"You do now. Say hello to your new boyfriend."

An awful foreboding brushed up Gabrielle's spine, and she glanced at the front of Joe Shanahan's crisp white shirt. Her gaze moved up the stripes on his tie to his tan throat, over his chin to the finely etched lines of his mouth. The corners of his lips slid upward into a slow, sensual smile. "Hello, sweet cheeks."

Gabrielle straightened and set the pen aside. "I want a lawyer."

Chapter Three

Gabrielle phoned her business attorney, who gave her the name of a criminal defense lawyer. She envisioned Jerry Spence. Someone in a buckskin coat to kick butt on her behalf. She got Ronald Lowman, a cocky young guy with razor cut hair and a Brooks Brothers suit. He met with her in a holding cell for ten minutes, then left her alone again. When he returned, he wasn't so sure of himself.

"I've just spoken with the prosecutor," he began. "They're going to proceed with the aggravated charges against you. They think you know something about Mr. Hillard's stolen Monet, and they're not going to let you just walk out of here."

"I don't know anything about that stupid painting. I'm innocent," she said, frowning at the man she'd hired to protect her interests.

"Listen, Ms. Breedlove, I believe you're innocent. But we've got Prosecuting Attorney Blackburn, Chief of Police Walker, Captain Luchetti, and at least one detective who aren't convinced." He let out a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. "They're not going to go easy on you. Not now that you know you and your partner are suspects. If we refuse to assist them in this investigation, they'll proceed with the aggravated assault charge. But they really don't want to do that. They want Mr. Carter, his private books, and his contacts. They want Mr. Hillard's art back, if possible. They want your cooperation."

She knew what they wanted, and she didn't need an attorney just out of law school to tell her. In order to save herself, she had to participate in an undercover police investigation. She had to convince Kevin she'd hired her boyfriend to work as a handyman in their shop. She had to keep her mouth shut and look the other way while Detective Doom gathered evidence to convict her good friend and business partner of a felony.

For the first time in her life, her beliefs and her desires counted for nothing. No one seemed to care that what they were asking her to do conflicted with her morals, those bits and pieces of morality she'd assembled from different religions and cultures throughout her life. They were asking her to break principles that demanded honesty, asking her to betray a friend.

"I don't believe Kevin has stolen anything."

"I'm not here to represent your partner. I'm here to help you, but if he is guilty, he's implicated you in a serious crime. You could lose your business, or at the very least, your reputation as an honest businesswoman. And if Kevin is innocent, you've got nothing to lose and absolutely nothing to fear. Look at it as helping to clear his name. Or we can go to court. If we request a jury trial, you probably won't serve time. But you will have a felony conviction on your record."

She looked up at him. The idea of a felony conviction upset her more than she'd ever realized it would. Of course, she'd never thought of herself as a felon before. "What if I say yes and they come into my shop, tear it up, then leave?"

He stood and glanced at his wristwatch. "Let me talk to the prosecutor and see if we can't get a few more concessions. They want your cooperation pretty badly, so I think they'll work with us."

"So you think I should sign the agreement?"

"It's up to you, but it would be your best option. You let them work undercover for a few days, then they're gone. I'll make sure they leave your store in the same condition it's in now, or better. You get to keep your right to vote, and you even get to keep your right to own a gun. Although I would recommend that you get a license to carry concealed."

It seemed so simple, yet so horrible. But in the end, she signed the agreement that would make her a confidential informant. She signed it along with a consent-to-search form and wondered if they'd give her a code name like a Bond Girl.

After she was released, she went home and tried to lose herself in the pleasure she usually found blending essential oils. She needed to finish her basil and neroli massage oil before the Coeur Festival, but when she tried to fill the small blue bottles, she made a mess and had to stop. She wasn't much more successful at placing the labels on, either.

Her mind and spirit were divided, and she had to try and relax, to bring them in sync. She sat cross-legged in her bedroom and sought to find her quiet center before her head exploded. But Joe Shanahan's brooding face kept popping into her brain, disturbing her meditation.

