Ryanne stood before the book store shelf and made an irritated hiss, sucking air between her front teeth. Five copies of her latest novel in this place, and none of them faced out. With a practiced hand she took the row of paperbacks and turned them so they stacked with the cover visible and her name right there in dripping, blood red. Then she moved on.

That man was still following her. She rounded the end of the stacks and caught him in the corner of her eye for just the second it took to register him on her retina. Then she hurried down the next aisle and rounded the other end in an effort to lose him. Having put two stacks between them, she made a leisurely examination of the visual memory she'd just registered.

He was handsome in a harsh sort of way. High cheekbones, straight eyebrows, brown hair to his shoulders...he looked a bit like a graduate student in his turtleneck and overcoat. Or perhaps an artist of some kind. But she knew both assessments were faulty. He seemed neither of these things in the way he carried himself.

She browsed among the books for a moment, waiting to see if he would follow again, and decided she'd lost him. Only then did she realize she was browsing the home-mechanics how- to books, and she moved along to the foreign-language dictionaries.

This was what she'd come for. Her reference library at home was extensive, but it lacked an Italian/English dictionary. She took a nice, thick one from the shelf and went to the checkout. That man following her stepped into line behind her, from out of nowhere, it seemed. She smiled to herself and moved forward as the line to the cash register became shorter.

A bored expression carefully arranged on her face, she turned to notice the book he'd chosen to buy. It was by Anne Tyler. One good look at this man's face and she nearly laughed. Tyler? This guy? Yeah, right. It was either a gift or else he'd picked it up from the remainders table near the coffee counter. Which was the perfect place to observe the checkout counter and be right there handy to step into the line at the opportune moment. It was time to turn the old tables.

She leaned over to read the title, then smiled up at him. "You like Anne Tyler?"

He glanced at the cover as if to check what he'd picked up, then said, "To be perfectly honest, I've never read her. This is a gift for a friend." Okay, plausible. She gave him the benefit of that doubt.

His speech was precise--almost clipped. As if there were a vestige of a foreign accent. French? It was hard to tell from a couple of sentences. He gestured to the book in her hand. "You speak Italian?"

"If I did, I wouldn't need this, would I?"

He gave a tiny smile. "Oh, I'll bet you've got an English dictionary at home somewhere, even though you're obviously fluent in that language."

Her interest in him perked. A man with a brain _and_ a sense of humor! She laughed and said, "Busted."

This time his smile was wide, and it was the smile of someone unused to it. "So what do you need an Italian dictionary for? Are you going on a trip?"

She shook her head. "I write fiction, and I'm writing a character who is Italian. I don't need to translate all his dialogue, but a word here and there adds a little color."

"Ah. _Capisco._" He nodded, and she now wondered if his accent was Italian. But, no, it just didn't ring that way. Where _was_ this guy from? He continued, "So you write colorful fiction?"

"I write fiction, and I'm a research freak. Over the years I've become a treasure trove of worthless information." A strange look crossed his eyes for a moment, then fled. At the same time his smile faded, then returned. She continued as if she hadn't seen, "I never know what little shred of detail I'll find useful in my work, so I try to remember everything."

"You have a photographic memory?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Well, I have an extremely accurate visual memory. Images stay with me for a long time. It comes in handy."

"I bet it does." Again there was a flash of Something in his eyes, but it passed.

It was Ryanne's turn at the cash register, and she paid for her dictionary. As she gathered her purse and the bag to leave, the man said, "You know, I think it's fascinating that you're a writer." She turned to him and smiled, waiting for the line she'd known all along would come. She also suspected he knew she knew it. Then he said it: "Would you have dinner with me tonight?"

Not a bad pickup line. Straightforward, simple, but more graceful than "Let's fuck."

"How did you know I'm not married?"

He shrugged and glanced around the room, then looked straight back at her. "No ring, your tone of voice...I don't know, just a hunch I guess."

She nodded. "Ah. _Capisco._" He smiled, and she continued, "I'd love to have dinner with you. Meet me at Julian's on Second Avenue. Six o'clock. My name is Ryanne."

He opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind about what to say and nodded. "I'm Michael. I'll see you there." Ryanne wondered where he would have taken her if she'd let him make the suggestion. She also wondered how long he'd been following her and how far in advance he'd planned the dinner invitation. Oh, well, the look on his face had been priceless. She loved a man who could think on his feet.

Dinner was wonderful food and delightful conversation. Michael kept the talk flowing, leaving little of the effort to her. He seemed to know about almost everything and was curious about everything else, but he focused on her throughout the evening. Her ego was just enough in need of stroking for it to please her, and she found herself smiling more than she'd done in years.

Michael seemed to enjoy himself. His own smile relaxed to a more natural expression, Ryanne guessed from the wine. A warmth swelled in her as she watched his face, and her pulse picked up when she noticed the way his jacket hung. He carried a gun.

