Catherine Willows adjusted her handbag on her arm and stopped briefly to check her reflection in the big glass window of the shoe store. Around her the other shoppers in the Forum bustled by, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. With a casual crane of her neck, she looked right and left, hoping to spot something would justify the little tingle at the back of her thoughts.


On the left, she noted a round-shouldered mall security guard letting a little girl look at his walkie-talkie as her mother laughed and bought sodas from a vending machine. Looking right again, Catherine saw a pack of teenage boys sauntering past, talking loudly about someone named Michelle, and beyond them, a cool blonde in sunglasses, casually flicking her hair back as she sat on one of the low benches.


Then Catherine noticed the woman’s boots.


There were expensive, but the right one was definitely wider at the ankle than the left one, which meant there was something more in it than just her leg and foot.


Forcing herself to be calm, Catherine finished her primping and checked her watch; Lindsay would still be with Lily at the Build-a-Bear making presents for her cousins. 


Moving casually, Catherine looked further down the promenade and noted that the Linens and Things was a walk-through store, with doors both inside and outside the mall. She sauntered over to it and went in, taking her time in examining a display of bath loofahs and pumice scrubbers just on the inside of the store.


The blonde woman in sunglasses waited a few minutes and then got up and moved towards the Linens and Things. Catherine felt her pulse speed up a bit as she watched through the glass. Turning and walking more quickly, she made her way in the direction of the curtain and drapes department, slipping into one of the little side nooks there. She found a heavy brocade drape on display. Quickly, Catherine ducked behind it, pulling a few prop pillows to the carpet.


Carefully she held the drape closed and pressed herself to the back of the display wall, letting the pillows block any view of her feet. Catherine held her breath and concentrated on listening. Half of her felt like an idiot, playing hide and go seek in the drapes, the way Lindsay would have a few years ago, but a deeper, more primitive instinct kept her behind the heavy cloth.


She heard footsteps; bootsteps moving on the carpet, slowing and stopping for a second. Then they moved away, back in the direction they came from. Catherine waited. Torn again, part of her wanted to peek, but she fought the urge and closed her eyes, silently counting to seventy-five.


The oddest thing that kept rolling around in her head, the little unstoppable thought wasn’t a who or even a why; it was how long.


How long had Sam been keeping tabs on her?


When the last slow number rolled out across her mental counting, she checked her watch. Six minutes since she’d stopped at the jewelry store window. Very gently Catherine pulled the drape open on one side and looked out--


--Right into the amused blue eyes of the security guard. He smiled at her.


“Boo?” he murmured. Catherine flushed bright red, but he didn’t give her time to say anything. With a little nod of his head, he indicated the inner door mall side of the shop. “Go on back out the way you came in. Nobody will bother you—“ he hesitated and then spoke with a deliberate slowness, “--But just to be safe Ma’am . . . you may want to get a cab.”


Startled, she stared at him. A nondescript man in a blue security guard uniform, a middle-aged and snub-nosed guy, but with a gaze so sharp it seemed to see right through her. Something in the quiet confidence of his expression gave Catherine a little warmth and she nodded.


 She took a few steps then looked back. The guard motioned to her to keep going. She re-shouldered her purse, striding off into the mall, pulling out her cell phone and hitting speed dial. “Hello Mom? Listen, ah, I’m having ignition trouble with the Lexus, so I’m getting a cab and I’ll meet you and Linds at home, okay?”


Watching her go, Sugar Daddy gave a little sigh; the Senator’s daughter had a cool head and the right instincts. He picked up his walkie-talkie and dialed a private channel, speaking low as he strode out of the Linens and Things and back into the main promenade. “Looks like we won’t have to do a pickup, honey. How are things going with the car?”


“GPS right on the undercarriage just where you said it would be; an expensive one, too. No Radio Shack job here,” came Sugar Baby’s cheerful voice. “I’m almost done with the additional transmitter.”


“Watch yourself—the Blonde might be up at any moment,” he fretted. Sugar Baby made a little affirming noise and clicked off. Sugar Daddy casually strolled back out into the mall and let his gaze travel around the area.


Miz Willows had made good time and was nearly at the end of the mall by the security kiosk in fact. He smiled, then shifted, moving down in the opposite direction, sauntering along as if he had all the time in the world. Sugar Daddy timed himself and reached the outer doors of the mall in time to see a very annoyed woman stalk into the mall, her sour expression evident in her scowl.


