Evangeline, irritated, slowed the car down as the rain slammed harder into the windshield. She could hardly see beyond the slapping wipers into the wet night.

“This is the cherry on top of the crappy cake that has been my day,” she sighed out loud to the empty car, wondering how much longer the trip would take her in this weather. It had been a bad day from the beginning: she’d woken up late, forgotten that her lucky suit for court was at the cleaners and had to wear her second-favorite, been denied a motion for a continuance, dripped salad dressing on the skirt of the second-favorite suit, and accidentally left her cell phone in her office when she headed out for the airport. She’d thought about going back for it, but given the weather, figured she’d need that extra time just to make her flight.

Now, driving straight into the heart of the storm, she wondered how much worse her day could possibly get. She reached for the radio to get a traffic update, then looked back through the windshield, shrieked, and slammed on the brakes.

Seconds later, Evangeline sat in her Mercedes convertible at the side of the highway, both hands on the wheel, trying to catch her breath. It had only been a white plastic shopping bag, but the storm winds had aimed it straight at her head and it had scared the hell out of her. Her car had spun, then fishtailed and straightened, before coming to a stop with a loud thunk. Now it was angled down slightly into the drainage ditch by the side of the highway.

Okay, she thought. Now what?

Being Evangeline, she came up thinking fast. The impact hadn’t been hard enough to make the air bags deploy, so hopefully there wasn’t much damage. She turned the key to the accessory position and pushed the button to turn the hazard lights on. Then she grabbed her umbrella and got out to survey the damage.

Her car was hung up over the edge of the drainage ditch and the right front tire was useless, hanging shredded from its rim.

Be careful what you wish for, Vange. Your day just officially got worse, she thought.

Evangeline ducked through the rain back around the front of the car to the open door, shaking her umbrella out, then dropping it on the floor behind the driver’s seat. Reaching automatically for her purse, she dug inside for her cell phone, then remembered that it was on the sofa in her office.

Shit, she thought. Can’t get more screwed than this.

Evangeline sat back in her seat, her analytical attorney’s mind working overtime. Obviously, she’d miss her flight: that ship was going to sail without her. Now she needed to figure out how to stay safe and dry while she waited for help to come.
*****

Evangeline tensed as a car pulled up behind her, headlights glaring in her rear view mirror. A minute ago, she’d been scared to be alone, stranded in this storm: now that she had company, she felt even more vulnerable. She checked again to make sure her car doors were locked, wishing she had listened to John all those years ago when he’d wanted her to take a self-defense class.

She looked in her rearview mirror to see a tall man getting out of his car. He was carrying a flashlight, sweeping it side-to-side over her car to survey the situation. He walked quickly to the driver’s side window and knocked on the glass.

“Evangeline, open up,” he yelled.

He knows my name? she wondered. It was too dark too see out, and she was afraid to follow his instructions.

“Evangeline, it’s me!” The man put his hand up to the glass of the window, fingers spread, and peered in. “Open up!”

She’d know those eyes anywhere, deep blue, even in the dark. Especially in the dark, she thought. She opened the door and he leaned in, dripping rain all over her.

“Are you OK?” he asked, the worry obvious on his face.

“I’m fine… I’m fine,” she replied, just glad to see the soaking wet face of John McBain.

“Go wait in my car,” he ordered, holding the door open wide for her and offering a hand to pull her up and out.

He watched her get in the passenger side of his car, then pulled her keys from the ignition and walked around the entire car, using the flashlight to check underneath for fuel leaks. Finally, he locked up, ran back to his car and slammed himself inside.

“What happened?” he asked. She told him about the near miss with the garbage bag, sparing her pride not at all, and he chuckled. “I’ll call it in.” He reached for the police radio, letting dispatch know where he was, then reached for his cell phone and called Llantano Towing.

Evangeline observed him quietly. Since she first met him, it had been a secret pleasure of hers to watch him work. He was the Chief of Detectives in their small town and very good at what he did. Beyond that, even soaked to the skin, he was beautiful to look at, and Evangeline found herself responding despite knowing better. She always did when he was near her.

“This is Lieutenant McBain. Hey, Gene. Yeah, wild night.” John described Evangeline’s car and present location.

“Listen, tell Red I’ll consider it a personal favor—can he bring it to Hansen’s Garage instead of the impound? Owner will come by tomorrow.”

Evangeline shook her head and touched John’s arm. “I’m out of town for a few days.” He hid his surprise.

“Make that a few days, Gene, copy? Thanks. Tell Red I owe him.” He folded up his phone, then turned to Evangeline.

“They’re pretty busy tonight. They won’t get here for a couple hours. Can I call someone for you?”

“Know a car service? I was on my way to the airport.”

“I can drive you,” he said, not looking at her. He didn’t know the protocol for taking your ex-girlfriend to the airport.

Evangeline hesitated. “That’s a long way out of your way for an old friend,” she said. The airport was almost an hour away in good weather and they weren’t 15 minutes outside Llanview.

“You don’t want to miss your flight, do you?” he asked.

Evangeline leaned back, considering.

“Looks like it’s finally my turn to be rescued by the Great McBain,” she smirked.

John smirked back. His need to be the hero, while instinctive, had come between them when they were together. He’d left her bed more than once to go and help others, especially Natalie Buchanan, and he could tell it must still be a sore spot. You’d think that would be water under the bridge for her by now, he thought. He reached back for his wallet, picked out one of his Llanview Police Department business cards, then took a deep breath before pulling the door handle.

“Sit tight,” he said, then hopped out of his car again. He popped the trunk of Evangeline’s car and got her carry-on bag and her briefcase, then opened the driver’s side door, grabbed her purse, then put the keys up on the visor and locked up the car. Red would have no trouble jimmying the door when he got there. Finally, he slipped his business card under the wiper blade, hoping professional courtesy would keep her from getting a ticket if a State Trooper found her car before Red could get there with the tow truck.

Soaked again, John hustled back to his Mustang, tossed her bags in the back seat, and slid behind the wheel. He handed Evangeline her purse.

“Thanks for grabbing this,” she said, shaking off the water. She’d forgotten all about it.

“It’s included in the standard rescue package,” he joked.

“No extra charge?”

“No charge.” He started his car and pulled them carefully back on the highway, headed for the airport.
*****

Evangeline settled into her first-class seat, hair a mess and curled up into big waves from the rain, but glad to have made her flight. It felt weird, the way John had dropped her off out front of the terminal with an awkward wave—two years ago, he’d have parked and walked her inside to make sure she was safe and there would have been several scorching goodbye kisses—but still, he’d gotten her there with time to spare and she was grateful he’d stopped when he saw her car on the side of the road. I wonder what he was really doing out there tonight, she thought. She’d asked, but he’d answered her question with one of his own and changed the subject. Then they’d filled the silence with small talk, her telling him she was on her way to San Francisco, him, as usual, not saying much.

Evangeline made up her mind to do something nice for him when she got back from her trip: Phillies tickets, maybe, right behind the plate? But then maybe he’d feel obligated, like he couldn’t take someone else. Never easy with that man. But she’d think of something.

The pilot announced they were waiting for the last passenger to board and they’d be closing doors momentarily.

Evangeline, frustrated by yet another delay, closed her eyes. The image of John, soaking wet, water beading on his handsome face, filled her mind. Even with his long hair plastered down, he was breathtaking to look at. So wrong, Vange, to be missing that man this much after all this time. He’s not good for you. Move on, girl.

The last passenger boarded and the flight attendants closed the doors with a flurry of activity. Evangeline, fussing to get her purse stowed under the seat in front of her, almost missed John McBain’s open-handed wave as he walked past her, headed to his seat in business class.
*****

Evangeline stewed through the takeoff and ascent, unsettled by John’s sudden appearance. What the hell was he doing here, on this flight? Half of her wanted to haul back there and cross-examine him, loudly; the other half imagined how ashamed her mother would be if she caused a public scene like that. In the end, Lisa Williamson’s training won out and, Evangeline decided she wasn’t going to get in his face. Still, a girl’s allowed to have questions, isn’t she?

Pulling out her Mont Blanc pen, she signaled to the flight attendant.

Moments later, the same flight attendant parted the curtain and stepped through to the back of the plane. Eyes sweeping side to side, she located the man who’d boarded last and stopped in front of him.

“Officer McBain?” she asked sweetly. He looked up from his book expectantly.

“Lieutenant,” he replied with a small smile. The flight attendant nodded.

“This is for you.” She handed him a cold can of Heineken and a folded United Airlines cocktail napkin.

John took the beer and opened the napkin to see Evangeline’s precise, cursive handwriting.

Are you following me? it said. John pushed out his lower lip and asked the flight attendant if he could borrow her pen. Using the back of his book as a table, he scrawled out a quick reply. Folding the napkin back up around the pen, he handed them over with another smile, a big one this time.

“I get to keep the beer, right?”

“It’s all yours, Lieutenant.” She took the napkin and walked back up the aisle to return it to the sender.

“You were right,” she said, handing Evangeline the note, “he’s like movie-star handsome. And, he’s reading poetry—the sensitive type. You’re a lucky girl.” The flight attendant smiled broadly and continued on to her station at the front of the plane.

Evangeline sucked in a breath and opened the napkin.

NO.
*****

The flight landed early in San Francisco: the weather was clear. As the plane approached the gate, one of the attendants used her microphone to ask Passenger McBain to come forward. Evangeline watched as he removed his suit bag from the first class closet and slung it over his shoulder, then stepped forward to the exit row and waited, facing the door, hands on his hips. Moments after the plane came to a stop, the door opened with a whoosh. A member of the ground crew stepped up to John, who held up his shield case, showing first the gold medallion, then flipping it with a practiced motion so the crewman could read the ID card on the back. The man nodded and handed him a small, grey case.

