T WAS AFTER TWO IN THE MORNING WHEN THE RADIO alerted him to the call on Briarwood. Thompson Cahill was on his way home, but the call sounded a lot more interesting than anything he had waiting for him there, so he turned his pickup truck around and headed back up Highway 280. The patrol officers hadn’t called for an investigator, but what the hell, the call sounded like fun and he could use a little amusement in his life.

He left 280 and got on Cherokee Road; at this time of morning there wasn’t any traffic to speak of as he snaked his way through the quiet streets, so in just a few minutes he was on Briarwood. The address wasn’t hard to find: it was the house with all the vehicles with flashing lights parked in front of it. That’s why he was an investigator; he could figure out things like that. Duh.

He clipped his badge to his belt and got his sport jacket from the hook behind the seat, slipping it on over his faded black T-shirt. There was a tie in the pocket of the jacket; he left it there, since he didn’t have a dress shirt to pull on over the T-shirt. He’d have to go for the Miami Vice look this time.

The usual assortment of uniforms were milling around: cops, firemen, medics, ambulance attendants. The windows in all the neighboring houses were ablaze with lights, and occupied by onlookers, but only a few had been curious enough to leave their houses and gather in the street. After all, this was Briarwood Road, and Briarwood meant old money.

The shift supervisor, George Plenty, greeted him. “What are you doing here, Doc?”

“Good morning to you, too. I was on my way home and heard the call. It sounded like fun, so here I am. What happened?”

George hid a grin. The general public had no idea how much fun police work was. Parts of it, the parts that could drive a cop to drink, were grim and dangerous, but a lot of it was just damn funny. Plain and simple, people were nuts.

“The two guys were smart; cut the power and phone lines, and disabled the alarm system. Seems they thought only one old man lived here, so they figured he’d never even wake up. Turns out, though, he has a butler. The smart guys were busy carrying out a big-screen television when she tripped the one in the lead. He fell, the television fell on him, and for good measure she sucker punched the other one in the head as he was going down and knocked him cold. Then she tied him up with telephone cord.” George chuckled. “He’s come around, but he still isn’t making a lot of sense.”

“‘She’?” Cahill asked, not certain George had his pronouns straight.

“She.”

“A female butler?”

“So they say.”

Cahill snorted. “Yeah, right.” The old guy might have a woman living with him, but he doubted she was his butler.

“That’s their story and they’re sticking to it.” George looked around. “Since you’re here, why don’t you give the guys a hand with the statements, get this thing wrapped up.”

“Sure.”

He ambled into the huge house. Battery-powered lights had been set up in the hallway ahead, the spill of light—and the congestion of people—leading him to the scene. Automatically he sniffed the air; it was habit, a cop checking for alcohol or weed. What was it about the houses of rich people? They smelled different, as if the wood that framed the walls was different from the ordinary wood used to build ordinary houses. He detected fresh flowers, furniture polish, a faint, lingering odor of dinner—something Italian—but neither alcohol nor smoke of any kind, legal or illegal.

He reached the hallway and stood to the side for a minute, studying the scene. A team of medics was crouched around a guy on the floor; the carcass of a huge, broken television lay nearby. The guy on the floor was moaning and carrying on as they immobilized his left leg. Another man, a big dude, was sitting on the floor with his hands cuffed behind him. He was answering questions asked by a medic shining a light in his eyes, but it was evident the little birdies were still circling his head.

A tall, skinny old man with a shock of disordered white hair was standing to the left, out of the way, calmly giving a statement to an officer. He wore his dignity like a cloak, despite the fact that he was in a robe and pajamas, with slippers on his feet. He kept an eye on the proceedings even while he was answering questions, as if he wanted to make certain everything was handled correctly.

To the right was a flight of stairs, and on the fourth step from the bottom sat a woman in light cotton pajamas, talking on a cell phone. Her feet were bare and pressed closely together, perfectly aligned; her thick dark hair was tousled, as if she had just gotten out of bed. Well, she probably had. In another example of astute detective work, he deduced that she was the live-in, otherwise why would she be in pajamas? Damn, he was sharp tonight.

Even in pajamas, no makeup, hair a mess, she was a good-looking woman. No, better than just good-looking. She was downright fine—from what he could see maybe an eight, and that was without makeup. Money might not buy happiness, but it sure did buy old geezers some prime pussy, assuming he could still do anything other than reminisce.

