abrielle was surprised at his table manners. Surprised he didn't chew with his mouth open, scratch himself, or belch like a frat boy with a sixer of Old Milwaukee. He'd actually placed his napkin on his lap and was entertaining her with outrageous stories about his parrot, Sam. If she didn't know better, she might think he was trying to charm her or that perhaps he had a decent soul buried somewhere deep within that solid body.

"Sam has a weight problem," he told her in between bites of stroganoff. "He loves pizza and Cheetos."

"You feed your bird pizza and Cheetos?"

"Not so much anymore. I had to build him a gym. Now I make him work out when I do."

Gabrielle didn't know whether to believe him or not. "How do you make a bird work out? Won't he just fly away?"

"I trick him into thinking he's having fun." Joe broke off a piece of bread and ate it. "I put the gym next to my weight bench," he continued after he'd swallowed. "And as long as I stay in the room with him, he'll climb his ladders and chains."

Gabrielle took a bite of her own bread and watched him over the top of the beeswax candle. Muted light from the dining room windows poured through the sheer curtains, bathing the room and Detective Joe Shanahan in soft light. His strong, masculine features appeared relaxed and subdued. Gabrielle figured it had to be a trick of the light, because despite his present charm, she knew from very recent experience that there was nothing subdued about the man across from her. Nothing soft, but she supposed that a man who loved his bird couldn't be totally without redeeming qualities. "How long have you had Sam?"

"Not quite a year now, but it seems like I've always had him. My sister Debby bought him for me."

"You have a sister?"

"I have four."

"Wow." Growing up, Gabrielle had always wanted a sister or brother. "Are you the oldest?"

"Youngest."

"The baby," she said, although she couldn't envision Joe as anything other than a grown man. He had too much testosterone for her to think of him as a nice little boy with shiny cheeks. "I bet growing up with four big sisters was fun."

"Mostly it was hell." He twirled a bite of pasta onto his fork.

"Why?"

He shoved the noodles into his mouth and watched her as he chewed. He didn't look like he would answer, but then he swallowed and confessed, "They made me wear their clothes and pretend I was the fifth sister."

She tried not to laugh, but her bottom lip trembled.

"It's not funny. They wouldn't even let me pretend to be the dog. Tanya always got to be the dog."

She did laugh this time and even thought about reaching out to pat his hand and telling him he would be okay, but she didn't. "Sounds like your sister made up for it. She bought you a bird for your birthday."

"Debby gave me Sam when I was laid up at home for a while. She thought a bird would keep me company until I was back on my feet and would be less trouble than a puppy." He smiled now. "She was wrong about that."

"Why were you laid up at home?"

His smile fell, and he shrugged his big shoulders. "I was shot in a drug bust that went wrong from the very beginning."

"You were shot?" Gabrielle felt her brows raise up her forehead. "Where?"

"In my right thigh," he said and abruptly changed the subject. "I met your friend when I knocked on your door earlier."

Gabrielle would have loved to know the details of the shooting, but he obviously wanted the subject dropped. "Francis?"

"She didn't give me her name, but she did say you told her I was your boyfriend. What else did you tell her?" he asked before he stuck the last bite of pasta in his mouth.

"That's about it," Gabrielle prevaricated as she reached for her iced tea. "She knew I thought a stalker was following me, so she asked me about it today. I told her we're dating now."

He swallowed slowly, and his gaze studied her across the slight distance that separated them. "You told her you're dating the guy you thought was stalking you?"

Gabrielle took a drink and nodded. "Mmm-hmm."

"And she didn't think that was weird?"

Gabrielle shook her head and set her tea back down. "Francis has relationship issues. She knows that sometimes a woman has to take a chance. And being pursued by a man can be very romantic."

"By a stalker?"

"Yeah well, in life you have to kiss a few toads."

"Have you kissed a lot of toads?"

She speared salad with her fork and pointedly directed her attention to his lips. "Just one," she said and shoved the lettuce in her mouth.

He reached for his own glass, and his quiet laughter filled the room. They both knew she hadn't responded as if he were a toad. "Besides kissing toads, tell me more about yourself." A bead of condensation slid down the glass, then dripped onto his T-shirt, making a tiny wet circle on his right pectoral.

"Are you interrogating me?"

"Absolutely not."

"Don't you have a file on me somewhere filled with information, like how many cavities or speeding tickets I've had?"

