ELIZABETH BEVARLY
My Only Vice

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

For David

My Only Love

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

About the Author

Coming Next Month

1

AS HE WATCHED the seemingly endless parade of nearly naked, thoroughly sweaty female torsos gyrating wildly to electronic funk music, it occurred to Sam Maguire that small-town life wasn’t exactly what he’d expected it to be. Of course, the reason for this particular parade of naked, sweaty female torsos wasn’t to earn its owners a living, however dubious, which would have likely been the case for such a display in the big city. No, the reason for this particular parade of naked, sweaty torsos was more to keep its owners in shape—however dubious.

That was beside the point.

The point was that a naked, sweaty female torso was a naked, sweaty female torso, and it was a sight to be revered, whether under the strobe lights of Buster’s Bootie Call in Boston, or under the Art Deco fixtures of Alice’s Aerobics Attic in tiny Northaven, two hours away. So Sam would, by God, revere them. Even the ones at Alice’s that hadn’t quite gotten around to that in-shape thing yet. Hell, it wasn’t as if the bodies at Buster’s were exactly ready for their close-up. The tattoos on most of them had headed farther south than Tierra del Fuego.

Sam’s reason for watching these torsos, however, wasn’t much different from what his reason for watching them in the big city had been. A stakeout was a stakeout, too, whether it was in Boston or Northaven, even if the criminal element here consisted less of drug pushers and vicious pimps and more of dognappers and petty thieves. Even at that, Mrs. Pendleton’s Yorkie had turned up safe and sound by nightfall just as Sam had assured the elderly woman it would, and she never received one of the animal’s red beribboned little ears along with a ransom note, as Mrs. Pendleton had been so certain she would. The local thefts were no more difficult to solve than the isolated dognapping had been, since most of those were perpetrated by fresh-faced teenagers who didn’t even know enough to hide their tracks, so unaccustomed were they to a life of crime.

Sam’s current case was easily the ugliest he’d investigated since his self-inflicted relocation to Northaven a little over a year ago. Alice the aerobics instructor’s estranged husband had been drinking too much white Zinfandel on the weekends and making threatening phone calls to her. But his crime, too, was a far cry from similar ones committed in the big city, since the worst of Don’s threats had been to spend with wild abandon, using the joint MasterCard he and Alice still shared. To the tune of five hundred dollars if Alice didn’t give him a second chance to make up for his indiscretion with the head cashier at his grocery store.

Nevertheless, Sam had promised Alice he would stop by both her house and the aerobics business on his daily rounds to make sure Don didn’t try anything funny. Well, anything funnier than racking up a three-figure debt on a credit card, anyway. So what if Sam lingered at the latter destination a little longer than he did the former? Alice’s business was open to the public, and was therefore more easily accessible than her home. And her customer base constituted a threat to more people than just Alice herself. Any cop, urban or small town, would make sure he lingered longer in the more open—and consequently more ripe for mayhem—environment.

Especially if that was the environment that had the naked, sweaty, gyrating female torsos. Talk about your mayhem…

The women in Alice’s current class didn’t know Sam was watching them, since Alice had instructed him to enter through the back and observe the studio from behind the wall of two-way glass, just in case he arrived at a time when Don was indeed there trying to wreak havoc. Presumably by doing something crazy like waving around a loaded Juiceman he’d just flagrantly purchased with their credit card—and not on sale, either. But as Sam’s gaze roved down the line of women and he recognized one of them as Rosie Bliss, he was in an even smaller hurry to leave.

Northaven’s resident florist had her lush fall of dark red hair—hair that normally tumbled to nearly the center of her back—piled loosely atop her head, held in place by some invisible means of support. She was wearing a clingy yellow…whatever the hell you called those things women worked out in that barely covered their breasts…over clingy black…whatever the hell you called those things women worked out in that barely covered their asses. Every other inch of her was creamy, ivory—and sweaty; did he mention sweaty? And gyrating, too?—flesh. She was even working out barefoot, unlike the other women, who were all wearing sneakers, and something about the way her toenails were painted a dark blood red made Sam want to…

Well. There was no way he could deny it. He wanted to suck on Rosie Bliss’s toes until the cows came home. Then he wanted to suck on the rest of her until the cows went out again. And he’d hope like hell they never brought their bovine little selves back again.

