t wasn't everyone who could go out for a night of honky-tonking, dance until she was ready to drop, start a brawl, and be home by nine o'clock, Daisy told herself the next morning. So the night hadn't been an unqualified success; the first part of it had been very successful. What's more, she'd had fun and she was going to do it again. Not the brawl part—at least, she hoped not—but definitely the dancing and attracting men part.

After church, where she endured the blatant curiosity of all her fellow churchgoers—people who should have known better than to stare at someone—she ate a quick lunch and changed into one of her new pairs of jeans, intending to drive over to Lassiter Avenue to see how Buck Latham had progressed on painting her house. Now that she was well and truly launched on her new path, she was eager to move out on her own. As she walked out on the porch with her purse and car keys in hand, however, a white Crown Victoria pulled to the curb in front of the house.

Her heart sank as she watched Chief Russo unfold his big frame from the driver's seat. She had glossed over the previous night's episode to her mother, thinking it best not to let on that she'd smashed a man's testicles. She suspected Chief Russo was here to spill the beans and read her the riot act, as if he had any room to talk, because he certainly hadn't been at the Buffalo Club in any official capacity. He'd been out trolling, the same as she, but at least her intentions were honorable.

He was dressed in jeans, too, and a black T-shirt that clung to his broad, sloping shoulders. He looked more like a weight lifter than ever, she thought with a sniff. Remembering how easily, with one arm, he had carried her out of the Buffalo Club last night, she knew she had accurately pegged him.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, standing on their short, flower-lined sidewalk and looking up at her as she stood on the shady porch.

"Yes," she said baldly. Good manners dictated she should say something like, Oh, I was just going to run to the supermarket for a minute, but that can wait. Why don't you come in and have coffee? She limited her reply to that one word. There was just something about him that made her forget her raising.

“Aren't you going to ask me in?" he asked, eyes glinting in a way that said he was more amused than put out.

"No."

He jerked his head toward the car. "Then come for a ride with me. I don't think you want to have this discussion outside where all your neighbors can listen in."

Her heart lurched. "Oh, my God, are you taking me downtown?" She hurried down the steps as a horrible thought occurred to her. "That man last night—he didn't die, did he? It was an ac-

cident! And even if he did, wouldn't that be justifiable homicide?"

He scrubbed a hand down his face, and she stared suspiciously at him. It looked as if he'd been hiding a grin. For goodness' sake, this was nothing to laugh about!

"As far as I know, your boyfriend is all right; probably sore and walking a little funny, but alive."

She blew out a big breath. "Well, that's a relief. Then why are you taking me downtown?"

He did that face-rubbing thing again. No doubt about it, this time: he was laughing at her. Well!

He reached out and took her arm, his grip warm and too firm, as if he were accustomed to handling miscreants who didn't want to go with him. "Don't poker up on me, Miss Daisy," he said, stifling an audible snicker. "It's just... Downtown doesn't have quite the same ring to it in Hillsboro as it does in New York."

Well, that was true, considering they were already practically downtown, only a few blocks from the police station and the business section. He still could have been nicer about it.

As he opened the front passenger door of his car and put her inside, the front door opened again and Evelyn came out. "Chief Russo! Where are you taking Daisy?"

"Just for a ride, ma'am. We'll be back within an hour, I promise."

Evelyn hesitated, then smiled. "Y'all have a good time."

"Yes, ma'am," the chief said gravely.

"Oh, great," Daisy muttered as he got in the car. "Now she thinks we're seeing each other."

"We can go back and set her straight, tell her what's really going on," he offered as he pulled away from the curb, not even waiting for her answer. That was so annoying; of course she didn't

want to do that, but he knew it before he even made the offer. He was just being a smart aleck.

"I had just as much right to be at that club as you did," she said, crossing her arms and sticking her nose in the air.

"Agreed."

She lowered her nose down to give him a startled look. "Then why are you interrogating me? I didn't do anything wrong. The brawl wasn't my fault, and I truly didn't mean to smash that man's testicles."

"I know." He was grinning again, darn him. Just what was so funny?

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. And I'm not 'interrogating' you. I asked you to come for a ride; that's a helluva lot different from taking you to an interview room and grilling you for hours."

Relieved, she let out a whoosh of air and relaxed in the seat, then immediately sat upright again. "You didn't ask me, you told me, so what else was I to think? 'Let's take a ride.' Cops say that all the time on television, and it always means they're taking you downtown to be booked."

"So the scriptwriters need to learn some new dialogue."

A new thought, an appalling one, occurred to her. My goodness, the chief wasn't courting her, was he? Their encounters had always been bristly, but last night had shown her what a difference her new appearance made in the way men treated her. Her stomach knotted; she wasn't at all practiced in telling a man to shove off, she just wasn't interested. He couldn't be interested, could he? Maybe she didn't look as much better as she thought.