Impishly he smiled at her, but she ignored him and moved past, whipping off her sunglasses and peering around the crowd. Sugar Daddy shifted to the glass doorway to Waffle World, keeping an eye on the woman.


So Miss Lollipop’s intel was good, apparently. If the Blonde was in town, it meant that there was definitely trouble headed for the Senator’s daughter. The GPS confirmed that as well, and Sugar Daddy wondered how long it would take Bubble Gum to triangulate a location for the Blonde.


Sugar Daddy thought back over the four times he’d seen her; each sighting had been at or near a trouble spot in the last couple of years. She’d been hanging around the background the Kroeger trial, and again at the unfortunate Tidewell shooting. He hadn’t pegged her as a player on the other side though, until seeing her decked in a slinky dress and on the Senator’s arm at some gala in DC; that long blonde hair was instantly recognizable and a dead giveaway.


Still, he didn’t think she was here to whack the Senator’s daughter—at least not here at the mall. More than likely she was doing just what he was doing: discreet surveillance. He watched her head toward the parking garage, then picked up his walkie-talkie.


“She’s on her way.”


“Gotcha. I’m out and watching,” Sugar Baby confirmed. Sugar Daddy made his way slowly towards the parking structure, unbuttoning his collar and generally giving the impression of a man going off-duty. He reached the ground floor of the lot and looked around, then spoke softly into the walkie-talkie once more.


“See her?”


“Yep. She’s cruised by once on foot. I think she’s going to check it out a bit closer. We’re on the third floor.”


“Be there in a few,” he confirmed, and moved slowly. He took the stairs, keeping close to a few other shoppers too impatient for the elevator. Sugar Daddy followed behind, and reached the third level, then slipped on the other side of a concrete buttress. His line of sight let him scan the floor easily, and he spotted the Blonde. She was standing at the door of the car next to Mrs. Willows’ Lexus, looking as if she was searching for her car keys. Sugar Daddy watched her scan the area, and settled in to wait.


The Senator’s daughter wouldn’t be back, but the Blonde didn’t know that—and once she clued in, it would be easy to tail her to whatever hotel she was staying in; maybe get a name to go with that face. Sugar Daddy smiled to himself, feeling pleased that even in an old game like this, there could be a new trick or two out there.  He pulled out his cell phone this time and typed in a quick note to Ellie.


UP 4 A TAIL? He typed. A second later, his screen lit up.


Y! HW LNG 2 W8?


10MIN. U DRVE, he replied.


LUV U DAD made Sugar Daddy grin, and he looked again to the impatient Blonde across the lot.




“I’m really sorry about the air conditioning breaking down on you guys out here,” Dan the Bear apologized again as he shuffled in with a cooler full of bottles of water and soda. Miss Chocolate smiled faintly. She sat in a director’s chair of canvas and wood, and stared at a brightly lit backdrop within the huge cave-like confines of Studio C North.


Today she had on a short white denim miniskirt and a cropped sleeveless black tee shirt with the motto “Love is where the lube is.” Her forearms were still covered with Navaho bracelets, and she’d pinned her streaked hair up in a messy bun, revealing the long, graceful curves of her throat.


“It’s okay, really,” she assured him. “I’m just glad the lighting works and we have a few fans on.  Aren’t you . . . ?” she didn’t quite finish the sentence, looking at him in all his fursuited glory.


Dan laughed, stroking his plush tummy. “The office air is fine, and after the first couple of years you get used to it.”


“Years?” Grissom asked distractedly. He was peering into the eyepiece of an Arricam ST, trying to adjust the focus, his Cubs baseball cap on backwards to let him closer to the camera. For some reason Miss Chocolate found the look adorable on him and said so, loudly. To his chagrin, the young studly hopefuls auditioning seemed to agree, given the number of flirtatious looks coming his way.


“Oh yeah. I’ve been committed to my inner bear for oh geez, seven years now? “ Dan murmured, pawing at one of the water bottles. “It’s just who I am. Most of the folks in Alamo don’t even blink anymore when I go to the grocery store.”


“Bears are generally considered cuddly,” Grissom pointed out, checking the light meter. “Macy darling, I think we’re ready for the next audition?”


