Quinn grinned at her again, and Audie felt her stomach flip.

"Well, let's start with her anatomy, shall we?"

She nodded.

"I hold her close to my left side with pressure from my forearm-there's no strap tying her to me. She's got three drones that come out of the top." Quinn pointed to three thin, tall pipes rising above his left shoulder, one much longer than the others.

"Now, one of the things that makes Philomena so special is all the silver-and-ivory inlay on the drones, see?" He brushed his finger along the bands of ornate detail work and smiled. "They don't make pipes like this anymore."

"How much is that worth?" Audie asked, her eyes wide.

"About three thousand, not that I'd ever sell her. She'll stay in the Quinn family."

"That's good." Audie couldn't help but smile at him, and she pictured in her mind how Quinn would teach their kids to play Philomena one day. Their kids-the ones who'd be playing on that swing set right out in the backyard.

She suddenly gasped. She had to stop thinking like this.

"You all right there, Homey?"

"Go on. I'm learning a lot," she managed.

"OK." His eyes sparkled down at her. "This is called the chanter." His fingers rippled along the pipe at the bottom of the instrument. "I cover or uncover the holes to play notes. All the while, the drones up here continue to produce the background hum you always hear in pipe music."

"You do both at the same time?"

"Yes. I use what's called circular breathing-I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth in a continuous cycle. That way, the pressure stays constant to support the drones and the melody line from the chanter."

"That sounds hard."

Quinn laughed. "It is. You usually have to study for years before you're allowed to play the chanter in a band. Da started teaching me when I was about twelve, so when I joined the force I stepped right into the Garda Band, full of myself and ready to go."

Audie lifted an eyebrow. "You? Full of yourself?"

"Yeah, well, I can't help it that I'm so damn good."

Audie laughed. "OK. So what's the bag made of? I thought it looked kind of different from the other bagpipes."

"Ah. The detective in you again, Homey," he said appreciatively. "It is different-most of the newer pipes have Kevlar bags, a plastic material. But I wanted to keep Philomena as historically accurate as possible, so I'm one of a handful of players that use an elk hide bag."

Quinn rubbed his fingers along the rough skin. "See how it's all bumpy here? It's inside out-the inside of the bag is the outer hide, elk hair and all."

"Eeewww, gross."

"Yeah, well, it helps make the sound rich and mellow, not buzzy like the new pipes. Want me to play a little something for you?"

"Please."

"How about 'Itchy Fingers'?"

Audie laughed. "Sounds good."

"I won't be able to talk, all right? I'm going to fill the bag with air and then give her a little slap to get the juices flowing."

Audie cocked her head and blinked. "What did you just say?"

"A slap gets the air moving through the drones. Now you can't be making me crazy while I play, or it won't sound right."

"I wouldn't think of it, Quinn."

The song was light and quick and Quinn was right-Philomena's sound was quite rich-and sitting this close, Audie could appreciate the amount of skill it took to produce the glorious tone.

She sat up on her haunches and clapped enthusiastically when the song ended, then gave Quinn one of her ballpark whistles.

"God, woman, you're going to make me deaf," he mumbled behind his smile, putting the pipes away and closing the case. Quinn stood in front of her, his hands on his hips.

"What next, Homey?"

"Ahhh." Audie flopped down on her side, propping her head with an elbow as she appraised him.

Quinn watched the sundress pull across the curves of her breasts, the slight swell of her stomach, and her round hips. He hoped whatever she wanted to know wouldn't take long to explain.

"The get-up, Stacey. All the doodads you're wearing."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "I'll have you know that everything about the get-up, as you call it, is significant. So treat it with respect."

"Oh, I'm very respectful of it, believe me."

A little flash of heat moved through Quinn at the serious look in her eye. She did like the get-up, and it surprised him how happy that made him.

"Where should I start?"

She looked him over carefully and hummed, thinking. "Tell me about the little milkman hat and the story with the shoes."

Quinn laughed big and reached for the black two-edged cap sitting at a jaunty angle on his head. He held it out to her and ran his fingers along the black-and-white checkerboard pattern on the brim. "It's called a Glengarry and this is the black and white of the old Chicago Police Department."

He set the hat on Audie's head, giving her shiny hair a fluff and letting his fingers linger on her cheek a moment.

"You enjoying this, Homey?"

"Very much," she sighed, smiling up at him.

She watched him rake his fingers quickly through his sun-streaked short mane, the entirety of his hairstyling regimen, as she'd already learned.

"And these are spats worn over your standard-issue police shoes." He took off the spats and shoes and placed them under a straight-backed chair near the bureau.

"You look real good in those kneesocks, Quinn."

"They're not kneesocks-they're called hose. And these bright green garter things are called flashes-you fold the tops of the hose over the flashes just below your knee."

"So take them off."

He shot her a challenging look. "I feel like you're going to start sticking dollar bills in my shorts."

She laughed. "If you earn it, I will."

He took off the hose and flashes and folded them neatly on the chair. While he did that, Audie got to look at the defined muscles of his calves and his tapered ankles. He had excellent legs, this man in a skirt.

"Where to next, Homey?"

"The shirt," she said, grinning and rolling back to herstomach, propping her chin in her hands. Quinn watched theGlengarry slide off her hair and land on the disheveled comforter. The sight of Audie rolling around on his bed brought on that tightening in his chest again and in his groin.

His fingers went to the shirt buttons, taking detours to point out important features. "This is, of course, the standard-issue Chicago Police Department summer dress shirt, with the city flag on the right arm here"-he pointed-"and the Garda Pipe and Drum Band insignia on the left. And this little brass plate on the pocket is my name in Gaelic-Cuinn." His fingers pulled out the shirttails from the front and back of the kilt.

"So unbutton the rest of it."

He cocked his head to the side and saw how she watched his fingers pop open the last few buttons. He pulled off the shirt and gave it a series of little burlesque flips through the air before he laid it neatly over the back of the chair.

When Audie was done laughing, she continued her questions. "Does the undershirt have any significance, Quinn?"

"Yes it does, since you ask. Fruit Of The Loom, JC Penney, six for fifteen dollars."

Audie watched him do the one-handed macho T-shirt removal thing and toss it to the chair. And there he stood in front of her, wearing nothing but the kilt and a muscular chest, trim abdomen, and strong arms.

Audie knew she might very well be drooling, but she didn't care. His body was exquisite-powerful, sprung tight, ready for whatever might be required.

She liked that about him.

Quinn crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at her, trying his best to temper his sparkling eyes with a frown. "What now, Miss Adams?"

All she could do was look. She folded her legs beneath her and sat up again, hands on knees, just appreciating him. "Can you let your arms down to your sides?" she asked very softly.