Even if I waited until hell froze over, he probably still wouldn't budge an inch. And I wasn't the waiting kind. Must have been missing whenever they handed out patience. So I continued, "Now about that doll. I got to wondering. A French doll, you said. Turn-of-the-century. Couldn't be a Jumeau, because a thirty-year old Jumeau wouldn't bring in five thousand dollars. Maybe a Bru doll. They were made only for aristocracy. One-of-a-kind. Rare. That would make it worth more. You know, I was joking before when I made that crack about some daddy's little princess. But maybe that's it. Who did this doll belong to? Which little princess? Some duke's daughter? Lady So-and-so?"

"Perhaps." A soft sound puffed through his lips - almost a sigh. "I did not see anyone. They are not watching the house."

"No one followed us. I told you. We gave them the slip. Neat. Now answer my question."

He let the curtain fall back again, finally turned to look at me. "No. Leave it alone, Nikita."

"Not a chance. Once I get started, I don't give up. You brought me in on this case. I'm going to finish it. I'm curious."

"Curiosity killed a cat. I would think ... that curiosity would be a very dangerous indulgence." He took two C-bills out of his wallet, and held them out to me. When I didn't take the money, he laid it on the table. "There. That should settle any additional expenses. Tell me about the boat, and we will consider the job finished."

Finished? With his quiet words, five thousand dollars just vanished as if it had never existed. Money that would have bought us a ticket to easy street, where living was comfortable. No wolves at the door. Keep the business open. A chance to finally break even. Maybe come out a little ahead for a change.

Now that chance was all gone. Poof. Just like that. Unless I convinced him otherwise. I couldn't let this slip through my fingers. "Suppose this doll belonged to Lady So-and-so. Even a Bru wouldn't be worth that much. Not five thousand smacks. So maybe it's not the doll. Maybe it's something inside the doll."

His brows snapped together.

"Drugs? Are they smuggling drugs?" Then the light flashed inside my head. I snapped my fingers. Pointed at him. "The Ice Man. Of course. Not drugs. Gems. Sparkles. Pretties. Diamonds? Yeah. That's it, all right. The Ice Man smuggles ice. Hot ice."

Michael didn't reply at first, his gloved hands opening and closing.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"It does not matter," he said quietly. "It does not matter at all. Because you will take the money. You will tell me the name of the boat. And that will be the end of the matter ... It is better that way."

"What?"

"It is too dangerous for you to be involved any longer. The job is not as simple as I thought."

"You don't think I can measure up. You don't think I can do the job."

"No, I do not."

That hurt. That hurt a lot. I was right. I knew I was. I could see it in his eyes no matter how hard he tried not to acknowledge it. I was used to rejection. Been put down, shoved aside, called names no decent woman should ever hear. But it had never felt as bad as this before. Of all the men I'd met, I wanted his approval. It was lowering to realize how hungry I was for it.

Michael continued, "There is men's work. There is women's work. The two are not the same. They should never be."

"Of all the old-fashioned ideas!" I straightened up. Pushed away from the table, waves of heat beating around my face. "Wake up, Michael. Women can vote now. Smoke in public. Work outside the home. This is the twentieth century, not the Dark Ages. It's the modern age. The Age of Enlightenment."

"You exaggerate. The Enlightenment was in the 1700's. Not the 1920's." He pulled off his gloves, threw them on the table. Stared at my legs as if I were naked. "Wearing trousers does not make you a man."

I threw my hands in the air. "No thanks. You're way off, pal. I don't want to be some dumb lug. That's not what I want to do. That's not my aim. But I am a detective. A damn good one. And I can do whatever a man does. Any time. Anywhere."

"Can you?" His voice softened, deepened, turned dangerous as he took a step towards me. Then another.

I inched backwards, trying to keep a safe distance, trying to hold my ground. Why did he seem taller all of a sudden? So overwhelming male? Undeniably Michael? My chin jutted out. "There's no difference between men and women. None."

"No difference?"

"None. Zip. Zero." When my back hit the edge of the table, he lunged and grabbed me. Arms wrapped around me, hands skimming up my back; molding, shaping muscles that had suddenly turned to butter. Butter in the sun. Melting, pooling, running. Hot, hotter, almost burning.

Hard lips hovered near mine, then curved, softened into a smile that I'd never seen before. He said, "There is every difference in the world. There is this ..." His hands moved, cupped, his voice turning smoky. "... And this. Which do you like ... better?"

And then. Oh, and then Michael showed me again what he meant. Through wool and cotton, his long fingers caressed, coaxed, demonstrated his point over and over again: the contrast between every curve and angle, smooth and rough, yin and yang. A roundelay of delight. And desire. Each sensual verse building on the next so that my body sang with it. With his.

He kissed my cheekbone, the hollow underneath, until his lips rested at the corner of my mouth. I heard him, felt him whisper; his words brushing against me. Soft. Very soft. "Thank God," he was saying, "for the difference. Vive la différence."

No.

One last gasp of sanity. A protest duly noted by my weakening conscience before my body overruled it. And then I couldn't think any more. Didn't want to think as our breaths mingled, our lips finally meeting.

We kissed.

And then I learned that I'd been innocent until that very moment. Blind. Completely ignorant. I hadn't known a thing about desire. Maybe a single sip here or there. Our first kiss on the street had felt like everything to me. But now I knew that it had been nothing. Nothing compared to this, where want and opportunity meet in a heady mixture that vetoes everything. Everything that says "no."

His head snapped back, and I moaned, protesting the loss of contact. "I do not share," he growled. "With anyone."

"What?"

"You and I. Now... We begin this. Then that is the end of Walter Hunter. Of everyone else."

I pushed against Michael's chest. His heart thudded against his ribs. Wild, erratic. Like mine. "What are you talking about? I can't do that. Cut him off. He's my uncle."

Michael's eyes narrowed to green slits. He laughed harshly, a little ugly. "Your uncle." Each syllable was poisoned with cynicism that I didn't like. Fingers tightened. Ten points of pressure on my arms, strong enough to bruise before he pulled me to him. Kissed me harder as if branding me for his own, punishing me for something I didn't understand, didn't do.

"You don't get it. He's my uncle." I jerked away, but his lips only blazed across my cheek, down my neck, finding spots I never knew were so magic. The magic spread, dissolving me. Completely.

Fingers loosened the knot in my tie. Then the thin silk slipped off my neck. "We will talk ... of this later."

"No. Now." I felt his sigh caress the sensitive skin just above my collarbone. "Uncle Walter is my father's brother. A real uncle. Not my ... my sugar daddy. Is that what you're worried about?"

For a moment, Michael's lips froze. His head lifted, eyebrows drew together into a thick brown line. Sternly he seemed to search my eyes for the truth. And after a long while, found it, accepted it. Here and there, relief eased the harsh lines of his face. But his expression still burned with anger. And possession.

I reached up, ran my thumb along the ticking muscles of his jaw. Michael's eyes closed, shoulders lowering, then a long slow exhale as I fumbled with the knot in his tie. He tried to help me but impatience made us both clumsy. And our fingers tangled together; interlocked, skin sliding along skin. Warm, smooth, groove to fit.

Just that simple touch and sudden need stabbed straight under my ribs, into somewhere deep, some place vital. It hurt so bad ... so good. My palm spread over his taut belly. Michael's muscles rippled, his breath caught as though he felt the same exquisite pain too. Then greed flashed through me, through both of us; denial finally drowned in the rush to touch, to assuage, to come together at last. I had waited my whole lifetime for this man, this moment. Waited and never known I'd been waiting. And now that I did, I couldn't wait any longer. Waiting was agony. Impossible.

Fast.

Fierce.

Furious.

We moved hungrily. Vests followed jackets to the floor. Something snagged, popped. Then our fingers raced down shirt fronts, buttons flying open, air touching my skin, making me pucker with the cold, with arousal. Before I realized it, my slacks gaped, and he was touching me there. Everywhere. Through my cotton drawers, then underneath where I ached, wept, widened for him. And everything he did, I did for him. Returned every caress, made bold by my curiosity, my need to discover, to taste. I wanted to learn. Everything.

"Slow down," he said huskily.

"No." I squeezed harder, felt him move closer into my palm. One stroke, two. He shuddered, pushing my fingers away. Then his hands curved around my hips, cupped my buttocks. His palms burned, burning through my trousers as if they weren't there and he touched my skin instead. Michael lifted me as though I weighed nothing, and my pants, my drawers puddled around my ankles, then slipped to the floor.

The table was cold, but I was past caring as his fingers ran over my black cotton stockings. "Like night," he said. "My God." His thumb ran along the top where the garters fastened, then on my skin and inwards where I was soft, sensitive. "Like night. Night and day."

His hands circled slowly across my inner thighs; ignoring my soft cries, my fevered kisses. I bit his shoulder, wanting to punish him as he was punishing me. But I didn't know what to ask for. Even if I did, I couldn't have spoken right then as my hips rocked to his touch, his fingers gradually, finally converging at my center again. Then cajoling, opening, stretching. Fingers, then his heat.

"You feel ... so good. Why do you feel so right?" His eyes closed with bliss as he slowly pushed deeper and I enveloped him. Adjusting to the strangeness, the wonder. Then Michael stopped suddenly, his progress halted. Eyes snapped open, astonished, almost glaring at me. "What ...?"

I didn't care. I couldn't. Something flickered and coiled inside me, something I had never felt before. I had to catch it, just within reach ... But his body jerked in protest as he gritted his teeth, started to move away from me, and that lovely lovely sensation started to disappear.