“Oh, yeah. Thanks, Dan,” she told him and picked up a folder from the card table, flipping it open as the bear shuffled out of the studio. Her eyes widened as she studied the photo inside the resume.


“William Shafter . . . well, you’ve certainly got very big . . . qualification here--“ she drawled.


Grissom reached over and closed the folder, his expression pained. “We’re focusing on sing-ing?” he hissed at her. Miss Chocolate leaned back in her director’s chair and noisily sighed as she rubbed her forehead.


“Honestly Laird, you SO need to get laid. Chill out, all right? Musicals are supposed to be fun, but if we don’t have the right . . . players . . . it’s not going to be the campy sweet, hot little picture I have in mind.”


“Oh I can just imagine the picture YOU have in mind,” he snapped back.


From the backdrop came a little cough, and both he and Miss Chocolate looked over at the young man standing there. He wore a black tee-shirt that read “I only support Gay Marriage if Both Chicks are Hot” and a pair of green leather pants that looked as if they’d been painted on. His long brown curls were slightly damp, and the diamond stud through his lower lip glittered.


“Okay, William. So—what were you going to sing for us?” Miss Chocolate asked with amusement. He slouched a little, then straightened up.


“Um, Bali Ha’i,” he murmured softly. Miss Chocolate shot Grissom a look. He shrugged and moved back to the camera, setting the focus as she leaned forward in the chair.


“Do you have music?”


“Nah, I can go a capella on this one,” he replied, shoving his hands in his back pockets. A few seconds later, Grissom gave a nod, and the young man began singing, his tenor strong and true. “Most people live on a lonely island, Lost in the middle of a foggy seeeea, Most people long for another islaaaaand, One where they know they would like to be--“


His voice, slightly gravelly but perfectly pitched, carried in the still, hot air of the studio, rising sweetly through the romantic lyrics. “Bali Ha'i may call you, any night, any day, In your heart, you'll hear it call you, come away . . . Come awaaaaay . . . “


“He’s good,” Grissom muttered in approval.


Next to him, Miss Chocolate nodded slowly. “Oh yeah. He’s the one to cast for our lead, I think.”


“Bali Ha'i will whisper on the wind of the sea, Here am I your special island--Come to me . . . Come to me . . . Your own special hopes, your own special dreams, Bloom on the hillside and shine in the streams--”  William sang, his expression tinted with longing.


Miss Chocolate rose and slowly began to clap; around her the other auditioners did as well. William blushed and stopped singing, his long curls bouncing. Grissom turned the camera off and sighed, pulling off his baseball cap and wiping his forehead with his wrist before replacing it.


“Dear God, why aren’t you auditioning for one of the major talent finding shows, William? I mean it’s pretty clear to me you have the pipes for it—“ Grissom demanded archly.


“Um, gay?” he replied with a modest little shrug.


Miss Chocolate stared back. “So was that pipsqueak winner—the first one.”


“Yeah, but I’m not ashamed to be gay,” William cheerfully replied. “And I’m not going to let the media tell me I need to be photographed with women just to cover up my real nature. I love men.”


“Me tooooo,” she murmured, touched by his honesty. “All right, thanks for the tape, and we’ll definitely be calling.” Turning to the other actors she added, “Listen up boys—it’s too damned hot to try and do any more casting this afternoon. Fran will give you a pass to come back tomorrow when the air’s fixed. I’m anxious to see alllll of you—“


There was a cheerful whistle of agreement and she grinned briefly, then spoke again, “So come get a water and we’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”


The seven other actors filed out, each grabbing a bottle as they did so. Grissom carefully locked up the camera, then turned to see Miss Chocolate slumping in her chair, rubbing her forehead again.


“Headache?”


“Yeah. This musical . . . I hate getting their hopes up like this. If the movie isn’t really going to be made—“ she blurted.


Grissom shook his head. “We’ve got a budget, so anyone we hire will be paid for their time, if that’s what you’re worried about. Miss L has faith we can find out what we need to know in a week or less.”


“Um hmm,” Miss Chocolate was nodding as she rose up from the director’s chair and stretched her arms over her head. They were alone on the set now, and her gesture exposed a lot of flat, trim stomach. Grissom gave a little whimper that shifted to a growl. Miss Chocolate laughed and shot him a speculative look.


“Let’s go back to the motel and take a dip in the pool. I’m feeling warm.”


“Me too,” Grissom confessed softly.


