The highlight of the day came late in the afternoon, when a man came to the Taskers' front door. He was a balding blond guy with a bit of a paunch and a loud, everyone-look-at-me voice. Charlotte didn't invite him in. She didn't hide the fact that she wasn't thrilled with his visit She stayed stiff, her arms crossed in front of her, shaking her head. Joe watched the man continue to smile at her to no avail.

It was then that Joe had to fight the instinct to march over there and toss the guy into the street. He laughed at himself-exactly when had he signed up to be Charlotte Tasker's bodyguard?

He couldn't leave this town soon enough.

But he watched Charlotte send the guy packing without anyone's help. Good for her. She had good instincts. It was plain to see that doofus didn't deserve her.

But now it was nearly dark, and Joe knew it was time to put away the binoculars and head home. He'd done enough surveillance for one day. Besides, he'd managed to slip under the radar of the dog sleeping on a rug just inside the double doors and figured he shouldn't press his luck.

Joe made one last sweep. From his vantage point behind the Taskers' pine trees he had a good view into what was probably the family room, which opened into a big kitchen. Plaid furniture was arranged around a fireplace and entertainment center and the room looked lived in- kids' backpacks hanging on the doorknobs, art projects taped up on the cabinets, dog toys and sneakers on the rug.

Charlotte moved into range. Then the kids. Then the little family of three was sitting at the round oak kitchen table. They made a cozy picture, illuminated by the hanging lamp as they bowed their heads and said grace.

He watched them eat some kind of rice casserole and a fruit salad. He could see them laughing but caught only the barest hint of their voices from inside the house. He longed to hear every word, but that would require either a dinner invitation or a wiretap. Equally ridiculous ideas.

Joe lowered the binoculars and stretched. Oh, well. He was as good as gone, and he'd be content with taking this mental picture with him: Charlotte in those battered jeans, her silky pale red hair pulled back in a ponytail, laughing as she ate dinner with her kids, perfectly capable and perfectly happy without him.

Charlotte had been in a love-hate relationship with Billy Banks for about four months now.

Sure, she loved the way he made her feel: sleek and empowered and primed to kick some serious ass if the need should ever arise. And for a woman alone, that wais a handy skill to have.

But she hated the kickboxing tycoon for the way he made her abdominal muscles scream in agony, her thighs burn, and her lungs heave in her chest.

"Get ripped!" he yelled at her from the TV screen, his dark, chiseled body shining with sweat.

"Go rip yourself," Charlotte muttered, trying to follow the complicated routine of kicks and punches.

"Roundhouse, step, step, right jab, roundhouse!"

She was hitting her zone. Entering that place where the endorphins beat down the pain. Her body was humming. Her mind was focused. But then he had to go and change everything.

"Speedbag!"

Charlotte imitated her video classmates, adjusting her weight evenly, knees slightly bent. She began to spin her fists in tight circles in front of her face in an imaginary attack of a punching bag, and as the seconds ticked by, her arms ached, ached, until they turned to pillars of lead.

"Change direction!"

She could just barely hear the phone ringing over Billy's drill sergeant commands and the pounding of her own heart. She jogged to the kitchen cordless phone* keeping her fists flying high in front of her eyes until the last possible second.

She grabbed the phone with a sweaty hand. "Hell… oh!"

"Ah. Tae Bo time."

She could hear the amusement in Ned's voice and it made her smile. "Sure is. Hold a sec. Let me catch… my… breath."

"Listen, I hate to bother you so late-"

She glanced up at the kitchen clock to see it was 9:30.

"-but Hoover's out in the cul-de-sac again. I saw him in the Noonans' yard a few minutes ago and then all the way over at the Rickmans'."

"Oh, hell." Charlotte leaned forward at the waist and drew in air slowly and deeply, shaking her head. Obviously, the seven-hundred-dollar electric dog fence had been a colossal waste of money. The jolt didn't even seem to register with Hoover. And the Rickmans and their trigger-happy calls to the home owners' association were the reason she had to buy the fence in the first place.

"You know, I swore I turned the juice to maximum on that thing the other day," Ned said.

"You did, but it doesn't… seem to make… a difference."

"Well, honey, you're going to have to get him. I went out with some bologna, but he didn't fall for it."

"Okay, Ned. Thanks."

"And I'm not giving that dog one of my perfectly good Nutty Buddies. That'd be a sin."

Charlotte laughed, pulling a paper towel off the dispenser and dabbing at her dripping face. Everyone in Hayden Heights knew that Hoover could usually be bribed with an ice-cream cone. "No problem, Ned. I'm on my way."

"Want me to come over and sit with the kids?"

"No, thanks." Charlotte used her left toe to open the trash can lid, tossed the soggy paper towel inside, and pulled on the freezer handle in one continuous movement. She tucked the phone under her chin and pulled out the half gallon of all natural French vanilla, reached into the drawer for the ice-cream scoop, and kicked open the swinging pantry door with her knee, scanning the shelves for the box of cake cones.

She flipped open the ice-cream lid while reaching for the cones.

"It'll just take me a second. The kids are in bed."

"Okay, Charlotte. You all doing okay over there?"

She smiled, feeling safe and well-cared for. She couldn't have asked for a better friend and neighbor,

"We're all doing great. And thanks again for letting me know about Hoov."

It took her exactly forty-seven paces at a quick jog to reach Hoover. He was peeing on the meticulously planted circle of purple and yellow pansies around the Rickmans' carriage light.

"Hoov, come here, boy!"

The dog glanced nonchalantly in her direction and continued to water the Rickmans' flowers. Then, without warning, he took off at a run right past her, ears flying back in streetlight

"Hey! I've got a Creamy Whip! Get back here!"

Yes, the spring night was chilly but obviously not as cold as the freezer, because Charlotte looked down to see the ice cream melting all over her hand.

She had no choice but to run after him.

Holding the cone like the Olympic Torch, Charlotte took long strides down the sidewalk. At least she was dressed properly for a nighttime run, in her black bike shorts and coordinating black and purple jog bra. At least she'd complete her workout

"Hoover!" she called out in a voice loud enough for the stupid dog to hear but soft enough not to startle the neighbors.

"He's down at the Connors' place!"

"Oh!" She came to a halt, barely making out the figure of Mrs. Watson at the end of her driveway, putting out her matching set of Rubbermaid garbage cans. "Thanks!"

Charlotte continued on, growing more and more annoyed at the stupid dog, wondering if the kids were okay, hating to be out of the house for even a few minutes.

"Hoover, you dumb thing!" she whispered, now walking in front of the Connors'. She stopped and looked up. The stone and wood house rose up from the slope of lawn, its tall, slanted windows glowing with light from inside.

My God-he was in there.

At that instant, she realized that she hadn't thought of Joe Mills for at least twenty minutes-which may have been a record for the last couple days. But she sure was thinking of him now-wondering what he wore as he walked around inside that house. Wondering which bedroom he slept in. Wondering on what section of kitchen countertop he'd decided to put his coffeepot.