"No." My fingers trapped his lean hips; clutching, pulling him back. I scissored my legs around him and pushed down. Hard, sudden, chasing the feeling down. Just a little discomfort, and the magic returned, blossomed.

Michael groaned, trying to withdraw. I clamped tighter with all my muscles, with the inner ones I was just discovering. Felt his reflex. My answering ripple. "Ahh." I smiled. There. Even better. A drop of joy fell. Then another. Sprinkling enchantment, delight raining down on me. I circled around, felt him swell, rise inside me, and such sweetness gathered, trickled through me as Michael moved very slowly, gently.

But I didn't want gentleness. Something was missing. The aching grew, an emptiness somewhere. I needed something else. I needed ... him. All of him. Now. I linked my arms around Michael, tried to kiss away the serious lines of his face, the look of concentration instead of enjoyment. Kneaded the muscles corded in his neck, shoulders, the terrible tension in his arms.

"Please," I whispered, bowing back, offering myself.

Michael accepted, his tongue tracing, mouth suckling me as we rose and fell. And sweetness sharpened, gathered into rivulets that joined from one part of my body to another; joining, growing. He touched me in secret places. Here. There.

Higher. I moved again, arching, forcing him where I needed him most. His mouth parted with surprise, his head thrown back as if something had snapped. Then suddenly he gripped my shoulders like I was his only anchor, and he plunged forward.

Deep.

Surging.

Everything he'd been holding back broke through the cracks in the ice, pushing past the last barriers, gushing forth; and he became a river running free under my hands, running wild through me. Each sensation tumbled over the next like rocks caught in a deluge. Everything seemed fast, heady, turbulent. Shooting the white water rapids. I didn't care if I drowned, if we drowned together. My breath came short, a terrible pressure jamming, building ... until finally I burst. Release flooded through me; Michael following, spilling over, past my swollen delta, into the wide vast sea of our joy.

##

"Come back," he was saying, pressing kisses along my face. My body was slumped forward against his. If he hadn't stood there, I would have slid off the table into a heap on the floor. Michael kissed me one last time as he slipped away. I made a small sound of disappointment. Then he picked me up in his arms, and carried me to the bed.

"What happened?" My lips felt numb. My arms and legs seemed absent. Someone had stolen every bone in my body. So this, this was what it was all about. All the secret glances between Uncle Walter and Lani, the laughter and sighs behind closed doors. Now I understood, and my body hummed with the knowledge.

The bedsprings creaked as Michael stretched out beside me. Reached over, brushed the hair from my face. Held up the strands in the soft blue light, which was just beginning to filter through the curtains and fill the room with dawn. He rubbed my hair between his fingers. "Like sunshine. Soleil. Silky sunshine. To touch." He sighed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

I turned away, flushing. One thing to do it and enjoy it. Another thing all together to talk about it out loud. My cheeks heated more. My cheeks and elsewhere. "Would it have made a difference? If you knew that I'd never ...?"

"Yes. All the difference in the world. A man of honor ... should not. I do not make a habit of this." He sounded a little grim.

I sat up, yanking the sheet around me. I felt cold all of a sudden. Perhaps I misjudged him. What did I know? I was inexperienced after all. I swallowed hard, forced myself to ask. "Then you didn't ... like it?"

"I liked it ... too much. I wish ..." But he bit off the rest of his sentence before finishing. Instead, he massaged my shoulder, then my arm, pulling me back down into his embrace. Michael kissed my temple. "If I had known, I wouldn't have taken you like that. So greedy. Rough." His face looked stern, regretful as if chastising himself. "Not like ... Not on a table. You deserve a bed for the first time. With flowers. Candles. Everything. You deserve ..."

I pressed my fingers to his mouth. "Stop it. I'm not complaining. I've always wondered if that was ... you know, physically possible."

He looked amused, a little smug, all masculine superiority. "Of course, it is."

"No. I know that. Especially ... now. I mean that position."

"Position?"

"The one we did. 'Vine Climbing the Heavenly Pillar'. Uncle Walter has this Chinese pillow book I wasn't supposed to know about. But I did. I used to sneak in and peek at the pictures. Drawings of people doing..."

"I understand," Michael interrupted hastily. He rolled on to his back, stretched, sighing again. "What am I to do with you?"

"Well, I have an idea."

He turned to look at me, his face a strange mixture of caution and wonder, as though he wanted to ask but was afraid of what I'd say.

"I'm curious."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"There was a smudged drawing I could never see very well. I didn't understand it at all. It was called 'The Joyous Circle: Dragon Playing the Pearl, Phoenix Playing the Jade Flute'." I leaned forward, whispered into his ear as he smiled very slowly, his startled look melting into something like secret pleasure.

Then Michael showed me. To my complete satisfaction.

##

Moonlight shone through the window and silvered his shadowed profile. I could watch him forever, sleeping on our bed: the long muscled legs outlined under the blanket, the slow rise of his chest. I knew how that felt, pressed against my back as I'd lain awake, too happy to fall asleep right away, during the last two nights in his arms.

"Michael," I whispered, setting the apartment key next to the vase of sunflowers on the table. He made a little sound as he turned over. I called softly again, but Michael didn't respond. Must be deep in sleep. Or so I thought. But on the way to the bed, my hand brushed against his clothes that were draped across the back of the kitchen chair. They were still warm as if he'd just taken them off. Where had he been just now instead of sleeping?

I stood next to the bed, leaned down. He stirred under my hand.

"Soleil. You're ... late," he grumbled, his voice sounding heavy with sleep. His kiss almost dissolved my suspicion. Almost but not quite. Michael inhaled sharply. "You smell like vinegar." He sniffed again. "And smoke."

"Is this an interrogation?"

"Of course not." His lids opened slowly as if he were just awakening but his gaze was sharp and alert.

"Good. Because I think that trust is very important. You know. I trust you. You trust me. That kind of thing. Otherwise, it's a three-legged dog. Gimps along. Won't work." Michael took my hand, and so help me, I melted a little. When he kissed my palm, I melted a little more, my resolve like wax in the sun. Jeez. Just one touch. Potent in more than one way. "I smell like vinegar because Uncle Walter needed my help with a few experiments."

"Experiments?" His thumb drew a circle, then traced the fleshy part of my thumb, what he'd called the Mont of Venus. Whatever it was called, it made me uncomfortably aware. I jerked my hand away. He smiled. "So Walter's more of a chemist than a detective."

"Yeah, I'm the real detective in the family. Uncle Walter's your friendly neighborhood alchemist."

"The elixir of life?"

"Lead into gold, that kind of thing. Actually rubies, not gold. Just like the one in that ring you wear on a chain around your neck. Good quality. Must be Burmese. Round cut shows off the star inside it. It's what? Half a carat, set in a traditional band. Very nice. Care to tell me about it?"

"You're making rubies."

Ah. Sidestep as usual. Guess not. "Our other line of business. Faux gems. We started with imitation pearls. That's what the vinegar's for. Five parts crushed oyster shell to one part acetic acid. The old recipe says to steam it in a carp's belly, but we've modernized it. Now we're branching out. High quality, low cost rubies. Better than Burma. We were trying to fuse the aluminum oxide and something went ka-blooey. Seymour almost lost his eyebrows. He looks like a baby mouse without them. Poor thing." I waggled my red-stained fingers. "Not blood. It's chromium. The chromium's for color. The business is on the up-and-up. Totally legit. Mostly, that is."

Michael caught my hand again, examined both sides. "Hmm. Unlike the bootleg. I wonder what you've really been up to."

"Don't believe me? Maybe you'd better frisk me." I held out my arms. Leaned over invitingly.

Bright boy. He didn't need to be told twice. Michael's hands slid underneath my open trench coat, patted along my torso, up my skirt, down my legs. Expertly searched for weapons before he strayed into interesting territory.

"As you can see, I'm ... ah ... unarmed."

"On the contrary. You have very interesting weapons." He verified his point. Again with his mouth. "And you have secret pockets. Very secret. What's inside there, Ni-kee-ta?"

He didn't wait for an answer, intent on his discovery. I turned my head away, bit my lip, tried to keep from groaning. Couldn't.

"What is in your secret pockets? Ah. A jeweler's loupe, a jack-knife, some loose change. What's this? The telescoping mirror. And this ...?"

"What?" Something he was doing made the world glaze over, grow dim and fuzzy. I could barely hear him at all.

Laughing softly, Michael searched deeper into the front pocket of my blouse. He was very thorough. "Feels like some ... fishing line?"

"Yeah. It was Jack's. My father said you never knew when you could use it ... You might need to fish or ... something ... I'm always ... prepared." My last words leaked out in a gasp.

"Prepared? Good. Come show me how prepared you are." And he pulled me on to the bed.

##

"You know, now that I think about it, there must be another interesting variation on that theme. Have you ever ...?"

"No," Michael groaned sleepily from somewhere under the blanket.

"Let me finish. Don't be a spoilsport. It's my turn to choose." I bit my lip, imagined for a moment until the bitter smell of smoke returned my attention to the frying pan. Swearing, I jerked the pan off the burner, sniffed. Not too much carbon. Then I carefully slipped the spatula under the eggs and transferred them on to a plate. Trimmed off as much of the burnt rubbery edges as I could. There. Almost perfect. If you didn't count how the yolks ran together and were starting to soak into the toast.

I walked to the bed with our breakfast. With every step, my lower back ached pleasantly; I felt a vague soreness in muscles I'd never known about two days ago. "I'm just curious after all."