John turned back and met Evangeline’s eyes over the heads of the other first-class passengers. Thanks, he mouthed, bringing his hand up as though he were drinking a beer. Then he disappeared through the open hatch.

John shifted in his chair in the second-to-last row. He was tired of sitting. And bored. The speaker was an expert in her field, but way too liberal for John’s taste. He wondered again why Bo Buchanan, who would have agreed with his assessment, had insisted on John talking his place at this conference.

He was counting the minutes until 4 p.m., when his time became his own again. Despite the sleep he’d gotten on the plane, he was ready for some rack time. Or a coffee. He needed one or the other. The soonest he could reasonably duck out was 20 minutes from now. The woman droned on.

“We believe these numbers tell us the following: that public and private funds earmarked for building new prisons should be diverted instead to community-based rehabilitation efforts. Not just literacy, job, and drug programs, but enrichments like gardens and peoples’ art projects.”

Yeah, don’t send ’em to jail, let ’em finger paint instead. That was enough for John. Standing, he excused himself past the others seated in his row and headed toward the nearest exit. He needed some air.

They’d put him up at the Parc 55, which, despite being pretty close to the Tenderloin, was decent enough on a government per diem. My kind of neighborhood, he thought. It wasn’t that far away, but he’d just walked out of the convention center: there had to be some place closer. The nearest corner held a Chevy’s and the W Hotel. Talk about a no-brainer, he thought, and crossed the street to the W.

*****

He’d started with coffee, just to wake up, then an Irish coffee—no whipped cream, of course—then got to talking with the bartender, who’d grown up in Cape May. One Jersey story led to another, and a relaxing hour passed. Returning from the men’s room, John looked at his watch and decided it was no longer too early for a Jameson’s. It’s quarter to eight in my world, he thought, I should be finishing round two by now.

Sitting back down in his place at the horseshoe-shaped bar, he ordered the whiskey and savored the first sip.

When he first came in, he’d chosen the darker side of the room. Now, it afforded him the opportunity to observe the people around him. Two older women seated together had been celebrating something since he’d arrived. Now they were a little louder than they should have been, tipsy on champagne. Glad I’m not going to be one of them tomorrow morning, he thought. At a table to his right, an expensively dressed young couple with nothing to say to each other sipped their gin and tonics, religiously avoiding each other’s eyes. Glad I’m not going to be one of them tomorrow morning, either.

Movement pulled his focus, and he sucked in a breath as Evangeline walked in through the side entrance and sat down at a table in the corner. She was wearing a black wrap dress that showed her cleavage, but she hadn’t straightened her hair. It was still wild and wavy, like it had been on the plane, and she looked even more exotic to him than usual. He nearly ducked behind the cash register until he caught himself, then held himself still, waiting until he was sure she hadn’t seen him.

She doesn’t have her briefcase. She’s staying here, he thought.

He noticed she’d brought something read, one of those law review magazines that were always in her apartment, and she kept her head down. John signaled to the bartender, asking to borrow a pen.

*****

Evangeline looked up, surprised, as the bartender brought her a martini, dirty, with three olives, before she’d even had a chance to order. He set it down on a chartreuse-green cocktail napkin, then handed her another cocktail napkin, folded in half, before smiling and walking away.

She opened it and recognized John’s block letters immediately.

Are you sure You’re not following Me? it read.

Evangeline’s heart raced as she looked around the room, locating him. He was staring at her, leaning with both elbows on the bar, chewing a plastic drink stirrer, and at this distance, she couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed. Looking straight at him, she picked up the glass, took a big drink, then set it back down.

That’s as much of an invitation as I’m going to get, thought John. He picked up his drink and threaded his way around the bar to her, then sat down and raised his glass.

“Cheers,” he said, hoping she’d relax a little bit and at least drink with him.

“You could have told me you were coming here, John,” she groused.

“I thought it would make you uncomfortable,” he replied, seeing by her face that he’d been right not to tell. “At any rate, are you enjoying the conference?”

“Somehow it’s not as much fun as I thought it would be,” she replied, her voice small.

“I thought you loved San Francisco.”

Evangeline picked up the stick with the olives and ate one slowly. Deciding she had nothing to lose, she told him the truth.

“I just always thought the next time I came here, it would be with you.”

John sipped his whiskey, eyes cast down.

“And here we are.”

“You know what I mean—”

“Yeah, I know,” he interrupted. Their eyes locked, and neither said anything for the longest moment.

John looked away first, then finished his whiskey in one big swallow.

“This city’s big enough for both of us for a couple days. I won’t get in your way again.” He made to stand, and Evangeline reached for his hand. Missing, she grabbed the sleeve of his suit jacket.

“Wait, John. I’m just surprised, that’s all.” She paused, then looked a question to him. Honestly? He nodded slightly so she would continue.

“It’s not always easy for me to be around you, John. Sometimes, it’s really hard.”

“Hard,” he repeated. You have no idea how hard.

Evangeline smiled. “But it’s fine, I’m a big girl.” She took a deep breath and released his sleeve. “Tell you what. Order yourself another drink. I’m going to go powder my nose, and when I come back, we start over, okay?” She wanted to be decent to him: their affair was over, over a long time ago, and he didn’t deserve any attitude from her. It’s not his fault we’re both here. She gave him a hopeful look, waiting.

“Okay.” He smiled, a small, tight smile, and halfway stood as she picked up her purse and left the table.

 

*****

Evangeline washed her hands slowly, glad she had the restroom to herself as she stalled for extra time before returning to the bar. That man was a walking mistake for her, but when she was around him, her body was on autopilot. After they broke up, it took constant vigilance not to let her impulses lead her right back into that flirty, live-for-the-present place the two of them had shared. She’d broken free of his hold on her, and now she just had to stay strong, remember how it was never going to work in spite of how truly great he could make her feel. And, how truly great he felt. And looked.

She dried her hands and tossed the paper towels into the bin, then dug in her purse, searching for her lipstick, readying herself to go back out and face him.

The door opened. Evangeline looked up and froze.

There, standing silently, was John McBain.

Evangeline watched mutely as he stepped inside and let the door swing closed.

His eyes are exactly the same color as that wall, she thought. The cobalt blue paint made his gaze brighter, more intense.

John leaned against the wall, waiting to see what she’d do. Evangeline opened her mouth, clearly angry, but he stood fast, hands on his hips. She wanted to step back, but didn’t let herself. She wasn’t afraid of him, and even backed into a corner, she wasn’t about to let him cow her.

The knowledge that this was a very public place spurred John to action. He stepped forward, grabbed her purse, and tossed it on the countertop without looking.

They faced off, anger, memories, and proximity building to a boil between them.

Evangeline, her mouth now closed in a straight line, didn’t take her eyes from his but she raised her chin a tiny bit.

That’s all the invitation I’m going to get, he thought, and clutched her to him, one hand around behind her, squeezing her ass, the other at the back of her head, pulling her mouth to his. He kissed her deeply, hungrily, tasting the olive mixed with her own sweetness, then releasing her mouth to kiss and bite and suck the tender zones of her neck. He felt her body lighten in his arms, then tense.

“John, I don’t think—”

“That’s right, Evangeline. Don’t think,” he commanded. He turned her roughly against the stainless steel countertop and pushed his hardness against her ass.

Evangeline moaned. This isn’t fair, she thought, he knows just what I want.

“Feel. Just feel.”

Evangeline held herself, held her breath, knowing that there were two ways out of this mess, and only one of them was going to leave her satisfied. She counted to eight, then leaned into the countertop, spreading her hands wide from her body. Shaking her head, she pushed back into him and met his eyes in the mirror.

John moved fast, before she changed her mind. He worked himself out of his trousers, then reached under her skirt and pulled her panties down, helping her slide one leg out. He lifted her skirt as he stood back up. Breathing hard now, he snaked his left arm around front and up, his hand feeling the pulse racing at her throat, while his right hand went down between her legs. For all the intensity he was feeling, he separated her lips gently, sliding two fingers barely inside then out to feel her wetness, then using those fingers to angle his waiting cock in their place.

And there it was: the perfect, exquisite connection they’d only ever felt with each other.

John wrapped his arm around her hips, pulling her onto him, thrusting as hard as he could into her tight heat. She was medium tall, her heels bringing her to the perfect height for him, and she felt even better than he remembered. He was going to have to work to control himself. It’s not like I was going to last long, anyway, he thought, but it meant he didn’t have much time to reach her.

Evangeline panted loudly, feeling whole again for the first time in the years since their breakup, but kept her eyes cast down, refusing to look up at him. Reaching his left hand up to her chin, he turned her face full to the mirror and growled into her ear.

“Look at yourself. Look how beautiful you are.”

Evangeline opened her eyes and was stunned to see the transformation in her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted seductively. But her eyes were as she’d never seen them before, filled with desire, so wanton, so heated, so shameless. As an attorney, she was used to masking her emotions, but now, this man could see her innermost, most closely held feelings. It’s only ever been you, John. The words in Evangeline’s head and heart showed clearly on her face.

“Look at us,” he breathed, his hand keeping her from turning her face away from their reflection. Meeting her eyes, he tightened his arm around her and thrust deeply, his knees buckling as he released into her with a loud groan.

When he recovered, she was still gazing at him, her breathing ragged. With a long look at her in the mirror, he turned her face to his and kissed her full lips. The contrast made Evangeline shiver: ferocious sex followed by the sweetest, most gentle kiss imaginable.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, holding her face. Evangeline, lips still parted from his kiss, could only nod.

John ran his hands from her face down her body to her hips, and holding her tight, slipped himself out of her with a short, groaning gasp.