Sam had had his first run-in with Rosie the day he’d arrived in sleepy Northaven feeling messed up and beaten down by his final case in Boston—the one that had made him look for a job in a place like sleepy Northaven. Of course, Sam had had a run-in with just about everyone in town that day a year ago this past September, including the mayor and the head of Northaven College, the town’s reason for existence. Hell, practically the entire population of Northaven had turned out to greet their new Chief of Police that day—with a picnic in the park, no less.

But it had been Rosie, with that lush fall of dark red hair and those incredible green eyes and that body that leaped right off a trifold with staples, whom Sam had taken home with him that night. She’d been the one who’d joined him in his bed after dark for hours and hours of the downest, most dirtiest sex he’d ever enjoyed.

Not literally, of course, since he’d realized within moments of making Rosie’s acquaintance that she was way too nice a woman for something like hours and hours of down and dirty sex, especially with a guy she’d just met. But Sam wasn’t too nice for that. As evidenced by the fact that he’d gone home after meeting the nicest woman he’d ever met in his life and fantasized for hours and hours about having down and dirty sex with her.

Hey, it had been a while at that point since he’d had any sex with anyone, all right? Not that he’d had much sex since meeting Rosie, either—or any sex since meeting her…dammit—because Northaven was so overrun with damned nice women. He still had better sex with his fantasy Rosie Bliss than he’d ever had with any flesh-and-blood woman. So he had sex with his fantasy Rosie Bliss a lot.

But it was absolutely essential that he keep his distance from the flesh-and-blood Rosie Bliss. Especially the flesh part of her. The last thing he needed or wanted in his life was a nice woman. Not much in Sam’s life had ever been nice. He didn’t do nice. He didn’t want nice. And he sure as hell didn’t deserve nice. Even if there was a part of him that still craved it in the form of Rosie Bliss.

He told himself it was time to leave Alice’s Aerobics Attic since, clearly, there was nothing amiss at the studio. But he couldn’t quite make himself look away from Rosie. Her gaze was fixed on the part of the mirror that was in front of her, a few feet away from where Sam stood. Almost without realizing he was doing it, he moved down until he was standing right in front of her, so that it felt as if she was looking at him, instead of her reflection.

There. That was better. Maybe it wasn’t him making Rosie gyrate and sweat the way she was, but there was nothing wrong with pretending it was him, right? Aside from the fact that it made him seem like a pathetic loser, he meant.

Ah, screw it. As long as nobody else found out that he, whose nickname at Boston Vice had been Ironheart, was lusting after a goody-two-shoes florist in a place so saccharine it would make Norman Rockwell gag, Sam was in the clear. He’d defy any heterosexual male not to succumb to the charms of Rosie Bliss. And even the gay ones would have lusted after her flair for flower arrangement.

The electronic funk music on the other side of the mirror segued into something slower and less frenetic, so the movement of the women became slower and less frenetic, too. Sam continued to watch Rosie as she stretched her arms up high and brought them down again in two graceful arcs, pushing them behind her back and linking them together before thrusting her chest forward. When she did that, the clingy yellow…whatever the hell you called those things women worked out in…stretched taut, defining two ample, exquisite breasts whose nipples pushed through the fabric without an ounce of inhibition. His fingers twitched involuntarily at the sight, as did another part of his anatomy that had no business twitching while he was on the cock…uh, clock. Try as he might, though, he simply could not make himself look away.

Not for the first time, he wondered why she was living in Northaven. He’d learned shortly after meeting her that she’d moved to town less than a year before he had. Even though their paths had crossed scarcely a dozen times since, usually at meetings of the Northaven Business Owners’ Guild or some kind of civic function or holiday celebration, he’d spoken with her often enough to form the impression that her origins weren’t as small town as her current life was. No one in Northaven seemed to know a lot about her—except that she was extremely nice to everyone and didn’t have a mean bone in her incredibly luscious body. And also that she was an absolute whiz with snapdragons.

Maybe she’d been driven to Northaven for reasons similar to his own, Sam thought as he watched her arc one arm over her head and bend her entire body to the side in a position he was sure would make for interesting coupling. Of course, as far as he was concerned, when it came to Rosie, sorting the laundry would make for interesting coupling. As would sweeping out the garage. And grocery shopping. Retrieving the mail. Hosing out the garbage cans…

He was about to indulge in his favorite Rosie fantasy—the one where he hired her to do a little, uh, landscaping on his, um, enormous oak—when the front door to Alice’s Aerobics Attic opened and her husband, Don, walked in. Although it was Alice’s name he called out, every woman in the room turned to look at him. Sam, too—very reluctantly—tore his gaze from Rosie and turned his attention to the other man.