His eyes met hers over the top of the glass, and he watched her as he took a long drink. Then he set the glass back down and told her, "I didn't check your dental record, but you got a ticket last May for doing thirty-five in a twenty. When you were nineteen you wrapped your Volkswagen around a telephone pole and were lucky enough to walk away with minor bruises and three stitches in the top of your head."

She wasn't surprised he knew her driving record, but it was a little disconcerting that he knew things about her life when she knew next to nothing about him. "Fascinating stuff. What else do you know?"

"I know you get your name from your grandfather."

Not another big surprise. "We're one of those families that name children after their grandparents. My grandmothers were Eunuch Beryl Paugh and Thelma Dorita Cox Breedlove. I consider myself lucky." She shrugged. "What else?"

"I know that you attended two universities but didn't receive a degree from either."

Obviously he didn't know anything of substance. He knew nothing about her. "I didn't go to get a degree," she began as she placed her near empty salad bowl on her plate and pushed them aside. She hadn't eaten much of her stroganoff, but with Joe sitting across the table, she suddenly wasn't very hungry. "I went to learn about things that interested me. When I'd learned what I wanted, I moved on to what interested me next." She placed her arm on the table and rested her cheek in her hand. "Anyone can get a degree or a certificate in something. Big deal. A piece of paper from a university somewhere doesn't define a person. It won't tell you who I am."

He took the linen napkin from his lap and set it next to his glass. "So, why don't you tell me who you are. Tell me something I don't already know."

She supposed he wanted her to divulge incriminating evidence, but she didn't know anything. Anything at all, so she told him something she was positive he would never guess about her. "Well, I've been reading what Freud had to say about compulsions and fetishes. According to him, I have an oral fixation."

A smile tugged one corner of his mouth, and he lowered his gaze to her lips. "Really?"

"Don't get too excited," she laughed. "Freud was the brilliant mind behind penis envy, which is absurd. Only a man would think up something so stupid. I've never met a woman who wanted a penis."

As he stared at her from across the table, the other corner of his mouth slid upward into a grin. "I've known a few who wanted mine."

Despite her liberal views on sex, Gabrielle felt her cheeks warm. "I didn't mean it that way."

Joe laughed and tilted his chair back on two legs. "Why don't you tell me how you met Kevin."

Gabrielle figured Kevin had already told Joe everything, and she wondered if he was asking to catch her in a lie. She didn't have anything to lie about. "Like Kevin probably told you, we first met at an estate auction a few years before we opened Anomaly. He'd just moved here from Portland and was working for an antique dealer downtown, and I was working for a dealer with stores in Pocatello, Twin Falls, and Boise. After that first time, I ran into him quite a bit." She paused and brushed a bread crumb from the table. "Then I got fired from my job, and he called me up and asked me if I wanted to go into business with him."

"Just out of the blue?"

"He'd heard I'd gotten fired over the purchase of more hair art. The owner of the store didn't have an open mind about it. Even after I reimbursed him for the cost, he fired me anyway."

"So Kevin calls you up, and you two decided to open a business." He folded his arms across his chest and rocked the chair a little. "Just like that?"

"No. He wanted to strictly sell antiques, but I was a little burned out on antiques, so we compromised and settled on a curio shop. I came up with sixty percent of the starting costs."

"How?"

Gabrielle hated to talk about money. "I'm sure you know I have a modest trust fund." And she'd invested more than half of it into Anomaly. Usually, when people learned her last name, they assumed she had a bottomless bank account, but that wasn't the case. If her store failed, she would be almost broke. But the thought of losing her financial investment didn't bother her nearly as much as the thought of losing the time and energy and the emotional attachment she had to her store. Most people measured success by monetary gains. Not Gabrielle. Sure she wanted to pay the bills, but to her success was measured by happiness. She considered herself very successful.

"What about Kevin?"

While success meant happiness to Gabrielle, she knew it didn't to Kevin. To him, success was tangible. Something he could hold or drive or wear. Which made him unenlightened, but didn't make him a criminal. It also made him a good partner. "He got a bank loan for the other forty percent."

"Did you bother to do any investigating at all before you started this business?"

"Of course. I'm not a fool. Location is the most important factor to the success of a small business. Hyde Park has a steady stream of—"

"Wait." He held up one hand and stopped her. "That isn't what I meant. I was asking if you'd ever thought to investigate Kevin's background before you invested so much of your own money?"