He bent to pull his boxers and trousers back up, then swiped his long, dark hair out of his eyes and reached into his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out a small paper folder and took out one plastic card, then put the folder on the counter. Pocketing the other plastic room key, he leaned down to kiss Evangeline’s neck one last time.

“I can’t take care of you here the way you deserve,” he said, his voice quiet. “Your move, Evangeline.” These words were larger in number and smaller in meaning than the words he wanted to be saying right now, but it was all their current situation allowed.

Evangeline shut her eyes to his suggestion, then heard the door swoosh open, then closed behind him. Hands still spread on the countertop, she dropped her head before looking up to meet her own guilt-filled eyes in the mirror.

Oh, Vange, what have you done?

Evangeline stood outside John’s hotel room door on the balls of her feet, poised to flee. It was almost 1:30 in the morning. She’d gone to bed early and slept fitfully, thrashing around in her huge hotel bed. Finally, she gave up and threw back the comforter, swinging her feet over the side, knowing she would get dressed and go to him. Since the moment he had put his room key down on the countertop between them, it had only been a matter of when.

She’d brushed her teeth again, then called the desk for a cab, threw on a pair of jeans and made her way downstairs. The cab was waiting, the trip took less than 5 minutes, and now, here she was, giving herself one last chance to chicken out.

“Dammit,” she whispered, though there was no one around to hear her. She slipped the plastic key into the lock as quietly as she could, then turned the handle. She closed the door slowly behind her, not letting it make a sound.

What are you afraid of, Vange? He knows you’re coming, she thought.

No sound came from the darkened room, but the television was on. She’d expected him to be up, waiting for her. She locked the deadbolt, then walked past the bathroom and peered around the corner.

What she saw melted some of the distance she kept for John in her heart. He was in bed, asleep. He had kicked off the blankets and was covered only with the sheet. ESPN was on with the sound turned off. John’s younger brother, Michael, had told her once that after their father, an Atlantic City cop, was killed in the line of duty, John’s only outward response to the loss was to start sleeping with his bedroom light on. He was ten years old at the time.

Evangeline crept closer to the bed. John’s head was thrown back and she could see the outline of his hand between his legs, covering himself, the way he always slept when he was alone. He looks so innocent, she thought, though you’d never say the same about him when he was awake.

Evangeline kicked off her running shoes and socks, then slipped off her jeans and dropped them into a pile next to her purse. Coming around to the side of the bed, she lifted the sheet and slid inside next to him.

John shifted slightly, then took her tightly into his arms and inhaled her scent, nuzzling her neck.

“Mmmmmm,” he whispered, “you’re here.”

Evangeline was surprised that he sounded surprised. She lay back, enjoying his warmth and closeness for a moment before reaching to her nightstand for the remote and turning off the television.

*****

Evangeline opened her eyes, knowing from the thin shaft of sun coming through the edge of the curtains that she’d overslept. She felt the length of John’s body next to her and wondered if he was awake, too. Her question was answered when he leaned over tentatively to kiss the top of her head.

If I look at him it will all start again, she thought, reaching her arm across his chest. More than anything right now, she wanted just to feel him.

“What time do you have to be there?” John’s voice came husky and soft through the dimness of the room.

Man always wants to know the limits of the situation, thought Evangeline.

“What time is it?”

John picked up his watch from his nightstand. Long ago, Evangeline had trained him to take it off when he was in bed with her; it had a huge buckle that had scratched her once when they’d made love. He’d made a joke out of it after that. When their kissing got heavy in public, he’d whisper should I be taking my watch off here? It had always made her laugh. It was another of his contradictions: for a man so passionate, he could be so shy.

“Seven forty-five,” replied John. Evangeline processed the information; she’d miss the morning welcome breakfast, but she could still get back to her hotel and be ready for the first panel discussion at half past nine.

“I have to be there by nine thirty,” she said. At the absolute latest.

“Can I buy you breakfast?” He didn’t really want breakfast, he just wanted her to stay.

Evangeline knew she’d have to pay big, later on, for this stolen time with him. She didn’t want to waste it on small talk and pancakes. She shook her head, then turned to look at him. Then she rolled over and slid deeper into his arms, levering one of her legs between his.

Like we were never apart, she thought. John played with her hair, longer than he remembered, fanning it across his bare chest.

“I like your shirt,” he said. Evangeline could feel him smiling above her.

“You can’t have it back, McBain.” It was her favorite, a charcoal grey one that read PROPERTY OF LLANVIEW PD. She slept in it when she missed him most, and she’d figured she’d be missing him in San Francisco.

“Looks better on you, Counselor.”

They lay together under the sheet, John gazing at Evangeline stretched around him. She listened to the steady beating of his heart, thinking how well they fit together physically, and wishing it worked for them emotionally as well.

This feels great, Vange, but that’s all it is, she thought.

“I have to get going, John,” she said. She felt him tense underneath her.

“Okay,” he said, not letting her go. “Listen, don’t be mad?” He spoke very quietly.

Evangeline knew that voice. Oh no, McBain, what have you done? She tilted herself up so she could see his face.

“I got your stuff.” Evangeline looked at him in disbelief. “Some of it, anyway. So you don’t have to run away. At least not yet.”

He’d woken up at his normal time, which made it 4:15 a.m. in San Francisco. He watched her sleep for a while, then crept out of bed to see if she’d made it easy for him. He quickly located her room key and in short order, the front-desk printout with her room number. Bingo. He was in a cab and back, carrying a large plastic hotel bag and her briefcase, in under 30 minutes, and she never knew he was gone.

This is so John, she thought, manipulating the situation so he wouldn’t have to ask for what he wanted.

“I’m not running away,” she replied, enjoying the feeling of his hands in her hair.

*****

John sat up in bed, turned on CNN with the sound off, then watched Evangeline as she ran back and forth, getting dressed for the day. He’d brought her court outfit, the one she thought was lucky, and the black shoes, her makeup bag and the hair-flattener thing. She’d stayed next to him, letting him hold her for 35 minutes before she got up to see what he’d picked up for her. Satisfied, she’d come back to bed for an extra twenty minutes before getting up to shower, alone, she’d said, apologetically, and he’d let her.

He’d meant it when he told her it was her move.

Now she was dressed and ready. She stood at the end of the bed, taking in how good he looked as he leaned against the headboard, all muscled arms and stomach: he’d been working out a lot.

John could tell she was not ready to leave. She bent her right arm behind her back and grabbed on to her left elbow, and for a moment, despite the power suit, he thought she looked like a little girl.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

“We talk.” Evangeline raised her eyebrow to him.

Talk, he thought. Not my favorite four-letter word. But he wasn’t going to let her scare him away. He nodded once.

“We,” she emphasized, undeterred by his silence. “We talk, not just me.”

“We talk, then.” John looked her coolly in the eye. Evangeline nodded. She could do the silent thing, too.

“Where?” he asked.

“Did you know they have a Palace Hotel here, too?” The Palace Hotel they knew of was the fanciest place in Llanview, and they were frequent visitors to the bar there, both together and, more recently, separately. “I’m thinking, compare and contrast?”

“Sounds good. 5:30?” John had to admire her plan; she knew how to mix business—their business—with pleasure.

She wanted to kiss him goodbye, but if she did, she couldn’t trust herself to actually leave.

“See you then, then.” Evangeline smiled and turned to go. John watched her put on her game face as she picked up her briefcase and purse and headed for the door.

John closed his eyes as the door clicked shut, then snuggled back down under the sheet, hugging the pillow she’d slept on. It smelled like her and he knew, conference or no conference, he wasn’t getting out of that bed any time soon.

John sat through as much of the second day of panel discussions as he could manage. He’d gone back to his hotel for some rack time during the lunch hour; he’d needed sleep more than food. Now, at twenty past two, he was starving. He waited patiently for the mid-afternoon break, then, sprung, walked up Third Street toward Union Square.

It was a windy May day in the City, and famously, cold out. Freezing my ass off in the middle of spring, he thought. He flipped up the collar of his suit jacket as a twentysomething kid bopped by him, too close, on a skateboard.

“Dude, look out.”

The skater had an iPod in one hand and a cell phone in the other; he wore nothing but ripped-up cargo shorts and allover tattoos. He didn’t look cold at all. Dude, how come you’re not freezing? thought John.

The sidewalks began to get crowded as he crossed Market Street. John hated crowds. Suited businesspeople talked in animated bursts, tourists stopped mid-sidewalk to confer over maps, athletic women jogged by, and kids with low-slung baggy pants and backwards caps walked slower than the rest, talking too loud and getting in everyone’s way. Nearly everyone carried a paper cup of coffee; most people held loud conversations on their cell phones, oblivious to those around them.

For all their individualism and insularity, though, they weren’t as volatile as the crowds he was used to in the East. They didn’t push each other; they ceded right of way politely without making eye contact. For the most part, they obeyed the traffic signals. And he was amused to note that black was the default color choice for clothing around here: for a nice change, he fit right in.

Nearing Union Square, he bought two dogs and a Coke from the street vendor in front of Macy’s. He ate and walked the perimeter of the square, window shopping here and there. Tiffany’s had several, Evangeline-worthy pieces of jewelry in their windows. Thus given motive and opportunity, he decided to look for a jewelry store more in line with his means.

*****

John declined the pink plastic bag, opting instead to put the small velvet box and the receipt in his inside jacket pocket. His excursion had taken longer than he intended, so he double-timed it down Fourth Street to try and make it back to Moscone Center in time for the start of the 3:30 p.m. session. Waiting to cross at the crowded corner, he saw two of the street punks he’d seen earlier, pounding on a smaller kid across from the Virgin Records store. They weren’t playing, either. The kid couldn’t be more than ten years old, and he was taking a beating.