Don looked even worse now than he’d looked the last time Sam saw him. His green Clover Mart jacket was rumpled, and the brisk early-October wind had blown his salt-and-pepper comb-over completely off the top of his head without his even having noticed it. He seemed a lot older than his fifty-eight years, which Sam supposed could happen to a man when he’d been caught red- handed in the meat section using the big roll of oversize plastic wrap to sheathe a naked cashier. Don had insisted it was groundbreaking performance art. Alice had insisted it was grounds for performing a divorce.

Yeah, small-town life really wasn’t what Sam had expected at all.

“Alice!” he heard Don yell again on the other side of the mirror. The man sounded nervous and more than a little agitated. “I’ve got something for you! You’ve been asking for it! You deserve it! And now you’re gonna get it! But good!”

And with that, Don did indeed begin to wave something around. When Sam saw what it was, a cold, unpleasant sensation slithered into his belly. Because what Don was holding was a helluva lot more menacing than a not-on-sale Juiceman. And it could go off any minute. Worst of all, however, Don was standing right next to Rosie Bliss.

ROSIE WAS BATTLING a bizarre sensation of being watched when Alice’s husband, Don, came barreling into the aerobics studio out of nowhere. Again. As usual, he looked out of breath and anxious, and Rosie hoped he didn’t drop onto his knees and plead with Alice to take him back, the way he had last week when he’d barreled into the aerobics studio out of nowhere. Because it had taken all six class members to help him stand up again, so bad were his knees. Not so usual, though, this time Don was brandishing a… Brandishing a…a…a…

What the hell? Rosie thought when she recognized the thing in Don’s hand. It looked like…

Nah, she immediately assured herself. It couldn’t be. Not a nice old guy like Don. He might be a little off these days, what with shrouding cashiers in Glad Wrap and threatening to throw Alice into financial turmoil with frivolous shopping, but he wasn’t the sort of man to go out in public with a…with a…a…a…

A vibrator?

Rosie tilted her head to the side, to observe the object from another angle. Yep, Don was brandishing a vibrator all right. The Xtacy 3000 model, if she wasn’t mistaken. In the Vixen Scarlet color that was so hard to find these days. Even on the Internet. Rosie was fairly familiar with the product, since she’d been shopping around for one for the past month herself, wanting to upgrade from her Xtacy 2000.

Well, what else was she supposed to do? Small-town life agreed with her in a lot of ways—ways she hadn’t even anticipated, truth be told—but Northaven wasn’t exactly bursting at the seams with eligible men. At least those under the age of seventy-five. Even if ol’ Don was estranged from Alice now, it would take a lot more than an Xtacy 3000 in Vixen Scarlet to make Rosie think twice about dating him. Which was moot, anyway, since he was clearly still deeply in love with his wife, performance art with his head cashier notwithstanding.

Of course, there was Northaven’s incredibly hunky police chief, Rosie thought. As she often did. Especially when she was keeping company with her Xtacy 2000. Not only was he way younger than seventy-five—she guesstimated he was in his mid- to late-thirties—but with that thick dark hair and those chocolate-brown eyes…and those broad shoulders that strained at the seams of his white cop shirt in the warmer months and his leather cop jacket in the winter…and that perfectly packaged rump that even brown twill cop pants couldn’t mar…and those big manly hands, each of which would very nicely cover a woman’s breast or splay lovingly over a woman’s behind….

Damn. As always, she was getting way ahead of herself when there was no way she’d be getting any. Not from Sam Maguire, at any rate. Because he evidently didn’t notice the steamy heat ballooning around the two of them that Rosie noticed whenever they encountered each other. Possibly because the steamy heat was only ballooning off of her. Even though she always made a point to seek Sam out on those occasions when they were attending the same function, he only greeted her politely, made a little small talk, then found some reason why he had to go speak to someone else before politely excusing himself to do just that.

The first couple of times it had happened, Rosie hadn’t thought much about it. He was a public servant, after all, and new in town to boot, so he’d naturally need to make himself available to a lot of people. She’d finally taken the hint, though, the last time she’d encountered him at a Chamber of Commerce gathering, when Sam had excused himself to have a very important discussion with Luther Bybee. No one in Northaven ever elected to have a discussion with Luther Bybee. Because Luther Bybee was notorious in Northaven for repeating the same story over and over again about the genital wart that nearly claimed his life. Clearly Sam wasn’t interested in Rosie romantically. Fortunately, her Xtacy 2000 was always there when she needed it.