Swiftly she flipped down the sun visor and peered into the mirror attached there, then just as swiftly flipped it back up. Oh, dear.

"What was that about?" he asked curiously. "You didn't look long enough even to check your lipstick."

She'd forgotten all about her lipstick. Anyway, a quick peek was all it took to tell her that, no, she wasn't mistaken about the change.

"I was just wondering if cop cars had visor mirrors, too," she blurted. "It seems kind of... sissy."

"Sissy?" He looked as if he were biting the inside of his jaw.

"Not that I'm questioning your masculinity," she said hastily. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel he had to prove his masculinity to her. Men, she had read, tended to take such comments personally. Their egos were all tied up with their virility, or something like that.

He sighed. "No offense, Miss Daisy, but following your train of thought is like trying to catch a jackrabbit hopped up on speed."

She didn't take offense, because she was too thankful he hadn't been able to follow that particular train. Instead she said, "I wish you wouldn't call me Miss Daisy. It makes me sound like an—" She started to say old maid, but that description hit too close to home. "—a fuddy-duddy."

He was biting the inside of his jaw again. "If the hairnet fits..."

"I do not wear a hairnet!" she shouted, then sank back in the seat in surprise. She never shouted. She never lost her temper. She hadn't always been exactly polite to him, but neither had she shouted at him. She began to worry; was there a law against yelling at someone in law enforcement? Yelling at him wasn't the same as yelling at a cop who'd stopped her for speeding—if she had ever speeded, that is—but he was, after all, the chief of police, and it might be even worse—

"You've gone off into the ether again," he growled.

"I was just wondering if there was any law against yelling at a chief of police," she admitted.

"You thought you were going to be thrown in the pokey for yelling?"

"It was disrespectful. I apologize. I don't usually yell, but then I'm not usually accused of wearing a hairnet, either."

"I can see the provocation."

"If you keep biting your jaw," she observed, "you're going to need stitches."

"I'll try not to do it again. And for your information, I call you Miss Daisy as a sign of respect."

"Respect?" She didn't know if that was good or not. On the one hand, of course she wanted him to respect her; on the other, that wasn't exactly the kind of reaction she wanted from a man who was, after all, at least several years older than she. Maybe last night at the club had been a fluke, and she wasn't as attractive now as she'd thought. Maybe men would dance with anyone at a club.

"You remind me of my aunt Bessie," he said.

Daisy nearly moaned aloud. Oh, dear, it was worse than she'd thought. His aunt! Now she knew last night had been a fluke. Stricken, she flipped the visor mirror down again to see if she could possibly have made that big a mistake.

"I won't even ask," he sighed.

"I look like your aunt?" She almost moaned the word.

He began laughing. He actually laughed at her. Mortified, she raised the visor and crossed her arms again.

"Great-aunt, actually. And I didn't say you looked like her; I said you remind me of her. She wasn't very worldly, either."

Naive. He meant naive. Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong. That's what happened when you spent your life with your nose buried in a book. You might know a lot of interesting facts, but when it came to real-world experience, you were pretty much in the dark.

He turned down the highway toward Fort Payne. "Why are we going to Fort Payne?" Daisy asked, looking around at the cedar trees and green mountains. The drive was a nice one, but she couldn't think of any reason why they should go there.

"We aren't. I'm just driving."

"You mean we aren't going anywhere in particular?"

"I said we'd go for a ride. That means riding."

Now she was back to the awful suspicion that he might be courting her, though if he was, he went about it in a strange way, telling her she reminded him of his great-aunt and laughing at her. On the other hand, he was a Yankee; maybe that was the way they did it up North. "I'd rather ride in the other direction," she said uneasily "Back toward home."

"Tough."

Well, that definitely wasn't very courteous, so he couldn't be courting her. Vastly relieved, she beamed at him.

"What?" he demanded, giving her a wary look.

"Oh, nothing."

"You're smiling at me. It's damn scary."

"My smile is scary?" The beam dimmed.

"No, the fact that you're smiling is scary That tells me your train of thought has gone off track again."

"It has not. I know exactly which track it's on. I'm just relieved that you don't." Darn, she wished she hadn't told him that. She had to remember that he was a cop, and cops were notoriously nosy.

"Oh?" Just as she had feared, now he was interested.

"Private stuff," she informed him. A gentleman would leave it at that.

She should have remembered that he wasn't a gentleman. "What kind of private stuff?" he demanded. "Sexy stuff?"

"No!" she said, horrified. And because having him think she might want to do that was worse than what she really had been thinking, she said, "I was just afraid you might be courting me, and when you told me 'tough,' I was relieved, because you wouldn't have said that if you had been. Courting me, that is."