John looked around in disbelief. Dozens of people walked by, ignoring the fight right in front of their faces. Quickly scanning up and down the street, he saw no law enforcement anywhere. If he called 911 on his cell phone, it would go to some central dispatch nowhere near here. The kid was tough; he was fighting back hard, but he didn’t stand a chance against the two, bigger teenagers. Skinhead punks, he thought.

Ignoring the don’t walk sign, he raced the oncoming traffic across Fourth Street.

“Hey!” he yelled, blue eyes blazing. “Back off!”

The teenagers barely noticed him and kept pounding on the kid.

John was about the same size as the biggest one, and twice as pissed off. He pushed between them, taking blows, and reached down to pull the kid to the side, behind him. Man, he’s stoic. Not even crying. Thwarted, the teenagers turned their fury on John. Thankful his father had instilled in him a love of boxing, he dropped the big one by feinting a jab, then following with a quick uppercut. Fists still at the ready, he turned to face the second teenager, who was too stupid to run. John hoped he didn’t need to use his hands on this one.

“Walk away,” he commanded.

“This ain’t your problem, motherfucker. Fuck off.” The second teenager stood his ground. In his peripheral vision, John was aware of the crowd, suddenly interested, that had formed to the side. Frustrated that no police had yet come on scene, he dropped his hands to his hips and spoke very slowly.

“Because you’re a kid, I will ask you nicely. Please. Walk the fuck away.”

“Because you’re a dick, I will tell you again, motherfucker. Fuck you.”

John heard a whoosh and a watch out! and felt a tremendous hit to the middle of his back. Shit, he thought, going down, stop checking six for two seconds. The rest of the punk’s posse had arrived. John counted four of them, with one or two standing in reserve by the MUNI entrance over to the left. All bets off now, John fought his way up from the bottom of the scrum, kicking and punching anything that moved, until he was standing up again. He was holding his own, years of fighting experience paying off, until one of the punks hit him in the back of the head with something solid. John went down hard on his knees, still swinging, but no longer connecting.

Sirens now screamed, seconds away, and John knew he just had to hang on until they got there. Most of the punks took off running, disappearing down the stairs into the metro station. John had taken one of them down early on in the fight; now he got himself back up to face off with the last punk, preventing his escape.

Brakes and sirens squealed. Two patrol officers jumped out of their black-and-white.

“Hands up where I can see them!” It was not an idle request: in his peripheral vision, John could see that both cops had their firearms drawn, but pointed down. John was the first to comply. He laced his fingers at the back of his head, feeling more wet, sticky blood than he’d expected. John waited as the officers approached; there was a protocol for this. He spoke loudly and clearly as the female officer neared him.

“In the interest of police safety, I am an off-duty police officer. Please move me away from these suspects.” The officer placed herself between John and the others. He was much taller than she was and instinctively, she raised her gun arm halfway.

Get that fucking thing out of my face, thought John, but he said nothing.

“Step to your right, sir,” she said, and John put some space between them. The officer lowered her weapon, turning to keep the others in her field of vision. John spoke loudly again, making sure her partner would hear him, too.

“I’m carrying. My shield is in my left coat pocket.” The officer nodded permission and John reached one hand down to retrieve and open it. The officer nodded at her partner, then spoke to John.

“Thank you, Detective. Please stand down.” John dropped his arms, keeping his bloody fingers away from his sides. Noticing the blood, she continued. “Unit’s five minutes out.” There was a burst of static from her shoulder radio. “Two minutes. You wanna sit down?” John shook his head, starting to really feel the hurt at the back of his head as the other officer lined the punks against the wall, patting them down. The kid sat against the window of the corner shop, his head held way back, trying to get his nose to stop bleeding.

A rescue unit, followed by an unmarked patrol car, pulled up diagonally to the black-and-white, blocking traffic. A bald, older cop got out, conferred quickly with the other two, then pointed a stubby finger at John.

“The kid first, then him.”

One paramedic began helping the boy, packing his nose to stop the bleeding, then cleaning up his eyes and checking the cuts on his hands.

The second paramedic advanced on John.

“I’m good.” He held out his hand.

“Let him do his job, Cowboy.” The older cop looked amused. John glanced at the paramedic, wondering what it meant if you wore an earring in each ear, plus one through your nose and a bar through your eyebrow. Shrugging, he went to sit on the back step of the rig. He knew the drill.

He was given a cold pack for his split lip; the rest of the examination was quick.

“Stitches,” announced the paramedic.

“Nah,” John countered. “Just put some iodine on it or something.”

“Dude,” began the paramedic, looking him over, “you’re obviously all about the hair. If you want it to grow out over that cut, you’re going to need stitches to close it up.”

Dude. Everyone in California is Dude.

“Go for it,” growled John.

“You just got clocked with a broken bottle, dude. Stitches. Hospital.” The paramedic spoke slowly so this Neanderthal throwback would understand. He swept his arm like a game show hostess, inviting John to get into the back of the rig.

“Forget it,” glared John. He’d be bleeding out his eyes before he went willingly to the hospital in the back of an ambulance.

“Come on, Cowboy,” barked the older cop, gruffly, his hands on his hips. “My ride, lights and sirens all the way. You can tell me all about your busy day.”

John hopped off the back of the rig without hesitation.

“Running hot in San Francisco? Finally. An offer I can’t refuse.”

“Just don’t mess up my ride,” returned the cop.

John swiped his bloody hand on his pants, then stuck it out.

“John McBain.”

“Sean McCarthy.” He shook John’s hand firmly. “Your chariot awaits.”

*****

Emergency rooms are all the same, thought John.

He’d been an excellent witness, giving McCarthy full descriptions of the punks, right down to their tattoos and their missing teeth and the inscription on a belt buckle one of them had worn. It was probably stolen. Without being asked, McCarthy followed up and found out that the kid was fine, cuts and scrapes but no broken bones, and that he’d been brought home to his very grateful grandmother. The two men exchanged cell phone numbers and handshakes. John was jealous that McCarthy got to go back to work; sitting in this hospital, waiting, was doing nothing for his mood.

Getting frustrated while waiting for stitches he probably didn’t need, John had called Commissioner Buchanan to report in. Better his boss heard the news from him than from some desk jockey at the SFPD. It was after hours back home, so he left a detailed message, and McCarthy’s cell phone number, just in case Bo did want to hear it from someone else.

Finally, they came to get him for a CAT scan of his head; he refused the ultrasound to check his kidneys. He’d landed hard on his gun during the fight, and from the little he could see, it looked ugly. He’d tried to explain that a bruise doesn’t kill you, then given up. His younger brother Michael was a doctor and John knew that arguing with an MD was a pointless exercise.

He wished he could call Evangeline, but her cell phone was back in Llanview.

It was 5:10. John had been pacing for almost an hour: now he was ready to walk out on his own. If I leave right now, I can still be there on time. He was shrugging stiffly into his jacket when a new doctor came back with a large green envelope. She was Asian, very pretty, and very young. John figured she must be ten, twelve minutes out of medical school.

She removed his field dressing, numbed him up, shaved a one-inch patch at the back of his head and cleaned the wound, then closed with cyanoacrylate instead of stitches. Dr. Ozawa congratulated him: his long hair completely covered her work. Smiling, she poked the neon green envelope toward his chest.

“You’re the lucky winner of a concussion, Lieutenant.” When she spoke, she had that weary, seen-it-all-in-the-ER tone in her voice, just like his brother, and he smiled to himself.

“I never win anything,” he said, only halfway joking.

“Stay awake for a while. Limit activity. No alcohol. Tylenol for pain.” She rattled off the next part. “Any headaches dizziness blurred vision loss of consciousness vomiting weakness of the extremities, you need to get back here stat. You can wash the blood out of your hair, just don’t scrub. You want that line of Krazy Glue to stay stuck on, got it?”

“Got it. Can I go now?”

“You bet. Just as soon as you show me who’s gonna drive you home and sit with you tonight.”

Shit, he thought. So much for trying to sneak this one under Evangeline’s radar. Sighing, John flipped open his cell phone, dialed information, and once connected to the Palace Hotel, asked to be transferred to the bar.

*****

Just over twenty minutes later, Evangeline raced through the emergency room doors. She was still wearing the outfit he’d chosen for her that morning. He could see anxiety on her face as she went straight to the desk instead of looking for him. The clerk’s day glo orange fingernail pointed her toward Dr. Ozawa, and John’s heart sank as he saw the two women conferring animatedly, then looking over at him every few seconds. He felt like a science project, very much under the microscope. Evangeline shook Dr. Ozawa’s hand. Dr. Ozawa gave John a friendly wave, and looking from Evangeline’s intense face to his, whispered “good luck”.

John stood and slung his torn jacket over his shoulder.

“You should see the other guy.” His attempt at disarming humor hung in the air as Evangeline took in the bruised cheek, the small bit of tape at the corner of his mouth, the shirt collar stiff with dried blood, and, though he thought fast and tried to hide them, the scraped-up knuckles. Her expression remained flat, so he switched gears. “You got here fast. Thanks.”

“You have no idea,” she said, thinking about the $50 she’d given the cabby and the wild ride that had ensued. Evangeline tilted her head toward the spot where Dr. Ozawa had stood. “She says you’ll be fine if you take it easy.”

“I am fine.” Evangeline looked doubtful.

“McBain, this proves it. You will do anything to get out of talking about your feelings.” Evangeline made her own awful joke. She was very relieved his injuries were not worse; he’d sounded shaky on the phone.

“Let’s get back to the hotel, let me get cleaned up. Then we do what we planned.”