The ride back to Alamo was quiet; Miss Chocolate kept her shades on and said little. Grissom went a bit faster than he normally would and pulled into an empty space right in front of the rooms. The heat of the afternoon baked everything, and the shimmer rising off the ground left the field of vision wavering. Grissom climbed out and turned to look at Miss Chocolate, his concern growing.


She was pale, and he noted with alarm that she wasn’t sweating. Moving around the car, he tugged the door open and grabbed her wrist between the bracelets, feeling the heat radiating off her skin.


“You’re hot,” he muttered, wishing he could mean that in a tease instead of a pained observation. She flashed him a wan smile and struggled to her feet, her clumsiness obvious.


“I feel a little sick—“ Miss Chocolate confessed in a low voice.


Grissom slipped an arm around her shoulders, fished in his pants pocket for the room key, and jammed it into the door, then pushed it open with his knee. The blast of arctic air hit them both, and he wasted no time in towing her behind him into the coolness as he pulled off his baseball cap and threw it on the bed. Miss Chocolate gave a low moan, stumbling a little; Grissom didn’t hesitate.


“Bathroom. You need to cool down NOW.”


Tugging her again, more gently this time he steered her towards the bathroom and flicked on the light. The tiny room had a short tub offset against one wall and a striped cloth curtain pushed to one side. Grissom reached down for the faucet and turned it on, settling the shower dial between hot and cold, then glanced at Miss Chocolate.


She swayed, eyes half-closed, and he rose up to catch her against his chest. The feel of her against him, shocking heat seeping through her tee shirt made Grissom side his hands up and grip her shoulders. “Sandals off, in the shower—“ he ordered. Weakly she shuffled off her shoes; he kicked off his Top Siders and pulled her with him under the cascade coming from the showerhead.


The water hit them at the same time and Grissom swore he heard a sizzle as it cascaded down Miss Chocolate’s shoulders and darkened her hair. Her head lolled back, the spray beating on her pale throat. Grissom tightened his grip on her upper arms; she struggled a little, then pushed against him, forcing him to step back a bit, his spine against the tiles.


The shower streamed on behind Miss Chocolate; the flow was high enough on the far wall to drench them both, and Grissom wondered briefly why he was so light-headed himself, then felt the woman in his arms rock against him, her hips angling to his. The rush of pleasure, shocking and instant, hit him below the stomach and he groaned.


“Honey . . . “ came his harsh, helpless whisper, his body responding fast to the sweet warm pressure of hers. Miss Chocolate moaned a little herself, her arms coming up around him as she pulled his face to her.


“You’re beautiful, wet—“ came her dazed murmur right before she kissed him.


Grissom fell into the scorch of her mouth, burning his tongue against the slickness of hers. He clutched her, kissing harder as the water pounded down on them, and the blend of chill on the outside and heat on the inside sent him into sensory overload. Suddenly she was taking over the kiss, nipping his lips and pressing her mouth all over his as her hands cupped his neck to keep him close.


“Tastes so gooood--“ she crooned, her eyes fever-bright. “Oh damn, yesss--“ Her fingers tightened at the base of his skull, weaving into the wet curls and he shivered.


“We can’t,” Grissom muttered with no conviction. “We agreed, Frango. Not on the jo—“ His words disappeared behind another scorching kiss, even as he yanked her closer, his hands cupping the drenched denim molded to her ass. The water dissolved his good intentions, his frustrations, and his patience.


Miss Chocolate slid her hands to his shirtfront and ripped it open, laughing in triumph when the buttons clattered off of it and into the tub. She licked his exposed collarbone, thrilling as his big frame shuddered in hard response. More water splashed around them.
 

Grissom slid his hands up along her back, the span of his hands nearly wrapping around her waist as his fingers dipped under the edge of the cropped, wet shirt. He pushed it up, greedily stroking the bare skin there, savoring the feel. Miss Chocolate had her mouth on the side of his neck, and one of her industrious slender hands was working the button over his fly.


He pressed his cheek to the wet tangles of her hair, one soft little word escaping him. “Sure?”


“Want,” she hummed back emphatically, punctuating the word with a sensual nip under his ear. Grissom’s stomach tensed hard, and he fought his answering growl. With a sigh of pleasure, he lifted his chin to the ceiling as Miss Chocolate unzipped him. Her fingers slid in and she purred, a sound that echoed in the shower. “Commando. Totally approve of that.”


