch and the bow was securely moored; Miss Chocolate shut off the engine and tossed the stern line out to him. After tying that around the piling nearest it, Grissom moved to extend a hand and help Miss Chocolate step onto the pier, feeling a swell of blended emotions rising when their fingers met.

She was . . . amazing. Cool and confident, looking striking and happy as she moved to stand next to him and smile. “You know, this is the only time I really get parallel parking right.”

Grissom shot a glance over his shoulder at the yacht. “Perfect on the first try.”

His compliment widened her grin and she looked down, embarrassed. He motioned with his chin to the restaurant and lightly touched her back, herding her forward.

“Do we have to pay a docking fee?” she asked. Grissom shook his head.

“Boats coming in are good for their image, and nobody else is tied up out there.”

The Maitre’d seated them out on the deck, at a spot overlooking the water. The heaters were on and the only light came from the tiny hurricane lamp on the table. Grissom watched Miss Chocolate settle into her cushioned wicker chair and flash him an uncertain smile. “Something on your mind?’ he asked softly.

“This is . . . a little more upscale than I expected,” Miss Chocolate blurted honestly. “I was thinking oyster bar, with a jukebox and fried mozzarella stick appetizers—“

“--A sandals and shorts sort of place?” he sighed. “There are a few around, but I’ve always enjoyed coming here for a beer.”

“Alone?”

“Sometimes I have calamari with it,” Grissom told her earnestly. Miss Chocolate seemed to like that answer and shifted forward a little, touching the light on the table. For a moment she didn’t say anything, and then in a quick little rush of words--

“I don’t know what you’re expecting . . . but this may not be such a good idea.”

Grissom blinked, taken aback by the low huskiness in her voice. She continued. “I have . . . a past; things I’m not proud of, and things I’m still dealing with.”

Feeling a little hollow now, Grissom nodded, and leaned forward himself, looking at the way the lamp glow lit up the curve of her cheek. Miss Chocolate sighed; a tiny sound. “I . . . don’t drink now. By choice, if you know what I mean.”

“Step five--admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs,” Grissom murmured thoughtfully. “Yes, I know what you mean and I respect you for it.”

Miss Chocolate blinked, and her expression was both beautiful and shy in the flattering light. “You . . . understand,” came her murmur.

Grissom nodded, and toyed with the tines on his fork, not meeting her eyes. “I understand. No beer, and probably no wine—but they’ve got a great heart of palm salad, and corn chowder.”

Miss Chocolate laughed. “Just because I’M not drinking doesn’t mean you have to stop.”

“No hardship,” he insisted, his expression soft, “None. So how did your Anaheim job go?”

Miss Chocolate brightened, and spoke warmly, sharing the highlights. The waitress came over a few minutes later, and Grissom smiled at her when she gave him a familiar nod.

“Hey Mr. G. Calamari and Michelob?”

“Calamari and bottled water, thanks. And the lady will have . . . ?”

“The seafood crepes and a ginger ale, please.” Miss Chocolate murmured. When the waitress left for the kitchen, she looked at him with amusement. “On a name basis here?”

“It’s really good calamari,” he defended, “On par with Alioto’s.”

“And how would you know that?” Miss Chocolate asked, and they were off, discussing food and San Francisco in an animated conversation. Grissom found himself telling about an old case that involved the owner of the Stinking Rose when the waitress returned with their food, setting the plates down gently.

“Oh yesssss,” Miss Chocolate purred. Grissom felt himself twitch at that tone, and quickly spread his napkin over his lap for camouflage. A quick glance at his companion showed her grinning at him.

“You’re hungry too?” came her little question, full of hidden meanings. He met her gaze directly.

“Funny thing about an appetite; sometimes you don’t realize you have one until something special tempts you.”

She blushed. It was lovely to see the rosy flush along her cheeks in the candlelight, and Grissom enjoyed it. Miss Chocolate drew in a breath.

“Do you realize starting tomorrow, I’ve got to portray a bisexual ex-porn queen who’s now a fairy godmother?”

“And I get to play your neurotic gay cameraman?” Grissom nodded. “Yes. Which is why I wanted tonight to just be . . . us.”

Miss Chocolate nodded back.

