ack laughed out loud as he drove away from the Minor residence; teasing Miss Daisy was becoming the highlight of his life. She responded to the least provocation as if he'd touched her with a cattle prod. When he'd said they'd been seeing each other for a week or so—which was, strictly speaking, true—she'd jumped and stared at him with undisguised horror before blurting, "We have not,” in such appalled tones he'd had the urge to check his reflection in a mirror to see if he'd suddenly sprouted horns and a forked tail. Except for his ex-wife, he'd never had any complaints from a woman before, so Daisy's reaction pissed him off a little. And even his ex had never complained in bed. What was Miss Daisy's problem?

Then she'd turned beet red and began trying to explain things. "We're just friends—well, not really I mean, he's a Yankee. He was at the club with me last night—not with me, just there at the same time—so when the fight started—"

"Fight?" A harmony of voices echoed the word. Her mother and aunt looked horrified, her sister looked stunned, her brother-in-law was alarmed, and the two nephews were fascinated.

"I didn't start it," Daisy said hastily. "Not exactly. It wasn't my fault. But the chief—"

"Jack," he put in.

She gave him a harried glance. "—Jack carried me out, and today he came by to tell me about date-rape drugs and... oh, dear," she finished, her odd-colored eyes widening as she realized her nephews were listening with sharp attention.

"Drugs," her mother said faintly, going pale. The bowl of ice cream wobbled in her hand.

Daisy took a deep breath and tried to be reassuring. "I didn't see any. And I'll be careful."

"What's wrong with being a Yankee?" Jack had demanded, his eyes shining with delight that he tried to hide.

She began spluttering again as she realized she'd been rude— in public, which seemed to be a big thing to her. "Well... nothing, except for—I mean, you aren't exactly..." Her thoughts evidently hit a wall, because her voice trailed off.

"I thought we were friends." He managed to keep a straight face and look solemn, even a little hurt. He wasn't exactly what? Her type? He'd go along with that. She was a naive prude, and he was a cop; enough said.

"You did?" she asked doubtfully, as he dug into his ice cream to distract himself. The cold, soft ice cream melted on his tongue, and he almost groaned with delight. There was nothing— nothing—like real homemade ice cream.

He swallowed and said, "Sure. You even gave me the mauve gay test. You don't do that to someone who isn't a friend."

Her family was listening in wide-eyed fascination. Both her

mother and aunt gasped. "Oh, my," her aunt Joella said faintly. "Did you pass?"

He rubbed his jaw to hide his grin. So this was where she got it from. "I don't know. If you know the answer, does that mean you pass or fail?"

Aunt Joella blinked. "Well—neither, I guess. It just means you're gay" She paused. “Are you?"

“Aunt Jo!" Daisy moaned, covering her eyes with her free hand.

"No, ma'am." He took another bite of ice cream. "But that isn't a good test, because I know what color mauve is."

Aunt Jo nodded decisively. "Just what I thought. How about puce?"

"Daisy made me look it up in the dictionary," he said, unable to hide his grin any longer. "I accused her of making it up."

Aunt Jo leaned back, satisfaction written on her face. "I told you," she said to Daisy's mother, Evelyn.

Poor Daisy had taken her hand down and was looking around as if searching for the best escape route. Jack forestalled her by grabbing her arm and pulling her down with him onto the love seat, which was the only free seating left in the room, making him wonder if her mother had arranged things so they'd have to sit side by side. If so, it was fine with him.

He stayed for almost an hour, making small talk and eating another bowl of ice cream while Daisy swirled her spoon in hers until it melted. She kept giving him wary looks and trying to inch away. Very protective of her personal space, was Miss Daisy. He deliberately intruded on it, letting his thigh brush hers, sometimes leaning so that his big shoulders crowded her, occasionally putting his hand on her bare arm. She couldn't tear a strip off his hide in front of her family the way she had in the library, and he took full advantage of what Aunt Bessie would have called her "company manners."

By the time he left, Miss Daisy was almost ready to explode.

Well, let her fume, he thought as he drove home. So she didn't like him, huh? She didn't consider him a friend, she'd been horrified at the idea that he might be "courting" her, and she was plainly appalled at the idea her family might think they were even going out together.