"Your curiosity will be the death of me. And that pillow book," he muttered, re-emerging from the blankets. Michael sat up, leaned against the headboard behind him. The sheet slid down his belly, past where hair turned darker and thickened, to his lap.

"Complaints?" I paused at the foot of the bed. No one had the right to look that good first thing in the morning. Only slightly rumpled. All together delicious. I leaned over to give him the plate, and the silk pajama top I'd borrowed from him gaped at my neck, slid a little along one shoulder.

Michael's eyes traveled south, his lips curving at one corner. "Do I look like a fool?" He took the plate, thanked me. "But there is something you should understand, Nikita. There is a fundamental difference between men and women."

"So you've been telling me. So I've noticed." I handed him a fork. Dug mine into the eggs. "Don't worry. I'm a quick learner. If you're not interested, just say so."

"It is not a matter of interest. It is a matter of time. Even I need more ..."

"Ohhh. That's why you take longer. Because you're older. That's too bad. You know, the herbalist might have something for you. Tiger's powder, unicorn horn. That kind of thing. In the old days, the emperors used to drink crushed rubies in wine. We do a good business selling those fake rubies to the herbalist. I'm sure I could get you a sweet deal."

He coughed hard. Something must be stuck in his throat. I whacked him on the back a couple of times. He pushed aside a lock of hair that had flopped over his forehead. Looked affronted. Thoroughly. At last, he managed, "We are only a few years apart." He took another bite of eggs, chewed vigorously, swallowed. "And experience is not a liability ... It is an asset."

"Mmm. So you say. But Lani says that women peak at forty years. I still have something to look forward to. My best is yet to come. But you. I'm sorry, Michael, but men peak at nineteen. After that, it's all downhill. Maybe I should find someone younger than me." I tapped the fork against my lip, looked at him with mock sorrow. "Well, it's just a thought. Nothing I have to take care of right now."

His thunderous expression made me laugh. "I'm just kidding," I giggled, resting my head against his shoulder. I kissed his neck, tasted salt and lavender-pepper, smelled the musk of our joining all around us. "There is no one like you. There could be no one else." He grunted, but his free hand stroked my neck, shoulders.

"How's the eggs?"

"Fine."

"Ha! My cooking stinks. Everyone says so. What a liar you are. That's one of the things I love about you. You're a first class liar."

"Maybe it is meant ... as a kindness."

"Kindness or convenience?" I straightened up, looked at him, my laughter fading as I thought about the other little lies, the convenient omissions of the truth. Like his warm clothes from the night before; the visits to the Ice Man's antique store; the set of lead Napoleonic soldiers Michael had purchased. Handsome ones with cockade hats and horses. Gruesome ones with bloodied bayonets. He'd sent them to the French consulate. And once I'd seen Michael pick up a small package from a ritzy jeweler's on Nob Hill.

I admit it. I shadowed him. What else could I do? Michael knew me as no one had ever known me before, and yet he was still a stranger to me. The green-eyed stranger in my bed. I didn't know him at all. I found myself staring at the ring hanging from his neck, the one that pressed into me whenever he took me in his arms.

And all of a sudden, I was tired of the make-believe and the secrets. I laid down my fork, the eggs like sawdust in my mouth. "Tell me about that ruby, Michael. Does it belong to her?"

"Who?"

"Don't pretend. Don't be kind any longer. Tell me the truth. I know you're married. Madeline Lenoir said you were. But the real proof is here in this apartment. I've seen it with my own eyes. You have all the habits of a married stiff. Stuff on the same side of the medicine cabinet. You use only one dresser drawer. And the toilet set. Always down. Well trained. A long time married, I'd say. Who is she?"

He bowed his head. "You are a detective."

Yeah. Right now, I wished I wasn't. Wished that I was just as ignorant as any woman half-dizzy over a man. Seeing true was small comfort.

"You are right, of course. It was arranged from the time we were young. When we married, she expected the younger brother of the Comté de Montmorency. Not a plain soldier like me. She lives for the social world. All the honors due to an old family like mine. But of course, the war changed everything. I fear I have always been a grave disappointment to her."

Disappointment? I couldn't believe it. His wife must be crazy. But I chewed the inside of my mouth, held back my protest. Dipped my finger in the leftover yolk and traced a pattern on the plate. Wished that life remained discrete and simple instead of running together into a big mess. I tried to refrain from asking because I didn't want to know the answer. But I couldn't help myself. "And children?"

"A son. Adam. I hardly see him. We lead ... very separate lives. It is better that way. Less painful."

"And the ruby belongs to your wife?"

"No." Michael reached up, touch the gem, his eyes softening with a light I'd never seen before. My envy churned, burned a hole to my gut. "No, it belonged to Josephine."

##

"Josephine? I see." Not his wife then. Even worse. His one real love. Well, I'd asked for the truth, and the truth was what I got. It hit me square in the kisser. Damn. Why did it hurt so much? Michael could take his ruby and his precious memories of this Josephine. Take them and fly out a window for all I cared. I deserved this. My fault. I was forgetting I had work to do. A case to solve. I unfolded my legs, set my feet on the ground, ready to bolt from the bed.

Michael caught my arm before I could walk away. "Do you really see, Nikita? What do you see? Be careful, detective. Do not jump to conclusions. False conclusions are fatal."

"Let go." I yanked back, almost broke his grip. We tussled over the bed: crisp chest hairs brushing against me, legs tangling. Managed to flip him sideways, but he snagged me again. Damn quick reflexes. Then he straddled me so I couldn't shake him off. Pinned. I bucked my hips, but that only made everything more ... stimulating. Evidently he approved. I scowled. "Get your mitts off, pal."

"Ni-kee-ta ..."

"Forget it ..."

"Josephine was my ..."

"No. I don't want to hear it. You can take your ring and just ..."

"Listen to me. She was my sister."

"What?"

"My older sister. She meant everything to me. She died young. Senselessly. I wear her ruby ... to remember."

"Oh." Deflated, I sagged against the bed. He pressed me deeper into the mattress, and then the damn ring swung on its chain and hit me in the nose. There it dangled, catching the sunlight, winking at me. Idiot.

"Look at it." He held the ring, turned it side to side so that the light moved across it and made it seem as if a six-rayed star danced inside the ruby, as if it were alive and caught inside a flame. "What do you see?"

"Star corundum. Aluminum oxide. Second hardest mineral after a diamond. I don't know, Michael. It's a very nice rock."

"It's called the love stone. Wearing a ruby opens your heart to love. Josephine's lover gave it to her. For their fifteenth anniversary." Michael's grin flashed, brighter than the gem in the sunlight. "You were jealous."

I sniffed. "Was not." I looked at him. His smile widened, triumphant.

Insufferable male. "Maybe a little," I admitted at last. "All right, all right. Maybe a lot."

He rewarded me, then, for my jealousy. Very nicely. If I had known it was going to be so nice, I would have admitted it sooner.

##

It was a long, long time before I could speak again. I had to try. Sucked in a lungful of air, pushed it out past my vocal cords. Forced my lips to shape around the words. "Need to tell you about the boat ..."

He took my hand. Squeezed it. "Shh. Do not speak of it. I don't care."

"But the boat ..."

"I don't care at all any more. I only care ... about you, Soleil. My sunshine. I must have been blind. I never knew that I lived in darkness until I met you." He lifted the chain off his neck and put it around mine. It landed between my breasts, nestled as if it belonged there. He folded my fingers around it. "Look ..."

I turned my head in the crook of his arm, stared upwards into his eyes. Once there'd been desire there. A mindless passion that echoed mine. But now I saw the truth shining there. And instead of lust, I saw something else. Something like love.

"Look at the ring," he said softly.

"What?" I said even as my fingers fumbled to follow his directions. I slanted the ring. Inside the band, the fancy writing had been worn away by time and many wearings, but I could still make it out. "J'appartiens ..." I glanced uncertainly at him. "It's been awhile since we hit the Ivory Coast. My French is rusty."

"J'appartiens à ma bienaimée et ma bienaimée m'appartiens. ... 'I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine'." He looked solemnly at me. "There's more."

I turned the ring, held it up to the light. And there. There, next to the faded writing was a new inscription, the flowery cursive still crisp and clear. For N. From M.

My heart stopped for a long time so that I felt hollow inside. Then suddenly, it jerked, beat loudly, striking like a mighty hammer against an anvil with all its force. Realization thundered through me. Ringing out, echoing. Scared me spitless. I swallowed hard, then whispered, "The boat ..."

"I told you. I don't care about the boat any more." He took the ring from me, held it over the tip of my long finger. "Shall we try it?"

"It's called the Lido. It's due at midnight."

"So they'll unload the boat right away?"

"No, not until six. The longshoremen have a strict union here. Nothing before the cock crows. We have ... until then."

"Until then," he said. "Let's see ... how well it fits."

The ring slid on to my finger as if it belonged there, as if we belonged together. The weight felt exactly right. It fit perfectly. Somehow I knew it would.

##

In my dream, I listened to the nightingales' serenade and the tinkling of the garden fountain as the hot Lebanon evening refused to cool. Palm fronds rustled in the breeze, sounding like rain, but did nothing to cool the air ... or my desire. Let my beloved come to his garden, and eat its choicest fruits.

I waited for Michael. Waited in our secret garden, walled and protected from the desert, from the outside world. And then suddenly, he was there, my beloved; his arms reaching for me, his lips murmuring against mine.

You are stately as a palm tree, and your breasts are like its clusters.
I say I will climb the palm tree and lay hold of its branches.
O may your breasts be like clusters of the vine,
and your kisses like the best wine that goes down smoothly,
gliding over lips and teeth.