The familiar anger bit at Cahill; he had lived, slept, and eaten with that anger for over two years now, and he was well aware he wasn’t being fair to this woman. Finding out his wife was a lying, cheating bitch, then being dragged through a long, bitter divorce was enough to sour any man. He pushed the anger aside, though, to concentrate on the job. That was one thing he’d managed to do: the job.

He approached one of the patrol officers—Wilkins, fairly young, fairly new, and damn good, but then he had to be good to land a job with the Mountain Brook P.D. Wilkins was standing guard over the burly guy with the handcuffs and the concussion, watching as the medic checked him.

“Need a hand taking statements?”

Wilkins looked around, a little surprised to see him. In that split second of inattention the guy on the floor lunged forward, knocking down the medic and surging to his feet with surprising agility. Wilkins whirled, quick as a cat, but Cahill was quicker. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman on the stairs kind of flow to her feet as he pivoted on the ball of his left foot and planted his size eleven right boot square in the guy’s solar plexus. He put just enough power in it to double the big guy over, gagging and gasping for breath. Wilkins was on the perp before he could hit the floor, and two other officers came up to help. Seeing they had him controlled—after all, he couldn’t breathe yet—Cahill stepped back and glanced at the medic, who was wiping a bloody nose as he climbed to his feet. “Guess he wasn’t hurt as bad as he acted.”

“Guess not.” Taking a pad of gauze from his supplies, the medic held it over his nose, then caught a deep breath. “Do you think he might be now?”

“He’s just winded. I didn’t kick him that hard.” A full-power kick to the chest could stop the heart, crush the sternum, do all sorts of internal damage. He’d been careful not to even crack the guy’s ribs.

Wilkins stood up, panting. “Do you still want to do some paperwork, Cahill?”

Paperwork was the bane of a cop’s life; it was a measure of how bored Cahill was that he said, “Sure.”

Wilkins nodded to the woman, who had resumed her seat on the stairs and her conversation on the cell phone. “Take her statement while we get Rambo here into a unit.”

“Be glad to,” Cahill murmured, and he meant it. The way she had moved when the robber tried to get away had piqued his interest. She hadn’t screamed, hadn’t scrambled to get out of the way; instead she had moved smoothly, totally balanced, her attention focused on the robber. If he himself hadn’t stopped the guy, Cahill thought, she would have—or at least tried—which brought up a lot of questions he wanted to ask.

He approached the stairs, the glare of the battery-operated lights behind him and the stark light full on her face. She continued talking on the cell phone, her expression calm and focused, though she held up one finger at his approach to tell him she’d be finished in a moment.

He was a cop; he wasn’t used to people telling him to wait. Faint irritation flashed through him, then instantly morphed into amusement. God, maybe he was an arrogant shithead, as his ex-wife had been fond of telling him. Besides, even if this woman was an old man’s arm decoration, she was definitely easy on the eyes.

Because looking at her was so easy, he did, automatically cataloging the details: dark hair, not quite shoulder length, and dark eyes. If he were taking down a description of her, he’d have to say “brown” and “brown,” but that didn’t come close to the actual color. The lights glinted on her hair, making it look like dark, rich chocolate—and her eyes were darker.

He pegged her age at late twenties, early thirties. Height... five-five, maybe five-six. He was tempted to give her another couple of inches but realized it was her almost military posture that gave the impression of her being taller than she actually was. Weight between one-twenty and one-thirty. Her skin was smooth and flawless, with a creamy texture that made him think of licking an ice-cream cone.

She ended the call and extended her hand to him. “Thank you for waiting. I had waded through the phone company’s computerized multiple-choice menu and didn’t want to start over. I’m Sarah Stevens.”

“Detective Cahill.” Her hand felt small and cool in his, but her grip was surprisingly strong. “Could you walk me through what happened here tonight?” Her accent wasn’t southern; it wasn’t anything that he could nail down. Yeah, that was it: it wasn’t anything. She didn’t have any kind of accent.

“I’d be glad to.” She indicated the stairs. “Would you like to sit down?”

He sure would, but then he’d be rubbing shoulders with her, and that wasn’t a good idea while he was on the job. His thoughts since first seeing her had been way out of line, and that wasn’t good. His mental brakes went on, and he pulled back from the edge, forcing himself to concentrate on the job. “No, thanks, I’ll stand.” He took his notebook from the pocket of his jacket and flipped to an empty page. “How do you spell your name?”

“Sarah with an h, Stevens with a v.”

“Are you the one who discovered the break-in?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you know approximately what time it was?”

