"Or you can use the bath on this floor, but there's a washer and dryer in there. When I'm finished remodeling, there will be two separate rooms."

Michelle's house was furnished simply, yet everything was tasteful and uncluttered, a reflection, he decided, of the woman who lived there.

"Is that a Maitland-Smith?" he asked as he walked into the dining room to get a closer look at the table.

"You know furniture manufacturers?"

"Yeah, I do," he said. "I appreciate fine workmanship. So is it?"

"No, it isn't a Maitland-Smith. It's a John Paul."

He didn't recognize the name for a second or two; then he realized she was telling him her brother had made the furniture.

"No way your brother did this."

"Yes, he did."

"Michelle, this is a work of art."

He gently stroked the tabletop as though it were a baby's forehead. Michelle watched him, pleased that he appreciated her brother's work.

The mahogany wood felt as smooth as polished marble. "Incredible," Theo whispered. "Look at these great lines."

He squatted down to look underneath. The legs were ornately carved, and the scrollwork was amazing. It was perfect. Every line was perfect.

"Who taught him how to do this?"

"He's self-taught."

"No way."

She laughed. "My brother's a perfectionist in some things. He's certainly talented, isn't he?"

Theo wasn't finished examining the set. He stood and picked up one of the chairs. Then he turned it upside down and whistled. "Not a nail or screw in sight. Man, oh, man, what I would give to be able to do work like this. With the right care, this chair will last for centuries."

"You do carpentry?" She didn't know why, but the thought of Theo doing anything manual surprised her. It seemed contradictory to what she knew about him.

He glanced at her and saw her surprise. "What?"

"You don't seem the type to work with your hands."

"Yeah? What type do I seem?"

She shrugged. "Wall Street… custom-made suits… servants. You know, big-city boy."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're wrong. I do some of my best work with my hands." Flashing her a grin, he added, "Want some references?"

The sexual innuendo wasn't lost on her. "Do I have to lock my bedroom door tonight?"

His expression immediately sombered. "No, I would never intrude on your privacy. Besides…"

"Yes?"

He winked at her. "If I play my cards right, you'll come to me."

"Are you this brazen with all the women you meet, Mr. Buchanan?"

He laughed. "I don't know what it is, Michelle. You seem to bring out the devil in me."

She rolled her eyes.

"Honest," he said, "I really do like working with my hands. I like building things… or at least I used to. I'll admit, I'm not any

good yet."

"What have you made?"

"My last project was a two-story birdhouse. I built it four years ago, but it was a failure. The birds won't go near it. I'm starving, Michelle. How about I take you out to dinner."

"I'd rather stay in tonight," she said. "If that's all right with you. You are my houseguest…"

"Like it or not?"

"Actually, it's kind of nice, having a Justice Department attorney under my roof. Maybe you'll keep the wolves at bay."

"You're still going to lock your bedroom door, though, aren't you?"

It was strange to banter with a good-looking man. And fun, Michelle thought. There really hadn't been much time for any of

that while she was in medical school, and then residency, where all she could think about was getting a nap. Banter was

definitely not part of her curriculum.

"The truth is I don't have a lock on my door," she told him. "Come with me. I'll show you where you'll be sleeping, and you can change clothes while I rummage through the refrigerator."

Theo grabbed his bag and followed her through the dining room into the kitchen. It was a bright, cheerful, country kitchen and twice the size of the dining room. In the breakfast nook were an old oak table and four paint-splattered folding chairs. There

were three double-hung windows above the old enamel sink, overlooking the screened porch and the back lot. Her yard was

long and narrow, and in the distance he could see a dock jutting into the murky water beyond. An aluminum outboard boat was tethered to one of the posts.

"Do you fish off that dock?"

"Sometimes," she said. "But I like my dad's dock better. I catch more fish there."

There were three doors off the back hallway. One led to the screened porch, another opened to a freshly painted bathroom, and the third led to the garage. "There's another bathroom at the top of the stairs. Your bedroom is on the left."

Theo didn't immediately go upstairs. He dropped his bag on the steps, checked the back door lock, shaking his head because it was so weak a ten-year-old could have gotten it open. Then he looked at the windows on the first floor. When he returned to the kitchen, he said, "Anyone could have climbed in your windows. Not one of them was locked."

"I know," she admitted. "I'll keep them locked from now on."

"I'm not trying to frighten you," he said, "but as far as the vandalism-"

"Would you mind waiting until after we eat? It's been a stressful day."

She turned around and went to the refrigerator. She could hear the stairs squeak as Theo went up. The old iron bed in the guest room had a lumpy mattress, and she knew his feet were going to hang over the rail. She also knew he'd never say a word about any discomfort because he was a gentleman.

She loved his Boston accent. The thought popped into her mind as she was stacking vegetables on the counter, and she immediately pushed it aside. Yes, Boston. A world away. Then she sighed. Theo had come to fish and to return a favor, she decided. He would help sort out this mess she'd gotten into, and then he would go back to Boston.

"End of story."

"What did you say?"

She flinched. "I was talking to myself."

He was wearing a pair of old, faded jeans and a gray T-shirt that had definitely seen better days. His white tennis shoes were also gray, and there was a hole in one of the toes. She thought he looked incredibly sexy.

"What's so funny?"

"You. I expected pressed and creased jeans, I guess," she said. "I'm kidding," she quickly added when she saw his frown.

"You fit right in… except for that gun."

"I'll be happy when I can give this sucker back. I don't like guns, but the authorities back in Boston have asked me to wear it

until the furor over my last case dies down."

"Have you ever had to shoot anyone?"

"No, but I haven't given up hope," he said with a sly grin. "May I have that apple?"

He took a bite out of it before she gave him permission. "Damn, I'm hungry. What are you fixing?"

"Grilled fish with vegetables and rice. Is that okay?"

"I don't know. It sounds a little too healthy for me. I like junk food."

"Too bad. You're eating healthy in my house."

"After dinner, how about we sit down and talk about what's going on in your life."

"Like what?"

"Like who in this town wants to screw with you," he said. "Sorry, I should have said, who has a grudge.' "

"I've heard worse," she said. "I used to have quite a mouth myself," she boasted. "When I was a little girl. I picked up the colorful language from my brothers. Daddy said I could make a grown man blush, but he nipped that in the bud."

"How? Soap in your mouth?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that." She turned on the faucet and began to wash the green onions. "He just told me that every time I used

a bad word, my mother cried."

"So he used guilt."

"Exactly."

"Your dad talks about her as though…"

"She's waiting at home for him."

"Yes."

She nodded. "Daddy likes to talk things over with her."