he midmorning sun that poured through the windows of the police station streamed across Joe's desk and lit up the plastic spring-loaded hula dancer like a religious icon. Joe scanned the form before him, and with little enthusiasm he signed the affidavit requesting a search warrant. He handed it to Captain Luchetti, then tossed his pen on the desk. The blue Bic rolled across the activity report he'd worked on earlier and bumped the hula dancer's bare feet, setting her hips into motion.

"Looks good," the captain uttered as he glanced at the form.

Joe folded his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs. He'd been sitting in the squad room for three hours now discussing the Hillard case with the other detectives. He'd briefed them on what he'd seen in Kevin's house, starting with the stolen antiques in the guest room, continuing with the ivory chess set, and ending with the mirrors in the bedroom. He'd thought he'd have Kevin in custody by now and was disappointed as hell. "Yeah, too bad we can't serve it today."

"That's the problem with you, Shanahan, you're too impatient." Captain Luchetti glanced at his watch and set the affidavit on Joe's desk. "You want everything to wrap up in an hour, like one of those cop shows on television."

Impatience wasn't Joe's problem. Well, maybe just a little, but he had his reasons for wanting the case resolved, and it had nothing to do with patience and everything to do with his redheaded informant.

The captain shrugged into his suit jacket and straightened his tie. "You did good. We'll get our court order to tap Carter's home phone and our search warrant. We'll get him," he said and walked from the room. No matter where he was or what he was doing, Vince Luchetti never missed Sunday mass. Joe wondered who the captain feared more, God, or his wife, Sonja.

He stretched his arms above his head and eyed the affidavit. He'd been meticulous with the language of the document, having learned long ago that defense attorneys thrived on vague or inadequate descriptions and looked for any excuse to claim entrapment. But for all his trouble, he didn't believe his effort would amount to squat. Oh, he'd get his warrant, there was enough probable cause for a judge to authorize a search, but Walker and Luchetti wanted to wait. Since Joe hadn't found the Monet the night before, they weren't convinced a search of Kevin's home would recover the painting, or that Kevin would rat out the collector who the police believed was behind ordering the theft.

So, the warrant would get shoved into the case file. They now had solid evidence that proved Kevin was guilty of fencing stolen antiques, but an arrest would not come of Joe's work from the night before. He'd received a pat on the back and a few high fives. But Joe wanted more. He wanted Kevin sitting in an interrogation room.

"Hey, Shannie." Winston Densley, the only African American detective in property crimes, and one of three detectives assigned to tail Kevin, pulled up a chair next to Joe's desk. "Tell me about those mirrors in Carter's bedroom."

Joe chuckled and folded his arms over his chest. "The room is covered all around, and he can check out his action from every angle."

"Pretty kinky shit?"

"Yeah." And Joe had stood in that kinky room of mirrors, checking out all the angles and images of Gabrielle Breedlove in that shapeless, ugly dress, wondering what she'd look like wearing nothing but one of those Victoria's Secret see-through bras and a pair of matching panties. Or maybe a lace thong so he could grab her bare behind in his palms.

While she'd wondered about Windex, he'd wondered what she'd look like bare from the waist up. Now he didn't have to wonder. Now he knew. He knew her breasts were larger than he'd imagined, and fit perfectly into his big hands. He knew the soft texture of her skin and the feel of her puckered nipples poking his chest. And he knew other things too, like the sound of her passionate sigh, and the pull of her seductive green eyes. He knew the smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, and that the touch of her gentle hands made him so hard he could barely think or breathe.

And he knew without a doubt that he'd be a hell of a lot better off not knowing. Joe sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "I want to put this case to bed."

"Case is gonna take as long as it takes. What's your hurry?"

What was his hurry? He'd come within seconds of making love to Gabrielle, and he wasn't so sure it wouldn't happen again. He could tell himself it wouldn't happen, but certain parts of his body weren't listening. He'd come real close to jeopardizing his career with her. If she hadn't come up with a relative who communicated with whales, he might have laid her right there on her living room floor. "Just getting antsy, I guess," he answered.

"You still think like a narc." Winston stood and pushed his chair back across the room. "Sometimes the fun's in the waiting, and we could be at this one a while," he predicted.