Later, after they’d finished dinner and lingering over the table, after they’d taken the Styrofoam boxes back to the Bohemian and cast off, Grissom wrapped himself behind Miss Chocolate as she steered the yacht across the rippling waters of Lake Mead.

The darkness gave them both privacy and freedom; she arched her neck invitingly to his little grazing kisses along it. When they reached Grace Marina, Grissom reluctantly stepped off to tie up the Bohemian at the slip. Miss Chocolate followed him, and moved into his arms as they stood on the dark dock, locked in a loose embrace.

“Hey . . .” came her soft murmur. Grissom sighed, hearing a hint of caution in her voice. He brushed his cheek against hers and breathed in her ear.

“Yes?”

“There’s a little matter of seven kisses you owe me—“

“Eight. Your affection accounting needs work,” came his murmur as he tipped her face to his and proceeded to square the books. The first kiss was tentative and soft; the second a warm, inviting glide of lips, but the third—

The third was a reckless drive of passion, and suddenly Grissom found himself clutching Miss Chocolate hard, pulling her slender frame tightly against his own as she moaned happily, her tongue boldly sliding into his mouth; taking possession of it.

Grissom groaned. His hands slid up along her back, caressing it, memorizing the sleek contours of her shoulder blades as he gave himself up to her kiss. When she pulled back and laughed softly, he shivered. “More. Please.”

“My pleasure—“ she purred, and bestowed a tender little kiss along his damp upper lip. Leisurely Miss Chocolate let her lips glide along the sensitive edge of his mouth, the heat and silk of her kiss mingling with their breaths, and when her tongue lapped out along his bottom lip, Grissom couldn’t be patient any longer.

He kissed her brazenly; Grissom took his time reclaiming her mouth, sliding a lazy tongue around hers in a slick dance punctuated by nibbles. Miss Chocolate swayed against him, breathless but just as eager to follow his lead this time. Her approving growl made him laugh.

“Five down, three to go—“ she whispered. Grissom brushed his cheek against hers, savoring the feel of her in his arms. The sensation was arousing, and at the same time, comforting. Miss Chocolate’s grip around his waist slid lower, until her interlocked hands were resting around his hips. She made a happy sound deep in her slender throat. “Of course, we don’t have to . . . use them all up tonight.”

“Hmmm. I don’t think of it as using them up—more like savoring them, Frango.” The nickname slipped out easily; without thought. Miss Chocolate chuckled and just for that kissed him again, her hands stroking his lower back through his jacket.

“I guess that would make you Haviland then. You’re not a York.”

“I’m not thin, either,” Grissom groused, but lightly. Miss Chocolate’s hands were rubbing his hips and his anatomy was responding strongly.

“Shhhhhh—“ gently she pressed her mouth to his again, and Grissom kissed her deeply, losing himself to the sheer physical thrill. His entire body tingled, his senses were hyperaware of every curve of the body pressed against his. He felt restless and hungry and happy and confused all at the same time, and the only thing that made things better was to kiss her.

Abruptly Miss Chocolate pulled away and Grissom felt her tense up in his arms. “Someone’s coming.”

Annoyed that he’d been so caught up that he’d missed it, Grissom reluctantly let her go and turned, still keeping one arm around her.

Footsteps came down the dock; little light ones. Through the distant gleam of the floodlights up near the gate both of them could make out the outline of a person. A child.

“Miss Sidle?” came the woman’s voice. No child. Miss Chocolate cleared her throat and stepped forward hastily.

“Miss Grace. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to get up to the dock office earlier.”

“That’s all right. I was just about to lock up for the night when I noticed you were back. Here. You have safety deposit box seven, same as your boat slip. You’re paid up for the next three months,” Melanie Grace announced. She held up a small glittering key to Miss Chocolate. “Here you go; goodnight folks—“

They waited until Miss Grace made her way back along the dock, but the mood was broken, and both of them realized it reluctantly. Grissom closed his eyes as Miss Chocolate cupped his cheek, her thumb touching the cleft in his chin.

“Are we going to be in trouble for this?” she asked him softly. Grissom’s mouth thinned out. He carefully reached for her, and pulled her into his embrace, gently stroking her hair as Miss Chocolate rested her chin on his shoulder, hugging him back.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.