"Courting?" His shoulders started shaking a little.

"Yes, well, whatever it's called these days. 'Dating' seems a little too high-schoolish, and besides, this isn't a date. It's more like a kidnaping."

"You haven't been kidnaped. I just wanted to talk to you, privately, about last night."

"What about last night? If I haven't broken any laws—"

"Would you stop yammering about that? I have some things to tell you about going to nightclubs."

"I'll have you know I'm an adult and can go to any nightclub I want. What's more, I'm going to, so you can—"

"Would you shut up for a minute!" he yelled. "I'm not telling you not to go; I'm just trying to tell you some things to watch out for!"

She sat silently for a moment. "I'm sorry," she finally said. "You just make me feel defensive. Maybe it's because you're the chief of police."

"Well, stop it, and listen to me. With what you've done to your hair and the way you're dressing, men are going to come on to you."

"Yes," she said with satisfaction. "They did."

He sighed. "Did you know any of them?"

"No, of course not."

"Then you can't trust them."

"Well, I wasn't about to go home with any of them or anything, and I had my own car, so no one could drive me home—"

He interrupted. "Have you ever heard of date-rape drugs?"

That silenced her. Shocked, she stared at him. "You mean... those men—"

"I don't know, and you don't either. That's my point. When you go out like that, don't let anyone bring you a drink except the waitress. Better yet, go to the bar and get your own. Don't leave your drink on the table while you dance, or go to the bathroom,

or for any reason. If you do, then don't drink out of it again. Order a fresh one."

"Wh-what would it taste like? If someone doctored my drink, I mean."

"You couldn't taste it, not mixed in a drink."

"My goodness." She put her hands in her lap, upset to think that one of those nice men she'd danced with the night before might have deliberately drugged her so they could take her some place and have sex with her while she was unconscious. "Then— how would I tell?"

"Generally, you can't. By the time you start feeling the effects, you aren't thinking straight. It's better to always go to a club with a friend, so you can look out for each other. If one of you starts acting sleepy or dizzy, then the best thing to do is get to an emergency room. And for God's sake, don't let any of the men you've met drive you anywhere."

Dismayed, Daisy tried to think of a friend who would go with her to nightclubs. None sprang to mind; not that she didn't have friends, but they were all married with families, and going out to a nightclub without their husbands so she could meet men just wasn't the type of thing any of them would do. Her mother and Aunt Jo were both single, but... no, that didn't bear thinking about.

"There are several date-rape drugs," he continued. "You've probably heard of Rohypnol, but the one that really has cops concerned is GHB."

"What's that?" She'd never heard of it.

He gave her a grim smile. "Floor stripper mixed with drain cleaner."

"Oh, my God!" Aghast, she stared at him. "That would kill you!"

"In a large enough amount, yeah. And it doesn't take all that

much, sometimes, because you never know how hard it's going to hit you."

"But—wouldn't it burn your throat when you swallowed it?"

He shook his head. "Nope. With an overdose, what happens is you go to sleep and just don't wake up. If it's mixed with alcohol, the effect is enhanced and even more unpredictable. If a guy slips you GHB, basically he doesn't care if you die or not, so long as he can fu—ah, have sex with you while you're still warm."

Eyes wide, Daisy stared at the pretty countryside. To think things like that were going on in the world! He'd shone a far different light on the club scene, and she would never look at it the same way again. But if she didn't get out and mix, how would she ever meet single men? She chewed her lower lip while she pondered the situation, but the bottom line was, going out dancing at the clubs was the most efficient way to accomplish her aim. She would just have to be extra careful, and follow all his instructions.

"I'll be careful," she said fervently. "Thank you for warning me." It was very nice of him to go out of his way to warn her about the dangers she could face, nicer than she had expected of him. Maybe she'd been too harsh in her criticism, just because he was a bit brusque and too frank in his language.

He slowed down as they neared a church, then turned around in the parking lot and headed back toward Hillsboro. "When are you going out again?" he casually asked.

Gratitude only went so far. "Why?" she asked, her tone loaded with suspicion.

"So I can warn all the men to wear athletic cups, why else?" He sighed. "It was just a question, to make conversation."

"Oh. Well, of course I wouldn't go out on Sunday, or on a work night, so I suppose it'll be next weekend. I need to work on my house, anyway, so I can get moved in."

"You're moving?"

Ill

"I'm renting a place on Lassiter Avenue."

He slanted a quick look at her. "Lassiter? That isn't a great neighborhood."

"I know, but my choices were limited. And I'm going to get a dog."

"Get a big one. A German shepherd would be good. They're intelligent, loyal dogs, and would protect you from Godzilla himself."