I ran my fingers through Michael's hair, and drank of him as he drank of me. Drunkards, the both of us, our thirst unquenchable. Then finally, he drew back, fading into the darkness of the night, the edge of my dream.

"Nikita," he said hollowly as if he were far away and slipping further. He repeated my name, but this time his voice sounded more urgent, desperate, deepened to a baritone, loud like cymbals crashing. He roughly shook my shoulders. "Nikita, that's enough. Wake up." Then his green eyes turned slate gray, more anxious than passionate. An aquiline nose, sharp angles. A bandage on his long lean jaw. "Wake up, darlin'."

Darlin'? Only one man called me that and got away with it. Mack shook me again until my head flopped. The idiot.

"Cut it out." Michael was gone. I already sensed his absence before my hand swept the cold empty space next to me in the bed. Pushed against Mack's chest. Used my fist. "Knock it off, I said."

Mack suddenly dropped me, and I fell backwards on my elbows. "Listen, doll, I had to wake you up. You must have been having a nightmare, the way you were tossing and moaning. Like that time you ate a whole jar of dill pickles by yourself. Tossed six ways to Sunday."

"Thank you so much for reminding me." I sat up in the bed, wrapped the sheet around me. "Do you mind?"

Mack grinned so that the bandage wobbled and bent. "Not at all. Nothing I haven't seen before." At my look, he laughed, turned his back towards me. "Okay, okay. We were kids then. Go right ahead. Have a sudden fit of modesty. Bet you weren't so modest with Mister Samuelle. Looking mighty cozy in here." He growled, "Too cozy. Doing bodyguard duty? I'd say you take your work a little too seriously. Since when do you clinch a client like that? If Walter knew ..."

"Never made you for a rat. What the hell are you doing here?" I yanked on my shirt, found my trousers. "Busting in ..."

"On your love nest? Seymour let it slip. Wouldn't have believed it otherwise. My God. Look at that. Did you cook for Samuelle? He ate it? All of it? It must be love. That poor sap. Must think he's got appendicitis or something. I remember those cookies you made once. Hard as a discus. Every one a lethal weapon. Thought I was a goner for sure. Well, never mind. I've forgiven you ... So where's the mysterious Mister Samuelle? Probably getting his stomach pumped."

Then the usual joking vanished, and Mack's voice turned dangerous. "I need to find Samuelle. Ask him a few questions. Maybe more than a few questions. Maybe I should avenge your honor. Rearrange his face for him."

"Be careful. It might be the other way around. Of course, it looks like someone already pulled a number on you. Nice beauty mark." I lifted the tangle of sheets, peeked under the bed. Where were my shoes?

Mack gingerly touched the bandage. "Just a souvenir from a disagreement I had. A little blonde with a big cosh. Seems she didn't like me sending her old man up the river."

"She told you that?"

"Yeah. And they call you the 'weaker sex'. What a joke. First she takes a bash at me, and then that lady sawbones starts poking at me like I'm a dummy or something." Mack looked aggrieved, shook a finger at me. "Don't say it."

"Say what? I never know what the hell you're talking about. You're always jabbering like a monkey. You can turn around now."

"You're in a strange humor. Why so testy? Has Samuelle flown the coop? So soon?" The thought had occurred to me, but I still wore the ring around my neck. Even without my jeweler's loupe, I knew the ruby was worth more than cheap glass.

Surely he wouldn't have left something so valuable behind. But maybe the man was a Bluebeard; handing out buckets of these rings, pitching the woo to any weak-willed sister stupid enough to listen. "What time is it?"

"Almost 3 A.M."

I swore, tugging on my last shoe, then my trench coat. "Hell, I'm late. Better bunk."

"For what?"

"Stay out of my way, MacConnell. I mean it."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Tie your shoelaces. You never remember to ..."

"Thanks, Mom. When I want your advice, I'll be sure to ask for it."

Mack opened the door, followed me out into the hall. "I don't know. Way I figure it, this could be obstruction of justice. Deliberate obfuscation."

"Show-off. Listen, college boy, don't be tossing around those ten-dollar words like they were bouquets. And don't hem me in."

"Come on, darlin'. Be reasonable. I already talked to Barney for you. It's all arranged. But you're still holding out on me. Better deal me in. All the way. You need someone to ride shotgun for you. This isn't the time to run solo."

"Mack, I don't need complications. I can't have you breathing down my neck, making me mind those p's and q's. I don't have the luxury."

He looked hurt. "Ah, come on. I'm your friend first, a copper second. Did I ever welsh on you? Did I ever tell Walter you were peeking at his dirty drawings?"

"Sure, sure. You found that pillow book. It was your idea."

"Didn't force you to look." Mack grinned. "You need my help. Admit it."

"No time to argue with you. Just ... Oh, what the hell. It's a free country," I said. Checked my watch as I ran down the hall. Don't know why I bothered. Time had run out. For me. And Michael Samuelle.

##

It was quiet. Too damn quiet. No sea gulls shrieking, no sea lions barking; still asleep in their rookeries and rocks. Nothing but creaking from the wooden docks, the chains clink-clanking as the water lapped against the boats.

The fog was thick enough to cut with a knife. It kissed my cheeks as we sneaked along the pier towards the monstrous shadow of the boat, looming ahead of us. So big, it didn't seem to dip and move with the backwash like the smaller boats around it. The Lido. I could barely read its name through the heavy mist as I crept past the pilings, the mountains of crates. Far off, the foghorn blared its lonesome warning: a sigh, then a long mournful moan, over and over. AH-Ooh ... AH-Ooooooooh.

"Where is it?" The cold dispassionate voice seemed to come from nowhere, thrown into the middle of a gray emptiness like a ventriloquist's trick. Then the fog parted, and I saw the speaker: a thin hawkish man with silver hair and eyes that stared, unblinking, like a bird of prey right before it strikes.

The Ice Man. He seemed remote, cool, above the realm of petty every day things.

His hands remained in his pockets as if to keep them unsullied from the harbor grime. To his right, stood Madeline Lenoir, her gun trained on Michael. She wore a fox stole around her shoulder, another of her screwy little hats, fashionable gloves. Dressed to the nines as always. But this wasn't tea dance. It was a different kind of social all together.

Michael stood with a poised feline grace. He seemed calm, as if he were attending a soiree after all, and thought nothing of the three men crumpled at his feet, or the other two no-neck goons with their weapons drawn. Two goons with more bullets in their chambers than brains in their heads. I drew back behind the crates, tapped Mack's arm, circled with one finger, then pointed east. He nodded and disappeared soundlessly into the mist.

The Ice Man reached inside his alpaca coat. "... The lost shipment from Budapest. And the Marseilles incident." There was a scrape and hiss of a match, then a puffing sound, followed by the sharp almost-chocolate smell of expensive Ankara tobacco. "I suppose that was you."

Michael didn't reply.

"And our little troubles with customs all along the way. Let's not forget that," said Madeline. "A trifle really. Only inconveniences. A slight delay, some customers that needed ... reassurances. But I think things will run very smoothly now. You can help us out, Michael."

"I?"

"Yes, you. It's up to you," Madeline continued. "You will die. You've inconvenienced us for too long. But you can decide if your death will be easy ... or hard. Very hard." Those red Cupid's lips curved and twisted as though she relished the prospect.

Her threat didn't seem to register because Michael's face remained placid. Not a muscle twitched.

"No more hide-and-seek. Game time is over. Where's the doll? We've ripped apart the cargo, and we can't find it. Tell us. Now." The Ice Man still sounded dispassionate, almost bored, but the tip of his cigar glowed furiously red.

"Michael can't tell you, because he doesn't know. Maybe you're asking the wrong person." I stepped out into the open. Exposed. Excitement pumped through me. My hands turned damp.

"The secretary? In slacks." Madeline looked annoyed as if I'd interrupted her private little play. "Ah. I see. I should have anticipated this. How enterprising of you, Michael. To seduce the help. Or was it just a way ... to pass the time?"

How had Madeline described Michael? A real charmer, drawing fishes from the sea, then leaving them happy, gasping on the shore. That was me all right. A damselfish. Landed neat, flopping around. Hook, line, and sinker. But what if there'd been a kernel of truth hidden inside Madeline's big talk? Maybe it wasn't a hundred-percent hooey. After all, Michael had skipped and run out on me. Left me flat without a good-bye. Not even a note.

A sick feeling roiled inside my guts. And then, Madeline made it worse by saying, "Let me tell you something, dear. A little advice. Woman to woman. Never trust a man in bed." She pointed her gun at Michael. "Especially that one. That one in particular." Madeline seemed reminiscent, then looked piteously at me. All big eyes, crocodile sympathy. "Men will say anything, promise anything between the sheets. But the next day ... just a handful of sweet nothings. Worth nothing. If everything he promised me came true, then we wouldn't be here today. But here we are."

Michael's eyes flickered over my face. "Good work, Nikita. Now give me the doll."

"Oh. Hello, Michael. Fancy meeting you in a place like this. Thought you didn't give two hoots about this tub. You want the doll? I don't think so. Finders keepers." I glared at him, the Johnny Bail-jumper. Ha! I'd give him a piece of my mind and then some. No one double-crossed me like that. No one. I'd deal with him later. I was so mad that I was ready to kill him ... if we ever got out of this mess alive. But I kept a lid on my rage. I couldn't boil over now. I had to stay cool. Real cool. So instead, I said, "Came across a little something. Something that seemed kind of lost. Look what I found." I held out the doll.