He meant his hotel. Evangeline shrugged, knowing not to engage him. With a toss of her head, she turned and walked out, John half a step behind. Evangeline’s cab was waiting down the street a bit; she’d made an arrangement with the driver. They got in and sat quietly through the ride, looking at the city outside their windows, until John realized they were heading to the W.

“What gives?”

“Just shut up and trust me.”

“First she wants me to talk, now she wants me to shut up. Make up your mind,” he muttered.

Evangeline ignored him. My mind’s made up.

Evangeline opened the door to her room and strode in, John shuffling behind her. He was running out of gas, fast. She dumped her purse and briefcase on the big chair, then went straight back to the bathroom to run water in the tub, returning with a huge terrycloth robe.

“Here you go, Detective.”

John shook his head.

“I’ll just take a shower.”

He stood stubbornly in front of her. Why does he always need to be in control? she wondered.

“Listen very carefully to my words, Detective. We’re going to play a game. It’s called You Do Whatever I Say.” The corners of Evangeline’s mouth twitched, but she was absolutely serious. “See if you can guess the rules.”

John considered his options. She had that opposing-counsel look on her face and arguing with her would take energy he didn’t have at the moment.

Evangeline went into the bathroom to check the water. She wanted it as hot as it could go, the way she liked it, knowing that would be the best thing for his aching muscles.

John called out sullenly from the sitting room.

“Do I at least get bubbles?”

Evangeline, victorious, rewarded him with a laugh as she reached over to get the complimentary bubble bath from the counter.

John got undressed quickly, before she came out of the bathroom. Peeling off the layers, he was dismayed to see his suit was totaled in addition to the shirt. He’d have to wear it once more so he could get back to his hotel, but after that it was going in the garbage. He pulled on the robe, thankful she was still in the bathroom, then bent down, very slowly, and separated his holster and belt from the pants. Those he put in the top drawer of the dresser; she’d never said anything, but he’d always sensed she was more comfortable with his Glock stowed out of sight. He dumped his watch, wallet, key ring, cell phone, notebook, shield case, sunglasses, eighty seven cents in change and the pack of peppermint gum in next to them, then pulled out the velvet jewelry box and put it to the bottom of drawer, covering it with his notebook. Finally, he dropped the pants back to the floor, then kicked his shoes and the rest of his laundry under one of the chairs and headed for the tub.

Evangeline stirred the water, making more bubbles, and John stalled, wondering how he could get her out of here. He didn’t want her to see how beat up he really was—by kids, no less—and also, tired or not, he wasn’t sure he could trust his body not to betray him, show how much he wanted her. Being in her hotel room was bad enough, and here in the bathroom, all he could think about was how amazing she felt last night, and how amazing her face looked in the mirror when he was inside her.

Evangeline saw his hesitation. He wants me to leave, she realized, and was surprised. He’d never been shy about his body before, at least, not in private. Catching their reflections in the mirror, and flashing back to last night in the ladies’ room downstairs, she sucked in a breath and blew it out. Works for me.

She walked past him and fluffed her hair out, steadying herself against the blush she was feeling, then went to the desk and picked up the phone. Room service answered as she heard John splash and settle into the tub. She ordered dinner for them and asked them to rush it, then poured herself a glass of wine, needing it to relax. As she took the first sip, a knock came at the door.

Her cab driver was there, carrying John’s suit bag, the smaller, grey case, and the plastic drawstring bag with her things. She put it all down on the bed and opened it up. The cabby had done well: everything was here. Going to her purse, she pulled out the last $150 in cash she’d brought with her from Llanview and returned to the door. He handed her back John’s plastic room key.

“Thanks,” she smiled, “you made great time.”

“My pleasure, miss, you made my day.” He took the money and proffered a card. “For next time you’re in town.”

Closing the door, Evangeline wondered how John would react when he found out what she’d done. She hadn’t checked him out of his hotel: there was an expense report to consider, after all. But her world had shifted in the last 24 hours and she wanted him near her, consequences be damned. She changed into jeans and a tee shirt and hurried back to the bathroom, feeling guilty for leaving him in there alone so long.

*****

John was tired, but he felt a lot better, thanks to Evangeline. She had washed his hair, long fingers gentle around the cut. There was enough dried blood to turn the suds burgundy pink, so she’d rinsed it out and washed it again. Then she’d added more hot water and made him stay in the bath for another half an hour, not letting him get out until he was really pruney, as she put it.

When he came out of the bathroom, robe back on, he saw that she’d ordered dinner for them. He didn’t know how she knew, but when he sparred, a cheeseburger and fries was his favorite post-workout meal, and that’s what she’d chosen for them both. All it needs is a beer, he thought, and this would be perfect.

He’d grinned widely when she pulled an Anchor Steam from the mini fridge and opened it for him.

“They don’t have Hounds here. Room Service said you’ll like this one. They make it here in the City.” Evangeline heard herself babbling and clamped her mouth shut.

“I thought the doc said no booze.”

“She doesn’t know you as well as I do,” she responded. John’s heart jumped a little. He liked it when Evangeline didn’t play by the rules.

“Where’s yours?”

“Right here,” she said, raising her glass of Chardonnay. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

She waved him over to the table and he folded into a chair. It wasn’t the hurt so much as the tired getting to him. But the burgers smelled great: he tried the beer and ate a few bites and began to feel human again.

“So who goes first? Do we cut cards or something?” He hadn’t forgotten: tonight they were supposed to talk.

“First for what?”

“Talk, remember? We. Talk.” He pointed a ketchup-covered French fry back and forth between them. John chewed while Evangeline considered her options. They still needed to talk, but not tonight. She wondered why he was so eager to do this. It was unlike him.

“Not tonight, John. I don’t want you using your head injury to claim a mental-defect argument later on.” He gave a laugh.

“Well, the conference ends tomorrow. I fly out at 6:15. What about you?”

Evangeline felt cheated. It would have been so much easier to see if they could work out their differences here, away from home, somehow move to a healthier place with each other. Talk about a fantasy, Vange. Keep dreaming.

“My flight’s Thursday morning.” She’d made her reservations last-minute and it had been the best she could get. Evangeline pushed her plate away; she wasn’t hungry any more. She watched John’s long fingers as he finished his burger and used the last of the fries to pick up the ketchup from his plate. The cuts on his hands didn’t look so bad now that they were cleaned up.

“We never did take a real vacation together,” she said, very quietly. John looked up, surprised, as she continued. “I can call Nora, say I need a vacation day.”

John thought about it.

“If I call Bo and tell him I’m taking an extra day, they’ll know we’re together.” Nora was Evangeline’s boss, and more importantly, Bo’s ex-wife. Despite their divorce, the District Attorney and the Police Commissioner of their small town remained genuine friends. “Do you care?” he asked, taking a pull from his beer.

Then, a thought bubbled up from the back of John’s mind.

“Wait, Evangeline, when did you decide to come here?”

“Last Thursday. Nora went to Penn with Jeremy Pratt. She recommended me when he had to pull out of his talk. Why?” Evangeline thought she had told him all about Jeremy Pratt on their drive to the airport: his wife was very ill and she felt a little guilty getting an expenses-paid trip out of their misfortune.

“If you call Nora, she’s not going to be surprised.”

John was sure of it now. In the excitement of being with Evangeline again, he’d missed the obvious. Bo had given him some story about needing to supervise irregularities in the department’s quarterly audit, and, on very short notice, asked John to cover for him at the conference. John had thought it odd at the time, but didn’t question his boss. Now it appeared that the only irregularity with the quarterly audit was that Bo would be personally involved. John shook his head before remembering that doing so hurt.

“And neither is Bo,” she replied, meeting his eyes.

Evangeline knew Nora meant well, but wasn’t sure she liked being set up, best friends or not. She took a deep breath. “Just for that, I’m staying through the weekend.” She raised her eyes to him in challenge.

He slugged the last of his beer, then stood up slowly.

“I have some calls to make.” He didn’t look at her. “Where’d you put my clothes?”

Like hell you’re leaving me now, she thought.

“Listen,” she said. “Don’t be mad, but I’ve pulled a McBain on you.” He turned back to her at that, not understanding. “I had your clothes—everything—brought over from your hotel room while you were in the tub.” Evangeline paused: he looked—not angry, but hesitant.

“Thank you. For dinner. For everything. But now, I gotta sleep, and I can’t sleep here.” It had been perfect, holding her close early that morning in his bed, but, despite his vow to let her come to him, he was no saint. And, beat up or not, if she thought he could lie in bed next to her again and not have her, well, then she was the one with the mental defect.

Evangeline came over to him, stretching up to kiss him gently on his bruised cheek.

“John,” she said, feeling his chest through the robe, “Just take it easy while I clean this up. Then you can decide if you want to run away.” She kissed him again, being careful of the tape on his lower lip. He pulled her to him, more gently than she was used to. He must really be hurting, she thought.

“I’m not running away,” he replied, gruffly. Yes you are, he thought.

“Good,” she said evenly. Prove it.

Evangeline loosened the top of his robe and planted small, sucking kisses up his chest to his collarbone, and despite his hurt and tiredness, his body responded. She could feel him through the robe, pressing against her hip, big and so hard, letting her know how much he wanted her.

That question answered, she took him by the hand and led him toward the bedroom.

“For someone who prides himself on attention to detail,” she teased, turning off the lights as she went, “you didn’t listen very carefully to Dr. Ozawa. She told me I’m supposed to keep you awake.”

She stopped at the side of the bed and turned to him, looking directly into his eyes. Then she slid her hand into the opening of his robe, curling her hand around him and stroking him up and down, her touch making all the pain dissipate, making him feel so good that he had to close his eyes.