Time was one thing Joe didn't have. He needed to get himself reassigned to a different case before he messed up completely and lost his job or got busted to bike patrol. Big problem, though. He couldn't exactly ask for reassignment without a damn good reason, and "I'm afraid I'm going to trade some DNA with my confidential informant" wasn't even a consideration. He had to do something, only he didn't have a clue what that something might be.

He left the report and affidavit on his desk and headed for the door. If he hurried, maybe he'd catch Ann Cameron before her lunch rush. She was exactly the type of woman he always looked for in a girlfriend. She was attractive, one hell of a cook, but more important, she was normal. Uncomplicated. Baptist. Nothing like Gabrielle.

Within half an hour, Joe sat at a small table in Ann's deli, feasting on warm crusty bread and a plate of chicken in creamy pesto. He thought he'd died and gone to heaven—except there was something keeping him from completely enjoying his meal. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was cheating on his girlfriend. Cheating on Gabrielle with Ann. The feeling was totally irrational. But it pecked at him, right at the back of his brain, and wouldn't leave him alone.

Ann sat across the table from him, chatting nonstop about her business and her life and growing up in the same neighborhood. Perfectly normal conversation, yet there was something that didn't feel right about that either.

"I make sure I drink at least three quarts of water, and I walk three miles a day, too," she told him. Her eyes were real bright, as if she were really excited, but he didn't have a clue what was exciting about walking and drinking water. "I remember you used to walk your dog every night," she said. "What was his name?"

"Scratch," he answered, recalling the dog he'd rescued from the pound. Scratch had been a shar-pei pit bull mix and the best dog a boy could own. Now Joe had a bird. A bird who wanted to roost with Gabrielle.

"I have a Pomeranian, Snicker Doodle. He's such a love."

Holy hell. He pushed aside his plate and reached for his glass of iced tea. Okay, he could overlook a little yap-yap dog. She was a great cook and she had nice eyes. There was absolutely no reason why he couldn't see her. He didn't have a girlfriend.

He wondered if Sam would like Ann, or if he would try to chase her out of his house. Maybe it was time to invite her over and find out. And as far as his feelings of guilt, he had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Gabrielle had planned to spend a quiet morning at home preparing essential oils. Instead, she painted like a crazed Van Gogh. She set the portrait she'd been working on against the wall and began another. Her mother called and interrupted her twice, so she took the telephone off the hook. By noon she'd finished her latest painting of Joe—except for his hands and feet, of course. Like the others, he stood within his aura, but this time she'd taken a bit more creative license with his male package. She didn't think she'd exaggerated. Just sort of guessed, based on the hard length of him she'd felt against her inner thigh the night before.

Just thinking about what had taken place in her living room brought a blush to her cheeks. The woman who'd purposely turned an innocent massage into something erotic wasn't her. She didn't do things like that. There had to be an explanation, like maybe something funky had taken place in the cosmos. Like maybe the full moon had affected the blood flow to her cerebellum, and if there wasn't balance in the cerebellum, there was chaos.

Gabrielle sighed and dipped her brush into red paint. She couldn't quite make herself believe her moon theory, and she was no longer sure of the yin and yang theory either. In fact, she was quite sure now that Joe was not her yang. He was not the other half of her soul.

He was only in her life to get back Mr. Hillard's Monet and to pretend to care about her so he could arrest Kevin. He was a hard-living cop who thought her ideals were nutty. He laughed at her and teased her, then consumed her with the touch of his hands and mouth. He certainly didn't kiss her like a man who pretended passion. The night before, he'd shared a part of his past with her, a piece of his life, and she'd thought they'd made a connection.

He'd made her dizzy with wanting, then left her standing alone and dazed. He turned her on, then asked her to channel Elvis, and he called her crazy?

Gabrielle rinsed her brushes, then changed out of her painting shirt and into a pair of cutoffs and T-shirt with the name of a local restaurant across the chest. She didn't bother with shoes.

At twelve-thirty, Kevin dropped off a FedEx tube filled with a few antique movie posters he'd purchased from an Internet auction. He wanted her opinion on their value, and the whole time he stood in her kitchen talking appraisal, she expected him to say something about her and Joe jumping from his balcony. But he didn't, and she supposed she should be thankful that he'd been too busy showing Mr. Happy to his girlfriend's best friend. She must have looked guilty, thdugh, because he kept asking her if something was wrong.