The Ice Man stepped forward. "Yes. Blonde ringlets, refined nose, blue glass eyes in a hand-painted porcelain face. Classic Bru. Yes. That's mine." He reached out.

"Is it? Not so fast, pal. Back off." Then I revealed the gun that I'd held behind the flounced silk skirts of the doll. "Do you have a bill of ownership? No? I didn't think so. Neither does Mister Samuelle. How very inconvenient ... for you both. And very, very convenient for me."

The Ice Man plucked the cigar from his lips, gestured expansively so that thin blue smoke trailed across the air. "I'm sure we could come to some agreement. Say two hundred dollars?"

"Only two? No dice. Michael offered me five thousand. I don't get it. Two hundred. Five thousand. What difference does it make? It's ugly. Just a bunch of junk." I kept my eyes trained on them, my gun steady as I bent back my forearm and started to throw the doll towards the edge of the dock.

"Wait!" strangled the Ice Man. "Wait a moment. You don't know what you have there. That doll is valuable. Belonged to Princess Anastasia Romanova. After the Bolshevik revolution, the doll surfaced in Turkey. Then we traced it to France."

My arm froze, letting the doll dangle. "So it used to belong to a princess. Big deal. It's still anemic-looking. Real ugly. Look at you. A grown man. Playing with dolls. If I get rid of it, I'll be doing you a favor." I made as if to pitch it.

"No. Don't. There's something inside it. We'll split it with you," said Madeline.

"What? Fifty percent of glue and sawdust. No thanks. Careful, sister." My gun flashed upwards, and Madeline stopped in her tracks. "That's right. Stay where you are. One more move like that, and I drop this doll into the brink. You're making me ... twitchy."

"Not sawdust. Gems," said the Ice Man, chomping hard on his cigar. "And not just any jewels. The royal jewels. All my life, I've smuggled gems, but I've never seen anything like this. Purest diamonds, Burmese rubies, white gold. Hot ice on fire. A nursemaid stuffed them into Anastasia's doll, but they were lost during the Revolution. Until now." His eyes fixed greedily on the doll like a man looks at his lover. "Now they're here."

"So Michael didn't tell you that. You didn't know about the Russian crown jewels," Madeline observed. "I wonder what other things he didn't tell you. The wife and child?"

"No," I said, trying my best to keep my voice even. "He told me about that. Anything else you'd like to tell me, Michael?"

"Conclusions, Nikita. Do not jump ... to conclusions."

For once, the Ice Man looked impatient, a little cross with the turn of the discussion. "I'll pay you ten thousand."

"No deal. Remember, I have the doll. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. We'll split fifty-fifty."

"No, Nikita. Do not ... do this."

"Michael, I'm sorry. Really, I am. But a girl needs to take care of herself. I can't stay on the straight and narrow all the time. Sometimes I need to make a detour. A clean sweep. Start all over again," I said patiently, my eyes never wavering from the marks.

The Ice Man frowned, yanked the cigar out of his mouth. "Twenty percent. Call it a finder's fee."

"Thirty. We can afford to be generous," added Madeline.

I pretended to consider their offer, then slowly nodded. "We-e-ell, all right. Thirty percent then. You got yourself a deal."

"The doll. If you please." The Ice Man extended his hand.

Smiling, I started to give it to him, but at the last moment, swept my hand toward the edge of the dock. The doll sailed head over heels into the air. Its curls flared out like a sunflower, arcing up, then plummeting out of sight.

"No!" Madeline reached out, tried to grab it. She ran forward, her eyes fixed on the doll; stepped straight off the pier and into nothing. There was a small splash, then a larger one as she fell, screaming, into the bay.

One of the muscle ran to the edge, peered over, trying to find Madeline. Knocked him over easy with a round-house kick. Another splash. Turned, ready, but Michael had already dealt with no-neck number two.

Michael casually stepped over the comatose men, who now littered the dock. "Well, Monsieur Wolf, here at last. Come with me."

"I think not." Silver gleamed in the Ice Man's hand. A gun. He gestured for us to step back. "This has all been ... very disappointing."

I said, "A Mexican stand-off. We both have guns."

"Not at all. This time, I have the advantage." His lips peeled back into a rictus of a smile. "You see, they want me in one piece. Alive. A dead man can't tell tales. They want my tales. I deal in more than jewels. Information. A very valuable commodity. Isn't that so, Mister Samuelle?"

"Perhaps." Michael's eyes were watchful.

"You know it's true. So you can't kill me, my dear." He shrugged casually, as if it were no importance, but at the same time, I saw his finger tighten. Moonlight reflected off the barrel of his gun as it lifted a fraction towards Michael.

No. My gun sparked. Then its recoil hit my palm after I shot, diving in front of Michael, trying to shield him. Another flash, the harsh report of someone's gun. And lightning zig-zagged up my arm as I tripped on my shoelace, fell short of my roll. Sprawled on to the ground. My head hit something hard.

"Shit," I said succinctly. Why did I do that? Only a sap or someone in love would risk everything for nothing. But I didn't have time to figure this mystery, because then the world blacked out.

##

When someone turned the lights back on, it still smelled like rotting fish and old motor oil. Sirens wailed, echoing in the distance. I could hear footsteps pounding the dock, the sounds of cloth scraping against the ground.

A sleep-clogged voice grumbled, "What's up, lieutenant?"

"Go ask Samuelle. He's in charge of this collar. And check with the Coast Guard. They're still trying to find that Lenoir dame." Mack, my tormentor from childhood, slapped my cheeks. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Wake up. This is no time for a nap. Snap out of it."

My head felt as if Uncle Walter's experiment had just exploded inside it. The kind of ka-BOOM which broke a couple of windows and had the neighbors complaining for months afterwards. Behind my eyelids, everything seemed layered in black and red. And someone had peeled the skin off my arm, and dunked it in turpentine. It hurt like hell.

"Take them away," commanded a soft voice. Michael. Then his footsteps sounded louder as he approached. His shadow fell over me. "Is Nikita ... all right?"

"Yeah, sure. Hard-headed. Lot harder than that iron spar. I could tell you a thing or two about some of the scrapes she's been in. It's a gift. I tell you," Mack replied with a cheerfulness I could murder him for. Planks creaked as he rocked back on his heels. "Of course, this time she had a little help from you.

"She needs a keeper, not an instigator. We'll talk about that later. You bet we will." Michael grunted a reply. I could feel the tension between the men. The air smoked with it.

Someone pressed something wet and foul-smelling on my forehead. Whatever it was, it dripped into my eyes, made them sting. I groaned, ripped off the hanky. "What are you trying to do? This bay water? Trying to finish off the job by poisoning me? Jeez. I'll get lockjaw."

Mack snapped his fingers. "Hey, that's an idea. Lockjaw. Could be advantages. Imagine the peace. The quiet." I glowered at Mack even though I knew that his joking was a way of whistling in the dark. The more worried he was, the more comic he got.

He laughed, unrepentant, like a goddam hyena. "See what I mean? It takes more than an anchor to keep her down. Come on, darlin'. On your feet. Rise and shine. How many times do I have to tell you? You gotta stop trying to catch bullets. You don't have the knack. Your arm needs stitches. Let's go see the doc. I know a good one. A real peach."

As Mack scooped his hands under me, I felt someone shoulder him aside, someone with wide warm palms that I recognized immediately; the hands that knew my body better than I knew myself. I glanced up. The men faced each other, eye to eye. Heads bent forward, shoulders back as they glared over me. Then Mack shrugged, stepping back. Michael picked me up in one lithe move as if I were a child, his compact muscles surprisingly strong, his cheek raspy under mine.

"The doll ..." I said.

"We will not speak of it." One hand gently pressed my head against his shoulder. "It is not important. I already told you."

"Put me down. I can walk."

"No," he said simply, his gruff tone at odds with the protective way he cradled me.

"Listen, pal. I'm not some limp noodle. I got two legs, see? In perfect working order. Oh, why do I even try to reason with you? You never listen. Your head's full of rocks." I tried to twist out of his arms, but fireworks burst between my temples when I moved. White lights erupted here, there. I groaned, and Michael tightened his grip. "Mack ..."

"Your aim's off, Nikita. Better work on the targets. You only winged the Ice Man this time."

"I meant to ... Oh God, my head."

"Always was a whiner. Don't whine, Nikita. It's not attractive. Ladies shouldn't whine. And detectives definitely don't. Just bite a leather strap or something."

"Shut up, Mack. I hit the Ice Man just where I intended. Arm and leg. Damn tricky shot. Disable, not kill. Michael needed him alive. Did you get back the doll?"

Mack laughed. "Special delivery." Something very wet and very cold was thrust into my hands. I cracked open my eyes. There was the doll. She looked a little worse for wear, her dress and curls sodden, smelling nastily of marine ick. Twenty feet of fishing line tied to her neck.

"What a fine catch," I said, snuggling closer into Michael's arms. I soaked up his strength, felt him smile. "The catch of the day."

##

The door opened slowly. One eye, dark as chocolate, peeked through the crack, sparked. "You! You have a lot of nerve, showing up now. It's six in the morning. Forget it, buster. You stood me up. And this is the last time."

The door started to closed again, but Mack shoved his foot inside, pushed it wide open. "Come on, Mary Ellen. I can explain."

Her black hair was tousled, but under the bird's nest, her eyes were sharp. And angry, tilting further like a hissing cat. She clutched the opening of her crumpled bathrobe as if it were his throat. "No. I won't listen to you. All you do is talk. You and your sweet talk. I should have stitched up your mouth instead of that laceration. Done the world a service."