A cop? That was sure a surprise. Most cops had regulation hair and an attitude to match. Ordinary police weren't usually as well-spoken nor as well-read as Michael obviously was. Ryanne suspected FBI, but even that didn't click. When she finally began to think organized crime, it seemed possible.

Things were getting interesting.

Even more interesting was the way he looked straight into her eyes. She looked straight back, and it almost seemed like a feedback loop that grew until it vibrated, on-frequency with her soul. She hoped he would follow her back to her apartment, but knew if he didn't she would talk him into it.

He needed no coaxing. The walk was a short one, three blocks up and a block to the right. She lived in an ancient brick building, in a tiny apartment that was nevertheless worth the outrageous rent just for the view of the intersection below the bay window. She loved to people- watch and often spent hours gazing at the street from the ottoman by the window.

Michael looked around at the tiny living room as he took off his overcoat. "Nice place."

"It's small, but it's ugly."

"No, really. Small can sometimes be...comforting."

"Cozy."

The little smile returned. "Yeah. Cozy."

Ryanne took the coat and hung it on a tree near the door. "Relax. I'll make some coffee." She went into the kitchen to do so, but kept her own movements quiet to hear his in the next room. She heard nothing, but when she poked her head out the door she found him by the bookcase, examining the videotapes. There weren't many out here; the bulk of her collection she kept in her office, where bookshelves lined the walls from ceiling to floor. Out here were only a few classic books and movies for display.

"You don't have many books, for a writer," he called out, his back still to her.

She slipped into the kitchen again before replying, "I guess not. I borrow from the library and depend on my memory." The office was her sanctum, so she refrained from mentioning she had other books lest he ask to see them.

"I see. But you wanted to keep the Italian dictionary, so you bought it?"

She made an irritated hiss between her teeth and set the coffee to drip. "It'll probably end up going to a used book store eventually."

"That makes sense. No reason to keep books you don't need any more."

"Right." She returned to the living room, and as he turned toward her she slipped her arms around him. The gun was a huge, hard lump in a shoulder holster under his left armpit, and she grasped the fabric of his jacket to snap the strap across his back underneath. He wiggled from her grasp, and she grinned. "Is that a gun under your arm, or are you just _really, really_ happy to see me?"

He chuckled. "I'm a police officer."

"Of course, you are." She reached up and laid a hand against his face. "I can see in your eyes you're a lover of justice." He bit the inside corner of his mouth, then bent to her as she reached up to kiss him. It didn't matter to her if he was a cop or a hit man; he was a fascinating character and he could kiss like fire.

She pressed herself to him, and was delighted to feel his breaths come hard. He thrust his fingers into her hair at the back of her head, and she opened her mouth to him so his tongue could enter her. Her hands went to his belly, which was lean and tense, as tight as a drum. Her fingernails raked lightly over his shirt and a moan rumbled in the back of his throat.

A laugh rose, and she swallowed it. She loved to make reserved men crumble and relished every quiver of muscle and each incoherency.

He took a step back. "I think the coffee is ready."

She pulled him close again and kissed him more deeply than before. In a low voice, her lips hardly leaving his, she said, "Let's forget the coffee."

His voice went low and soft. "I'd really like some."

"It can wait, don't you think?" Her hand went to the front of his pants and found his other weapon, as hard but not nearly as cold as the first. "Hmmm?" she said.

A chuckle burbled from him. His hips pressed toward her and she squeezed the erection. Breath blew through his nose, hot against her cheek. She took the lapels of his jacket and shoved them over his shoulders. He held back his arms and let the garment fall to the floor behind him, then took her around the waist and pulled her to him.

She resisted. "Uh uh."

His eyelids drooped almost closed, and he moaned. "What?"

"Surrender the armament."

He leaned into her again and murmured, "How about we undress in the bedroom?"

"The gun stays here."

Everything stopped. Michael's mouth hovered over hers and she waited. She could almost hear the gears turning in his head as he debated whether to press or capitulate. He would probably press, and she was quite ready to send him away without so much as another kiss.

Finally, he said, "All right." He slipped the holster from his shoulders and set it on the coffee table.

She said on a hunch, "And the other one. 'Cause you know I'll find it eventually."

He blinked slowly and his lips pressed together. She thought for a moment he would leave, but then a crooked smile lifted one side of his mouth and his eyes lingered on hers as he set a foot on the arm of the couch to unstrap his ankle holster.

Ryanne took a look at the shoulder holster, and at the chrome monster it held--a huge-bore pistol Ryanne knew was not legal for the local constabulary to carry. If he was a cop, more than just his hair was non-reg.

He kissed her again, and this time she allowed him to urge her toward the open bedroom door. The door to her office next to it was closed, and had been locked in hopeful anticipation of a visitor tonight.