German shepherds were the ones used in the K-9 units, so she supposed that was how he was acquainted with them. The dogs must be reliable and trustworthy, or police departments wouldn't use them.

She tried to form a picture of herself sitting in an easy chair reading while a big dog dozed at her feet, but the image just wouldn't form. She was more of a small-dog type person; a terrier, maybe, would be better than a huge German shepherd. She'd read that small dogs were just as likely to frighten away a burglar because they barked at the slightest noise, and really all she wanted was an alarm system, not an all-out counteroffensive. Terriers were good at sounding the alarm. Or maybe she'd get one of those cute little Maltese, with a little bow tied in its topknot.

She mentally debated the merits of various small dogs on the drive home, and was surprised when he pulled to the curb in front of the house. She blinked for a moment at the minivan parked behind her car in the driveway, then recognized it.

"You have company," Chief Russo observed.

"My sister Beth and her family," Daisy said. They visited at least twice a month, usually on Sunday after church. She should have been expecting them, but it had totally slipped her mind.

As she reached for the door handle, Aunt Jo came out on the porch. "Y'all come on in," she called. "You're just in time for homemade ice cream."

Chief Russo was out of the car before Daisy could tell him he didn't have to stay. When he opened the car door for her, she sat where she was, staring up at him with huge eyes. "Well, come on," he said impatiently. "The ice cream's melting."

"This isn't a good idea," she whispered.

"Why?" he whispered back, but his eyes were gleaming.

"They think you're... that we're..."

"Courting?" he helpfully supplied as he literally tugged her out of the car and began pushing her up the sidewalk.

"Don't joke about it! You know what gossip's like in a small town. Besides, I don't like misleading my family."

"Then tell them the truth, that I wanted to warn you about the dangers of date-rape drugs."

“And give my mother a heart attack?" Daisy said fiercely. "Don't you dare!"

"Then tell them we're just friends."

"Like they'd believe that."

"Why's it so unbelievable?"

"It just is." By that time they had reached the front door, and he opened it for her, ushering her inside. There was a small foyer, with the big living room immediately opening off to the left. The tangle of voices died away as they came inside, and ice-cream bowls were set down with a clatter; Daisy felt as if a hundred people were staring at her, though of course it was only her mother and Aunt Jo, Beth and Nathan, and her two nephews, William and Wyatt. She was so seldom the focus of all eyes that even a little attention felt like a lot.

"Um... this is Chief Russo."

"Jack," he said, crossing to shake hands first with her mother, then Aunt Jo, as Daisy introduced them. Nathan rose to his feet when it was his turn, his hand extended, but his eyes narrowed in that expression men wore when they felt the need to protect their families. Why he should feel protective of her, Daisy had no idea.

Chief Russo must have been used to testosterone-driven displays, though, because he didn't acknowledge it by so much as the flicker of an eyelid.

"Let me get you some ice cream," Evelyn said. "It's just vanilla, but I can put some walnuts and fudge sauce on it if you like."

"Vanilla's my favorite," the chief said so sincerely that Daisy would have believed him even if she had known differently. He didn't seem like a vanilla type of person, but she wasn't about to argue. The faster he ate his ice cream and left, the better it suited her.

Beth wasn't paying any attention to the chief; she was staring at Daisy, her eyes wide and a little dazed. "You're blond," she said weakly. "Mama said you'd lightened your hair, but... but you're blond."

"You're pretty," ten-year-old Wyatt said, almost accusingly. He was at the age when he didn't like girls, and finding his favorite aunt turning into one was upsetting.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I'll try to do better."

"I like it," eleven-year-old William said, giving her the shy smile that would slay female hearts in another few years.

"And you're wearing jeans!" Beth almost wailed. She herself was wearing very chic walking shorts with a matching top, but the Daisy she knew had seldom worn slacks and hadn't even owned a pair of jeans.

"I went shopping," Daisy said uncomfortably as everyone, including the chief, looked her up and down. "And I got my ears pierced." She indicated the small hoops, hoping to draw their attention upward.

"I think you look great," Nathan said, smiling at her. She loved her brother-in-law, but she wished that he were a little more sensitive to Beth's mood right now, because Beth was more than a little shocked by her sister's transformation.

Beth was not, however, a selfish person. She managed a smile, then got to her feet and hugged Daisy. "You look great," she said as Evelyn returned to the living room with two bowls rounded high with creamy white ice cream.

"Yes, she does," Evelyn said, smiling at both her daughters and handing the bowls to Daisy and the chief.

"So," Aunt Jo said brightly, "how long have you two been seeing each other?"

"We're not—" Daisy began, only to be overridden by a much deeper voice.

"A week or so," said the chief.