I exchanged a doubtful look with Michael, but we followed Mack into the house. As we walked from the vestibule into the front room, the smell of shriveled pot roast and over-cooked vegetables grew stronger, almost overwhelming. Two places were set on the cherrywood table. One crumpled napkin lay on the floor across the room as if it had been thrown in a fit of temper. Beeswax had burned down to the rims of the silver candlestick holders.

"Darlin', just listen to me ..."

"No. No, I won't listen to any more excuses. The first time, shame on you. The second time, shame on me. I know that work gets in the way sometimes. You're on-call just like me. But why didn't you use the phone? It's a nice invention. I highly recommend it. You could have picked one up and called me. Westlake-856."

Wearily, she rubbed her eyes. "This was all a mistake. I can see it now. Mixing business and personal stuff. We crossed a line. It's too ... too messy. Forget it, Mack. That's it. Get another doctor to remove your stitches. They come out in four more days. Use a pitchfork."

"Ah, come on." Mack touched her shoulder where it curved into her long swan neck. His thumb circled. Mary Ellen leaned into his caress until she seemed to remember, suddenly straightened, then shoved his hand away. She stormed around the room, and Mack followed, looking kind of hangdog, hovering over her. "But someone needs your help. Some of your fine suturing. And no questions asked."

"Help?" Mary Ellen whirled around, stared as if seeing us for the first time.

"Oh ... A patient. Why didn't you say so?" She absentmindedly patted down her hair, then straightened up to all sixty inches of her height. "Let's use my office next door. Follow me." She slid open the dividing doors, and walked through.

Mack stopped for a moment, grinned. "See. That Doctor Murphy. She's just crazy about me. Plumb crazy."

##

"Crazy all right," I muttered, settling back into my pillows. It was nice to be back in my own sofa bed. Lani had taken pity on me, and shooed everyone out of the apartment. Rest, she had said, was what I needed as she'd shoved Mack out the door. The only thing worse than a mischievous Mack was a solicitous one.

He'd dropped the ice bag on my lap instead of my head. On purpose, I suspected.

Finally, I was alone with Michael again. "Mary Ellen has to be crazy to get involved with Mack." She had a nice gentle touch, quick and professional, despite the bathrobe. Cracked a few jokes here and there. I found myself liking her, even if she was a doctor. And she'd given me a shot of something that made the world all soft and rosy. I liked that too.

Michael sat next to me on the bed. Took my hand. "Some people might think you're crazy. Throwing away those jewels like that."

"Not much of a gamble." I yawned. "They were fake. I checked them quick. The diamonds didn't cut the glass, and the rubies had all kinds of bubbles and stripes. We make better stuff than that. Anyway, once I saw they were counterfeit, I put them back inside the doll, and sewed it up again. Should have stuck with me, pal. Why didn't you?"

"I didn't want you to come to the boat. I wanted you to be safe. Away from danger."

"I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." At least most of the time. I crossed my fingers so it wouldn't be a total lie.

"Can you? Don't judge me too harshly, Soleil. Let me tell you about my sister. Maybe then you will understand. I never told you ... how Josephine died. She was so bright, so full of life. During the war, she worked as a spy. It was all an adventure to her. Even, I think, until the very end when the Germans caught her." He looked away, then down at our hands.

"So you were trying to protect me."

He nodded bleakly. "I couldn't save Josephine. I was too late. By the time I found her, saw what they'd done to her, I was glad that she was dead. At least her suffering was over. But you. I thought I had a chance to save you." He lifted my hand, kissed the knuckles. "Now you answer a question. How did you find the doll? I looked for it. We all did."

"I knew exactly where it was, even before the ship docked. My 'cousin' Barney's a purser on that ship. He had it the whole time, see? I think Lani has cousins all around the world. It's good to have family. And it looks like my family's branching out. Mack and Mary Ellen. Does she know what she's in for?"

"Every day would be like a rollercoaster."

"Some people don't mind. Some people like it a lot."

"But it doesn't have to be that way. Always scrabbling around, hand to mouth. Always putting yourself in danger. Tonight. My God. For a moment, I thought I'd lost you. That must stop."

I couldn't say anything for a moment, my heart beating faster. He held my hand as if he were afraid of losing me right now. "I want to show you Antibes. I have a villa there. The sea is as blue as your eyes."

"Or Tahiti. We could swim with the turtles. Eat passionfruit all day." Make love all night.

"We could live any place in the world. You and I. Just tell me ... where. I could do intelligence work wherever I go, whatever I want. I have more than enough for both of us to live comfortably."

"Mmm hmm. And what would I do?"

"Do?" He looked puzzled. "You would not need to do anything any more. Just take care of me." He smiled a little wickedly. "In that very special way that you do."

"We can't spend all day in bed."

"Why not? We have before. And there are many drawings we have not looked at yet."

"Stop that." I caught his migrating hands. "You're confusing me. Let me get this straight. You don't want me to work any more?"

"Why should you? You would not need to, not any longer. No more cases. Midnight tails. Meeting strange men in dark alleys. You could put all that behind you."

"But I like being a detective. I'm a good one."

"It is too dangerous."

"I've never been hurt."

His brows drew together as he glanced pointedly at the white bandage wrapped around my arm.

"Okay, okay. This morning was the exception that proves the rule. Before this case, I've never been injured on the job. Maybe a hangnail or two. A scrape. Big deal. I've never been shot."

"You could be killed. Or worse." His eyes were shadowed as he seemed to be remembering his sister. "Don't you see? It is not necessary."

"So you want to keep me. You want me to be ... your mistress."

"My love ... my beloved ... for all my life. For all our lives together, Soleil." He punctuated his words with a kiss, each more devastating than the last.

"And what about your wife?"

"Divorce is difficult. But perhaps, the impossible can become possible."

"And your son?"

"Don't think so hard, Ni-kee-ta. Say yes."

He was so close to convincing me, a master of the physical debate. Each touch persuaded. Each second, I weakened more. It was easier to pretend, easier to given in. But I couldn't. I couldn't do what he wanted.

It was the hardest thing I ever did, but I pulled away from him even though my body ached with the interruption. "No, Michael. Adam needs you. Family needs to be together. Jack was a lousy dad, but at least he was there, dragging me to every godforsaken port in the world."

"Then we will send for Adam. He must live with us." Just like that. So quietly imperious.

I smoothed back his reddish-brown hair, which curled at the ends from the mist and the damp. I looked at his face, the one I loved, the one that filled my dreams. "And what about me?" I asked finally, unable to hide the sadness that seeped into me, even as he held me. "Because the woman you want is not who I am. You can't pamper me. I'm not a pet."

"I am not asking you ... to be that."

"Aren't you? Can you see me, staying at home, eating bonbons all day?" He didn't seem to understand, but I tried again. I had to. "Look at you, Michael. You're a comté's brother. You're rolling in dough. You could live on easy street if you wanted to. You don't need to work, but you do. Why?"

"Because I like what I do. It gives me ... purpose."

"Exactly. Well, it's the same for me. I'm a gumshoe. That's who I am."

He frowned. "I only want what is best for you."

"Then we don't agree on what's best. Life without risk isn't a life at all. It's only an existence. If I did what you want, I'd die inside. Then I'd grow to hate you. And you'd hate me in the end. Maybe you'd better ..." But I couldn't finished the sentence. Tears clogged my throat, making me sound adenoidal, like I had the mother of all colds. I fumbled with the chain as it caught in my hair. Yanked hard. Handed him the jewelry.

He cupped the ring in his palm. "You're not thinking clearly. It must be the medicine."

"Michael ..."

"Shhh. Rest now." And he held me until I fell asleep.

##

Danger feels still, absolutely still; one frozen moment when you're right on the brink of either opportunity or disaster. And then, there is the absolute stillness of solitude. The two are completely different. The moment I woke up, I felt the stillness of the apartment, and knew that I was alone again.

The afternoon light was falling gray and softly around the room. My head buzzed as I slowly sat up on the couch. My mouth felt like a pile of old lint. Then I saw it on the coffee table - the ring sitting on top of the chain. And a note. I held up the paper, squinted, my vision still fuzzy from drugs. Words danced a little before they stilled into neat compact writing, as lean as he was.

"Soleil, it seems you can no more change your mind than I can change mine. Maybe time is the solution. As you hold the ring in your hand, you hold my heart, always."

And then, he added, as if in after-thought, "I love you. Michael."

Once he had said that he never wrote anything on paper. That evening seemed like a long time ago. But this time, he'd written his love. Exhibit A, state's evidence. I didn't realize that my hands were clenched until I heard the paper crumple. Hastily I set it down on the table, and carefully smoothed out every wrinkle. Then I put the chain back around my neck.

"I love you too," I said to the empty apartment. My words echoed off the walls, mocked me now that there was no one else to hear them. "Now isn't that the hell of it?" And then I buried my face in my hands, willed the tears I'd been holding back to come at last.

##

I waited, but I didn't hear from him, other than a check for five thousand dollars delivered by a chauffeur from the French consulate. Then one week slipped to two, two weeks into a month. I was too busy to mope. Work had been booming, and I lost myself in it. Easy jobs, real eggs in the cake. But something wasn't right any more. I didn't know what it was exactly. Finally I had what I'd always wanted, but it wasn't enough any more. Maybe the jobs didn't interest me as much. Maybe the pace was getting to me. I was tired all the time, without my usual zip. The apartment felt warm, and I was having trouble staying awake during Sunday dinner. Started listing to one side before I snapped upright again. Hoped nobody noticed. I propped my head on one hand, picked up a fork. The conversation buzzed like a bunch of flies over a picnic.

