Trisha never drank, never, but Celia had wanted her to consider this an experiment in relaxation.

Alone in her apartment that night, Trisha stared at the pretty basket and its contents. With a fatalistic shrug, she set about preparing the bathroom. Finally, she stripped and sank into her tub. Glorious, scented bubbles rose, tickling her nose, and on every available surface candles flickered and glowed, casting a warm light about the room.

Nose twitching, Duff moved cautiously into the bathroom, slowly inspecting each candle.

“Watch that,” she warned, when the sleek but none too graceful cat moved toward the bottle of wine. She’d opened it and set it on the edge of the tub next to an empty glass.

The cat moved closer, sniffing curiously.

“Duff,” she said, watching him over the bubbles. “I’m not interested in a wine bath, or mopping the floor tonight. Go to bed.”

The one thing that interested her tonight was peace and quiet. She wondered if she’d achieve it, or if her thoughts of Hunter Adams would hound her. Only if she let them, she assured herself, eyeing the bottle of wine.

“What the hell,” she told Duff, who had jumped lightly on the edge of the tub to watch. She poured herself a glass. “How much damage can just a bit do?”

Apparently quite a bit on an empty stomach, in a lightweight woman who never drank. Within fifteen minutes of finishing her glass, Trisha had the giggles.

“Duff, sweetie…” Trisha squinted at the cat to make sure. “You’ve got four eyes.” Laughing, she gestured with her glass. “Pour me another, honey, will you? But make it a small one ’cuz I’m driving.” She laughed uproariously at her own joke. “Oh, dear, this stuff seems to have gone straight to my head.”

Duff sat on his haunches and studied her seriously.

“Don’t bother getting up, Duffy, I’ll get it.” Still giggling, Trisha leaned forward and poured herself another glass, dribbling a good portion of it on the floor. “Darn.” Frowning, she leaned over the tub to inspect her spill and, in the process, swished half of her chilled glass of wine on her bare breasts.

Sucking in air through her teeth, she looked at Duff. “That,” she said slowly, trying to breathe, “was not a good relaxation method.”

The second glass went down much faster than the first, but gave her the hiccups, which annoyed her. “This drinking thing is definitely not all it’s” – hiccup – “cracked up to be.” Hiccup. Hiccup.

Suddenly the smell of the bath oil made her feel a little sick. To top it all off, she’d forgotten to turn her heat on and her arms were covered with gooseflesh. “Duff, I’m thinking” – hiccup – “that this basket thing wasn’t such a great idea.”

Her stomach grumbled loudly. Duff straightened, alarmed, peering into the tub at her belly.

“Food,” she decided. “I need” – hiccup – “dammit, that hurt. I… definitely need food.” With the room spinning wildly, Trisha rose from the tub, sloshing water over the side. “Oooh, it’s cold,” she said, then sat back down with a splash. “No way am I getting out of here.”

“Mew.”

“Okay, okay… but first, just one more little itty-bitty glass of wine,” she told the cat, who was studying her thoughtfully, as if she’d come from another planet. Chuckling at herself, she reached for the bottle… and knocked it into the tub with a splash.

“Oh, my,” she squealed, leaping up. “A wine bath for a wino!” She grabbed the now-empty bottle, set it on the floor. Reluctantly, she pulled the plug and stood there watching in fascination as the bubbles swirled down the drain.

Then her world started spinning. “Whew!” she said, teetering wildly, befuddled. “I’m dizzy!”

“Mew.”

Bed, she decided hazily. Forget the food, she needed her bed, and she knew she had to get there fast.

But suddenly she had four feet and no eyes. Well, hell, she thought. Nothing seemed to be working properly, including her legs. With the slow, calculated precision only a very drunk person can obtain, she stepped over the tub, carefully avoiding the flickering candles.

“No need to set the spacey scientist’s house on fire,” she told Duff, slurring her words slightly. “That might just be the icing on the cake, you know?” Carefully, she blew out each of the candles. “I still can’t believe he got dumped” – hiccup – “twice. Those women must have been crazy.”

She and Duff stared into the dying candles. Trisha’s thoughts turned muddled. “I wouldn’t have left him at the altar.”

Duff backed away from her, curling his tail close to his body, giving her a hard, unsympathetic look.

“Smart cat, keeping your paws safe,” she muttered, holding her hands way out in front of her as if to compensate for the fact that her world seemed to be revolving too quickly. “In my condition, I’m liable to trip over my own two feet.”