After Kevin left, Gabrielle finally took out her boxes of oils and set them next to the small glass bowls and bottles on her kitchen table. She wanted to experiment with facial cleansers and moisturizers, and she blended toners and remedies for broken veins and acne. Just as she was about to mix a face mask of natural powdered day, hot water, and yogurt, Francis rang her doorbell.

Her friend arrived with a blue deninvbra and a pair of matching panties. Gabrielle thanked her, then recruited her for a facial. She wrapped Francis's hair in a bath towel, then made her sit on a dining room chair with her head tilted back.

"Tell me if your skin starts to feel too tight," she said as she smoothed the clay mask on her friend's face.

"It smells like licorice," Francis complained.

"That's because I put fennel oil in it." Gabrielle spread the clay across Francis's forehead, careful not to get it on the towel. Francis had a lot of experience with men, some of it not good, but a lot more than Gabrielle did. Maybe her friend could help her make sense of what had happened with Joe. "Tell me something? Have you ever known a man you don't think you even like, but you can't stop yourself from fantasizing and dreaming about him?"

"Yeah."

"Who?"

"Steve Irwin."

"Who?"

"The Crocodile Hunter."

Gabrielle stared into Francis's big blue eyes. "You dream about The Crocodile Hunter?"

"Yeah, I think he's kind of big and dorky and could probably use lithium to bring him down a notch, but I love his accent. He looks pretty good in those safari shorts, too. I fantasize about wrestling with him."

"He's married to Teri."

"So what? I thought we were talking about fantasies." Francis paused to scratch her ear. "Are you fantasizing about your detective?"

Gabrielle dipped her fingers into the clay paste and spread it down the bridge of her friend's nose. "Is it that obvious?"

"No, but if he weren't yours, I'd dream up a few fantasies about him."

"Joe isn't mine. He's working in my store, and I find him mildly attractive."

"Bull."

"Okay, he's hot, but he isn't my type. He believes Kevin is involved in selling stolen art, and he probably still thinks I am as well." She spread the clay across Francis's cheeks and chin before she added, "And well, he thinks I'm weird even though he's the one who asked me if I could channel Elvis for him."

Francis smiled and got clay on the corner of her mouth. "Can you?"

"Don't be absurd. I'm not psychic."

"It's not absurd. You believe in other New Age stuff, so I don't think it's all that weird that he would ask you."

Gabrielle wiped her hands on a wet cloth, then bent at the waist and wrapped a towel around her own head. "Well, we were kind of making out at the time," she explained as she straightened.

"Making out?"

"Kissing." She and Francis traded places, and Gabrielle looked up into her friend's face, which was covered, except for her eyes and lips, with white paste. "And stuff."

"Oh, well that is weird." The smooth clay felt wonderful across Gabrielle's forehead, and she closed her eyes and tried to relax. "Did he want you to be Elvis, or did he just want to ask the King some questions?"

"What difference does it make? Things were getting pretty hot, and he stopped to ask me if I could channel Elvis."

"There's a big difference. If he just wanted to ask some questions, get a little info, then he's just a bit kinky. But if he wanted you to be the king of rock and roll, then you've got to get yourself a new man."

Gabrielle sighed and opened her eyes. "Joe isn't my man." The edge of Francis's mask and the tip of her nose were beginning to dry. "Your turn," she said and purposely changed the subject. "Why don't you tell me what you did last night." She was more confused than ever and didn't know what had made her think Francis could help her make sense of anything.

After the mask, they tried Gabrielle's toner and conditioning oil. By the time Francis left, both women had clean pores and a healthy glow to their skin. Gabrielle baked a veggie pizza for dinner, and sat down in front of the television to eat. With remote in hand, she surfed the networks looking for an episode of Crocodile Hunter. She wanted to see what Francis found so fascinating about a man who wrestled reptiles, but the doorbell rang before she'd had a chance to check out every channel. She set her plate on the coffee table, and moved to the entryway. Just as her hand reached for the knob, Joe stormed in, blowing past her like a funnel cloud. The scent of sandalwood and early evening breeze swept inside with him. He wore a pair of black nylon shorts with a Nike swoosh on the butt. The sleeves had been hacked out of his Big Dog T-shirt, and the arm-holes hung almost to his waist. His white socks were slightly dingy, his running shoes old. He looked macho and rough around the edges, just like the first time she'd seen him, leaning against a tree in Ann Morrison Park, smoking like a chimney.

