oe watched his sisters and mother quickly disappear into the crowd, and his brows drew together. They'd let him off easy. Usually, when he got "cranky" they went in for the kill. He didn't know why they hadn't dragged out any more timed remember-when stories, but he suspected it had to do with the woman by his side. His family obviously believed Gabrielle really was his girlfriend, no matter what he'd said about it, and they'd fallen over each other to make him seem like a real good catch in her eyes. Which surprised him, when he considered that just one look at Gabrielle should have been enough to convince his family that she wasn't his type of woman.

He glanced at her, at her beautiful face, her wild hair, and smooth bare stomach that made him want to fall to his knees and press his open mouth to her flat belly. She'd wrapped her gorgeous body up in an outfit he could easily shred with his hands, and he wondered if she'd done it on purpose just to drive him crazy.

"You have a nice family."

"They weren't being nice." He shook his head. "They were just tricking you into thinking they're nice in case you're their future sister-in-law."

"Me?"

"Don't be too flattered. They'd be happy with just about any woman. Why do you think they said all that stuff about me loving children and pets?"

"Oh!" Gabrielle made her big green eyes go all wide with surprise. "Was that you? Except for the cranky part, I didn't know who they were talking about."

He grabbed the paper sack he'd brought from the deli. "Be nice or I'll tell Doug you want your colon cleansed."

Soft laughter spilled from her lips, catching him by surprise. He'd never heard her genuine laughter before, and the feminine sound was all sweet and breathy and so pleasant it curved the corners of his lips into an unexpected smile. "See you tomorrow morning."

"I'll be here."

Joe turned and wove his way through the festival to the lot where he'd parked his car. If he weren't careful, he might end up liking her more than was wise. He would see her as something other than a means to an end, and he couldn't afford for her to become anything more than his confidential informant. He couldn't afford to see her as a desirable woman, as someone he wouldn't mind stripping naked and searching with his tongue. He couldn't afford to mess up this case any more than he had already.

His gaze scanned the crowd, subconsciously looking for the dopers. The crank users, the puffy-eyed pot smokers, and the jumpy, swivel-headed heroin addicts. All of them thinking they were maintaining, controlling their buzz, when the buzz was so obviously controlling them. He hadn't worked narcotics for almost a year, and there were times, especially when he was in a crowd, when he still viewed the world through a narc's eyes. It was what he'd been trained to do, and he wondered how long that training would stay with him. He knew homicide cops who'd been retired for ten years and still looked at everyone as either potential murderers or victims.

The beige Chevy Caprice was parked on a side street next to the Boise public library. He slid behind the wheel of the unmarked police car and waited for a mirdvan to pass before he pulled out into traffic. He thought of Gabrielle's smile, the taste of her mouth, and the texture of her skin beneath his hands. He thought of the smooth thigh he'd glimpsed between the part in her dress. The heavy ache of desire pulled at his groin, and he tried not to think of her at all. Even if she weren't a kook, she was trouble. The kind that would get him busted back to a patrol cop working graveyard. That kind of trouble he didn't need; he'd barely survived the last internal affairs investigation. He didn't ever want to go through that again. Not for his job. Not for anything.

It had been less than a year, but he knew he would never forget the Department of Justice inquest and interviews and why he'd been forced to answer their questions. He'd never forget chasing Robby Martin down a black alley, the blast of orange fire from Robby's Luger and his own returning shots. For the rest of his life, he knew he would never forget lying in an alley, the cool grip of his empty Colt.45 in his hand. The night air ripped apart by screaming sirens and the whirl of red, white, and blue bouncing off trees and the sides of houses. The warmth of his blood seeping through the hole in his thigh, and Robby Martin's unmoving body twenty feet away. His white Nike running shoes vivid in the darkness. He'd never forget his disjointed thoughts tick-tick-ticking in his head as he'd shouted at the boy who couldn't hear.

It wasn't until much later, as he'd lain in the hospital, with his mother and sisters weeping on his neck, his father watching him from the end of the bed, his leg immobilized by a metal brace that looked like something a kid would build with an Erector set, that the evening slowed and played over and over in his head. He'd second-guessed every'move he'd made.

Maybe he shouldn't have chased Robby down that alley. Maybe he should have let him go. He'd known where the kid lived, maybe he should have waited for backup and driven to his house.