“No, my bedside clock is electric, but I estimate it has been about thirty minutes since I woke.”

“What woke you? Did you hear a noise?”

“No. My quarters are over the garage; I can’t hear anything from there. When they cut the power line, my ceiling fan stopped. That’s what woke me.”

“Then what happened?”

Sarah related the course of events as concisely as possible, though she was acutely aware of her thin pajamas and bare feet. She wished she had taken the time to put on a robe and slippers, or pull a brush through her hair. Or maybe even do a full makeup job and slip into a negligee, spray herself with perfume, and hang an “I’m available” sign around her neck. Then she could take Detective Cahill to her quarters and sit on the side of the bed while she gave him her statement.

She smiled inwardly at her own silliness, but her heartbeat had started racing at the sight of him and was still tripping along at too fast a pace. Through whatever quirk of chemistry or biology, or maybe a combination of the two, she felt an instant physical attraction to him. It happened occasionally—this sudden little buzz that made her remember what made the world go ’round—though not for a while, and never before this strongly. She enjoyed the private thrill; it was like riding a roller coaster without having to leave the ground.

She glanced at his left hand. It was bare, though that didn’t necessarily mean he was single, or uninvolved. Men who looked like he did were seldom totally unattached. Not that he was handsome; his face was kind of rough, his beard was about eight hours past being a five-o’clock shadow, and his dark hair was too short. But he was one of those men who somehow seemed more male than the other men around him, almost as if he had testosterone oozing from his pores, and women definitely noticed that. Plus his body looked totally ripped; the jacket he wore over his black T-shirt disguised that somewhat, but she had grown up around men who made it a point to be in top physical condition, and she knew the way they moved and carried themselves. Unfortunately, he also looked as if his face would break if he smiled. She could appreciate his body, but from what she could see, his personality sucked.

“What’s your relationship with Judge Roberts?” he asked, his tone so neutral as to border on uninterested. He glanced up at her, his face delineated by harsh shadows that made it impossible to read his expression.

“He’s my employer.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a butler.”

“A butler.” He said it as if he’d never before heard the word.

“I manage the household,” she explained.

“And that involves...?”

“A lot, such as overseeing the rest of the staff; scheduling repairs and services; some cooking; making certain his clothes are clean and his shoes shined, his car serviced and washed regularly, bills are paid, and in general that he isn’t bothered by anything that he doesn’t want to bother him.”

“Other staff?”

“No one full-time. I count as staff the cleaning service, two women who come in twice a week; the gardener, who works three days a week; his office temp, who comes in once a week; and the cook—Monday through Friday, lunch and dinner.”

“I see.” He consulted his notes, as if rechecking a detail. “Does being a butler also require you to study martial arts?”

Ah. She wondered what had given her away. She had noticed, of course, that beautifully judged kick with which he had taken down the big burglar and known immediately that he did his own share of training.

“No,” she said mildly.

“It’s an interest you pursue on your own time?”

“Not exactly.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I’m also a trained bodyguard.” She kept her voice soft, so it wouldn’t carry. “The Judge doesn’t like it broadcast, but he’s received some death threats in the past and his family insisted he have someone trained in personal security.”

He had been totally professional before, but now he looked at her with frank interest, and a little surprise. “Have any of those threats been recent?”

“No. I honestly don’t think he’s in active danger. I’ve been with him for almost three years, and in that time he hasn’t received any new threats. But when he was on the bench, several people did threaten to kill him, and his daughter in particular was uneasy about his safety.”

He glanced at his notes again. “So that wasn’t exactly a lucky punch you threw, was it?”

She smiled faintly. “I hope not. Just as your kick wasn’t just luck.”

“What discipline do you practice?”

“Karate, mainly, to stay in shape.”

“What degree?”

“Brown.”

He gave a brief nod. “Anything else? You said ‘mainly.’”

“I do kick-boxing, too. How does this pertain to the investigation?”

“It doesn’t. I was just curious.” He closed the little notebook. “And there isn’t an investigation; I was getting a preliminary statement. It all goes in the report.”

“Why isn’t there an investigation?” she asked indignantly.

“They were caught in the act, with Judge Roberts’s property loaded in their pickup. There’s nothing to investigate. All that’s left to do is the paperwork.”

For him, maybe; she still had to deal with the insurance company and getting the sliding glass doors in the sunroom repaired, not to mention replacing the broken television. The Judge, typical man, had loved his big screen and had already mentioned that he was thinking about getting a high-definition television this time.

