hree blocks from Leigh Manning's apartment, McCord radioed the officers in the surveillance car to meet him inside the main entrance and to have an elevator waiting. Sam found a slot in traffic, cut the siren, and screeched to a stop in front of the building.

As they raced across the sidewalk, a dark Bentley screamed to a stop and Valente got out of it, running.

He was closing the distance when they charged into the building. McCord shouted to the security guard to call EMS and have them standing by in the lobby, and Valente made it to the elevator as the doors were starting to close, his face white and taut. "Wait down here," McCord ordered him.

"In your dreams," Valente snapped, shoving between the doors and digging a key out of his pocket.

Instead of arguing, McCord gave instructions to the two surveillance officers as he unsnapped his holster and pulled the Glock out. "There's a private elevator lobby on the Manning floor. Don't let anybody on or off the floor. There are two employees, a man and a woman, who aren't answering the phone in the apartment. Once we've had a look inside and know what we're up against, you can start looking for the employees, but stay out of our way."

He looked at Valente then. "You know the apartment layout. What is it?"

"Living room and dining room open to view from the front door," Valente answered grimly. "Kitchen and servants' quarters to the far left. Master bedroom on the far right, down a long hallway."

"Give me the apartment key," McCord said firmly as the elevator slowed to a stop.

Valente ransomed the key, holding it above McCord's open palm: "I'm coming in right behind you."

Sam expected McCord to argue, but he evidently realized it was pointless. He nodded curtly. "Stay back out of our way."

Valente dropped the key into his hand.

At the apartment door, McCord silently slipped the key into the lock and put his ear to the door, listening for voices, while Sam pressed against the wall, her shoes off, her gun high. "Ready?" he asked softly.

Sam nodded.

The door opened noiselessly into the foyer. Beyond it, the living room spread oat in darkness except for the light coming from the chandelier in the dining room on the left and from the kitchen beyond it.

They moved into the foyer, using the wall on the right for cover while they listened for any sound to tell them what direction to go. Sam spotted the maid's body lying near the dining room table, and nudged McCord, drawing his attention to it; then she lifted her arm, signaling to the surveillance officer standing in the doorway to check there as soon as they'd cleared the area.

McCord moved silently down the foyer stairs and started to the left, toward the dining room and kitchen, but Valente grabbed Sam's arm in a vise grip and pointed to the right. He knew the apartment's sounds and shadows better than they did, and the almost imperceptible light on the far right was significant to him. Sam didn't argue with his knowledge. She moved close to McCord and gestured over her shoulder.

Valente was already halfway to the hallway at the far end of the living room when they caught him and moved in front of him. By then, Sam could also make out a woman's voice, very muted and soft, coming from an open doorway on the left, at the end of the hall.

McCord slid along the wall, flattened to it, until he was close enough to the open doorway to peer around it; then he moved swiftly to the other side of it. He signaled Sam and Michael that Leigh had seen him, and Sam moved into position at the center of the doorway, but far enough back to cover McCord when he swung around the doorframe and into the room. She sensed, rather than saw Valente's presence on her left and slightly forward, but she was concentrating on keeping her hands steady and listening for Sebring's voice so she could judge the target's location and gauge the angle of her shot if she needed to take one.

McCord held up three fingers, indicating a rush into the bedroom on the count of three; then he started the countdown. One finger up—Two fingers up—

"It's time for me to leave for the theater now," Sebring said to Leigh as she walked out of the bedroom closet wearing one of Leigh's coats. She stopped at the dressing table, picked up the gun, and pointed it straight at Leigh.

McCord stopped the countdown, thinking their target was going to walk out into range.

Leigh had caught a glimpse of McCord, but she didn't know if he'd be able to save her, so she tried desperately to save Michael while she still could. "Jane, please," she begged shakily, "tell me again that you killed Logan. That's all I ask. I want to die hearing you tell me that! "

It hit Michael exactly what Leigh was doing—and what was about to happen in that bedroom. As Littleton moved toward the open doorway, Michael let out a bellow of rage and hurtled forward, making himself a target as he launched himself horizontally at the bed, knocking Leigh over onto her back, covering her with his body while shots, and shouts, and a scream exploded in his ears.

He stayed there until he heard McCord call out to the other cops. "Clear! We're clear in here!"; then he eased up onto his elbows while one of the cops shouted back. "We've got vital signs on the man and woman out here, and EMS is on their way up right now."