Maybe, but it was his job to chase the bad guys. The community wanted drugs off their streets—right?

Well, maybe.

If Robby's name had been Roberto Rodriguez, chances were no one but the boy's family would have cared. Might not have even been the top story on the television news, but he'd looked like a someday senator. An all-American boy. An all-American Caucasian boy with straight white teeth and an angelic grin. The morning after the shooting, the Idaho Statesman had printed Robby's picture on the front page. His hair shining like a surfer dude, and his big blue eyes staring out at readers over their morning coffee.

And those readers looked at that face, and they began to wonder if it had been necessary for the undercover cop to shoot to kill. Never mind that Robby had run from the police, that he'd drawn first, and that he had a history of drug abuse. In a city struggling with growing pains, a city that had a blatant tendency to blame all its problems on the influx of foreigners and out-of-staters, a nineteen-year-old homegrown dope dealer, born at the hospital downtown, didn't sit real comfortably with the citizens' views of themselves and their city.

And they questioned their police force. They wondered if the city needed a citizen review board to evaluate the police department's deadly force policy, and they wondered if they had a renegade undercover cop, running around killing their young men.

The chief of police had appeared on the local news and reminded everyone of Robby's record. Toxicology had found significant traces of methamphetamine and marijuana in his blood. The Department of Justice and Internal Affairs had cleared Joe of any wrongdoing and had determined that deadly force had been necessary. But every time Robby's picture was flashed across the screen or appeared in the papers, the people still wondered.

Joe had been required to see the police psychologist, but he'd said very little. What was there to say, really? He'd killed a kid, not even a man yet. He'd taken a life. He'd been justified in what he'd been forced to do. He knew with absolute certainty that he'd be dead if Robby had been a better shot. He hadn't had a choice.

That’s what he'd told himself. That's what he'd had to believe.

After two months of sitting on his ass at home and four more months of intense physical therapy, Joe had been cleared to return to work. But not to the narcotics division. He'd been quietly transferred to property crimes. That's what they'd called it, a transfer. But it had sure as hell felt like a demotion to him, like he'd been punished for doing his job.

He pulled the Caprice into a parking spot half a block away from Anomaly and retrieved a can of paint and a sack filled with brushes and a roller and pan from the trunk. Although he'd been transferred, he'd never considered what had happened in that alley with Robby a mistake. Sad and unfortunate, and something he tried not to think about—something he refused to talk about—but not his mistake.

Not like Gabrielle Breedlove. Now that had been his fuck up. He'd underestimated her, but really, who would have thought she'd come up with such a lamebrained plan as to lure him into the park with nothing more than an antique derringer and a can of hair spray?

Joe walked into the back of the store and set the paint and sack of supplies on a counter next to the sink. Mara Paglino stood at the other end of the counter unpacking freight the store had received the day before. The shipment didn't appear to include antiques. "What do ya have there?"

"Gabrielle ordered some Baccarat crystal." Her big brown eyes stared at him a little too intensely. She'd curled her thick black hair, and her lips shined a glossy red. Since the moment he'd met her, he'd been aware that she might have a small crush on him. She followed him around and offered to bring him things. He was a little flattered but mostly unnerved. She was only a year or two older than Tiffany, his niece, and Joe wasn't interested in girls. He liked women. Fully developed women who didn't have to be shown what to do with their mouths and hands. Women who knew how to move their bodies to create just the right friction. "Do you want to help me?" she asked.

He took a paintbrush out of the sack. "I thought you were supposed to be at the park helping Gabrielle."

"I was going to, but Kevin told me I had to unpack this crystal and get it out of the way in case you wanted to measure the countertop today."

His carpentry skills didn't extend to replacing countertops. "I won't get to that until next week." Hopefully, he wouldn't have to worry about it next week. "Is Kevin in his office?"

"He hasn't come back from lunch yet."

"Who's out front?"

"No one, but I'll hear the bell if a customer comes in."

Joe grabbed a brush and the paint can and walked into the small storage room. This was the part of undercover police work that drove him just south of sane—the waiting around for a suspect to make a move. Still, he supposed working inside the shop was better than sitting outside in an unmarked car and getting fat on Yankee Dogs. Better, but not by much.

