And he knew without a doubt that he'd be a hell of a lot better off not knowing. Joe sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "I want to put this case to bed."

"Case is gonna take as long as it takes. What's your hurry?"

What was his hurry? He'd come within seconds of making love to Gabrielle, and he wasn't so sure it wouldn't happen again. He could tell himself it wouldn't happen, but certain parts of his body weren't listening. He'd come real close to jeopardizing his career with her. If she hadn't come up with a relative who communicated with whales, he might have laid her right there on her living room floor. "Just getting antsy, I guess," he answered.

"You still think like a narc." Winston stood and pushed his chair back across the room. "Sometimes the fun's in the waiting, and we could be at this one a while," he predicted.

Time was one thing Joe didn't have. He needed to get himself reassigned to a different case before he messed up completely and lost his job or got busted to bike patrol. Big problem, though. He couldn't exactly ask for reassignment without a damn good reason, and "I'm afraid I'm going to trade some DNA with my confidential informant" wasn't even a consideration. He had to do something, only he didn't have a clue what that something might be.

He left the report and affidavit on his desk and headed for the door. If he hurried, maybe he'd catch Ann Cameron before her lunch rush. She was exactly the type of woman he always looked for in a girlfriend. She was attractive, one hell of a cook, but more important, she was normal. Uncomplicated. Baptist. Nothing like Gabrielle.

Within half an hour, Joe sat at a small table in Ann's deli, feasting on warm crusty bread and a plate of chicken in creamy pesto. He thought he'd died and gone to heaven-except there was something keeping him from completely enjoying his meal. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was cheating on his girlfriend. Cheating on Gabrielle with Ann. The feeling was totally irrational. But it pecked at him, right at the back of his brain, and wouldn't leave him alone.

Ann sat across the table from him, chatting nonstop about her business and her life and growing up in the same neighborhood. Perfectly normal conversation, yet there was something that didn't feel right about that either.

"I make sure I drink at least three quarts of water, and I walk three miles a day, too," she told him. Her eyes were real bright, as if she were really excited, but he didn't have a clue what was exciting about walking and drinking water. "I remember you used to walk your dog every night," she said. "What was his name?"

"Scratch," he answered, recalling the dog he'd rescued from the pound. Scratch had been a shar-pei pit bull mix and the best dog a boy could own. Now Joe had a bird. A bird who wanted to roost with Gabrielle.

"I have a Pomeranian, Snicker Doodle. He's such a love."

Holy hell. He pushed aside his plate and reached for his glass of iced tea. Okay, he could overlook a little yap-yap dog. She was a great cook and she had nice eyes. There was absolutely no reason why he couldn't see her. He didn't have a girlfriend.

He wondered if Sam would like Ann, or if he would try to chase her out of his house. Maybe it was time to invite her over and find out. And as far as his feelings of guilt, he had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Gabrielle had planned to spend a quiet morning at home preparing essential oils. Instead, she painted like a crazed Van Gogh. She set the portrait she'd been working on against the wall and began another. Her mother called and interrupted her twice, so she took the telephone off the hook. By noon she'd finished her latest painting of Joe-except for his hands and feet, of course. Like the others, he stood within his aura, but this time she'd taken a bit more creative license with his male package. She didn't think she'd exaggerated. Just sort of guessed, based on the hard length of him she'd felt against her inner thigh the night before.

Just thinking about what had taken place in her living room brought a blush to her cheeks. The woman who'd purposely turned an innocent massage into something erotic wasn't her. She didn't do things like that. There had to be an explanation, like maybe something funky had taken place in the cosmos. Like maybe the full moon had affected the blood flow to her cerebellum, and if there wasn't balance in the cerebellum, there was chaos.

Gabrielle sighed and dipped her brush into red paint. She couldn't quite make herself believe her moon theory, and she was no longer sure of the yin and yang theory either. In fact, she was quite sure now that Joe was not her yang. He was not the other half of her soul.

He was only in her life to get back Mr. Hillard's Monet and to pretend to care about her so he could arrest Kevin. He was a hard-living cop who thought her ideals were nutty. He laughed at her and teased her, then consumed her with the touch of his hands and mouth. He certainly didn't kiss her like a man who pretended passion. The night before, he'd shared a part of his past with her, a piece of his life, and she'd thought they'd made a connection.