"I didn't do a criminal check or anything, but I spoke with his previous employers. They all said great things about him." This next part she knew he would never understand, but she told him anyway—quickly. "And I meditated about it for a while before I gave him my answer."

His hands fell to his sides, and a scowl wrinkled his forehead. "You meditated? Didn't you think going into business with a man you hardly knew required more than meditation?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"It was karma."

With a loud thud, the chair legs hit the floor. "Come again?"

"My karma was rewarding me. I was un-happy and out of a job, and Kevin presented me with the opportunity to be my own boss."

He didn't speak for several prolonged moments. "Are you telling me," he began, again, "that Kevin's business offer was a reward for some good deed you'd performed in a past life?"

"No, I don't believe in reincarnation." Her belief in karma confused some people, and she didn't really expect Detective Shanahan to understand. "Going into business with Kevin was my reward for something I'd done in this life. I believe the good or bad you do affects you now, not after you've died. When you die, you move to a whole different plane of consciousness. The enlightenment, or knowledge, you attain while in this life determines to which plane your soul ascends."

"Are you talking about heaven or Hell Bop?"

She'd expected a derogatory question from him and wasn't surprised. "I'm sure you call it heaven."

"What do you call it?"

"I don't call it anything, usually. It could be neaven. Hell. Nirvana. Whatever. I only know it's the place my soul will go when I die."

"Do you believe in God?"

She was used to that question. "Yes, but probably not in the way you do. I believe God would rather I sat in a field of daisies and fill my senses with the awesome beauty He's created while I contemplate inner peace. He'd rather I actually live the Ten Commandments than sit in a stuffy church and listen to some guy tell me how to live them. I think there is a big difference between being religious and being spiritual. Maybe you can be both, I don't know. I only know that a lot of people wear religion like a name tag, and they reduce it to bumper stickers. But spirituality is different. It comes from the heart and soul." She expected him to laugh or look at her as if she'd sprouted horns and hooves. He finally surprised her.

"You might be right about that," he said as he rose to his feet. He placed his salad bowl on his plate, gathered his silverware, and walked into the kitchen.

Gabrielle followed and watched him rinse his plate in the sink. She never would have guessed him for the kind of guy who cleaned up after himself. Maybe because he just seemed so macho, like one of those guys who crushed beer cans on his forehead.

"Tell me something," he said as he turned off the faucet. "Was my arresting you in Julia Davis Park karma?"

She folded her arms beneath her breasts and leaned a hip into the counter beside him. "Nope, I've never done anything bad enough to deserve you."

"Maybe," he said, his voice low and seductive as he looked at her across his shoulder, "I'm your reward for good behavior."

She ignored the shivers running up her spine as if she were attracted to emotionally barren cops with bad attitudes. Which she wasn't. "Get real. You're about as enlightened as a toadstool," she said and pointed to the pots on the stove. "Aren't you going to do all the dishes?"

"Not a chance. I did all the cooking."

She'd sliced the bread and dressed the salad. He hadn't done all the cooking. This was a new century—men like Joe had to step out of the cave and do their share, but she chose not to enlighten him on the subject. "I suppose I'll see you bright and early in the morning then."

"Yep." He shoved a hand into the front pocket of his Levi's and pulled out a set of keys. "But Friday I have to testify in court, so I probably won't be in until after noon sometime."

"I'll be at the Coeur Festival Friday and Saturday."

"That's right. I'll stop by your booth and check up on you."

She'd been looking forward to a break from Joe and the stress he created. "No need."

He glanced up from the keys in his hand and cocked his head to the side. "I'll come by anyway, just so you don't start missing me."

"Joe, I'll miss you about as much as a canker sore."

He chuckled, then turned to the back door. "You better watch out, I hear lying creates bad karma."

Joe's red Bronco rolled into the furthest slot in the parking lot at Albertson's. The four-wheel drive was less than two months old, and he didn't want some kid dinging his doors. It was half past eight, and the setting sun hung just above the mountain peaks surrounding the valley.

There wasn't much activity in the grocery store as Joe rushed inside and grabbed a bag of Sam's favorite baby carrots.

"Hey, is that you, Joe Shanahan?"

Joe looked up from the carrots to a woman loading cabbages into a cart. She was short, petite, and had thick brown hair pulled up into a glossy ponytail on top of her head. She wore very little cosmetics, and she had the kind of pretty face that looked like it had been cleaned to a shine. Her big blue eyes staring at him looked vaguely familiar, and he wondered if he'd ever arrested her.