He covered the floor with a drop cloth and leaned the boards he'd cut for shelves the day before against the wall. Mara followed him like a puppy and chatted nonstop about the immature college guys she'd dated. She left once when the bell rang, but she reappeared shortly to assure him she was in the market for a mature, older man.

By the time Kevin returned, Joe had just finished painting the two shelves and was preparing to paint the walls of the small room. Kevin took one look at Mara and sent her to help Gabrielle, leaving the two of them alone.

"I think she has a crush on you," Kevin said as Mara cast one last look over her shoulder and walked out the door.

"Yeah, maybe." Joe placed one hand on the back of his own shoulder and raised his arm above his head. As much as he hated to admit it, his muscles ached like a bitch. He kept his body in good shape. There was only one other explanation. He was getting old.

"Is Gabrielle paying you enough to put up with sore muscles?" Kevin was dressed in designer everything and held a sack from a party outlet store in one hand and a bag from the women's underwear shop down the street in the other.

"She pays me enough." He dropped his arms to his sides. "Money isn't all that important to me."

"Then you've never been poor. I have, my friend, and it sucks. It affects your whole life."

"How do you figure?"

"People judge you on the brand of your shirt and the condition of your shoes. Money is everything. Without it people think you're trash. And women, forget it. Women won't have anything to do with you. Period."

Joe sat on the edge of a trunk and crossed his arms over his chest. "Depends on what kind of women you're trying to impress."

"Strictly high maintenance. Women who know the difference between a Toyota and a Mercedes."

"Ahh." Joe tilted his head back and looked at the man before him. "Those women cost serious cash. Do you have that kind of money?"

"Yeah, and if I don't, I know how to get it. I know how to get the things I need."

Bingo. "How's that?"

Kevin just smiled and shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," Joe pressed.

"Afraid I can't."

"Do you invest in the stock market?"

"I invest in me, Kevin Carter, and that's all I'm going to say."

Joe knew when to back off. "What's in the sack?" he asked and pointed to Kevin's hand.

"I'm giving a birthday party for my girlfriend, China."

"No shit? Is China her real name or her stage name?"

"Neither," Kevin chuckled. "She just likes it better than her real name, Sandy. I mentioned the party to Gabe this morning when I stopped by her booth. She said the two of you had made other plans."

Joe thought he'd made himself real clear when he'd told Gabrielle she had to stop getting in the way of his investigation. Obviously, he was going to have to talk to her again. "I think we can make it to your party for a little while."

"Are you sure? She seemed pretty set on spending the evening at home."

Normally, Joe wasn't the sort of guy to sit on a bar stool and talk about women, his or anyone else's. But this was different, this was his job, and he knew how to play. He leaned forward slightly as if he were about to share a secret. "Well, just between you and me, Gabrielle is a nymphomaniac."

"Really, I always thought she was a prude."

"She's the closet kind." He leaned back and grinned like he and Kevin were of the same hound brotherhood. "But I think I can hold her off for a few hours. What time is your party?"

"Eight," Kevin answered as he headed to his office, and Joe was stuck painting for the next two hours. After Anomaly closed for the evening, he drove to the police station and read over the daily report on the Hillard theft. Nothing much in the way of new information since that morning's roll call. Kevin had met an unidentified woman for lunch at a downtown restaurant. He'd bought party supplies and stopped at a Circle K for a Big Gulp. Exciting stuff.

Joe reported his conversation with Kevin and let Luchetti know he'd been invited to Kevin's party. Then he grabbed a stack of paperwork off his desk and headed home to Sam.

For dinner, he barbecued some ribs and ate the macaroni salad his sister Debby had left in his refrigerator while he'd been at work. Sam stood on the table next to his plate and refused to eat his bird seeds and baby carrots.

"Sam loves Joe."

"You can't have my ribs."

"Sam loves Joe—braack."

"No."

Sam blinked his yellow-and-black eyes, raised his beak, and mimicked the telephone ringing.

"I haven't fallen for that in months." Joe speared some macaroni with his fork and felt like he was taunting a two-year-old with an ice cream cone. "The vet said you need to eat less and exercise more or you'll get liver disease."

The bird flew to his shoulder, then rested his feathery head against Joe's ear. "Pretty bird."