Detective Shanahan was the exact opposite of any man she would ever consider dating. He had dark untamed hair, dark skin, and intense brown eyes. Full, unsmiling mouth. Broad shoulders and big impersonal hands. He was a real throwback… but there had been those few days, before she'd decided he was a stalker, that she'd found his dark, brooding looks wildly sensual. When he'd looked at her from beneath those black lashes and she'd melted a little right there in the frozen foods aisle. His size and presence reeked of strength and confidence, and no matter how often in her life she'd tried to ignore big, bulky he-men, she wasn't always successful.

It was her height. Her height always caused her eyes to wander to the biggest man around. She was five eleven, although she would never admit to being an inch over five ten. For as long as she could remember, she'd had height-related issues. All through school she'd been the tallest girl in her class. She'd been clumsy and bony and had grown taller each day.

She'd prayed to every god she could think of for intervention. She'd wanted to wake up petite with small breasts and feet. Of course, that had never happened, but by her senior year, the boys had caught up with her, and a few had passed her enough to ask her out. Her first boyfriend had been the captain of the basketball team. But after three months, he'd dumped her for the head cheerleader. Five foot two Mindy Crenshaw.

She had to remind herself not to slouch when she stood next to short women.

Gabrielle gave up on finding balance and drew a warm bath instead. She added a special oil mixture of lavender, ylang-ylang, and rose absolute to the water. The essential blend was reputed to aid in relaxation. Gabrielle didn't know if it worked, but it did smell wonderful. She slipped into the scented bath and leaned her head back against the edge of the tub. Warmth enveloped her, and she closed her eyes. The events of the day raced through her mind, and only the memory of Joe Shanahan, laying on the ground at her feet, his breath knocked from his lungs and his lashes stuck to his eyelids, brought a smile to her lips. The memory succeeded in relaxing her where an hour of meditation had failed.

She held on to the memory and the hope that maybe someday, if she were real good and her karma chose to reward her, she might get the chance to blast him with another can of super-hold.

Joe entered the back door of his parents' house without knocking and set the pet carrier on the kitchen counter. He heard the television from the direction of the family room to his right. A cupboard door sat propped against the front of the stove, and a drill lay next to the sink. One more project forgotten before it was finished. Joe's father, Dewey, had provided a comfortable life for his wife and five children off his income as a homebuilder, but he never seemed to complete anything in his own house. Joe knew from years of experience that it would take his mother's threatening to hire someone else before the job would suddenly get done.

"Is anyone home?" Joe called, even though he'd spotted both his parents' cars in the garage.

"Is that you, Joey?" Joyce Shanahan's voice could barely be heard over the sound of tanks and gunfire. He'd interrupted one of his father's favorite pasttimes. John Wayne movies.

"Yeah, it's me." He reached into the carrier, and Sam scrambled up his arm.

Joyce walked into the kitchen, her black-and-white streaked hair pulled back from her face with a stretchy red headband. She took one look at the twelve-inch gray African parrot perched on Joe's shoulder and stopped in her tracks. Her lips disappeared into her mouth, and displeasure lowered her brows.

"I couldn't leave him at home," Joe began before she could voice her distress. "You know how he gets when he doesn't get enough attention. I made him promise to behave this time." He shrugged and glanced at his bird. "Tell her, Sam."

The parrot blinked its yellow-and-black eyes and shifted from one foot to the other. "Go ahead, make my day," Sam cried in a shrill voice.

Joe turned his gaze to his mother and smiled like a proud parent. "See, I substituted his Jerry Springer tape for Clint Eastwood."

Joyce folded her arms across the front of her Betty Boop T-shirt. She was barely five feet tall, but she had always been queen, king, and dictator of the Shanahan household. "If he starts with the potty mouth again, he has to leave."

"The grandkids taught him those swear words when they were here for Easter," he said, referring to all ten of his nieces and nephews.

"Don't you dare blame that bird's bad behavior on my grandchildren." Joyce sighed and dropped her hands to her waist. "Have you eaten dinner?"

"Yeah, I grabbed something on my way home from work."

"Don't tell me, greasy deli chicken and those horrible potato wedges." She shook her head. "I have some leftover lasagna and a nice green salad. You take some home with you."