She knew Alice had been looking for the new Xtacy 3000, too—Hey, what woman wasn’t?—and thought it was exceedingly nice of Don to have found one for her. It took a special man to extend a vibrating olive branch. Maybe he really was into nude, plastic wrap performance art. Stranger things had happened. Don was obviously doing his best to make amends for the cashier thing.

Rosie was taking a step forward to get a better look at the vibrator and was about to ask Don where he’d found it, especially in the most sought-after color, but her words—and her step, for that matter—were cut short when, out of nowhere, she was blindsided by a huge, growling grizzly bear that wrestled her to the floor and rolled on top of her.

Oh, no, wait. It wasn’t a grizzly bear, she realized when she and the big predator came to a halt. It was Sam Maguire. Speak of the devilishly handsome. Maybe he was interested in her romantically. Though why he’d decided to make his intentions known so suddenly, in such a public venue was a little puzzling. And just where the hell had he come from, anyway? He wasn’t enrolled in Alice’s morning class.

“Uh, Chief?” she said by way of a greeting.

But she got lost after that, because she couldn’t seem to find her way out of those espresso eyes and back to…whatever she’d been doing before she found herself pinned beneath him. All she could remember was something about nudity and plastic wrap and performing, all of which sounded pretty good at the moment.

He was solid rock in all the places he came into contact with her, shoulder to shoulder, chest to calf, his rigid weight pinning her to the padded mat beneath her in a way that should probably have been painful, considering his size, but which was instead incredibly erotic—considering his size. She wasn’t positive, but Rosie was pretty sure that wasn’t a banana in his pocket. He was definitely happy to see her. Really happy, judging by the size of that banana. Colossally happy. In fact, it wasn’t so much a banana he had in his pocket as it was a loaf of French bread.

He smelled wonderful, an enticing mix of clean laundry and autumn wind. And something else, too, something intangible and implacable that was earthy and musky and dark. Something so intrinsically male that Rosie began to wonder how she could ever think an Xtacy 2000—or even an Xtacy 3000—could ever be enough.

And those dark, fathomless brown eyes of his…She’d always thought Sam’s eyes reflected intelligence and good humor, but up close this way, she saw that both were tempered by something less noble and more unpredictable…and held just barely at bay. The impression never quite had the chance to gel in her brain—not that much could gel in her brain with Sam Maguire lying atop her this way—because he rolled again, this time pulling Rosie on top of himself, a position she immediately decided she liked even better. Unfortunately, that impression, too, was quickly dispelled when Sam effortlessly picked her up and set her down on the mat beside him.

Truly. He picked her up as easily as if she had been a ladybug who landed on his shirt, then set her down with a gentleness she wouldn’t have thought he was capable of managing. And, just like that, he went from being sexy as hell to flat-out irresistible.

“Uh, sorry,” he said by way of an apology.

For one much-too-brief moment, their eyes met again, and he studied her face as if she were the answer to every frustrated question and desperate plea he’d ever shot at the cosmos. And in that much-too-brief moment, Rosie felt like a blessing indeed. Then he was scrambling up off the floor and straightening, and the feeling evaporated like, inescapably, ballooning steam. Where Rosie had expected him to extend a hand to help her up, however, he grabbed Don instead, circling one big hand around the man’s wrist to twist his arm behind his back before snaking the other out to grab the Xtacy 3000 from Don’s grip.

Wow. Sam must want one of those even more than Rosie did.

She shook the thought from her head as soon as it formed, since any man who carried around a loaf of French bread in his pocket certainly didn’t need a little thing like an Xtacy vibrator. Funny, though, how she’d never considered the Xtacy little before….

“Chief Maguire!” Alice shouted when she saw Sam manhandling her husband.

She dropped her hands to her pink-leotard-clad hips and blew a damp, silvery blond curl off her forehead, only to have it fall right back into place. Alice was really too petite and willowy to look menacing, Rosie thought, but damned if she didn’t come pretty close just then.

“What do you think you’re doing to Donnie?” Alice demanded.