Then she did exactly that.

From her sprawled, graceless position on the floor, she lifted up on her elbows and stared balefully at the cat.

He looked disgusted, making her burst out laughing at herself. “Didn’t Aunt Hilda warn me?” Hiccup. “She must have told me a thousand times how I had two left feet.”

Relaxation had finally come, and now her muscles seemed reluctant to work. But she could hardly stretch out wet and naked on the bathroom floor for the night. Besides, the floor felt cold, damp, and the cold seeped quickly into her exposed skin. She shivered.

“I’m really pathetic,” she said to the cat as she hiccuped again. Sighing, she pulled herself upright, stumbled into her bedroom, and grabbed the first shirt she came across. Dragging it over her wet head, she fell damp and exhausted onto her bed.

She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

In the bathroom, smoke was rising from the extinguished candles. Attached to the hallway ceiling, the sensitive fire alarm automatically responded to the harmless, drifting tendrils of smoke… and started to wail.

All the while, Trisha slept on.

Eight

Though it was only midnight, Hunter was deeply asleep, dreaming.

In space with his crew, he peeked out the window, down at Earth. Far below, scrawled in red lipstick over the planet were the words: SO SORRY ABOUT THE LANDING GEAR, HUNTER!I’ll BE HAPPY TO PAY FOR ANY DAMAGES. FONDLY, TRISHA.

Hunter groaned and turned over. The woman could wreak havoc on his world even while he slept.

He dreamed on.

He was back in his duplex in South Pasadena, music blaring, windows rattling. Trisha stood there smiling wickedly, holding up the black leather bikini. He tried to tell her he preferred the soft, ivory chemise, but she couldn’t hear him over the annoying sound of the music.

But then he realized the noise wasn’t music at all, and he stirred.

At the continued screech of the fire alarm, Hunter jerked in his bed, unwilling to let go of the dream.

He thought of Trisha’s fuchsia fingernails, and wondered if she’d painted her toenails to match.

But the obnoxious shrill of the alarm kept bothering him until the dream faded completely. He sat upright in his bed. When he realized what the sound meant, he came instantly awake. Swearing, he threw back the covers, yanked on a pair of sweatpants, grabbed the portable phone by his bed, and strode to the door. Carefully, he laid a hand against it. Cool.

With his heartbeat echoing in his ears, he cautiously opened the door. No smoke, no flames, just the earsplitting sound of the smoke alarm.

Then he realized something terrifying – his alarm hadn’t emitted the noise. It was coming from the floor above.

Gripping the portable phone, he sprinted through the house, tore out the front door. On the grass, he whirled back, craning his neck to stare through the black night at the upper level.

No light, nothing. But also no smoke or fire. Still, he had to be sure. Taking the steps three at a time, he knocked on the door.

But the knock faded away in the blare of the alarm.

“Dammit,” he muttered, and tried pounding on the door, though he knew it would do no good. He peered over the railing – Trisha’s car was parked in the driveway, perilously close to his own.

Where the hell was she and why hadn’t she shut the thing off?

Her front doorknob turned easily under his hand, which only served to rile his temper further. She hadn’t bothered to lock the door.

“Trisha?” he yelled. Nothing. Except, of course, the god-awful shriek of the smoke detector. That he still didn’t see any sign of smoke or flames went a long way toward relieving him, but why hadn’t she responded?

Calling her name, he moved through the kitchen, flipping on lights, then ran down the hall and tore into her bedroom. The light from the hall spilled into the room. The lump in the middle of the bed stirred at his voice. “Trisha.”

Her wild hair emerged from the blanket first, then her confused, sleepy face. “God, what’s that noise?” She covered her ears and stared at him.

“You’re all right?” he demanded.

She blinked slowly, her mouth open slightly as she continued to gape at him.

What was the matter with her? “Trisha?”

She hiccuped, then squinted as she peered around her as if to make sure she was where she thought she was. “What are you doing in here?”

He didn’t know whether to strangle her for terrifying him, or to yank her against him and never let go. But his aroused temper had him opting for the first. “It’s your fire alarm,” he said loudly, setting his phone on her dresser. “You’ve done something to set it off.”

“I -” She broke off. “I did not. At least,” she added in a mutter, “I don’t think I did.”

Shaking his head, he moved out of her room and back into the hallway. He stared up at the offensive alarm, then reached up and deactivated it.