Too fucking bad, he thought cheerfully. Part of it was because he couldn't resist a challenge and part of it was because she was so damn much fun, but he'd made up his mind: this particular Yankee was going to get in her pants.

He had the feeling she'd be a real firecracker when she let go. Daisy wasn't frozen; she was just untried. If she'd ever had sex, she hadn't had much of it. He planned to change that state of affairs and really give her something to blush about.

He hadn't had a steady relationship since his divorce; he'd had sex, but been careful not to let a routine develop with any of the women. Relationships were a lot of work, and he hadn't been interested enough to make the effort. Until now, that is. Daisy was both innocent and complicated, naive and knowledgeable, sharp-tongued but without an ounce of malice in her—something that couldn't be said about many people. She appealed to him, with her different-colored eyes, old-fashioned ways, and utter openness. Daisy not only didn't play games, she didn't know what the games were. A man would always know where he stood with her. Right now he was on her shit list, but he planned to change that.

Unless he missed his guess, Daisy was looking for a man. All the signs were there: the sudden change in her hair and clothes, wearing makeup, and suddenly going to nightclubs. If a man was what she wanted, she needed to look no further. He volunteered for the job. Not that he was going to tell her; she'd likely run as fast as she could in the opposite direction. No, he'd have to play

his cards close to the vest for a while, until she got over the idea he wasn't her type.

Until then, he'd have to keep her out of trouble, which could be a full-time job. Now he'd not only have to cruise the bars and nightclubs looking for some bastard who liked to slip women a drug that could kill them, he'd have to make certain Daisy didn't let some other man get too close to her, much less drug her. The way she'd spruced herself up, that might be a problem. She looked good as a blonde, especially with that sexy new haircut. As for her clothes—who would ever have suspected she'd been hiding a pair of breasts like that under those frumpy blouses she'd always worn before? Plus she had great legs; he wasn't the only one who'd noticed them the night before, either. He had plans for those legs; he bet they'd look fine draped over his shoulders.

He'd thought she was kind of cute even before, not that he'd ever have noticed her if he hadn't sat so close to her in the library. But that close he'd been able to tell how fine and translucent her skin was, almost like a baby's, and he'd noted those strange eyes, one blue and one green. It made her gaze oddly piercing, as if she saw deeper than others did. And she'd been downright pretty when she got angry, with color in her cheeks and her eyes snapping and sparkling. He'd planned to stop by the library more often—and then he'd recognized her at the Buffalo Club last night and damn near trampled several people in his rush to get to her before she got hurt in the brawl, not to mention get her out of that jerk's lap.

She was definitely going to be trouble, but he could handle it—with pleasure.

Sykes was pissed. Mitchell had been at the Buffalo Club over near Huntsville last night, but by the time Sykes had got there, he was long gone and sheriff's deputies were swarming the place, sorting things out after a brawl. It was just bad luck, but he was still

pissed; if he'd gotten there half an hour sooner, everything would have been handled and Mitchell would be out of their hair.

At least he knew Mitchell was out moving around now, instead of staying holed up somewhere. That increased the chances of getting a line on him, but Sykes still wasn't having any luck. The bastard was slicker than he'd thought, though not slick enough not to kill the merchandise in the first place.

But the bartender at the Buffalo Club, who had called him in the first place, owed him more than one favor. When Sykes showed up on his doorstep on Sunday, he wasn't happy, but he wasn't surprised, either.

"Hey, I called you as soon as I saw him," Jimmy said, darting his eyes from side to side as if worried about someone seeing them together. "But some idiot started a fight just right after that, and everybody cleared out."

"No problem," said Sykes. He wasn't here to make things rough on Jimmy. "Did you notice if he was with someone?"

"Not that I saw, but he bought two drinks. A beer for himself, and a Coke."

So old Mitchell had already hooked up with a girl, or was at least trying to; and since he'd failed, presumably, because of the brawl, he'd be out looking again as soon as possible. Not tonight; bars were closed on Sunday. But tomorrow night, for certain. Would he go back to the Buffalo Club so soon? Maybe, if he wanted that particular girl, but what were the odds the same girl would be there on Monday night? She'd have to be real dedicated to the club scene. Still, it was possible.