"It's me. Ann Cameron. We grew up in the same neighborhood. I used to live down the street from your parents. You used to date my older sister, Sherry."

Which, he supposed, was why she looked familiar. In the tenth grade he'd done some pretty heavy groping with Sherry in the backseat of his parents' Chevy Biscayne. She'd been the first girl to let him touch her breasts—under the bra. Naked palm to bare breast. A real milestone for any guy. "Sure, I remember. How are you doing, Ann?"

"I'm good." She tossed a few more cabbages into her cart, then reached for a bag of carrots. "How's your mom and dad?"

"Pretty much the same as always," he answered, eyeing the mound of vegetables in her cart. "Do you have a large family to feed, or do you raise rabbits?"

She laughed and shook her head. "Neither. I'm not married and don't have kids. I own a deli on Eighth, and I ran out of produce today and can't get my next delivery of fresh vegetables until tomorrow afternoon. Too late for my lunch crowd."

"A deli? You must be a good cook, then?"

"I'm a wonderful cook."

He'd heard that same claim about two hours ago from a woman in a silver bikini who'd then disappeared into her bedroom and left him to cook dinner. Then she'd added insult to injury by picking at the meal he'd prepared.

"You should come by and let me make you a sandwich, or you can try my pasta. I make a mean shrimp scampi with tender angel-hair. All from scratch, of course. We can catch up on old times."

Joe looked at her clear blue eyes and the dimples denting her cheeks as she smiled up at him. Normal. No signs of craziness, but a guy could never tell at first glance. "Do you believe in karma, auras, and do you listen to Yanni?"

Her smile fell and she gazed at him as if he were nuts. Joe laughed, tossed the bag into the air, and caught it. "Yeah, I'll come by. Where on Eighth?"

Gabrielle considered herself a compulsive cleaner. When the compulsion hit, she cleaned. Unfortunately, the compulsion to clean her closets and cupboards only hit once a year and lasted just a few hours. If she was out of the house when it hit, her closets would have to wait another full year.

She squeezed lemon-scented soap into the sink and filled it with warm water. Maybe after she washed the stroganoff pot, she'd try to work up enough enthusiasm to straighten the cupboards so her colander wouldn't fall out on another guest's foot like it had on Joe's.

Just as she snapped on a pair of yellow rubber gloves, the telephone rang. She picked up on the third ring, and her mother's voice filled her ear.

"How's Beezer?" Claire Breedlove began without a greeting.

Gabrielle glanced over her shoulder at the big ball of fur passed out on the rug by the back door. "Prostrate with joy."

"Good, did she behave herself?"

"Mostly she ate and slept," Gabrielle answered. "Where are you? Here in town?"

"Yolanda and I are with your grandfather. We'll drive to Boise in the morning."

Gabrielle wedged the telephone receiver between her ear and shoulder and asked, "How was Cancun?"

"Oh it was fine, but I have to tell you about what happened. Your aunt and I had to cut the trip short because I've been plagued with a persistent foreboding. I knew a horrible tragedy would befall someone in the neighborhood up here. I felt your grandfather would be involved, so I flew home to warn everyone."

Gabrielle turned her attention to the plates in the sink. Her life was already in cosmic upheaval, and she really wasn't in the mood to travel the Twilight Zone with her mother. "What happened?" she asked, although she knew her mother would tell her anyway.

"Three days ago, while your aunt Yolanda and I were in Mexico, your grandfather ran over Mrs. Youngerman's poodle."

She almost dropped the receiver and had to grab it with a soapy hand. "Oh, no! Not little Murray?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Smashed him flatter than a crepe. Sent his soul to poodle paradise, poor thing. I'm not altogether sure it was an accident and neither is Mrs. Youngerman. You know how your grandfather felt about Murray."

Yes, Gabrielle knew how her grandfather felt about the neighbor's dog. Little Murray had not only been a nonstop barker, but he'd been a habitual leg-humper, too. Gabrielle didn't like to think her grandfather would go so far as to purposely run the dog over, but at the same time, Murray had directed his ardent attention to her grandfather's calf on more than one occasion, and she couldn't rule out the possibility.

