“You have no idea,” she said. They dove into each other again, and her tongue picked up the faint acid tang of lime and then salt. Her mouth left his to kiss his face and then his ear. She felt the muscles of his abdomen flex hard against her as he curled his head upward, nibbling the soft flesh where her neck met her collarbone. Nikki stirred and began to unbutton his shirt. Rook was making a project out of her blouse button so she rose up, straddled him on both knees and ripped the blouse open, hearing one of her buttons skitter against the hardwood floor near the baseboard. With one hand, Rook unhooked the front clasp of her bra. Nikki shook her arms out of it and made a frenzied dive onto him. Their wet skin made a slap as her chest landed on his. She reached down and unhooked his belt. Then undid his zipper. Nikki kissed him again and whispered, “I keep protection in the nightstand.”

“You won’t need a gun,” he said. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

“You’d better not.” And she pounced on him, her heart pounding high in her chest with excitement and tension. A wave crashed over Nikki and washed away all the conflicted feelings and misgivings she had been wrestling with, and she was simply, mightily, powerfully swept up. In that instant, Nikki became free. Free of responsibility. Free of control. Free of herself. Swirling, she clung to Rook, needing to feel every part of him she could touch. They held on with a fury, his passion matching hers as they explored each other, moving, biting, hungry, reaching and reaching to satisfy what they ached for.

Nikki couldn’t believe it was morning already. How could the sun be so bright when her watch alarm hadn’t gone off yet? Or did she sleep through it? She squinted her eyes open enough to recognize she was seeing the Nightsun beam from a police helicopter against her window shears. She listened. No sirens, no bullhorns, no heavy Russian footsteps on her fire escape, and soon, the spotlight was extinguished and the drone of the chopper grew silent as it flew on. She smiled. Captain Montrose may have kept his word and pulled the patrol car, but he didn’t say anything about air surveillance.

She rolled her head to her alarm clock, but it was flashing 1:03 and that couldn’t be right. Her watch said 5:21, so Nikki calculated that the difference was how long the blackout had lasted.

Rook drew a long, slow breath, and Nikki felt his chest expand against her back, followed by the chill of his exhale against the dampness of her neck. Damn, she thought, he’s actually spooning me. With the windows closed, the bedroom was stifling, and there was a film of sweat fusing their naked bodies. She considered moving to get some air between them. Instead, Nikki settled herself back against his chest and thighs and liked the fit.

Jameson Rook.

Now, how did this happen?

Since the day she got stuck with him for this research ride-along business, he’d been a daily annoyance to her. And now here she was in bed with him after a night of sex. And great sex at that.

If she had to interrogate herself, Detective Heat would end up signing a sworn statement that there was a spark of attraction from their first meeting. He, of course, had no qualms about voicing that every chance he had, a trait that may have had something to do with his high annoyance factor. May have? But his certainty was no match for a greater force, her denial. Yeah, there was always something there, and now, in hindsight, she realized that the more she’d felt it, the more she’d denied it.

Nikki wondered what other denials she had been dealing with.

None. Absolutely none.

Bull.

Why else did Matthew Starr’s mistress strike such an uncomfortable chord with her, talking about how staying in a going-nowhere relationship was just a way of avoiding relationships, and asking her—asking her—if she knew what she meant.

Nikki knew from her therapy after the murder that she wore a lot of armor. Like she needed the shrink to tell her that. Or to warn her about the emotional peril of constantly deferring her needs, and yes, her desires, by packing them too safely inside her no-go zone. Those shrink sessions were long past, but how often lately had Nikki wondered—scratch that—worried, when she threw up her barriers and put herself in full Task Orientation Mode, if there might be this tipping point at which you can lose something of yourself you have been sheltering and never get it back. For instance, what happens when that hard coating you’ve developed to protect the most vulnerable part of you becomes so impenetrable that that part can’t even be reached by you?

The Sargent print Rook gave her came to mind. She thought about those carefree girls lighting paper lanterns and wondered what became of them. Did they keep their innocence even after they stopped wearing play dresses and lost their soft necks and unlined faces? Did they lose the joy of play, of knowing what it was like to romp barefoot on damp grass simply because it felt good? Did they hold onto their innocence or had events invaded their lives to make them wary and vigilant? Did they, a hundred years before Sting wrote it, build a fortress around their hearts?

Did they have sport sex with ex-Navy Seals just to get their heart rates up?

Or with celebrity journalists who hung with Mick and Bono?

Not to compare—oh, why not?—the difference with Rook was that he got her heart rate up first and that’s what made her want him. From that initial blood rush her pulse had only beat faster.

What was it that made sex with Jameson Rook so incredible?

Hm, she thought, he was passionate, for sure. Exciting and surprising, uh huh. And tender, too, at the right times, but not too soon—and not too much, thank God. But the big difference with Rook was that he was playful.

And he made her playful.

Rook gave her permission to laugh. Being with him was fun. Sleeping with him was anything but solemn and earnest. His playfulness brought joy into her bed. I still have my armor, she thought, but tonight, anyway, Rook got in. And brought me with him.

Nikki Heat had discovered she could be playful, too. In fact, she rolled toward him and slid down the bed to prove it.

Her cell phone startled them awake. She sat up, orienting herself in the blinding sunlight.

Rook lifted his head off the pillow. “What’s that, a wake-up call?”

“You had your wake-up call, mister.”

He dropped back on the pillow with his eyes closed, smiling at the memory. “And I answered.”

She pressed the cell to her ear. “Heat.”

“Hi, Nikki, did I wake you?” It was Lauren.

“No, I’m up.” She fumbled for her watch on the nightstand. 7:03. Nikki worked to clear her head. When your friend from the medical examiner’s office calls at that hour, it’s generally not social.

“I waited until after seven.”

“Lauren, really, it’s fine. I’m already dressed and I’ve had my exercise,” Nikki said, looking at her naked reflection in the mirror. Rook lifted himself up and his smiling face appeared in the mirror with her.

“Well, that’s half-true,” he said in a hushed voice.

“Oh…Sounds like you have company. Nikki Heat, do you have company?”

“No, that was the TV. Those ads come on so loud.” She turned to Rook and put a finger to her lips.

“You have man company.”

Nikki pressed for a change of subject. “What’s going on, Laur?”

“I’m working a crime scene. Let me give you the address.”

“Hang on, I need something to write with.” Nikki crossed to the dresser and grabbed a pen. She couldn’t find a pad or paper, so she flipped over her copy of First Press with Rook and Bono on the cover and wrote on the vodka ad on the back. “OK.”

“I’m at the impound lot near the Javits.”

“I know the impound. That’s West, what, 38th?”