AS FAR AS I KNEW, Joe had never found out about my misadventure in Washington, and now didn't seem like the time to tell him.

"You've fed Martha?" I asked, hugging him closer, reaching my arms up around his neck for his kiss.

"Walked her, too," he murmured. "And I bought a roasted chicken and some vegetables for the human folk. Wine's in the fridge."

"Someday, I'm going to walk into my apartment and shoot you by accident."

"You wouldn't do that, would you, Blondie?"

I pulled back, smiled up at his face, saying, "No, I wouldn't do it, Joe."

"You're my girl."

Then he kissed me again, a true toe curler, and my body melted against his. We walked up the stairs to my apartment, Martha barking and herding us together, making us laugh so hard we were weak by the time we got to the top floor.

As was our habit… the food had to wait.

Joe took off my clothes and his, turned on the shower until the temperature was just right, and once we were both inside the stall, put my hands on the wall and washed me gently and slowly, working me up until I wanted to scream. He wrapped me in a bath sheet and walked me to my bed, lowered me down, turned on the small lamp by the night table, the one with the soft pink light. He unwrapped me as if this were our first time together, as if he were just now discovering my body.

And that gave me the time to admire his broad chest, the way the pattern curls led my eyes downward – and when I reached out to touch him, he was ready.

"Just lie back," he said into my ear.

The brilliant thing about going so long without Joe was that when I was with him, there was the element of "the unknown" along with the safety of familiarity.

I lay back on the pillows, my palms turned up, and Joe drove me crazy as he kissed me everywhere, ran teasing fingers over hot spots and pressed his hard body against mine.

I was dissolving in the heat, but as much as I was dying for him, something else was going on in my head. I was fighting my feelings for Joe, and I didn't know why.

Then the answer came: I don't want to do this.

I FELT CRAZY, wanting Joe and not wanting him at the same time.

I rationalized at first that I was still swimming in worry for Madison and Paola, but what came to mind was my shame at showing up at Joe's place nearly two weeks ago, needing him so much, feeling as though I'd gone where I didn't belong.

He was lying beside me now, his hand on the plane of my belly.

"What is it, Lindsay?"

I shook my head – No, nothing's wrong – but Joe turned me toward him, made me look into his deep blue eyes.

"I had a horrible day," I told him.

"Sure," he said, "that's not new. But your mood is."

I felt tears spring from my eyes, and that embarrassed me. I didn't want to be vulnerable with Joe. Not now anyway.

"Start talking, Blondie," he said.

I rolled toward him and put my arm over his chest, tucked my head under his jaw. "I can't take this, Joe."

"I know, I know how you feel. I want to move here, but it's not the right time."

My breathing slowed as he talked about the current state of the war, next year's elections, the bombings in major cities, and the focus on Homeland Security.

At some point, I stopped listening. I got out of bed and put on a robe.

"Are you coming back?" Joe asked.

"There it is," I said. "I'm always asking myself that question about you."

Joe started to protest, but I said, "Let me talk."

I sat on the edge of the bed, said, "As good as this can be, that's how bad it is because I can't count on you, Joe. I'm too old for jack-in-the-box love."

"Linds -"

"You know I'm right. I don't know when I'll be seeing you, if I'll reach you when I call. Then you're here, and then you're gone, and I'm left behind, missing you.

"We have no time to relax together, be normal, have a life. We've talked and talked about your moving here, but we both know it's impossible."

"Lindsay, I swear -"

"I can't wait for the next administration or the war to be over. Do you understand?"

He was sitting up now, legs over the side of the bed, so much love in his face I had to turn away.

"I love you, Lindsay. Please, let's not fight. I have to leave in the morning."

"You have to leave now, Joe," I heard myself say. "It kills me to say this, but I don't want any more well-intentioned promises," I said. "Let's end this, okay? We had a great time. Please? If you love me, let me go."

After Joe kissed me good-bye, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling for a long time, tears soaking my pillow. I wondered what the hell I had done.

IT WAS SATURDAY NIGHT, almost midnight. Cindy was sleeping in the bedroom of her new apartment at the Blakely Arms – alone – when she was awoken by a woman shouting her lungs out in Spanish on a floor somewhere over her head.

A door slammed, there were running footsteps, then a hinge creaked and another door slammed, this one closer to Cindy's apartment.

Maybe it was the door to the stairwell?

She heard more shouting, this time down on the street. Men's voices rose up to her third-floor windows, then there was the sound of scuffling.

Cindy was having thoughts she'd never had in her old apartment building.

Was she safe here?

Was the great buy she got on this place a poor bargain after all?

She threw back the covers, left her bedroom, and went out to her new airy living room and foyer. She peeked through the peephole – saw no one. She twisted the knob of the dead bolt, left-right-left-right, before going to her desk.

She ran her hands through her hair, pulled it up into a band. Jeez. Her hands were shaking.

Maybe it wasn't just the nightlife in the building. Maybe she was giving herself the creeps because of the story she was writing about child abduction. Since Henry Tyler's phone call, she'd been surfing the Web, reading more than she'd ever known about the thousands of children who were abducted in the United States every year.

Most of those kids were taken by family members, found, and returned. But a few hundred children every year were strangled, stabbed, or buried alive by their abductors.

And the majority of those kids were murdered within the first hours of their abduction.

Statistically it was far more likely that Madison had been grabbed by an extortionist than a child-molesting, murdering freak. The only problem with that scenario was that it left a huge, chilling question in her mind.

Why hadn't the Tylers been contacted about paying a ransom?

Cindy was halfway back to her bedroom when the doorbell rang. She froze, heart jumping inside her chest. She didn't know a soul in this building.

So who could be ringing her doorbell?

The bell rung again, insistently.

Clutching her robe, Cindy went to the door and peered through the peephole. She couldn't believe who was peering back.

It was Lindsay.

And she looked like hell.