“Better me than you—ooohhhh . . . “ Grissom trailed off as her palm slid down the length of his twitching cock. He pushed himself against her touch, sighing and his response made her giggle in that maddeningly sensual way of hers. She widened her stance, moving to straddle his right thigh, her hand freeing him from the soaked denim.


In a haze of lust, he shifted his hands back down, tugging the little denim skirt up to caress Miss Chocolate’s bare slender thighs and sleek ass. The strand of thong was no barrier; he playfully hooked it on a finger, letting it snap against her lower back.


“Christ, gift-wrapped too—“ came his groan.


Miss Chocolate wrapped her fingers around his prick and stroked the length of him, cooing huskily. “Mmmmmm, very nice . . . “


She straddled his thigh more firmly, rubbing herself with sweet lewd intent, and Grissom loved the way she kept her half-closed eyes on him, all brown heat and running mascara; the lazy laugh on her fuchsia lips turning into hot little grunts. He shifted and slid a hand into her wet thong to cup her sex; she protested for a moment, unhappy to stop the rubbing, but Grissom slid his tongue along her bottom lip and spoke in a hoarse groan. “Come against my fingers—“


The water was warmer now, and kept spilling over them both. Grissom let his touch snag in the soft wet tangles between her legs, and slid his index and middle finger around the stiff darling bud slickly throbbing in the thicket of her fur. Gently, he caught it between his fingers and slowly rubbed on either side . . .


Miss Chocolate sucked in a wet breath and tensed, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other wrapped around his cock. Dropping her head forward, she helplessly pushed herself against his hand as low hungry growls rose from her throat to echo against the tile.


Grissom felt her teeth sink into his shoulder, felt her long fingers tighten spasmodically on his hot, aching cock as the searing surge shot down his spine and through his balls. He felt himself erupt in Miss Chocolate’s grip, the sultry jets of semen spraying out against her bare wet thigh. A low animal groan escaped him, and he thrust himself harder against her gripping fingers.


Weakly, they slid down the bathroom wall together, ending in a soaked huddle on the tub bottom, exhausted and for the moment, sated; dazed.


Grissom pulled Miss Chocolate closer to him.




Sam Vartann sat on the sofa, watching the football game. Or pretending to, anyway. It was difficult enough to watch when Reggie was in the same room, let alone right next to him.


Well, not quite next to him. Humph sprawled out between them, snoring softly, his front paws wrapped possessively around the half-chewed rawhide bone between them. Reggie petted the dog and the stub of his tail wagged in response, even in his sleep.


Sam was pretty sure his tail would wag if Reggie ever petted him. He was pulled from this thought by the voice of Portia, who sat in the recliner a few feet away, knitting industriously.


“So, I keep turning out booties and hats, and still have no grandchildren to give them to. A fine state of affairs. I’ve heard that Lois has five grandchildren.” This last came out in an envious sigh.


“Yes ma’am. Two are in jail and one’s in juvenile detention. The other two live in a Colombian compound with their dad,” Reggie responded softly. Portia snorted, and tried not to smirk.


“Am I supposed to believe it’s all genetics? That O’Neills have a bad seed? What about that nephew of hers—the colonel out in Colorado?”


“General now—and his record’s not exactly spotless either,” Reggie admitted. On the screen, someone made a touchdown, and the cameraman panned the cheering crowd. Sam made a little groan of disappointment; Reggie shot him a sympathetic look. “Sorry—I was so sure the Chargers would lose.”


“A bet’s a bet,” Sam sighed. “And Vartanns always pay what they owe.”


“I don’t suppose you two would be willing to give me a grandchild,” Portia mused, her needles clicking softly.


Stunned, both Reggie and Sam looked over at the woman. Reggie was slowly turning a lovely shade of pink; Sam blinked a lot.


“Excuse me?” he managed. Portia gave a sweet little smile and a shrug.


“It was just a thought. You’re both young and healthy, certainly prime material for parenthood, and I’m very fond of you both. I know Reggie would make an absolutely wonderful mother, and there is no one I trust more than you, Samuel, to nurture and protect a child. But, never mind me . . . just a lonely old woman with absurd little ideas here. After all, just because other people have families to love and cherish . . . “ She gave a sigh and let her voice trail off.