"Keep an eye out for him tomorrow night," Sykes said. "I don't think he'll be there, but he might, and it should be easier to spot him than it was this weekend." That gave Jimmy an excuse for not seeing Mitchell earlier.

Jimmy grinned, at ease now that he knew Sykes wasn't mad.

"You think? We're pretty busy all the time, but, yeah, this past weekend was really crowded."

Sykes passed him a folded hundred-dollar bill, with Ben's face showing. "You were on your toes, but you can't predict when a fight will start." A little palm grease was always welcome. Of course, when Mitchell "disappeared," Jimmy would have to go too, but those were the breaks. A smart man didn't leave loose ends.

A black Ford Explorer pulled into Todd Lawrence's driveway, and an older man got out. He strode up the sidewalk and mounted the steps; the front door opened before he reached the porch. "So how'd it go last night?" Todd asked as he led the way to the kitchen, where a pot of strong coffee had been freshly brewed.

"She's a good dancer," the older man said neutrally. He had graying brown hair and brown eyes, and an average build. He could and did blend in almost anywhere.

“Anybody come on to her?"

The man snorted. "Men were all over her. They wouldn't have paid nearly as much attention to her if she'd been dressed like the others, in jeans and a tube top. It was like Grace Kelly had walked in." He opened a cabinet door and took down a coffee cup, then filled it.

Todd grinned. That was exactly the effect he'd aimed for in Daisy's makeover. He was rather proud of his work. “Anybody buy her a drink?"

"She didn't have time to drink anything. She hit the dance floor and danced several dances; then a fight started right after that and some big guy grabbed her and carried her outside."

Todd's eyes narrowed. "Did you follow them?"

"Of course I followed," the other man said testily. "That's the

idea, right? But this guy just put her in her car, and she drove off alone."

"Did you recognize him?"

The man shook his head. "He hadn't danced with her, but they knew each other. They had a little argument outside. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but you could tell she was mad at him." Taking his cup to the table, he pulled out a chair and sat down. "This isn't a good idea," he said flatly.

"I agree." Todd picked up his own cup and leaned against the cabinet while he sipped. "But it's better than no idea at all. And she's perfect; she's so naive she won't be as careful as most women are."

"Most women aren't. Damn it, you can't keep tabs on every move she makes. What's she going to do, ask your permission every time she goes out?"

"I'll start calling every day, just to check on her. Girl talk." Todd gave a thin smile, and the other man snorted. "She'll tell me if she's going out, and I can guide her to the places we suspect."

“And you really expect to find out something?"

"It's like fishing. You can't see the fish, but you know they're there. You just throw out the bait and hope something bites. Look, she was going to do this anyway. At least this way, you can keep an eye on her."

"I do have a life, you know. Going out every night and stomping my way through line dances isn't something I'm crazy about. I might miss an episode of Millionaire."

"I'll tape them for you."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams, sweetheart."

The other man burst out laughing. "God, you're good! That was just right. Look, why don't we just concentrate on the job we

were sent down here for, and leave your little private vendetta to the local cops?"

"Because they haven't accomplished shit. This isn't interfering with the job—"

"The hell it isn't. I'm not at top speed if I've been out dancing into the wee hours every night."

"It won't be every night; just the weekends, if I read her right. She's too responsible to go out on a work night. Besides, she'll be busy getting her house ready to move into; she tells me all about it."

“Any man who thinks he knows what a woman will do is a fool."

"I'll give you that, but I told you, I'm going to call her every afternoon about the time she gets home from the library, just to check. I don't want anything to happen to her, either."

"So what happens if we get contacted when she's going out, Pygmalion? Who's going to watch her then?"

"We've been working this job for, what, a year and a half? What are the odds it's going to break anytime soon, and on one of the two nights a week when Daisy is most likely to go out?"

"Look, buddy, there's this big pile of shit just flying around looking for a place to happen. Just be prepared for it to dump on us, is what I'm saying. And she'll be the one who's hurt."