Leigh's head was turned to the side, and her pale cheek was smeared with red. Her eyes were closed and she wasn't moving! Fear choked Michael's voice to a ragged whisper. "Leigh?"

Her eyes flickered open and focused on his face—eyes like wet zircons, shimmering with tears. Michael was so relieved, so utterly, overwhelmingly relieved, that he couldn't think of anything to say, so he moved her onto her side and unbound her wrists; then he eased her onto her back again and gazed down into the eyes he had loved from the first moment he saw them.

Leigh looked at his ravaged face and slid her arms around his neck, her fingers stroking the short hair at his nape. "Hi," she whispered with a teary smile. "How was your day, today?"

Michael dropped his forehead onto hers, his shoulders shaking with laughter, his eyes blurred with tears of relief. "The usual," he managed to mumble after a few moments. "But it's looking better."

Near the doorway, Sam slumped against the wall, her gun hanging loosely from her hand, her face averted from Jane Sebring's body. Looking at corpses and then hunting down the killers was her job. It was a service she performed… but, oh, God, it was another thing entirely to know she'd done the killing. McCord had needed to enter the room at an angle from around the doorframe, but Sam had had a straight shot, and she'd taken it the instant Sebring fired.

Around the corner on her right, McCord finished checking Sebring's body for vital signs; then he stood up and walked over to Sam. "Miss Sebring won't be making any more appearances anywhere," he told her quietly. "Nice shot, Sam."

"It would have been hard to miss her," Sam said grimly, lifting her eyes to his. "She was only ten feet away."

He understood the bruised look in them and slid his hand around her nape, pulling her face to his chest and sliding his arm around her waist. "I can only think of one heartfelt, reassuring thing to say at a moment like this," he whispered.

"What?"

"Better her than me."

Sam smiled a little.

"Everyone feels this way the first time," he added somberly. "With a little luck, it will be your last time."

It was at that moment that Shrader trotted into the room and stopped cold, taking in the scene with a puzzled grin. "You guys having a shootout in here or an orgy?" he asked, looking from Leigh's tied ankles to McCord's arm around Littleton's back. "I see bondage and some evidence of S and M. What I don't see is a victim. Anybody seen a victim lying around?"

"Over there," McCord said mildly.

Shrader caught his tone and correctly assumed Sam had fired the fatal shot. He strolled around the corner, walked over to Sebring's body, and gave a low whistle as he looked at the victim's face. "Wow! Talk about your bad hair days!"

He walked back over to Sam, who was standing on her own now, and patted her shoulder, offering his own kind of comfort for what he knew she was feeling. "Listen, Littleton, you did her a favor. She wouldn't have wanted to go on living with that haircut she's got."

When Sam smiled, he turned to the bed, where Michael Valente was untying Leigh's ankles. "Good evening, Mr. Valente," he said politely. "Good evening, Mrs. Manning."

Valente ignored him, but Leigh was anxious to foster good relations with the police for Michael in the future. "Good evening, Detective Shrader," she said. "How are you?"

"I'm pretty good. You'll be happy to hear that the boys downstairs picked up your stalker. He's volunteered to go for treatment, but we're going to check him out before we release him."

Satisfied with his visit to the crime scene, Shrader sauntered through the doorway with his hands in his pockets; then he leaned back inside and said, "By the way, the chauffeur had a flesh wound and a heart attack, but the paramedics said he's in pretty decent shape. The housekeeper's got a concussion for sure, and she's a little short on blood, but they're giving her a fill-up on the way to the hospital."

Leigh slid off the bed and stood up unsteadily, keeping her face turned away from Jane Sebring's body. "I'll go with them to the hospital," she told Michael.

"Yes, you will," Michael said emphatically, putting his arm around her as they started down the hall, "and while you're there, you'll have some X rays, too."

"Women who are probably pregnant have to be very careful about X rays," Leigh told him.

Michael grinned, but shook his head. "Isn't it a little too soon for you to know that?"

"It would be a little too soon for other women, but not for me."

"Why?"

She shook her head and smiled. "Because you're—you."

"In that case," he said after a split second's thought, "we need to move the wedding date closer."

She laughed softly. "I should have known you'd go straight to the heart of the matter."

Michael stopped her and pulled her tightly into his arms, his jaw resting atop her head, his mind on the way she'd tried to get Sebring to admit she'd killed Logan when she expected to be shot herself. His voice gruff with tenderness, he said, " You go straight to my heart."