Donnie? Rosie echoed to herself. Alice only called Don “Donnie” when she was speaking affectionately about him. In fact, she hadn’t even called him “Don” lately. Since the plastic-wrapped cashier episode a few weeks ago, she’d been referring to him as—

Well, something that wasn’t fit to share in any company, mixed or otherwise. Suffice it to say it had been a looooong time since Rosie had heard Alice refer to her husband in anything remotely resembling affectionate terms. In fact, what she’d called him had been pretty much anatomically impossible anyway, even if one had a loaf of French bread in one’s pocket to do it with. Now, however, it looked like Alice was reconsidering her animosity. Among other things. Because she walked right up to Sam and stomped on his toe. Hard.

“Ow,” Sam replied with much understatement. He lifted the injured foot from the floor, but didn’t loosen his hold on Don. “What was that for?”

“You leave my Donnie alone,” Alice told him, hands fisted indignantly on her hips again.

“Leave him alone?” Sam echoed. “You asked me to intervene if he tried anything funny. So I’m intervening.” He rubbed his foot on the back of his calf and put it—gingerly—on the floor again. “And you’re this close to assaulting an officer, Alice.”

Alice snorted derisively. “Oh, please. I barely touched you.”

Rosie would bet a fallen arch that Sam disagreed. To his credit, however, he said nothing.

“Now let Donnie go,” Alice repeated. “He’s brought me a present.”

With obvious reluctance, Sam did as Alice asked, but he didn’t fork over the vibrator, only looked at it curiously, as if he had no idea what it was. Then, “I have no idea what this is,” he said. “I came running in because when I first saw it, I thought it was a stick of dynamite.”

Rosie couldn’t quite help the smile that curled her lips. “Well, it can be,” she said. “In the right hands.”

The other women in the class chuckled knowingly, something that clearly only confused Sam more. Alice, however, saved Rosie from having to explain by snatching the vibrator out of Sam’s hand and turning it on. It immediately relaxed from its erect cylindrical shape and began to twist itself into a series of elaborate, contorted motions that Rosie knew could be set at a variety of speeds, intensities and temperatures. It was erotic poetry in motion.

“It’s the Xtacy 3000,” Alice said for Sam’s enlightenment. “A personal fulfillment device.”

“Personal fulfillment device,” Sam said without any enlightenment whatsoever.

Then again, he was obviously the kind of man who could personally fulfill a woman to the point where she wouldn’t need a device for that, so Rosie supposed it shouldn’t be surprising that he’d have no knowledge of such things.

Alice rolled her eyes and blew out an exasperated sigh. “A vibrator,” she clarified.

Sam’s dark brows shot up at that, and a faint stain of pink bloomed on his cheeks. Oh, for God’s sake, Rosie thought. He was blushing. Honestly blushing. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a manly man do something so adorable. That Sam was doing it only made him so much sexier. And so much more irresistible.

“I had it on my Christmas list last year,” Alice continued as she watched the vibrator do its thing. “But the demand has been so high since it hit the market that it’s been impossible to find. Especially in this color.” Her voice softening, she looked at her husband and added, “Oh, Donnie. You do still love me. Wherever did you find it?”

And with that, she tucked herself under Don’s now-freed arm and snuggled against him with such obvious, unmitigated love that Rosie couldn’t help but smile. Wow. Someday, she hoped she’d find a guy like Don. Only without the comb-over and the green Clover Mart jacket. One who would understand her needs and desires and do his best to fulfill them while loving her to distraction.

Inevitably, her gaze wandered to Sam, and she saw that he was watching the Xtacy 3000 intently. But he didn’t look in any way turned-on, the way the women in the group did, Rosie couldn’t help thinking. Instead, he was looking at it as if he were wondering what kind of addition it would be to his Craftsman tool collection.

Men. They just couldn’t see the erotic side of machinery. She wondered what he’d say if she told him how many women had discovered dual uses for everything from hand mixers to washing machines. Or was it just Rosie who had discovered dual uses for stuff like that…?

Sam watched warily for a moment as Alice and Don continued to snuggle, then his expression softened. Well, okay, maybe softened was a little too extreme a word to use, since what his expression actually did was…um…become less hard. Then he lifted a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it in that way men did when they were a little uncomfortable about something.

He asked, “So, Alice, does this mean you won’t need me to include your house and studio on my daily rounds anymore?”

For a minute, Rosie didn’t think Alice had heard the question, but then she turned a distracted gaze to Sam, as if she only now remembered where she was and what was going on. She seemed to remember then, too, how she’d been mad at Don for weeks, because she pushed herself away from him and fisted her hands on her hips again, making a halfhearted attempt to look angry.