"Nikita's been working hard. Maybe too hard," said Uncle Walter, slicing into the roast beef with his usual technical precision.

"Yeah, you bet." Mack laughed. "Must be all that hard work bending your elbow and eating petits gâteaux with the French consulate's wife. Drinking tea and saying how-de-do. Où est Fifi? Then, voilà! Fifi is found. Back again, returned to her grateful owner. Another case of the missing poodle. Solved, sealed, filed."

"Poodles, nothing. You're just green because I collared that ring of crooked French maids before you did. They were cleaning up the hotel all right. Cleaning up the guests. Making off with a mint. Don't be a sore loser. I gave them to you on a platter."

"And it was big help. I may make captain real soon." Mack tipped back in his chair, looked at me. He wrinkled his nose. "Walter's right. Maybe you should back-pedal a little. You look tired. Wrung out like yesterday's dish rag."

"Don't throw compliments at me, pal. They only turn my head. I'm fine. Leave me alone." I'd die before I'd admit it. Jeez. Felt like I could sleep a week even though I'd just taken a nap.

"Do you want something to eat?" Lani's face was wreathed with concern. She refilled my tea cup.

I shook my head. I didn't feel like eating too much. Wasn't sleeping too well. Kept counting sheep. Green-eyed sheep.

Lani gently swirled the cup, then peered at its contents. Her eyes widened as her mouth made a little "O" of surprise. Smiling, she passed me the tea. "Aren't you curious? Don't you want to know what the leaves say this time?"

"Does it matter? It's always the same. 'I will meet a mysterious stranger'. Well, I did." I shrugged, gingerly sipped the tea. It stayed down. Settled. Maybe I was coming down with the flu. "And meeting him didn't do me a whole lot of good," I added, muttering into the cup.

Lani tapped the teapot. "Well, this time it's different, yeah? This time, the tea leaves say that good things come in small packages."

"Ooh, get a load of that." Mack pumped his fist in the air and whooped like a boy. "Could be diamonds. Rubies. Better watch the mail, darlin'. You're getting a special delivery."

"Maybe." Lani's mysterious smile deepened like the Cheshire Cat's, broad and enigmatic. She seemed very very pleased. "But you should eat something, Nikita. You've hardly touched your food in the last week."

"Yeah. That's right. Why don't you have another biscuit? You've already shredded two of them into little crumbs all over your plate. What are you doing? Going to feed the birds? Here. Be my guest." Mack pushed the basket across the table towards me. "Ow." He rubbed his side, where Mary Ellen had elbowed him.

She smiled at him sweetly. "Excuse me. Could you pass the gravy?"

As I handed her the gravy boat, the rich beefy smell hit my nose, and something else hit my stomach. I felt dizzy all of a sudden, acid rushing up my throat. I clamped a hand over my mouth, scooted out of my seat, but not before I saw Lani and Mary Ellen exchange a glance.

I made it to the bathroom in time. Jeez. This was awful. Every belly muscle felt sore like I'd taken a sucker punch right to the gut. Afterwards, I splashed cold water on my face, peered into the mirror. Didn't look too bad, but I felt like I'd gone all fifteen rounds. And lost.

"Knock knock."

"Come in, Mary Ellen." I dabbed my face with a towel.

She examined me with the uncomfortable thoroughness of a physician instead of the interested regard of a friend. A lot closer than was socially polite. Too damn close, as if she were mentally x-raying me, noticing everything inside and out. Her lips pursed. "How are you feeling?"

Doctors. They always asked the same question. "Better now, thank you." She asked me some more questions. Kind of embarrassing ones. I answered as best I could.

Mary Ellen looked thoughtful for a moment, didn't say anything. "So, tell me, Doc. Is it fatal?"

"No." She smiled, her eyes lighting with amusement.

"I can't believe this. I never get sick. Is there a bug going around? When do you think I'll get over this?"

"In nine months," she said. "Exactly nine months."

##

Mary Ellen was right. I did get better. As it turned out, I didn't have just one bug. I had two. Born at the same time, and as different from each other as the sun and the moon. One was golden and radiant, the other quiet and reflective.

Before they were born, I had cursed Lady Luck. She was one fickle dame. After all, she'd given me Michael only to take him away later. It was like glimpsing paradise through a window, and then closing the curtain. A tease. A tormenting tease. What was the purpose of that? I didn't understand why until Mary Ellen gave me my babies to hold for the first time. Then I knew, and my regrets vanished. I had my children, my gifts from Michael.

And now they were just shy of nine months. I watched them play in the sandbox. Josephine grabbed the shovel from her brother, who didn't howl like most babies might. Instead, he only looked at her with his calm green eyes. She chuckled, sand rimming her mouth, as Jack jabbered softly to her. He pointed. Then something else captured her interest, and Josephine dropped the shovel. The moment she crawled away, Jack picked up the shovel, a serene smile illuminating his face. I leaned down, ruffled his soft auburn curls. "You're such a sneaky Pete."

He glanced up at me. In every way, he was Michael's miniature, from the cleft in his chin to the little wide palms with the long fingers. Sometimes I would creep into their bedroom at night and look at his hands. No words yet but Jack gurgled, showed me his shovel. "Yeah, yeah. Tell it to the judge."

It was early afternoon when most children were napping. My two never slept, so we usually had the children's park to ourselves. But today, a nanny watched over a young brown-haired boy, who played by himself at the other end of the sandbox. He marched his soldiers up and down the hill, and made impressively realistic explosions. Josephine crawled unerringly for the toy soldier with the long pointy lance - the most dangerous one with good eye-poking potential. But Mack scooped up Josephine before she reached her destination. She yowled until Mack dangled her by the legs, and her protest turned into a delighted squeal.

"No stopping this one. Isn't that right, Josie?" He swung her gently back and forth, and her blue eyes bugged. She squealed louder, revealing lots of gum and four small teeth. Her blonde hair stuck out like the prickles of a hedgehog.

When he stopped, she pounded her fists on his chest. "Mo', mo', mo'."

Mack obliged. "So how's work?"

"I solved the disappearing silver case. Turned out it was the great aunt. Sweet lady but sticky fingers. I guess every family needs a kleptomaniac."

"Ever since you got the first job from the French embassy, you've been real busy. Missing persons, the philandering husband, real bread and butter kind of stuff. Not too risky."

"But interesting. I used to think that being a woman was a handicap, but it's not. Lots of women need a discrete detective, but they won't set foot in a private dick's office. So that's where I come in. I visit them. Soft-boiled instead of hard."

"The sympathetic detective who does home visits. That's you. So, since you're such a great detective, have you contacted Samuelle yet? You've been sitting on those leads for months now."

The same old question. Mack had hectored me with that question a million times. And for the millionth time, I ignored him.

"I understand he finally got that fancy French divorce. A huge scandal, but it went through a couple of months ago."

"Hmm. Getting a little big for your britches. You may be a captain now, but you're still just a copper. Since when is France under your jurisdiction?"

"Ever since someone I know has been too hard-headed for her own good. Nikita, this isn't right, and you know it."

I stared him down. Won as usual.

Mack shuffled his feet, then gave an exaggerated sigh. "Oh well, I give up."

"Since when?" Suspicion sharpened my voice. Devils danced in his eyes as if he knew a secret. Or was planning one of his fool tricks. "Just what are you up to, pal?"

Mack shrugged. "I'm married now. Completely reformed. As peaceable as a dove. Isn't that right, Miss Josie? Alley oop." He turned her right side up, and they rubbed noses until she hiccupped with laughter. Then she bounced up and down in his arms. "Got to get back to work. Law and justice, all that jazz. See you later, darlin'." He lowered the baby into my lap, first her feet, legs, then the small weight of her bottom.

"Mama. Mamamamama. My mama." She patted my cheek, then smiled, head cocked back, proud of her accomplishment. I snuggled her, breathing in milk and that special baby smell. Felt the fine soft strawberry blonde hair against my cheek.

When I glanced up again, Jack was gone. The sandbox was empty. My heart simply stopped. I cursed my carelessness. I'd looked away for only a moment, but a moment was all it took. I knew better than that. Desperately I looked around, surveying the playground faster and faster until I finally saw Jack. He was being held by a tall man.

The young brown-haired boy handed Jack a toy soldier. Then he patted Jack's leg. "Mon frère."

"Oui." That voice. Quiet, commanding. How many times had I heard it in my dreams only to wake up, feeling absolutely wretched and alone? Cursing my stubbornness, cursing his.

Then the man turned towards me and the sun lit his hair, turned it redder, so that it matched Jack's exact shade. Some day, Jack's puffy cheeks would melt into those hard angles. The button nose would grow into that same definite slant as the man who held him. As his father's.

Michael walked towards me with the predatory grace I remembered. Slowly, deliberately. My mouth dried. I stood up with Josephine, ran a quick hand down my skirt.

"Hello, Michael."

He carefully examined me: my hatless head, blouse stained with baby food and souring milk, my cheap gum sole shoes. He lingered on my legs, then smiled a little as if he'd won a private bet. Of course, he looked bandbox perfect - pressed suit, perfectly straight tie. I wanted to rumple him, just a bit. Make him more human, less handsome. "Nikita," he said at last.

"Introduce me?" I smiled at the young boy, whose eyes were solemn, older than his years. He smiled shyly; hanging back, holding Michael's hand, clutching a toy soldier with the other.

"This is Adam. Adam, Nikita. Or should I say, Mrs. Hunter?" He invested quiet irony in the last two words.