She started to pull his shirt from his pants as they went, and he helped. Inside the room, she kicked the door shut with her foot and went to unbutton the shirt.

The flesh beneath was smooth. Hard. Hot. Ryanne spread his shirt and placed both palms against his belly. His skin flinched at her touch and his lips brushed her forehead.

It was a small room and a large bed, so in only a few steps Ryanne's legs bumped against the mattress. Michael found her zipper pull and opened her dress. She let slip the black silk from her shoulders as he unsnapped her bra with two fingers, and she shrugged that off as well. Naked to the waist, she let her head fall back for him to kiss her neck, and he pressed his teeth against her windpipe. A thrill of vulnerability shook her. Then he bent to take a nipple into his mouth for a moment. He shoved her dress the rest of the way to the floor, along with her panties. She pushed his opened shirt from his shoulders.

He shook his arms and let the linen drop to the floor, then knelt to kiss her navel. A heat set up in her belly. She ran her fingers into his thick hair. His mouth went to her crotch and he gave a light nip to the dark patch. The throbbing was exquisite torture. His tongue darted out to touch her labia ever so lightly. Her hips thrust toward him of their own accord, but he retrieved his tongue.

"Behave," he said.

She whimpered.

He touched her with his tongue again, this time just deep enough for her clit to send a charge through her. Knees wobbly, she gripped his head and sighed. Gently he held her waist and urged her to sit on the bed behind her. Then he pressed her belly till she lay back and spread her knees. Goosebumps rose on her as she opened to him and he began opening her further with his tongue. Each lick took him deeper, into labia, clit, vagina, until he'd licked and sucked every fold of flesh between her legs. His tongue hot and wet, he sent her to the verge but took expert care in not sending her over. She quivered, delirious. His tongue explored her, stroked her, brought her to madness then retreated as he blew a light stream of cool air across her swollen flesh.

She decided he was definitely French. Yes, French. Definitely.

Finally she couldn't stand another moment of this and took his hands from her thighs to draw him onto the bed with her. He gave each thigh a parting nibble, then rose over her to touch his lips to each breast in turn.

"Get naked," she said.

He didn't reply, but a glint lit his eyes and he reached down with one hand to unbuckle his belt and open his fly. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, then drew his trousers and shorts down so they made a pile on the floor. Ryanne scooted farther onto the bed as he climbed on and settled himself between her legs. His naked body was smooth and warm on her skin. His muscles rippled over her as he settled with his weight on his elbows. Those eyes of his sparkled by the light of the lamp on the night stand. All she wanted just then was to have him in her. She wrapped a leg around his waist and encouraged him.

A slight wiggle of his lean hips to position himself, one good hard shove, and he filled her. It forced a long, helpless moan from deep inside. Another thrust, and he ground his hips. She splayed her knees and he went deeper still. Their bodies clutched each other, clinging, moving, flesh against flesh, skin over skin. Sweat dampened them both, and soon each thrust was marked by a wet, slapping sound. She pressed her fingers to his behind to feel the muscles work.

His arms began to tremble under his weight. Breaths came in strained gasps and he voiced a low groan with each one. She moved her hips and met him at each thrust. He held her thigh and began to turn his own hips as he moved. They smacked the soft insides of her upper thighs and his cock worked her so she felt him from thighs to navel. The thing suddenly felt the size of a baseball bat.

She came. A high, strained cry tore her throat and her mouth closed over the tight muscle of his shoulder. She sucked the salt from his skin as he shuddered in her arms and his movements slowed. He ground his hips into her, and gave her another twinge. She groaned again.

He rolled to the side in a heap of damp man, then reached for a pillow to slip under his head. His eyes glittered under droopy lids and he finally smiled and spoke. "Thanks. I needed that."

"I could tell," she replied. Every muscle in his body seemed to have turned to Jell-O, all tension gone. She kissed his forehead and picked a strand of damp hair from it to brush it back. He sighed and closed his eyes.

Ryanne took the other pillow for herself, and pulled the sides of the bedspread over them both to keep off the chill of drying sweat. Michael laid a hand on her stomach, and she rolled to settle into his arms. It took a moment for him to adjust to her, but then he kissed her head and was still. As she dozed she wondered who this guy really was, but whoever he was, he could sure fuck like a champion.

A light sleeper, especially with new people in the apartment, Ryanne awoke to fuzzy semi-consciousness at Michael's movements when he left the bed. She didn't come fully awake, though, and it was several minutes later that she realized he wasn't returning from the bathroom and his side of the bed was getting cold. She rose up and looked around. Where had he gone? His shirt was still on the floor, but his pants were not. She slipped from the bed to investigate.