But the resentment in her voice was clearly forced when she said, “Well, Don and I have a lot to talk about. Just because he brought me a gift doesn’t mean all is forgiven.”

Hah, Rosie thought with a smile. That wasn’t just any gift.

“But no, Chief,” Alice told him, “you don’t have to stop by anymore. For now,” she added with a chilly look at Don…which inevitably turned into a warm smile.

Sam dropped his hand back to his side and nodded, then turned to go. He first strode past the line of women, including Rosie, without looking at any of them. But as he gripped the handle of the studio door, he pivoted back around and met her gaze levelly with his own. “I’m sorry about sacking you the way I did,” he told her.

Well, that made one of them, Rosie thought.

“I was aiming for Don,” he added. “Then you stepped in front of him, and…” His voice trailed off, since it really wasn’t necessary to say anything more.

She started to tell him it was okay, that his sacking her had in fact been the closest thing she’d had to a sexual encounter with a living, breathing man in a long time, and could they possibly get together for another sacking sometime soon? But she checked herself after a simple, “That’s okay.”

He started to turn around again, but halted, clearly wanting to say something he wasn’t sure how to say. Finally, though, his gaze ricocheting now from Rosie’s face to the wall behind her, he asked, “How do you know it can be a stick of dynamite in the right hands?”

In lieu of a response, Rosie waited until he was looking at her again, then she lifted both hands and wiggled her fingers at him.

He arched his brows again, and she watched to see if he would blush as he had before. He didn’t. But his dark eyes grew darker, and his lips parted fractionally, as if he suddenly needed more air. He didn’t say anything else after that, only spun around again and made his way out of the studio. Rosie’s gaze fell to his rump as he went, then climbed to those broad shoulders straining at the seams of his white cop shirt. She remembered how happy he’d been to see her when he was lying on top of her.

And, just like that, all thoughts of the Xtacy 3000 were gone.

2

ONE THING ABOUT small-town Northaven that hadn’t surprised Sam was its police station. Nestled at the center of Main Street in what was called the town’s historic quarter, it was housed in a restored brick-front building that hosted several small businesses—one of which just happened to be Rosie Bliss’s flower shop, Kabloom, three doors down. The walkway outside was cobbled, of course; the windows were paned, naturally; and the interior could only be described as quaint, a word Sam normally, manfully, avoided.

But there was no other term to capture the mood of the hardwood floors and plaster walls painted what Vicky, their dispatcher, called Wedgwood blue. Whatever the hell that was. The desks—all three of them—were antique monstrosities that could comfortably serve dinner for twelve, and the chairs were spindled wooden numbers that creaked comfortably whenever anyone sat down. In fact, the creaking of chairs and floors made up the bulk of the sounds in the place, interrupted only by the soft strains of music from the radio, which Vicky kept tuned to a light jazz station.

It was nothing like the soulless cinder block and dented metal and cracked plastic of Sam’s Boston precinct. And the stench of too many unwashed perps and overworked cops had been replaced by freshly baked bread from Barb’s Bohemian Bakery next door. Also absent was the constant ringing of phones, the whining and jeering of the hookers and pushers in the cages, and the free-flowing profanity of his colleagues. Sam, like his two full-time deputies and the half-dozen volunteer deputies who visited the precinct from time to time, had learned to watch his language, because Vicky fined anyone who swore within her hearing a dollar for every inappropriate word used. Then she donated the money to the Northaven Free Public Library.

The new Maguire Browsing Collection was named after Sam, since the bulk of his first year’s paychecks had gone to Vicky.

As different as his life in Northaven was, however, he wouldn’t go back to Boston for a million bucks. He might never quite get used to living here, but he liked it. A lot. It appealed to that thing inside him that had made him become a cop to begin with—a belief that decency and goodness did exist in the world. In Boston, he’d begun to think that was only a fantasy. But it was true in places like Northaven, places that needed to be protected at all costs. So Sam would do his best to keep the small town and all its residents safe from outside corruption. Of course, now that he knew women like Alice Stuckey and Rosie Bliss—and the handful of other women in the morning aerobics class—were all vibrator enthusiasts….

He gave his head a hard shake as he pushed open the door to the precinct, in the hopes that doing so would chase away the image of Rosie, buck naked and flat on her back, legs spread wide and hips thrusting upward as she did things to herself with that vibrator he’d much rather be doing to her himself.

