"I'm really early," she said. "If you're in the middle of something, I don't mind waiting."

Great, he'd been staring again. He was acting like a pimply-faced teenager who'd just come face-to-face with his favorite centerfold. Erin McNeal was a cop-and a bad one at that. He'd worked with plenty of female cops back in Chicago. This one shouldn't be any different.

Noticing that Hector's eyes still hadn't settled back in their sockets, Nick motioned toward his office. "We can talk in here, Ms. McNeal."

She started for the door with long, confident strides. He followed, refusing to let his eyes peruse what he instinctively knew was a nice derriere. He didn't want to know that she was built just the way he liked. He'd just as soon not like anything at all about this woman.

Once in his office, he slid behind his desk, then watched her take the chair opposite him. Her jacket gaped slightly when she crossed her legs, and he caught a glimpse of lace and the swell of her breasts beneath her blouse. Determined to keep his mind on the interview, he forced his gaze to the file in front of him. "Your credentials are impressive," he said. "Frank gave you a favorable recommendation."

"Frank was a good commander."

"It's probably no handicap that he's also your uncle." Nick looked down at the file, wondering if she realized Frank had told him about the shooting. "You scored high on your detective's exam. You transferred out of tactical to become a detective after only two years. Says here 'because you like to think.' Your solve rate is high. Your marksmanship is outstanding." He raised his eyes to hers. "Those are some pretty remarkable achievements considering there are over thirteen thousand sworn officers on the force."

Her gaze never left his. "I like being a cop."

Despite his resistance to her, the answer scored a point with him. Nick had a pretty good idea how many hurdles this woman had had to leap to reach detective status. He knew plenty of men who couldn't match half her skills. He knew plenty of others who would do their utmost to hold her back just because she was the wrong sex. Yet she'd prevailed. Nick admired tenacity almost as much as he admired guts. He wondered if she was gutsy enough to bring up the subject neither of them wanted to discuss.

"We don't get much action here in Logan Falls," he said. "A few juvenile delinquents. Domestic disputes. The Brass Rail Saloon got robbed last Friday, but that sort of thing is pretty unusual. Think you can handle that kind of excitement?"

"If I can handle the South Side of Chicago, I'm sure I can handle anything that happens in Logan Falls."

He'd asked the question lightly, but she'd taken it as a personal challenge. An ego to boot, he thought. He studied the file, irritated with her for not being what he'd expected, annoyed with Frank for not warning him how good she was to look at-and downright ticked off at himself for noticing.

"I see you've had a couple personnel problems," he said.

"They were relatively minor-"

"It's my responsibility to ask you about them." He flipped to the next page. "You've been written up for insubordination."

Eyeing him warily, she shifted in her chair. "I didn't like an assignment, and I let my lieutenant know about it."

"What was it about?"

"Cases involving unpopular victims that were shoved aside in lieu of the more affluent ones. Prostitutes mostly, because nobody cared about them. I didn't think that was fair."

Nick nodded noncommittally, not liking it that he agreed with her. He didn't miss big-city police work, or the politics that went along with it. "Any problems with your shoulder?" He could tell by the way her eyes widened that he'd caught her off guard. "Frank told me about the shooting," he clarified.

"I have a little arthritis," she replied. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Did you pass the physical?"

She nodded. "I'm left-handed, so the injury didn't affect my marksmanship. I lost some strength in my right hand."

On the surface, her answer seemed adequate. To the point. Acceptable. Just the way she'd planned, Nick thought. But he was observant enough to notice the other signs that weren't quite as apparent. He didn't miss her white-knuckled grip on her purse. The slight tremor in her hand. The tight clench of her jaw. All signs of stress; all signs that the shooting had affected her much more profoundly than she was letting on. Just like a cop, he thought, and inwardly groaned. He knew intimately the signs of personal baggage-he was an expert on the subject, after all-and bet his bottom dollar the woman across from him had a truckload sitting on those rigid shoulders.

"Frank said you were lucky to get out of that warehouse alive," he said.

She looked as though she wanted to argue for a moment, but didn't. "I was very lucky."

Her partner, Danny Perrine, hadn't been as lucky. The thought sent a flare of irritation through Nick. He wondered if she was going to come clean with the entire story, or if he was going to have to squeeze it out of her one question at a time.

"Did you spend any time with the department shrink afterward?" he asked casually.

Her gaze snapped to his. He could tell from her expression she knew it wasn't a casual question. Though she tried to shutter her reaction, Nick saw the flash of emotion in the depths of her gaze.

"I saw Dr. Ferguson for a couple of months. It's department regulation for any cop involved in a shooting. She gave me a clean bill of health."

"So if the shrink gave you a clean bill of health, why did Frank fire you?"

"Frank didn't fire me. I resigned."

"On paper maybe. It's obvious you were on your way out. Only you knew a resignation would look better than a termination on your résumé, didn't you?" Nick didn't look up, but rather felt the rise of tension. He let the silence work for a moment, then met her gaze. "You didn't think I wouldn't ask you about the shooting, did you?"

Erin stared at him, her expression guarded. "Of course not."

"I have your complete file," he pointed out. "I was wondering if you wanted to give me your take on what happened."

"Frank said-"

"Why don't you stop wondering how much of this Frank has already told me, and just lay it out?"

For the first time, her composure wavered. She blinked, then looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. Quickly, she relaxed them. "He had no right to give you my entire file. Some of it's confidential."

"You don't think he's going to let you waltz in and dazzle me with your test scores and solve rate when we both know you've had some serious problems in the last six months, do you?"

"Frank knows I'm a good cop."

"He also knows you're wobbly on your feet. You were involved in a shooting. There are repercussions to that sort of thing whether we like to admit it or not. Frank didn't expect me to walk in blind. Not after what happened to Danny Perrine."

She flinched. "I'm not wobbly. I made a mistake-"

"A very serious one that nearly cost a man his life."

"I'm fully aware-"

Nick's throat squeezed out a short, incredulous laugh designed to let her know just how he felt about cops and mistakes. "Just because you're aware, Ms. McNeal, doesn't mean it's going to go away or that it won't happen again."

"I screwed up," she said. "I went back to work too soon after… Danny. But I'm better now-"

"Ah, I'll feel a hell of lot better going through a door with you, knowing you're all better."

Her eyes heated. "I can do without the sarcasm."

Ignoring her anger, maybe even enjoying it a little, Nick continued, "This isn't personal, McNeal. I'm just trying to decide if you're still suitable for police work."

"Why don't you give me the chance to prove it?"

"Because I'm afraid you'll freeze up when I need you. I can do without a bullet in my back."