“Good,” said Evangeline. “You’re awake.”

John opened his eyes to the bright surroundings of Evangeline’s bedroom suite. Where his hotel room had been decorated in outdated dark browns, mauves and taupes, Evangeline’s was almost entirely white, with expensive-looking ebony and glass accents. It had small green plants here and there for color, and they were real.

But the beauty of the room paled in comparison to the beauty that lay next to him. Evangeline was sleeping in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest. They were both naked, and the memory of how they’d gotten that way curled his full lips into a satisfied grin.

Gently, trying not to wake her, he rolled his arm out from under her and turned his head to check the alarm clock. It was just after 7:00, and he’d slept more than 10 hours, practically a record for him. He twisted his back and stretched carefully, finding, to his surprise, that he felt almost normal. Evangeline had been right about the bath, and the beer, and the other, sweeter things she’d given him last night.

John kissed her forehead and got out of bed to pee, collecting his cell phone from the drawer along the way. He had three voicemails from Bo, the first thanking him for his message and expressing concern for his health, the second telling him that he’d had a message from Lieutenant McCarthy, who’d had only good things to say about his counterpart from Llanview, and the third suggesting that maybe John might want to take a day or two of comp time and recuperate before returning to work.

John would bet a six-pack of Anchor Steam that the Commissioner and his ex-wife the D.A. had held a quick conference call between the second and third messages. Bo was making it very easy for them. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or embarrassed.

He folded up his cell phone, then leaned against the bathroom countertop, his back to the mirror and arms crossed, trying to figure out the right thing to do. This weekend wasn’t going to change who he was, and they’d already established years ago that he didn’t give her what she needed. The way he saw it, there were two options: go home on schedule and lose Evangeline forever, or spend the weekend with her and lose her anyway.

She seemed a lot calmer about being together these past two days than he did. That bugged him, and he wanted to know why. This was never a casual fling, for either of us, he thought.

“How long are you gonna stand in front of that mirror fussing over your hair, Detective?” Evangeline’s voice, mocking him through the door, startled him. John, feeling foolish as he did so, wrapped one of the towels around his waist and opened the door. Evangeline was there, smiling, wearing only his Llanview PD shirt.

“’sall yours, Counselor.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek, then got out of her way.

The water ran for a few minutes, then Evangeline reappeared. Now that her teeth were brushed she gave him a real good-morning kiss, and he ran his hands over her perfect ass. It’s like we were never apart, he thought. John’s curiosity got the better of him.

“How come you’re so calm about this?”

Evangeline looked shocked.

“Calm? I’m a wreck! I have to give my speech this morning, and I think we both know what I did last night instead of practicing.”

He’d forgotten it was today. So, not a great time to talk about us, he thought, switching gears smoothly.

“Did you know they have a Palace Hotel here?” he said, mimicking her delivery from yesterday and giving her his best devilish smile. “I’m thinking, we talk?”

“Compare and contrast? 5:30?” Evangeline smiled broadly.

“A pack of teenage punks couldn’t keep me away,” he said, impishly. Nothing could keep me away.

*****

John arrived at the Palace first and, seeing that he had his choice of seats along the bar, claimed the corner where he could sit facing the entryway. He was 40 minutes early: there was no way he was going to be late this time. An English Premier League soccer match played on the big screen up and behind him; if he squinted, he could catch the Giants game on the other television in the opposite corner. The Palace Bar was upscale, all right: near as he could tell, the only difference between this place and the one in Llanview was the color of the wood. He opened the drink menu and shook his head.

Twelve dollars for a single malt, he thought. He ordered an Anchor Steam in the bottle, refusing the chilled glass offered by the grey-suited bartender, then opening the local tabloid to keep him occupied while he waited. He scanned the news, then, bored, borrowed one of the Palace Hotel pens that were resting in the well of the bar and did half the crossword puzzle, then switched to the Jumble. Evangeline loved the Jumble: to make it challenging for herself, she did it all in her head. John couldn’t unscramble the words unless he was holding a pen in his hand, making plenty of mistakes along the way. He worked the puzzle, automatically checking the door for her every couple of seconds, and drank his beer, making it last.

John had promised Evangeline that he wouldn’t sneak in to watch her speech; as a result, he hadn’t seen her since they’d left her hotel room together. He missed her, missed the sound of her voice and her unique scent. He was used to missing her; today, though, he missed knowing that he could reach out to touch her and she would be right there. Part of him knew that he was letting himself feel too much, and that meant he was going to hurt. Another part of him knew that keeping himself from feeling too much hurt him, too: it was the difference between a sharp pain and a dull ache. Either way there was pain: he was trapped, and he wasn’t sure how to get out. Telling her the truth wasn’t an option. She’d made sure of that.

He felt the warmth in his chest before he saw her. Evangeline walked through the entryway of the bar, her eyes adjusting to the paneled dimness from the bright, sunlit hallway. She had changed from her conference suit into a long-sleeved lavender top with a flattering low neckline and a fitted, printed skirt. He stood as she moved to him, then leaned down to her as she tilted her head up to offer him a kiss. She tasted like a vanilla latté and John flashed to a day in Llanview, years ago, when she’d surprised him by bringing coffees to his office and they’d chatted, flirting under the guise of police business, for far too long when they should have been working. When she finally had to leave, he’d pulled her back and pushed her against the closed door and kissed her deeply, not wanting to let her go.

Now it was she who would not let him go, and John needed to sit down and slow down. Any more of her and his body would betray his arousal to the few people sharing the bar. He put both long hands to the sides of her face, breaking their kiss gently.

Evangeline beat him to it.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to make you take your watch off in here, Detective.”

John looked down at her and laughed, allowing himself to be happy for a moment, then remembered the reason they’d agreed to meet here.

“How’d the speech go?” John backpedaled into small talk.

“Better than I expected,” she replied, clearly not wanting to talk about that.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked, helping her into the high bar stool.

“Nothing yet,” she replied. “First, I think there should be ground rules.” For her clients, Evangeline was a top-notch negotiator, but it was hard for her to do the same for herself.

“Okay.”

“I had an idea.” Evangeline took a deep breath. “I know you don’t like to talk about your feelings. And we both know that words are important to me. So I had this idea that might level the playing field, so to speak.” She reached in her purse for her pen, then leaned over to take a few of the cocktail napkins that were stacked at the inside edge of the bar. “Got a pen?”

John, silent, pointed to the pen he’d borrowed for the Jumble. Evangeline handed him a cocktail napkin.

“We both write down the top three problems we each had when we were together before. Then, we limit our talk only to those problems. And we’ll see if we can figure out solutions.”

She’s brilliant, he thought. Keep it focused, and maybe we’ll get somewhere. It was the same thing he did when he solved cases: narrow your focus.

“Deal,” he said. “Who goes first?”

“Same time,” she replied, looking him right in the eye. They both picked up their pens and wrote, John making careful block letters and using his other hand to shield his writing from her view. Evangeline finished first, then folded her napkin in half and put it down on the polished bar between them. John scrawled one last word, then did the same, and Evangeline reached for his napkin.

“Wait,” he commanded, flattening his hand on top of hers so she couldn’t take it. “Are we still playing You Do Whatever I Say?”

Evangeline laughed. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been thinking about the rules—you told me to figure out the rules, right?” She nodded. “And in all the games I’ve ever played, the players take turns.”

Evangeline had to agree. “True.”

“So I think, before we open these, I should get a turn.”

“And?”

“And this time, you do whatever I say.” Evangeline nodded breathlessly. It’s only fair, she thought.

John signaled the bartender, who had been waiting patiently at the other end of the bar, watching the match that played above their heads and thinking it wasn’t nearly as competitive as the one between the pretty lady and the brooding guy. “Two Jameson’s, double for me, water back for the lady.” The bartender nodded and had their drinks in front of them within thirty seconds. John picked up the drinks, then held them next to each other so she could see that hers was the smaller, in keeping with their relative sizes. “Level playing field, see?” He handed the glass to Evangeline.

“Shoot it,” he said.

“Whatever you say.” It’s only fair, she thought.

John paced himself against her so they finished their shots at the same time. Putting his glass down, he picked up his folded cocktail napkin and handed it to her. Evangeline slid hers along the bar to him.

“My turn now?” she asked, feeling on fire from the whiskey.

John nodded.

“One, two, three,” she counted, and she opened her napkin and set it on the bar between them. John followed suit.

Neither of them breathed as they read.

loss
divorce
the three words

JOHN
THE ‘M’ WORD
THE ‘L’ WORD

Evangeline covered her mouth in surprise. Their lists were practically identical.

“What are you thinking?” John searched her face, not sure if she was upset by what she saw.

“I’m thinking…” for an unusual change, Evangeline was having trouble articulating. The whiskey was working, making it easier for her to focus on her emotions without her analytical nature getting in the way. “I’m thinking maybe we’re not as different as I thought.” He nodded. That didn’t sound terrible.

“So, my turn again?” he asked, not looking at her.

“You’re not going to make me do another shot of whiskey, are you?” For a moment, Evangeline was truly worried.

“Nope.” He pointed to his name written at the top of his cocktail napkin. “Our biggest problem was me. Is me.” The Jameson’s helped him just blurt it out.

Evangeline was impressed with him, because he was actually participating, not just following her lead.

“And what’s your biggest problem?” she asked. That’s a long list, he thought. Evangeline tapped a manicured fingernail over the first entry on her cocktail napkin, loss, then continued. “It’s so understandable, given what you’ve been through, but you’re afraid of losing the people you love.”

“Isn’t everyone afraid of that?” he asked, very softly now.

“Yes,” she replied, “but it’s how you handle that fear that counts.” He said nothing; she let that sink in for a moment. Evangeline couldn’t believe she was sitting here with John McBain, talking about emotions and fears and feelings.