He bit back a groan as he strode into the precinct, hoping Vicky didn’t notice he had a woody at half-mast. But she had her dark blond head bent over a book, as she usually did during non-crime-spree times—which was pretty much always. To add a bit of color to her dispatcher’s uniform of white shirt and brown pants, she regularly added a sweater in a different color. Today’s was red. It matched the scrap of fabric she’d used to pull her curly hair back into a stubby ponytail.

“Any calls?” Sam asked as he hurried past her desk, trying to keep his back to her and his woody to himself.

“Only one for you specifically,” she told him. She turned in her chair to look at him as he seated himself at his desk. “From Ed Dinwiddie at campus security. Again.”

“The usual?” Sam asked.

“The usual,” Vicky confirmed. “He’s still sure there’s someone selling drugs at Northaven College, and he wants to coordinate with you on an investigation and possible stakeout.”

Sam didn’t bother to hide his groan this time, since it was one of regular frustration, and not the sexual kind. Ed Dinwiddie, the chief of security at Northaven College, had been sure someone was peddling drugs on campus since before Sam’s arrival in town. At first, Sam had taken the other man’s suspicions seriously, because he hadn’t had any reason not to. But a brief investigation had produced nothing but Ed’s overactive imagination to support the existence of anything narcotic going on at Northaven—save a lot of caffeine abuse and OD’ing on Green Day around midterm and finals time. Then, when Bruno and Dalton, Sam’s two full-time deputies, had assured Sam there was nothing out of the ordinary going on because they’d investigated it themselves a time or two, Sam had let the matter drop.

Ed, however, hadn’t.

He sent monthly reports to Sam describing in detail his suspicions and everything that made him suspicious. The problem was that Ed Dinwiddie found suspicious anything from what he considered incriminating dialogue between students—which consisted largely of slang words for coffee and oral sex—to what he was sure was drug paraphernalia—even though the last bit of “paraphernalia” Ed had found turned out to be a popcorn popper. He also made regular monthly calls to Sam to “coordinate” an investigation. Sam had tried to be polite, but he’d never been known for his patience, and what little he had was beginning to wear thin.

“Does Ed have any additional evidence this time to support his suspicions?” Sam asked Vicky wearily, already sure of the answer.

“It’s more paraphernalia this month,” she said.

“Though what he described to me sounds a lot like the rhinestone- and stud-setter I got for my twelfth birthday thirty years ago.”

Sam grunted in resignation. “Yeah, I hear those things are making a comeback.”

“There was one thing Ed had this time, though, that was a little out of the ordinary,” Vicky added, voicing the revelation with clear glee. Her green eyes fairly sparkled with mischief. “Something he’s for sure never mentioned having before.”

“What’s that?” Sam asked with much disinterest, reaching for the small stack of mail perched near the edge of his desk.

“Well, I don’t know where or how he came by the information,” Vicky said, “but this time, Ed told me he’s got himself a bona fide suspect who he’s absolutely positive is selling drugs to the Northaven students.” When Sam glanced up, she smiled and wiggled her eyebrows in way that was far more playful than it was concerned. “And, Sam, this time, Ed even gave me a name.”

“ROSIE, YOU HAVE TO help me. You have what he needs. And if he doesn’t get it soon, he’s going to die. And if he dies, I’ll die. I need for him to be at his best. And he can’t be at his best without it.”

Behind the counter of her flower shop, Rosie rolled her eyes at the young woman and sighed. College girls. Such drama. Such pathos. Everybody was always going to die over something. Shannon Eckert was no different. The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty on the other side of the counter was relentlessly thin, her cropped purple sweater riding high above her low-slung blue jeans to reveal a dangling rhinestone palm tree that winked from her navel. Her hair was tucked behind ears that boasted another half-dozen piercings, and a wreath of roses was tattooed around one wrist.

Rosie’s own appearance paled by comparison—and not just because of her fairer features, either. The only body parts that were pierced on her own person these days were her eardrums—thanks in large part to Shannon’s shrieking just now—and she’d had the circled A tattoo above her ankle—the symbol for anarchy—surgically buffed away years ago. Her attire consisted of a crinkly emerald skirt shot through with threads of silver, and a loose-fitting white tunic she’d cinched with a macramé belt.

Had someone told her fifteen years ago that she would be dressing like a gypsy and selling flowers for a living, Rosie would have laughed in that person’s face. Back then, she’d worn all black, all the time, right down to the heavy kohl around her eyes and the polish on her fingernails. She’d even dyed her hair black. In fact, it wasn’t until she’d gone back to her natural color a few years ago that she’d realized she’d gone from the carrot orange of her childhood to a more sophisticated dark auburn.