"You're fat." He remained strong during dinner and didn't feed Sam, but when the bird mimicked one of Joe's favorite phrases from a Clint Eastwood movie, he relented and fed him bites of Ann Cameron's cheesecake. It was as good as she'd claimed, so he guessed he owed her coffee. He tried to remember Ann as a kid, and vaguely recalled a girl with wire glasses sitting on one of those emerald green crushed velvet couches at her parents' house, staring at him while he'd waited for her sister, Sherry. She'd probably been about ten, six years younger than him. About Gabrielle's age.

The thought of Gabrielle brought a dull ache to his brow. Joe pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger and racked his brain to figure out what to do about her. He didn't have a clue.

As the setting sun washed the valley in twilight, Joe put Sam in his aviary and plugged Dirty Harry into the VCR. Besides Jerry Springer's Too Hot For Television, it was about the only tape Sam liked. In the past, Joe had tried to encourage his bird to watch Disney or Sesame Street or one of the educational tapes he'd bought. But Sam was a Jerry junkie, and like most parents, Joe gave in a lot.

He drove to the small brick house across town and parked his Bronco next to the curb. A pink porch light glowed above the front door. A few nights ago, the bulb had been green. Joe wondered at the significance but figured he probably didn't want to know.

A pair of squirrels darted across the lawn and sidewalk and skittered up the rough bark of an ancient oak. Halfway up, they paused to glare at him, the ends of their bushy tails snapped. Their agitated chatter filled his ears, reaming him as if somehow he'd been rude enough to steal their stash. He liked squirrels even less than cats.

Joe pounded on Gabrielle's door three times before it swung open. She stood before him wearing a big white shirt that buttoned up the front. Her green eyes widened, and her face flushed a deep red.

"Joe! What are you doing here?"

Before he answered her question, he let his gaze take her in, from the auburn curls falling from the ponytail on top of her head, to the string of beaded hemp tied around her ankle. She'd rolled the sleeves of her shirt up her forearms while the tails hit her about an inch above her bare knees. As far as he could see, she wore little else except multicolored paint smudges. "I need to talk to you," he said, returning his gaze to the increasing flush in her cheeks.

"Now?" She glanced behind her as if he'd caught her in the middle of doing something illegal.

"Yeah, what are you up to?"

"Nothing!" She looked guilty as hell about something.

"The other night I talked to you about interfering in the investigation, but just in case you didn't understand me, I'll tell you again. Quit protecting Kevin."

"I'm not." The light behind her got caught in her hair and shone through the white shirt, outlining her full breasts and slim hips.

"You declined an invitation to his party tomorrow night. I accepted for us."

"I don't want to go. Kevin and I are friends and business partners, but we don't socialize. I've always thought it was best if we don't spend our time away from work together."

"Too bad." Joe waited for her to invite him inside, but she didn't. Instead, she folded her arms, drawing his attention to the black smear across her left breast.

"Kevin's friends are superficial. We won't have a good time."

"We're not going there to have a good time."

"You're going to search for the Monet, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Fine, but no more kissing."

He rocked back on his heels and looked at her from beneath lowered lids. Her request was perfectly reasonable and irritated more than he would ever admit. "I told you not to take it personal."

"I'm not, but I don't like it."

"You don't like what? Kissing me or not taking it personal?"

"Kissing you."

"Bull, you get all warm and breathless."

"You're mistaken."

He shook his head and said through a smile, "I don't think so."

She sighed. "Is that all you wanted, Detective?"

"I'll pick you up at eight." He turned to leave, but looked back at her over his shoulder. "And Gabrielle?"

"What?"

"Wear something sexy."

Gabrielle shut the door and leaned her back against it. She felt light-headed and queasy, as if she'd conjured up Joe somehow. She took a deep breath and placed a hand over her racing heart. His showing up on her porch at that exact moment in time was some sort of freakish fluke.

Ever since he'd walked away from her booth that afternoon, she'd had an overwhelming desire to paint him again. This time standing within his red aura. Naked. After she'd returned home from a successful day at the Coeur Festival, she'd immediately walked into her studio and prepared a canvas. She'd sketched and painted his face and the hard muscles of his body. With visions of Michelangelo's David for inspiration, she'd just started to paint Joe's parts when he'd knocked. She'd opened the door and seen him standing there, and for several anxious moments she'd feared he somehow knew what she'd been up to. She'd felt guilty, like he'd caught her peeking at him without his clothes on.