“This is the nothing-lasts-forever speech.” His voice was hollow. He’d heard this one before, and not just from Evangeline. Each of the women in his life, from his Mom right down to Natalie Buchanan, had had their own version of it.

“Not exactly. Am I allowed to talk to you about Caitlin?” she asked. She knew all about his fiancée and her violent death, but the subject was barely ever mentioned. He nodded, looking into his empty glass. “You dreamed about a future with her, right?” John nodded again. “So when you planned a future with Caitlin, what did you plan?”

He waited a long time before answering. It was so typical, so boring, but he had wanted it so much.

“A house.” He corrected himself. “A home. Babies. A dog. A big one. Growing old together, in love.” Long ago, he’d imagined himself making love to Caitlin as a grandmother, and that’s when he knew he would ask her to marry him.

Evangeline spoke very gently, not wanting to inflict pain.

“And if you were lucky enough to grow old together?” John tensed, waiting. “Who did you imagine getting sick first? Was it a long illness? Or something quick, something that didn’t give you time to say goodbye? Or did you just imagine you would be the first to go?” She thought of her own father, and of Jeremy Pratt and his terminally ill wife.

John blinked but said nothing, so she continued.

“That’s why it’s hard to make a commitment,” said Evangeline. “It’s supposed to be. It’s hard, because one way or another, you know it’s going to end.”

John swallowed hard, nodding with his head down, wishing it was his turn so he could order another whiskey.

“It makes sense when you put it that way.” He was telling the truth: he’d never thought of it that way before.

Evangeline opened her mouth to talk, but John moved his hand closer to hers on the bar, stilling her.

“I wasn’t done.” He could not look at her for this part. “Losing you was harder than losing her. I mean, she was gone, good and gone and in the ground. But you, you were still fucking here, just not with me.” Evangeline sucked in a breath. “It still hurts, every time I’m near you, knowing you can’t be mine.”

“You decided that, I didn’t.” For the first time, her voice was sharp.

“I know.” He owed it to her to continue. “I just thought it would hurt less if I lost you sooner rather than later.”

“On your own terms.” Evangeline nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, knowing exactly how pathetic he sounded.

Evangeline actually understood his motives. There was something to be said for having things on one’s own terms.

“How’s that working for you, Detective?” she smiled. He smiled back, ruefully. Evangeline sat back in her bar stool, careful not to look at him. “So do you have any ideas how to solve this problem?”

“Evangeline, I’m never going to be the happy guy. I’m not even going to be the glass-half-full guy. I still don’t know if I can be who you want.”

“I don’t know if I’m really who you want, either,” she replied. “I know for sure I don’t want a big dog. So what do we do?”

The only thing John could think of was Start over. But that was too easy. Evangeline could see him stop himself.

“Need some more truth serum, Detective?” She tilted her head toward his empty glass.

John shook his head.

“It’s not your turn yet.” He steeled himself and looked directly at her. “What if we start over? Just try again?” Evangeline chewed her lip. The suggestion was naïve, but his hopefulness was endearing.

“Why would things turn out any different, if we did?”

“What if I let myself dream this time?” It wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility. Since their breakup, he’d caught himself thinking about Evangeline and several futures they might have had. He knew in his head that dreaming about a future with her didn’t automatically mean she would be killed, taken from him, as Caitlin had been. But he’d closed his heart to those dreams as a safety measure, making sure to keep any potential loss on the front end.

“Yes. That would be different.” Evangeline smiled, pleased.

“Done. Your turn.”

Evangeline picked up her pen and crossed the first line off of her cocktail napkin, then read the second line.

“Divorce.” Evangeline swiveled in her seat, angling herself toward John. “I still don’t want to get married.”

“Okay…”

“…and down underneath all of that,” she said, circling her hand in front of his chest, “I think you kind of do.”

“Isn’t this the pot and the kettle? I mean, a second ago, you were all about me having dreams, and now you draw the line exactly where they gotta stop.”

“You have a point,” she conceded. “But it’s still a problem.”

“So what do we do?” he asked.

“Well, under the circumstances, even talking about marriage is…” her voice trailed off.

“You’re not talking about marriage, you’re talking about divorce. They are not the same thing. And just being an attorney doesn’t make you an expert on either.” Wow, thought John, that felt really good. He’d been wanting to say that to her for a very long time.

“What does that mean?” For the first time, she felt her anger flare, and fought the impulse to hit back.

“That means, right now, our ideas about marriage are so different that I couldn’t consider marrying you.” He saw the wounded look in her eyes and was surprised; he thought she’d be relieved.

“Whew,” she said, “is my turn over yet?” I brought that on myself, she thought, but man, that hurt.

“Sure, I just need to say one more thing.” John waited until Evangeline looked up.

“My folks had it good, your folks maybe not so much. But when it comes down to it, we’re not them. What worked for them, or didn’t work, has nothing to do with what works for you and me.”

Evangeline felt lightheaded from trying not to cry.

“What if we table this one till later?” she blew out the words with the breath she’d been holding.

“Fine with me.” John pushed both his hands on the bar and stretched his back. “My turn again?”

Evangeline slid his cocktail napkin closer to him. Even though he knew exactly what he had written, he looked down to read it out loud.

“The dreaded L Word,” he intoned. “This one’s my favorite.”

“Don’t be an ass,” she snapped. She was still upset about not being considered marriage material.

“Sorry,” he said, and he meant it. John dropped his head, took a deep breath, and decided to give her an out.

“You want to run with this one?” He probably owed her that. Though he’d been careful to show her, in so many ways, that he loved her, he’d never actually said the words out loud. She’d been as patient as she could be about it, but ultimately, it became too much for her. It was the precipitating factor in their breakup.

Evangeline was nothing if not fair. “No, it’s all yours.”

“Well, you’re not going to like it,” he said, trying to gauge how bad her mood was. Evangeline stared straight ahead at the huge painting of the Pied Piper on the opposite wall. John leaned over and put his hand lightly between her shoulder blades. “You really backed us into a corner on this one.” Evangeline shot him a hateful look. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I gave you lots of help, but let’s look at this from my side.”

Evangeline was shocked to see John actually smiling. This one, I have thought about a lot.

“At this point, if I said those words to you, would you even believe me?” He rubbed her back in small circles and continued. “At this point, wouldn’t you think I was just saying it because I knew it was what you wanted to hear?” She hung her head.

“I know.”

“So maybe this will make you feel better. I don’t say those words a lot.” Evangeline raised her eyebrows. That much was obvious. John continued. “There’s a difference between saying those words and meaning them, and I’ve only said them and meant them once before.”

Evangeline held her breath. Caitlin, she thought. He hadn’t meant it if he’d said it to Natalie Buchanan, and that did make her feel better.

But she still couldn’t look at him. John sucked in a huge breath, because saying the next part out loud meant he was letting her in deeper than he ever had.

“If I say those words to you, I have to break a promise, a promise I made the day I buried Caitlin.” John paused, not sure Evangeline was hearing him. “So I need some answers from you.”

She looked up from under lowered lids.

“I took a hit to the head, but you’re the one who’s not acting like yourself. Why are you back sleeping with me?”

Now on the spot, the attorney in Evangeline had to admire the cop in John. Contrary to the way she’d imagined it, he now controlled the questioning. Just like that, he had her right where he wanted her. Truthfully, he almost always had. Truthfully, she thought. At least I can be truthful about my feelings.

“It’s simple. I never stopped wanting you. You’re a mistake for me, but I decided if I’m going to make a mistake, I’d rather make it with you than anyone else.”

John shook his head, then brought himself close to her and spoke, his voice low and dangerous.

“I am not a mistake, Evangeline. I saw your face in that mirror. I saw your eyes, and it’s not the first time I’ve seen you that way, so don’t lie. You’ve never had that with anyone but me.” His warm breath moved the hair at the side of her face. She knew that if she dared to look, his eyes would be a dark, slowly burning blue.

“That’s not love, that’s just heat,” she snapped, turning to him. She thought of the look that had been in his eyes, the look that was in his eyes now, and knew that her words, even as they tumbled from her mouth, were hollow: she read peoples’ faces for a living. They held themselves inches apart, like oppositely polarized magnets that couldn’t be pushed together, no matter how hard you tried. “And anyways, I saw your face in that mirror too, McBain. I saw your eyes. Whatever that promise is you’re so damn proud of—isn’t it already broken?”

John exhaled a quick breath and dropped his shoulders as a small, relieved smile flashed over his face.

“Yes.” He gulped in another breath and let it out. “Yes. Thank you for proving my case, Counselor.”

Evangeline, still glaring at him, didn’t move a muscle. What the hell is he so happy about? she thought.

John stood now, next to her chair, and his strong hands were shaking a little as he reached for hers atop the bar.

“You’re right. That promise is broken. And if you can see that, if you felt that, then you’ll know I’m not just saying this because you pushed me to it.”

He waited a long moment, squeezing her hands until she looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Evangeline, I love you.”

John stood next to Evangeline, holding her tight. All the reactions I planned for, this one wasn’t one of ’em, he thought. She’d actually tried to bolt, tried to run away from him and he had no idea why. She was crying but trying hard not to make noise and John turned them to shield her, so the people on the other side of the room would see only his back.

When she finally looked up, her eyes were red and her breathing wasn’t steady.

“Scare you?” She searched his face.

“Surprised me. Not exactly the reaction I was expecting.” John paused, not knowing how honest he should be right now. “Actually, I’ve never seen you run before, not from anything.”

“I figured if I went to the ladies’ room, you’d follow me in there.” Evangeline tried to cover her embarrassment with a joke.