He'd made her dizzy with wanting, then left her standing alone and dazed. He turned her on, then asked her to channel Elvis, and he called her crazy?

Gabrielle rinsed her brushes, then changed out of her painting shirt and into a pair of cutoffs and T-shirt with the name of a local restaurant across the chest. She didn't bother with shoes.

At twelve-thirty, Kevin dropped off a FedEx tube filled with a few antique movie posters he'd purchased from an Internet auction. He wanted her opinion on their value, and the whole time he stood in her kitchen talking appraisal, she expected him to say something about her and Joe jumping from his balcony. But he didn't, and she supposed she should be thankful that he'd been too busy showing Mr. Happy to his girlfriend's best friend. She must have looked guilty, thdugh, because he kept asking her if something was wrong.

After Kevin left, Gabrielle finally took out her boxes of oils and set them next to the small glass bowls and bottles on her kitchen table. She wanted to experiment with facial cleansers and moisturizers, and she blended toners and remedies for broken veins and acne. Just as she was about to mix a face mask of natural powdered day, hot water, and yogurt, Francis rang her doorbell.

Her friend arrived with a blue deninvbra and a pair of matching panties. Gabrielle thanked her, then recruited her for a facial. She wrapped Francis's hair in a bath towel, then made her sit on a dining room chair with her head tilted back.

"Tell me if your skin starts to feel too tight," she said as she smoothed the clay mask on her friend's face.

"It smells like licorice," Francis complained.

"That's because I put fennel oil in it." Gabrielle spread the clay across Francis's forehead, careful not to get it on the towel. Francis had a lot of experience with men, some of it not good, but a lot more than Gabrielle did. Maybe her friend could help her make sense of what had happened with Joe. "Tell me something? Have you ever known a man you don't think you even like, but you can't stop yourself from fantasizing and dreaming about him?"

"Yeah."

"Who?"

"Steve Irwin."

"Who?"

"The Crocodile Hunter."

Gabrielle stared into Francis's big blue eyes. "You dream about The Crocodile Hunter?"

"Yeah, I think he's kind of big and dorky and could probably use lithium to bring him down a notch, but I love his accent. He looks pretty good in those safari shorts, too. I fantasize about wrestling with him."

"He's married to Teri."

"So what? I thought we were talking about fantasies." Francis paused to scratch her ear. "Are you fantasizing about your detective?"

Gabrielle dipped her fingers into the clay paste and spread it down the bridge of her friend's nose. "Is it that obvious?"

"No, but if he weren't yours, I'd dream up a few fantasies about him."

"Joe isn't mine. He's working in my store, and I find him mildly attractive."

"Bull."

"Okay, he's hot, but he isn't my type. He believes Kevin is involved in selling stolen art, and he probably still thinks I am as well." She spread the clay across Francis's cheeks and chin before she added, "And well, he thinks I'm weird even though he's the one who asked me if I could channel Elvis for him."

Francis smiled and got clay on the corner of her mouth. "Can you?"

"Don't be absurd. I'm not psychic."

"It's not absurd. You believe in other New Age stuff, so I don't think it's all that weird that he would ask you."

Gabrielle wiped her hands on a wet cloth, then bent at the waist and wrapped a towel around her own head. "Well, we were kind of making out at the time," she explained as she straightened.

"Making out?"

"Kissing." She and Francis traded places, and Gabrielle looked up into her friend's face, which was covered, except for her eyes and lips, with white paste. "And stuff."

"Oh, well that is weird." The smooth clay felt wonderful across Gabrielle's forehead, and she closed her eyes and tried to relax. "Did he want you to be Elvis, or did he just want to ask the King some questions?"

"What difference does it make? Things were getting pretty hot, and he stopped to ask me if I could channel Elvis."

"There's a big difference. If he just wanted to ask some questions, get a little info, then he's just a bit kinky. But if he wanted you to be the king of rock and roll, then you've got to get yourself a new man."

Gabrielle sighed and opened her eyes. "Joe isn't my man." The edge of Francis's mask and the tip of her nose were beginning to dry. "Your turn," she said and purposely changed the subject. "Why don't you tell me what you did last night." She was more confused than ever and didn't know what had made her think Francis could help her make sense of anything.