She didn't believe in fate. She believed too strongly in free will, but she couldn't ignore the feeling of foreboding raising the hair on the back of her neck.

Gabrielle pushed away from the door and headed to her studio. She'd meant what she'd told Joe, no more kisses. While she found lying to him easier than she would have imagined a week ago, she couldn't lie to herself. For reasons she could not begin to fathom, standing so close to Joe, his breath whispering across her cheek and his lips brushing her mouth wasn't all that unpleasant. No, it wasn't unpleasant at all.

Gabrielle believed in expressing love honestly and openly, but not in a crowded park, and not with Detective Joe Shanahan. He didn't care for her, and he'd made it real clear that he considered kissing her part of his job. She'd thought about her reaction to his kiss and had come to the logical conclusion that Joe's touch messed up her biorhythm and threw everything out of whack. Kind of a hiccup or a glitch in the life energy connecting her body, mind, and spirit.

If Kevin walked in on them arguing again, or if Joe saw anyone from his past, he was going to have to figure out something else. No more standing close, filling her senses with the scent of his skin. No more impersonal kisses that reached inside and stole her breath away. And there was absolutely no way she was going to dress in "something sexy" for him.

When the doorbell rang the next evening, Gabrielle thought she was ready for Joe this time. No more surprises. She was in control and if he'd been dressed in worn jeans and a T-shirt, she might have managed it, too. But one look at him and her peaceful center spun off into the cosmos somewhere.

He'd shaved his five o'clock shadow, and his tan cheeks were smooth. His ribbed black polo was made of silk and fit nicely across his wide chest and flat stomach. He'd slipped a woven leather belt through the loops of pleated gabardine pants with razor-sharp creases. Instead of old running shoes or work boots, he wore suede penny loafers. He smelled wonderful and looked better.

Unlike Joe, Gabrielle had purposely put less effort into her appearance. She'd dressed strictly for comfort in a plain white blouse and a shapeless blue-and-white checkered bib jumper that hit her just above the knee. She wore very little makeup and hadn't attempted to do anything different with her hair, just let it curl about her shoulders and down her back like it always did. Her only concession to anything resembling fashion was the pair of silver hoops in her ears and the silver band on the middle finger of her right hand. She'd left her panty hose in her drawer and slipped her bare feet into a pair of canvas sneakers. She figured she looked the antithesis of sexy.

One brow lifted up his forehead telling her he thought so, too. "Where's your little dog Toto?"

Her outfit wasn't that bad. "Hey, I'm not the one who wore my mom's red heels and skipped into a wall."

He leveled his gaze on her. "I was five."

"That's what they all say." She stepped out onto the porch and locked the door behind her. "Besides, I'm sure the party is casual." She dropped her keys into her big macrame handbag and turned to face him. He hadn't moved an inch, and her bare arm brushed across his chest.

"I doubt it." Joe took her elbow as if they were on a real date and led her to the awful beige car she remembered all too well. The last time she'd been cuffed in the backseat. "I've met Kevin, and I doubt he does anything casual, except maybe have casual sex."

The warmth of his palm swept up her arm and down to the tips of her fingers. She forced herself to walk composed by his side, as if his touch didn't make her want to pull away from his grasp. As if she were as calm and unaffected as Joe. She tried to ignore the sensations making her palms sweaty, and she didn't bother to comment on Joe's opinion of Kevin, since what he said was pretty much true. Which made Kevin no better or worse than a lot of other men.

"Last night I thought you were driving a Bronco."

"I was, but Kevin thinks I'm a broke loser. That's what I want him to think," he said and leaned forward to open the passenger door. His chest brushed her arm again, and she took a deep breath through her nose and wondered if his cologne was a combination of ceder and neroli or something else altogether.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Sniff me like I smell bad." He let go of her elbow, and she felt as if she could relax again.

"You're imagining things," she said and slid into the car. Unlike Joe, the interior of the car smelled as awful as it did the day he'd arrested her. Kind of like motor oil, but at least the seats were clean.

The ride to Kevin's took less than ten minutes, and Joe used the time to remind her of the informant's agreement she'd signed. "If Kevin is innocent," he said, "he doesn't need your help. And if he's guilty, you can't protect him anyway."

Cool air brushed her bare legs and arms and the side of her neck. She wished she'd stayed home. She wished she'd been given a choice.