"Okay, damnit, where is it?" He stopped in the middle of her living room.

Gabrielle shut the door and leaned back against it. Her gaze moved up his powerful calves and thighs to the scar marring his tan flesh.

"Come on, Gabrielle. Hand it over."

She raised her gaze to his face. He was about three hours past his five o'clock shadow, and he eyed her from beneath lowered brows. At one time, she would have thought him menac-ing, intimidating, and a big old bully. Not anymore. "Don't you have to have a warrant or writ or something before you can barge into a person's house?"

"Don't play games." He shoved his hands on his hips and cocked his head to one side. "Where is it?"

"What?"

"Fine." He tossed his wallet and key on the table beside her plate, then he proceeded to look behind her couch and in the coat closet.

"What are you doing?

"I leave you alone for one day, and you pull something like this." He sailed by her on his way to the dining room, where he quickly glanced around, then continued into the hall, his words trailing after him. "Just when I begin to think you have a brain, you go and do something so stupid."

"What?" The sound of his steps led to her bedroom, and Gabrielle quickly followed. By the time she got there, he'd opened and closed half her drawers. "If you tell me what you're looking for, I might save you some time."

Instead of giving her an answer, he threw open her closet doors and pushed aside her clothes. "I warned you not to protect him."

He bent at the waist, affording Gabrielle a nice view of his very nice backside. When he straightened, he had a box in his hands.

"Hey, put that back. That contains my personal stuff."

"You should have thought of that earlier. As of right now, you don't have personal stuff. You're in so deep, I don't even think that little weasel of a lawyer you hired can help you." He dumped out the box on her bed, and dozens of bras, panties, bustiers, and merry widows spilled across her duvet. He stared at her lingerie, and his eyes got wide.

If Gabrielle hadn't been so annoyed, she would have laughed.

"What in the hell?" He reached for a pair of black vinyl panties—crotchless, of course. They dangled from his index finger as he inspected them from all angles. "You've got underwear like a hooker."

She snatched the panties from him and tossed them with the others on the bed. " Francis gives me lingerie from her store. I don't really care for most of it."

He picked up a cherry red corset trimmed with black fringe. He looked like a kid with a whole assortment of his favorite candy spread out in front of him. A kid with cheeks tinged blue from a heavy five o'clock shadow. "I like this one."

"Of course you do." She folded her arms beneath her breasts and rested her weight on one foot.

"You should wear this."

"Joe, why are you here?"

Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from the undies on her bed. "I got a call that Kevin passed you something in a FedEx tube."

"What, is that what all of this is about? He wanted me to see some old movie posters he bought on the Internet."

"So, he was here?"

"Yes. How did you know about that?"

"Damnit." He tossed the corset on the bed and walked past her out of the room. "Why'd you let him in?"

Gabrielle followed close behind, her gaze pinned on the little curls brushing the nape of his neck. "He's my business partner. Why wouldn't I let him in?"

"Gee, I don't know. Maybe because he's a fence and involved in art theft. You figure it out."

Gabrielle hardly heard a word he said. Panic brushed aside all other thought as she followed him past the bathroom to the end of the hall. She grabbed his arm and pulled, but it was like trying to stop a bull. She dashed in front of him and spread her arms, blocking the doorway to her studio. "This is my private room," she said, her heart stopping and her head pounding. "You can't go in there."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Come up with something better."

On such short notice she couldn't. "Because I said."

He grasped her upper arms in his strong hands and moved her out of his way.

"No, Joe!"

The door swung open. A prolonged moment of silence hung in the air, during which Gabrielle prayed to any god listening that somehow the studio had changed since she'd been in there earlier that day.

"Sweet baby Jesus."

She guessed not.

Slowly he walked into the room, until he stood an arm's length away from the life-sized painting. Gabrielle wanted nothing more at that moment than to run away and hide, but where would she go? She glanced over his shoulder at the canvas, at the early evening sunlight pouring through the sheer curtains, bleaching a patch of light on the hardwood floor, and lighting up the portrait with a sort of ethereal glow. She hoped he wouldn't recognize himself.

"Is that," he asked, pointing at the painting, "supposed to be me?"