“Does the fact that I’m also the Judge’s bodyguard have to go in the report?” she asked.

He had been about to move away; he paused, looking down at her. “Why?”

She lowered her voice even more. “The Judge prefers his friends don’t know. I think it embarrasses him that his kids nagged him into hiring a bodyguard. As it is, he’s the envy of his crowd because he has a female butler; you can imagine the jokes they make. Plus, if there is any sort of threat to him, it gives me an edge if no one knows I’m trained to guard him.”

He tapped the notebook against his palm, his expression still unreadable, but then he shrugged and said, “It isn’t relevant to the case. As I said, I was just curious.”

He might never smile, but she did; she gave him a big, relieved one. “Thank you.”

He nodded and walked away, and Sarah sighed in regret. The packaging was fine, but the contents were blah.

The morning was beyond hectic. Getting any more sleep was impossible, of course, but getting anything accomplished was equally so. Without electricity she couldn’t prepare the Judge’s preferred breakfast, cinnamon French toast, or do laundry or even iron his morning newspaper so the ink didn’t rub off on his fingers. She served him cold cereal, fat-free yogurt, and fresh fruit, which made him grumble about healthy food being the death of him. Nor was there hot coffee, which made them both very unhappy.

An enterprising idea sent her next door to the Cheatwoods’ house, where she made a trade with the cook, Martha: the inside skinny on the night’s happenings for a thermos of fresh coffee. Armed with caffeine, she returned home and calmed the troubled waters. After her own second cup, she was ready to tackle the day’s problems again.

She didn’t mind making a pest of herself, if she got the desired results. Two more phone calls to the power company produced a repair truck and a lanky man who without haste set to work. Half an hour later, the house hummed to life and he moseyed away.

Harassing the phone company was more trouble; they—the unknown “they” in charge—had so arranged things that either one could leave a voice mail message, forgoing the comfort of speaking to a real human in favor of saving time, or one could tolerate being put on hold for an obscene amount of time waiting for said real human to become available for haranguing. Sarah was stubborn; her cell phone weighed only a few ounces, and she had unlimited minutes. She waited; but eventually her persistence was rewarded, right before noon, by another repair truck bearing that most precious of human beings, Someone Who Could Fix Things.

Of course, as soon as the phone line was restored, the phone began ringing off the hook. All of the Judge’s friends had heard about the night’s adventure and they wanted a blow-by-blow description. Some busybody called the Judge’s oldest son, Randall, who called his two siblings, Jon and Barbara. The Judge didn’t mind so much his sons knowing, but he wrinkled his nose in dismay when the Caller ID flashed his daughter’s number. Not only did Barbara worry excessively about her father, but she had by far the most forceful personality of his three children. In Sarah’s opinion, Barbara was more forceful than an armored tank. For all that, Sarah really liked the woman; Barbara was good-hearted and good-tempered, just relentless.

The insurance agent arrived while the Judge was still talking to his daughter, so Sarah showed him the damage and was in the process of giving him the pertinent information for filing the claim—she even had the Judge’s receipt for the purchase of the television, which impressed the hell out of the insurance agent—when Judge Roberts came wandering into Sarah’s tiny office, looking pleased with himself.

“Guess who called,” he said.

“Barbara,” Sarah said.

“After that. The call beeped in, thank God, or I’d still be talking to her. Some television reporter wants to come out and do a feature on us.”

“Us?” Sarah asked blankly.

“You, mostly.”

She stared at him, startled. “Why?”

“Because you foiled a robbery, you’re a young woman, and you’re a butler. He wants to know all about butlering. He said it would be a wonderful human-interest piece. Silly phrase, isn’t it? ‘Human-interest.’ As if monkeys or giraffes would be remotely interested.”

“That’s wonderful,” said the insurance agent enthusiastically. “Which station is it?”

The Judge pursed his lips. “I forget,” he said after a moment. “Does it matter? But they’ll be here tomorrow morning at eight.”

Sarah hid her dismay. Her daily routine would be totally destroyed for the second day in a row. The Judge, however, was clearly excited about the prospect of his butler being interviewed. He and his friends were all retired, so they had no outlets for their natural competitiveness other than themselves. They played poker and chess, they swapped tall tales, and they tried to one-up each other. This would be a major coup for him. And even if it wasn’t, she could scarcely refuse; as much as she adored him, she never forgot he was her employer.

“I’ll be ready,” she said, already mentally reshuffling her day so everything would be as perfect as she could make it.