I ignored him, ignored the queer constriction in my chest as though my breath was going to explode at any moment. Instead, I said, "Adam, this is Josephine ... your sister." She stuck her finger in her mouth, and beamed at them.

"A flirt," murmured Michael.

"Well, she doesn't get that from me."

Michael made a soft disagreeing sound.

"And I see you've already met Jack."

"Mon frère, Jacques," piped up Adam.

Michael and I stared, each of us not believing that the other was really there, each of us holding a child. Then the thought occurred. Maybe he was here to take them away. A father has certain rights. Well, I wouldn't let him. These were my children. My grip involuntarily tightened, and Josephine fussed, squirming in protest. Now, of all times, she didn't want to be held. I set her down, let her stand and bounce as I held her plump hands. "Now that we've done the introductions, maybe we can get to the explanations." I managed to keep the friendly smile on my face even though my tone sounded edgier.

The corner of Michael's mouth tugged upwards. "Straight to the crux. As always. Just as I remembered." He set down Jack in the sandbox. Instructed Adam, who started playing with his new brother. Then took Josephine from me, kissed her cheek. "La belle. Like her mother. And just as ... determined." He deposited her in the sandbox too. Signaled to the nanny, who sat near the children. Then he took my elbow, started to pull me away. "Come with me."

"The children. I can't leave them. I need to stay here." I dug my feet into the ground.

I'd forgotten how strong he was. "Colette will watch them. They'll be fine."

"But Josephine. She always fusses when I leave." And of course, my daughter didn't. She happily played with her brothers as if she never had a mother, never noticed I was gone. As if I were just another random lady walking in the park. Contrary again. Right to the bone. I figured she got that from both sides. A double dose, poor kid. I sighed. "All right, all right. But not too far. I want to be able to hear them at least."

"D'accord. You will find ... I can compromise."

So I walked along the path with him. Just to avoid a scene I told myself. He lead me through a small box maze. The high bushes were thick, thorny, twisting this way and that.

I glanced at him. Tried to hide my uneasiness. He probably could feel my pulse bump faster. "I hope you know where you're going."

"Of course. Always." He smiled calmly, a grown-up version of Jack's. I wished that reassured me, but it didn't. I only felt more apprehensive. In silence, we took several turns until we came to a small secluded garden filled with the lush smell of roses. As I walked by, I pushed a swing which hung from an old oak, and the swing softly swished through the air. A lark trilled in the branches somewhere overhead. Another one answered. I could hear Colette, then Josephine's crowing laughter.

"Over here." Michael stood by a bench under a palm tree. We sat down. He took my hand, his thumb playing with the ring, turning it over and over. "You wear it. Why? After all this time?"

"When I became Mrs. Hunter, I needed a wedding ring. I had this one. It was the practical decision."

"I see ... Not for any sentimental reason?"

"Sentiment?" I snorted. "Not on your life. Nobody with twin babies has time for sentiment. Double trouble."

"Double joy."

"Yes," I said. "They are that. A double blessing when they're not fighting." I touched my ring, worried the stone. "You know, the funny thing about rubies - they're supposed to be a healing stone. They mend lovers' quarrels."

"Do they? I would hope ... that was true." Michael looked away from me, listened to the children play for a long time. Finally, he said, "Why didn't you call me?"

"Oh, I wanted to. I started to call you a hundred times a day. Every day. I must have written a hundred messages, tore them up again. Why didn't you?"

"Stubbornness. Pride. Yes, and anger. Does it matter? I am here now." He squeezed my hand, smiled a little sadly. "A wise person once told me that family should stay together."

"Are you here for the children?"

"Yes. In part. But I am a selfish man. I could never marry just for the sake of the children. But for their mother. For her, I could move mountains. I would do anything ..."

"But I ... I am their mother. Do you mean me?"

"Who else?" The silence grew between us as we looked at each other, tried to decipher everything that had happened. And all that had not. Misunderstanding was a very thorny maze to navigate. Could we come through - relatively unscathed - to the other side? Reach the same place at the same time together?

Michael slanted his head, then kissed my knuckles one at a time. "I don't know if I can live with what you want. But I know that I cannot live without you."

"Even knowing who I am?"

"Especially knowing who you are." His fingers played with my hair, a strand at a time. He smoothed them back from my face, cupped my cheek, his thumb circling the skin below. Michael swallowed hard. "I am willing to try. If you are. I can compromise ... if you can. Please ..."

His hands took mine, convulsed. Startled, I looked up at him, at the cool green ice of his gaze, and the passion burning just underneath it. A passionate fire still burning for me as I still burned for him. The eternal flame. Love. His eyes entreated me.

And so I went to him.

And gave him the only answer I could, the right answer, the true one. He was, after all, the pulse of my heart.

I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine.

Breaths brushed as we drifted into a kiss as gentle, as light as milkweed fluff. Then his soft sigh puffed against my lips, down my cheek, and tenderness exploded the last locked-down feeling, broke the chains of recrimination.

Something burst free, sending seeds of joy, which took flight. Scattering, lofting into the wide blue yonder where there were no limits. All the worries disappeared, and it was as though a weight had been lifted from me. I floated in the air, somewhere in his arms.

"Ni-kee-ta," rumbled through his chest. Only he could make my name sound like a love word, like a blessing. Absence made our kiss grow hotter, needier. My hands stroked his hardening muscles, the lissome back twisting, trembling towards me.

And under his touch, I felt like dry ice, removed from storage and suddenly placed in the real live world: cold for so long but no longer, so hot I wasn't even melting. I evaporated. Sublimated, with him, into bliss.

Michael pulled back a little, and I bit his lip, wanting more. Always wanting more. "Soleil, stop." He sighed, kissed my temple. Reached down and moved my leg, which was somehow crossing his lap now. I could feel him. All of him.

Grinning, I pulled down the skirt that had immodestly hitched up to mid-thigh. "You know ..."

He gave me a cautious look as he reached into his pants pocket and made an adjustment.

I re-fastened my blouse, which had mysteriously become unbuttoned during the last few minutes. Michael tried to help me. It was not good idea. "I'm curious ..."

Michael shook his head.

"All right, all right. Never mind."

For once, emotions warred across his face: dread, interest, delight. "What is it?" he asked quietly.

I chewed on my lip, pointed to the swing. "There's one called ..."

"No," he said, half-laughing. "No, Nikita."

"... Two Cranes Ascending to Heaven." I whispered into his ear, then drew back. Michael looked thoughtful. "You don't have to worry. I have a very good sense of balance. And I happen to know that you're very ... coordinated."

"Lucky for you," was all he said. But he didn't move towards the swing.

I felt disappointed. Cleared my throat. "Well, we are in a public park. And our children are just a few yards away. I can hear them. So ... they could hear us."

He nodded solemnly. Disappointment grew. "And it is in the middle of the day."

"Yes," said Michael. "That is true ... but there is always midnight. Sometimes you meet strangers at night. In the most unusual places."

"Only green-eyed strangers," I said. "Only you."

"Then that ... is all right. Until midnight. Deal?"

Until midnight. The way he said it: soft, low, rippling, ripe with promise. I quivered as though he touched me everywhere, all at once. I tried to look calm, knowing by his little smile that I hadn't fooled him a bit. Knowing that every second until then would seem like an hour, every hour - a day.

I kept my chin up. "Okay, pal. You got it. You got yourself a deal. Put it there." I held out my hand, expected him to shake it. He reached out. His fingers slowly closed around mine, tip to tip, palm across palm. Then he grasped and lunged, panther-quick, pulling me. Fast. Reeling me right into the clinch, but this time, without a forty-five caliber something. And this time, I didn't mind. I didn't mind at all. The End ##

Author's Note

As always, this story is dedicated to S, my surfing consultant and dedicated research assistant. A few words on pillow books, pomegranates, and pearls ...

"Pillow books" are collections of erotic Indian and Chinese art, which were essentially manuals used to instruct young women on sex (as well as for the private and mutual satisfaction of other people through the ages). "Sex here is never presented in crude or pornographic way, but as with all good Chinese art, within the framework of beauty and harmony of nature." So it's entirely plausible that Nikita, like many young women before her, had her "curiosity" stimulated by looking at a secret pillow book.

The quotation from "The Song of Songs" (also known as "The Song of Solomon" or the "Canticles") speaks of earthly love. My thanks to Kadyn for translation:

I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine ...
Let my beloved come to his garden, and eat its choicest fruits ...
You are stately as a palm tree, and your breasts are like its clusters.
I say I will climb the palm tree and lay hold of its branches.
O may your breasts be like clusters of the vine,
and your kisses like the best wine that goes down smoothly,
gliding over lips and teeth.

And about fake gems: The recipes for fake pearls are from a Chinese book of alchemy (600-700 A.D.).

A tip of my fedora to Dash Hammett and his Effie Perrine, who was Sam Spade's secretary. She never seemed like a "rattle-brained angel" to me, and so, I tried to imagine a Maltese Falcon-ish story for Nikita (and Michael). This is my homage to Mister Hammett, whose descriptions and terse action hold up to this day.

And finally, thanks to BetsyG and Leigh, whose alternative LFN universes are delightfully entertaining.

##

Glossary
C-bill a hundred dollars
D'accord. okay
Don't be a bunny. Don't be stupid.
eel juice liquor
eggs in the cake something really easy
hooey nonsense
mon frère my brother
nance gay man
ops detective (like shamus, gumshoe, private dick … or in this case, private jane!)
Où est Fifi? Where is Fifi?
petits gâteaux cookies
Soleil sunshine
wooden kimono a coffin
All non-LFN and non-Hammett characters are under copyright to F. Yep © 1999.

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