“Evangeline, that’s not…”    

“I know. I’m sorry,” she interrupted. “So I’ve lost track of whose turn it is… but I have questions.”

John understood her attempts at humor: she was trying to relax him.

“You’re in luck. We’ve reached the bonus round. Go for it.” Now unburdened, it was easy for him to play along.

“Why tell me now, after all this time?”

John hadn’t given that a lot of thought.

He looked at her, mutely. Seeing the disappointment in her face, he decided to let his thoughts tumble out, rough and raw. “I don’t believe in coincidences. You know this.” Evangeline nodded ruefully. “I don’t believe in fate or destiny or any of that fortune-telling horoscope crap, so when I saw your car out there in the rain, with you in it, to me, the only thing it could be was luck.”

Evangeline’s voice was a monotone. “The dumb Irish luck your brother is always teasing you about? The reason Haver and Hesser and that 18-wheeler didn’t kill you?”

“That would be it. Yes.” He could see Evangeline didn’t get why that changed things. “My father was a big believer in luck. I get it from him, I guess. And even when I was little he used to tell me that if you’re ever given a second chance, it’s your Irish duty to grab onto it with both hands and not let go.”

Evangeline nodded, satisfied with the answer, but John could see there was more.

“Next question, Counselor.”

She didn’t hesitate. “What was the promise?”

He’d known this question was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to say it out loud. More than the three words, everything hinged on Evangeline’s reaction to this. John shot her a sideways look, then waved two fingers at the bartender, indicating they wanted another round. He drummed his fingers on the bar till the drinks arrived, then slid Evangeline’s glass closer to her.

“You should sit,” he said. Evangeline, unsettled now, climbed up onto her bar stool.

John picked up his drink and downed it fast, without waiting for her to do the same.

He wiped the last of the whiskey off his lips with the back of his hand. She wasn’t going to like this. He hoped that maybe, eventually, if they came out the other side, she’d be able to accept it.

“The day I put Caitlin into the ground, I promised her that when it was my time, I’d be buried with her so she wouldn’t be alone.”

Evangeline gasped. In her wildest dreams, she would never have imagined this.

“Death is the one constant in my life. It’s partly the job, but it’s always been around me, long as I can remember. So since that day in the cemetery, I been waiting to die. And that’s good. I’m good with that. Get there soon, you know? So she won’t be alone too long.” John paused for a shaky breath. “But then I meet you and I see you and you’re the most alive person I ever met. And it’s like a drug.”

He can’t stop himself, thought Evangeline, now genuinely worried for him.

“It was like losing my mind. If I’m living with you, for you, I’m not dying for her.”

Evangeline was stunned.

“Do you really think that’s what she wanted for you?”

“It wasn’t about what she wanted for me, it was about what I wanted for her! Cait was all alone out there.” She noticed his use of the past tense.

“And now?” she asked, cautiously.

“It’s selfish.” John looked down.

“Try me,” she said, dryly. John was probably the least selfish person she’d ever known.

“I’ve never gone back on a promise in my life,” he started, defensively. “Not once, not ever. But I saw you the other night in the rain and for the first time in my life, I just didn’t care. I wanted you, like I said, with both hands. And if I wanted that, then I couldn’t keep my promise to her.”

John, spent, leaned on the bar and waited for her to tell him she was done. The second shot of whiskey hadn’t taken the edge off, not at all, and he was so tense he thought he’d explode into a million tiny pieces.

Evangeline could see the defeat in his body language, and even as she wanted to comfort him, she was sickened by what he’d said.

But her analytical attorney’s mind took over, and processing everything he’d said, John McBain’s actions over the years she’d known him suddenly made complete, perfect sense. All those times he’d left her side, put others first, put himself last, the times he was with her but not really with her, the times he was tortured by keeping a secret, the times he’d withheld or omitted or even, rarely, evaded… Evangeline would bet money that each of those times had been because of a promise, express or implied, that he’d made.

Evangeline blew out a long breath.

“You sure do lay a lot on a girl.”

It was John’s turn to sit, frozen.

Evangeline turned the problem over in her mind. John was the most honorable person she knew, but he’d never learned there was such a thing as being too loyal. Sometimes, she thought, you have to take care of yourself first. Otherwise, you don’t survive. And probably, he’d have learned that if he hadn’t had to grow up so fast. He’s been taking care of everyone else since he was ten years old: that’s all he knows how to do. He doesn’t know how to stop. Evangeline, having had a roughly normal childhood, had learned this life lesson by the time she became a young adult.

Evangeline spoke to him unemotionally, the way she spoke to her criminal clients, the ones who had made choices she wouldn’t have made.

“So the problem here, as I see it, is that you have, on occasion, made a promise you have no possibility of keeping. That no human, under any circumstances, would be able to keep.”

“That’s one way you could put it.” John was relieved she was even talking to him.

“Then my professional recommendation would be that, from now on, you make only those promises you are 100% certain you can keep.”

“Nothing’s 100% certain,” John groused. Except death, he thought, but he figured now would be a bad time to say that out loud.

“Exactly my point. Since you seem to have some trouble with this, let me give you some examples.” Evangeline picked up her whiskey and took a tiny sip. ‘Honey, I promise I’ll be home by seven tonight.’ She reached for the engraved silver bowl that sat on the bar between the next pair of seats and offered it to John, then picked out some cashews for herself when he declined. ‘I promise not to leave the toilet seat up.’ She popped the cashews in her mouth, then chased them with another tiny sip of whiskey. ‘I promise not to leave the house without kissing you goodbye.’ She turned sideways to look at him. “You seeing the pattern here, Detective?”

It was John’s turn to blow out a breath. He remained leaning in to the bar and nodded.

“Now your turn.”

“I promise to hold your hand whenever you’re scared,” he ventured.

“Nope—I don’t scare easy, but you might not be there every time I’m scared. Try again.”

John picked out one of the really big nuts he didn’t know the name of and chewed it up.

“I promise to take out the garbage.”

“Perfect!” Evangeline grinned. John thought of the small velvet box in his pocket.

“I promise to buy you jewelry for important occasions.”

“Excellent. One more, just to prove this isn’t your famous Irish luck.”

“I promise not to make promises that can’t be kept.”

“You catch on quick,” she said. “I think we’re done here.”

“Well, then, there’s only one problem left,” he replied.

“Only one?” Evangeline arched a perfect eyebrow. “Given our history, Detective, that’s incredibly hard to believe.”

He nodded in bewildered agreement.

“Why don’t you tell me what it is. Maybe I can help?” Evangeline was sassing him now.

“Well, Counselor, I’ve missed my flight home and I have vacation time coming and nowhere to stay. I’m all alone here in this strange city, and I’m starting to get—wait for it—” Evangeline started giggling and then he couldn’t suppress his own laughter. “…and I’m starting to get a little bit lonely.”

“It sounds like you might need to be rescued, Detective.” Evangeline dug in her purse for a moment, then turned to her right and signaled the bartender, who delivered a martini to the man in front of him before stepping down the length of the bar to them.

“David,” she said, reading the man’s name tag, “my handsome husband here is suddenly very… tired.” John almost choked on the pecan he was eating. Evangeline enjoyed watching him blush. “So I desperately need your help… do you think The Palace might have a room for us on such short notice? Or a suite would work just as well, even better.” She slid her American Express card across the bar to him.

“Let me see what I can do,” he said with a smile, taking the card. “Another round?”

“No, thank you, David, I think we’re good for the moment.” Evangeline flashed him a bright smile in return, then swiveled back to John.

“I like the way you work, Counselor,” he joked. “But if the bonus round is still open, I have a question for you.”

Evangeline nodded.

“Why did you try to run?”

“Because when you remember that moment, I didn’t want you to remember my tears and crying. I want you to remember me looking you right in the eye, like this, and saying John McBain, I love you too.”

They stared into each other’s eyes. Minutes passed as they prolonged this moment, so long in coming.

John was the first to move. He positioned himself next to Evangeline’s high bar chair, turning her to him, and snaking his arm around her waist. She was warm, almost hot, under his hand, and the way her lips parted the moment he touched her made him want to take her in a deep, searching kiss, one where his hands would roam and grab and pull her into him, the way he had last night as she rode atop him. It would be the kind of kiss that was inappropriate in the Palace Bar, be it San Francisco or Llanview, when you still had your watch strapped to your wrist.

With the chair in his way, John couldn’t reach Evangeline the way he wanted, so he stepped behind her, stroking her shoulders and lifting her hair to expose the elegant curve of her neck.

The bartender returned and quietly put an old-fashioned, brass room key and Evangeline’s credit card on the bar in front of her, then stepped back out of the couple’s way. He could see in their faces what the promise of that key held for them, and silently wished them luck.

John bent down to kiss the back of Evangeline’s neck, just below the place where her hair came to a point, then whispered in her ear.

“For two people who did not plan to take a trip to San Francisco together, we seem to have collected an unusually large number of hotel rooms.”

Evangeline laughed, leaning back into him.

“I’d like to take you upstairs, Evangeline.”

His voice was low; she could hear the change in register as his need intensified. John touched the side of her face, then put his index finger under her chin and tipped her head back so he could trail kisses just under her jawline. She made soft sounds that spurred him on, and his kisses became more insistent. He looked down to see her chocolate-caramel skin and the tasteful hint of cleavage, and through her shirt, her perfect, erect nipples.

“I would like to take you upstairs, Evangeline, and play a game I know.”

He kissed her again, lower, slower, and harder, and she arched her back and shifted underneath him with a subtle moan. John stepped to her side again so he could look her in the eyes, and held out his hand for her to take.

“It’s called You Do Whatever I Say. I think you’re going to like it.”