"That's not all. This afternoon, Yolanda and I paid a condolence visit, and while I was sitting in Mrs. Youngennan's front room, trying to calm her, I felt the space behind my forehead clear. I'm telling you, Gabrielle, it was the strongest clairvoyant vision I've ever had. The vision was so clear to me. I could see the dark curls of hair brushing his ears. He's a tall man…"

"Tall, dark, and handsome, huh?" Once again she cradled the telephone between her shoulder and ear, then set to work on the dinner plates.

"Oh, yes. I can't tell you how excited I was."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Gabrielle murmured. She ran the plates under water, then set them in the dish drainer.

"But he isn't for me."

"Bummer. Is he Aunt Yolanda's?"

"He's your fate. You're to have a passionate romance with the man in my vision."

"I don't want a romance, Mother," Gabrielle sighed and dropped the salad bowls and tea glasses into the sink. "My life just can't take the excitement right now." She wondered how many mothers predicted passionate lovers for their daughters. Probably not many, she guessed.

"You know you can't wish fate away, Gabrielle," titie voice on the other end scolded.

"You can fight it if you choose, but the outcome will always remain the same. I know you don't believe in fate as strongly as I do, and I would never tell you that you're wrong. I've always encouraged you to seek your own spiritual feast, to choose your own path to enlightenment When you were born…"

Gabrielle rolled her eyes. Claire Breedlove had never imposed, dictated, or dominated her daughter. She'd introduced her to the world and insisted Gabrielle choose her own path. For the most part, living with a mother who believed in free love and freedom had been great, but there had been those years in the late seventies and early eighties when Gabrielle had envied children who took nice normal vacations to Disneyland instead of dowsing for Indian relics in Arizona or communing with nature at a clothing optional beach in northern California.

"… when I was thirty, I was gifted with second sight," Claire continued with her favorite story. "I remember it as if it happened yesterday. As you know, it was during our summer of spiritual awakening, shortly after your father died. I didn't just wake up one morning and choose my psychic ability. I was chosen."

"I know, Mom," she answered as she rinsed the bowls and glasses and set them in the drainer.

"Then you know what I'm telling you isn't something I've made up. I saw him, Gabrielle, and you will have a passionate encounter with this man."

"A few months ago that might have been welcome news, but not today," Gabrielle sighed. "I don't think I have the energy for passion."

"I don't think you have a choice. He had a very stubborn look about him. Forceful. He was actually rather frightening. Such intense, dark eyes and such a sensual look about his mouth."

A chill ran up Gabrielle's spine to the base of her neck, and slowly she lowered a pot into the dishwater.

"As I said, I thought he was mine, and I was absolutely thrilled. I mean, if's not every day fate hands a woman my age a young man in tight jeans and a tool belt."

Gabrielle stared at the white bubbles, her throat suddenly dry. "He could be yours."

"No. He looked right through me and whispered your name. There was such unmistakable desire in his voice, I thought I just might faint for the first time in my life."

Gabrielle knew the feeling. She felt faint herself.

"Mrs. Youngerman became so concerned she momentarily forgot all about poor Murray. I'm telling you, dear, I saw your fate. You've been blessed with a passionate lover. He's a marvelous gift."

"But I don't want him. Take him back!"

"I can't take him back, and by the look on his face, I have a feeling that what you want isn't going to matter."

Ridiculous. Her mother was only right about one thing, Gabrielle didn't believe in fate. If she didn't choose to have a passionate affair with a man wearing a tool belt, then she just would not.

By the time Gabrielle hung up the telephone, she was numb and a little shaken. Over the years, she'd come to think of her mother's psychic predictions in terms of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Sometimes her visions were off the wall and headed in the wrong direction, sometimes they were reasonably close, and every now and then she pinned them so accurately it was spooky.

Gabrielle turned back to the sink and reminded herself that her mother had also foretold the reunion of Sonny and Cher, Donald and Ivana, and Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. Obviously, when it came to amorous psychic predictions, Claire didn't have a clue.

This time her mother was off the wall and spinning out of control. Gabrielle didn't want a passionate dark-haired lover. She didn't want to think of Joe Shanahan as anything other than a hard-nosed cop.

But that night she dreamed of him for the first time. She dreamed he came into her bedroom, looking at her through heavy dark eyes, sensuality curving a corner of his mouth, and wearing nothing but his deep red aura. When she woke the next morning, she didn't know whether she'd just had the most erotic dream of her life or experienced her worst nightmare.