In the tiny turnaround hallway she found the door to her office ajar, and shoved it open on silent hinges. Michael was inside, peering at her videotapes with his head tilted to the side to read the titles. His gun was stuffed into the back of his pants.

She sucked air between her teeth. He turned and reached for his weapon, but stopped at sight of her there, naked, in the doorway. The expression on his face was priceless, a bizarre mixture of lust and caution. He seemed unable to keep his gaze on her face.

He said, "I was on my way to the bathroom..."

"This room was locked." She stepped to her desk and sat on the flat top next to her computer keyboard. One foot on the desk chair, she leaned an elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand. He stared hard between her splayed knees, his hand still on the butt of his gun.

"This is about Andy, isn't it?" she said.

His eyes finally found her face. "I don't know what you're talking about." His speech was precise again, his body no longer relaxed.

She sat up and draped her arm over her knee. "Sure you do. Andrew DeAntonio."

"Why would I be interested in your friend?" His tone was still careful, but there was a note of genuine curiosity in it. Not about Andy, of course, but about her.

She shrugged. "Hell if I know what _anyone_ would want with that moron. But you've repeatedly shown an interest in my bookshelves, especially the ones containing videotape. Andy DeAntonio laid a videotape on me shortly before he disappeared, with the admonition that I never let anyone see it."

"Did you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Right. I called all my friends over for popcorn and a movie."

That gave him pause, before he decided she was joking, then he said, "You didn't watch it yourself?"

She shook her head. "Knowing Andy, who is a stupid sonofabitch and I hope he never finds his way back, it's probably a snuff film or something equally appalling. Not my idea of an evening's entertainment. I stuck the tape in here and just haven't gotten around to taping it over yet. I mean, it's a perfectly good piece of magnetic medium; no sense in wasting it."

It took him a moment before he seemed to decide he believed her, then he asked, "You two were lovers?"

"We jumped each other periodically. He wasn't anything to shout about, but it beat a poke in the eye with a sharp stick." That struck her, and she said, "Actually, sharp stick would pretty well describe him. Unlike some others I could mention." She tilted her head for a pointed look at Michael's pants.

He stifled a smile, surely a rare thing for him. He took his hand from his gun, came to her, and stood between her knees. One well-made hand brushed hair from her forehead.

She said, "You're not a cop."

He shook his head.

"Do I want to know who you are?"

He shook his head again, and kissed her. Just then she couldn't bring herself to care who he was.

He stayed the night and left after breakfast the next morning, tape safely tucked into the back of his trousers. She knew he wouldn't be back, but also knew she'd carry him forever in her memory. She sat by her bay window and watched him cross the street below in the odd, slanty morning light. He didn't look up at her window.

As her mind played over the past twelve hours, though, it began to toy with a knot that stuck. If all Michael had wanted was the tape, why hadn't he simply burglarized the apartment while she was out? He had sure not let the locked office give him any grief.

She visualized him in her office, his hand on his gun, asking questions. _Did she show it to anyone else?_ _Did she watch it herself?_ Many of the questions he'd asked during dinner now began to fit into the picture as well. She understood. He'd been after more than just the tape, and with a shiver she realized that if she'd given the wrong answers he would most likely have used the gun. She also realized that Andy was surely dead.

She rubbed down goosebumps on her arm, then she stood, tightened her robe, and went to her office to boot her computer for the day's work.

Nothing happened. Reset, still nothing. Damn. She then pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk, removed its contents and lifted the false bottom, and found her recovery disk to boot from the floppy drive. Hardware was working fine; it was only the software on the hard drive that was missing. Someone--Ryanne glanced at the door through which Michael had made his exit--_someone_ had reformatted her hard drive.

Motherfucker.

With a heavy sigh, she retrieved all her backups from the drawer and set to the long, tedious task of reinstalling all of it onto her hard drive. Everything was there except a couple of wallpaper bitmaps she'd pulled off the web, and those she could download again.

Among these backups was the video file she'd made of the tape Andy had given her, and of which she'd just given the hard copy to Michael. The one that depicted a blonde woman pulling the trigger on a man in a library somewhere. Or in an office, maybe. The verbal exchange between the two had been fascinating. Until now, she'd thought it was a staged scene, a figment of Andy's warped imagination, but since her visit from Michael she knew the murder had been real.

While the setup ran, she pulled out her notebook and flipped to a clean page. Showing the video clip to anyone at this point was out of the question; she was crazy, not stupid. Besides, her thighs were enjoying a delicious soreness for Michael's visit and she squirmed in her seat for him having been there. She owed him for a fine romp, not to mention that he'd thought enough of her to have left her alive. Keeping the clip to herself seemed a fair deal.

Also, there was much mileage to be had from dear Michael and his guns and the blonde woman he so wanted to protect. Fictionalizing people was just a matter of changing things around a bit. In the notebook she wrote:

Michael--long brown hair....

the end