Gabrielle had been to Kevin's house on several occasions, of course, but she really didn't care for it. The two-story contemporary structure hung on the side of a mountain supported by stilts and had a spectacular view of the city. The interior was constructed of lots of marble, hardwood, and steel and felt about as cozy as a museum of modern art.

Gabrielle and Joe walked up the sidewalk together, shoulder to shoulder, barely touching.

"What if one of Kevin's friends recognizes you? What are you going to do?"

"I'll figure something out."

That's exactly what she was afraid of. "Like what?"

Joe rang the doorbell and they stood side by side, staring ahead. "Are you afraid to be alone with me?"

A little. "No"

" Cause you look worried about that."

"I don't look worried."

"You look like maybe you don't trust yourself."

"To do what?"

"Keep your hands to yourself."

Before she could respond, the door swung open and the charade began. Joe wrapped his arm around her shoulders, the heat from his palm warming her flesh through the thin material of her blouse.

"I wondered if you two were going to make it." Kevin stepped back, and they moved inside. As always, he looked like he'd just posed for GQ.

"I told you I could get her out of the house for a few hours."

Kevin glanced at Gabrielle's bib, and a line appeared across his forehead. "Gabe, this is a new look for you. Interesting."

"It's not that bad," she defended herself.

"Not if you live in Kansas." Kevin shut the door, and they followed him toward the living room.

"I don't look like Dorothy." Gabrielle glanced downward at her blue-and-white-checked jumper. "Do I?"

Joe pulled her against his side. "Don't worry, I'll protect you from flying monkeys."

She raised her gaze to his eyes, with their rich brown irises and thick, spiky lashes, and it wasn't flying monkeys that had her worried.

"Why don't you let Kevin put that big purse you're packing somewhere?"

"I can put it in the spare bedroom," Kevin offered.

"I want to keep it with me."

Joe snatched it off her shoulder and handed it to Kevin. "You'll get bursitis."

"In my shoulder?"

"Never can tell about bursitis," Joe predicted as Kevin walked off with her purse.

The living room, kitchen, and dining room shared the same large airy space and spectacular view of the city. A small group of guests mingled at the bar, while Mariah Carey sang from hidden speakers, filling the house with every last octave she managed to pull from her vocal cords. Gabrielle didn't have anything against Mariah personally, but she thought the diva would benefit from a lesson in moderation. Gabrielle moved her gaze about the space, from the zebra skin draped over the back of the leather sofa to the African artifacts cluttering the room. Kevin could have used the same lesson.

When Kevin returned, he introduced Joe and Gabrielle to his friends, a tight group of entrepreneurs who were, as far as Gabrielle was concerned, far more worried about the state of their bank accounts than the state of consciousness. Joe kept his arm around Gabrielle as they shook hands with a man and his wife who owned a chain of successful coffeehouses. Others sold vitamins or computers or real estate and apparently did very well. Kevin introduced them to his girlfriend, China, who, Gabrielle could have sworn, was named Sandy the last time they'd met. Whatever her name now, the woman was still petite and blond and flawless, and Gabrielle felt an overwhelming urge to slouch.

Next to China stood her equally beautiful and petite friend, Nancy, who didn't even pretend to be interested in anything Gabrielle might have to say. Her attention was on the man who stood with his hip pressed against Gabrielle. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched pleasure curl the corners of Joe's lips into an appreciative smile. His gaze flickered to Nancy's bosom, and he shifted his weight to his opposite foot. His warm hand slid from Gabrielle's shoulder and across her back, then he shoved his hands into his pants pockets and his touch was gone completely.

She should have been glad. She was glad. Only she felt a little deserted and something more. Something uncomfortable that felt like jealousy, but couldn't possibly be jealousy because (a) Joe wasn't her real boyfriend; (b) she didn't care about him; and (c) she wasn't attracted to unenlightened men.

Kevin said something Joe must have thought funny, because he tipped his head back a little and laughed, showing straight white teeth and his smooth tan throat. Creases appeared in the corners of his eyes, and the deep mellow sound reached inside her and settled in her chest.

Someone else said something too, and they all laughed. Except Gabrielle. She didn't think there was anything to laugh about. No, there was absolutely nothing funny about the little pang beneath her breastbone, or the white hot anarchy surging through her veins, arousing a physical desire she found impossible to ignore.