There was no hope now. She'd been caught. She might have a problem with proportional hands and feet, but she'd had absolutely no trouble with Joe's penis. There was only one thing to do—brave it out and hide her embarrassment as best she could. "I think it's very good," she said and crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

He looked back over his shoulder at her, his eyes a little glassy. "I'm naked."

"Nude."

"Same damn thing." He turned back, and Ga-brielle moved to stand beside him.

"Where are my hands and feet?"

She tilted her head. "Well, I haven't had time to paint them yet."

"I see you had time to paint my dick, though."

What could she say? "I think I did a good job with the shape of your eyes."

"And my balls too."

She tried once again to divert his attention upward. "I captured your mouth perfectly."

"Are those supposed to be my lips? They look puffy," he said, and she supposed she should be grateful he was no longer critiquing his genitals. "And what in the hell is the big red ball? Fire or something?"

"Your aura."

"Uh-huh." He turned his attention to the two paintings leaning against the far wall. "You've been busy."

She bit her top lip and didn't say anything. At least in the painting of him as a demon, he was clothed. The other, well…

"Didn't have time to paint the hands or feet on those either?"

"Not yet."

"Am I supposed to be the devil or something?" -

"Or something."

"What's with the dog?"

"It's a lamb."

"Oh… it looks like a Welsh corgi."

It looked nothing like a Welsh corgi, but Gabrielle didn't argue. First of all, she never explained her art, and second, she could overlook a few tactless comments and blame them on shock. She imagined it might be a bit disturbing to open a door and find a nude portrait of yourself staring back at you.

"Who's that?" he asked, pointing to the painting of his head and David's body.

"Don't you know?"

"That is not me."

"I used Michelangelo's sculpture of David as my model. I didn't know you had chest hair."

"Is that supposed to be funny?" he asked, incredulous, as he shook his head. "I never stand like that. He looks queer."

She hoped he meant queer as in strange, but she doubted it. "He's preparing for his battle with Goliath."

"Damn," he swore and pointed to David's groin. "Look at that. I haven't packed anything that small since I was two."

"You're fixated on your genitals."

"Not me, lady." He turned and directed his finger at her. "You're the one sneaking around painting pictures of my bare ass."

"I'm an artist."

"Yeah, and I'm an astronaut."

She'd been willing to forgive his rude criticism, but only up to a point, and he'd just stepped over the line. "You need to leave now."

He crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight to one foot. "Are you kicking me out?"

"Yes."

Undiluted machismo curved the corners of his mouth. "Do you think you're big enough?"

"Yes."

He laughed. "Without your hair spray, little miss bad ass?"

Okay, now she was mad. She shoved his chest and knocked him a step backward. The next time she pushed, he was ready for her and didn't budge. "You can't come in my house and bully me. I don't have to take this from you." She pushed again, and he grabbed her wrist. "You're an undercover cop. You're not my real boyfriend. I would never ever have a boyfriend like you."

His smile flatlined as if she'd insulted him somehow. Which was impossible. He'd have to have human emotions to feel insulted. "Why the hell not?"

"You're surrounded by negative energy," she said as she struggled to pull free of his grasp but couldn't. "And I don't like you."

He let her go, and she took a step back. "You liked me enough last night."

She folded her arms, and her gaze narrowed. "Last night there was a full moon."

"What about those naked pictures you painted of me?"

"What about them?"

"You don't paint a guy's dick you don't like."

"My only interest in your… ah," she couldn't say it. She just couldn't say the D word.

"You can go ahead and call it Mr. Happy," he supplied. "Or penis is good."

"Male anatomy," she said, "is that of an artist."

"There you go again." He placed his hands on her face and cupped her cheeks in his palms. "Creating bad karma for yourself." He lightly brushed one thumb across her chin.

"I'm not lying," she lied. Her breath got stuck in her throat and she thought he would kiss her. But he just laughed, dropped his hands, and turned toward the door. She was caught somewhere between relief and regret.

"I'm a professional artist," she assured Joe as she followed him into the living room.

"If you say so."

"I am!"

"I'll tell you what then," he said as he grabbed his keys from the coffee table, "the next time you feel the urge to paint, give a holler. You dress up in some of your naughty undies, and. I'll show you my anatomy. Up close and real personal."