An awkward and uncomfortable silence descended on the room, broken only by the announcer from the television and the soft clack of Portia’s knitting needles.


“But Tim . . . “ Reggie began in a soft little voice. Portia sighed.


“Tim is gay, dear. I love my son dearly, and I’m proud of him for all that he’s done, but given his sexual orientation, he’s not going to have any children. I’ve resigned myself to that fact.” With an annoyed snort she added, “I bet Lois gloats over THAT.”


Another silence. Sam risked a peek at Reggie, wondering what she was thinking. He had been startled, sure, but he’d also been around Portia Richardson long enough to know she liked speaking her mind, and this comment was immensely cheering. It meant she’d seen something between them, and Sam was all for that.


“I wouldn’t know the first thing about being a dad,” he commented honestly, wondering which woman would respond to that. He hoped it was Reggie.


It was.


“Oh Sam, you’d be a GREAT dad. You’re patient and caring and you can be gentle when you need to—“ Reggie blurted, then stopped, stricken with Portia and Sam looked at her. “—I mean . . . “


“See? Even you agree with my assessment. I may be old, but I’m not senile,” Portia commented archly. “And I’m fairly sure Samuel agrees with my thoughts on your potential for motherhood.”


“Mrs. Richmond . . .” Reggie squeaked, her face flooding a deeper shade of red, “I’m . . . a virgin.”


Sam squeezed his eyes and thighs shut to fight off the sudden rush of sheer male lust rolling down his stomach to tighten his balls. Oh dear God—a virgin?


Portia hummed a little. “This is Vegas, Reggie dear—that won’t last long.”




Sara hummed, her eyes closed. She was under the covers, toasty and comfortable in the darkness. The little nap had done her a world of good, and the feel of Mr. Peppermint’s big warm back against her cheek only added to the sense of well-being.


Napping together . . . yes, she could definitely get used to this. In response to her hum, he stirred, shifting to his back and stretching slightly; Sara moved to give him a little room and spoke softly. “Hey.”


“Hey. How do you feel?” he asked in a semi-whisper. She ran her hand over his tee-shirt covered chest.


“After that shower . . . much better. Much less . . . tense,” she chuckled. He gave a low wordless groan of agreement, his arm slipping around her shoulders and hugging her.


“Have you had any more water?” Mr. Peppermint murmured.


Sara shook her head. “Not since I woke up a few minutes ago, but I’ll chug some more if it will make you happy,” she sighed. He said nothing, but she felt his light squeeze again, and the pressure made her feel better. Shifting, she looked up into his face, feeling a surge of vulnerable affection as she did so.


His hair had dried into its natural curls, and his beard was stubbly now, showing as a shadow along his jaw. He shifted to a sitting position, stuffing the pillows behind him, and tugged Sara closer. She took a breath, draping herself on him.


“Look, I already know what you’re going to say, and I agree with you,” she spoke up, her voice deliberately light. “We had a little . . . lapse in discretion, yes, and I take the responsibility for that. In my defense, you were gorgeous all wet and I don’t regret anything about getting you off.”


“I don’t regret it either,” Mr. Peppermint agreed in a low rumble of satisfaction. “It was a fairly amazing encounter, heat exhaustion or not, and I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you are when you . . . orgasm,” he finished in a shy little voice. Sara curled her toes in remembered pleasure, and smiled.


“So . . . we have potential? Is that what you’re saying?” she asked. Mr. Peppermint gave another low, happy groan and turned to kiss the top of her head.


“We have potential. Combustible, incendiary, nuclear potential in my estimation. In fact, it’s potential I’d like to explore more fully once we’ve figured out this case,” Mr. Peppermint murmured wistfully.  Sara sighed in agreement, lazily stroking his ribs.


“Yep. Certainly gives ME incentive to get on the job, that’s for sure. We’ll be fine until then, right?”


This time it was a low reluctant sigh that leaked out of Mr. Peppermint, and the sound of it made Sara laugh. She clambered over his chest to look down in his face, kissing his nose.


“A kiss every day, babe. We’ll make it. We have all the time in the world.”


Carefully, tenderly he slid his hands along the sides of her face and kissed her with slow passion. When he broke it, he sighed. “Just keep in mind that this isn’t a profession that allows for much tenderness, Frango. We’ve got to be . . . careful.”


She nodded.