She’d been one crazy, mixed-up kid when she was a teenager, no two ways about it. Mixed-up to a point that had earned her more trouble than any teenager deserved—or could handle. She’d come a long way since South Beach. And she never, ever, wanted to go back. Not even if it wouldn’t put her life in danger to do so.

“I’m serious,” Shannon continued, tugging Rosie back to the present, where she would much rather be. “He’s getting shaky, he’s gone so long without it.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Rosie said without concern. Somehow, she suspected Shannon was actually the shaky one. “And just how long has it been, Shannon? A day? Two?”

“Three!” the girl fairly screamed. “It’s been three days! You’ve got to help! You’ve got to give me more of that stuff!”

Rosie shook her head. “Three days, huh? Wow. Must be hell.”

“It is!” Shannon cried.

“Fine,” Rosie said, finally capitulating.

She went to the back of her shop and opened the cabinet where she kept her special orders. From the middle shelf, she withdrew an oversize basket that held an assortment of small fabric pouches. Each was filled with a substance that had become extremely popular among the upper classmen at little Northaven College, to the point where they had even developed a slang name for it—Rapture. Many even swore they were hooked on it for life. To Rosie, such monikers and claims were a little over-the-top. What the pouches held was simply a sideline to her business, one she was keeping under wraps for two reasons.

Number one, she honestly wasn’t sure what the reaction and reception to her products would be outside her clientele list. Aphrodisiacs weren’t exactly a commonplace commercial product, and anything that was even remotely sexual in nature was often viewed in a less than positive light. At best, her products might be snickered at if Rosie advertised them, and at worst, they might fall under suspicion. The citizens of Northaven—at least the ones who purchased her special orders—were surprisingly open-minded about the herbal aphrodisiac teas she blended for them. But it was still a small town in New England, with its Puritan sensibilities, and Rosie preferred to err on the side of caution.

Her second reason for not advertising her aphrodisiac teas was the same reason she didn’t much advertise the floral side of her business. Maintaining a low profile was essential to Rosie’s well-being. Hell, it was essential to her very life. Her aphrodisiacs were very effective, and they were the sort of thing that might even potentially achieve cult status popularity among the university or online crowd. Worst-case scenario, it was possible she could see some press for them. Even locally, that could be disastrous. The last thing she needed or wanted was to draw attention to herself. When she’d been in the spotlight before, she’d nearly ended up dead. So, like everything else in her world, Rosie kept the aphrodisiacs under wraps and relied on referrals and word of mouth to promote them.

So far, so good.

Now she fished a pouch bearing Shannon’s name out of the basket before replacing the rest of the assortment in the cabinet. Then she returned to the front of the store where her client stood fairly humming with anticipation. Rosie extended the fabric bag toward the young woman, who immediately made a grab for it. But she snatched it back before Shannon could claim it.

“Go easy on this stuff,” she cautioned the girl. “There’s more to college than partying, you know. You need to get an education in there somewhere.”

Shannon nodded impatiently. “It’s not for me,” she told Rosie. “It’s for Devin.”

“Sure it is,” Rosie said. She’d heard that one before. All the girls said they were buying it for their boyfriends, that the guys were the ones who really needed it. But Rosie knew the women enjoyed the results just as much as their menfolk—probably more.

Shannon dug into her pocket for a rumpled bill and handed it to Rosie, who then reluctantly handed over the pouch. “I mean it, Shannon,” she said as she released it. “I know classes just started up again a month ago, but you need to focus on your studies, not Devin.”

Shannon nodded again, more slowly this time, seeming to feel a little calmer now that she had what she’d come for. “I know,” she said. “I’m totally focused on my studies, honest. But Devin is so fine, and I want to be with him. I want him to be happy. And I want to be happy, too.” She smiled and leaned in a little, lowering her voice some as she added, “We’re getting married next summer after graduation, did I tell you?”

Rosie smiled back. “No, you didn’t,” she said, genuinely delighted to hear the news. “Congratulations. That’s great. How long have you two been together?”

“Since high school,” Shannon told her, sounding almost bashful now. She held up the fabric pouch Rosie had just handed her. “Maybe you can give me a lifetime supply of this for my wedding present, huh?”

Rosie shook her head. “Not a chance. You won’t need that once you’re married.”

Shannon expelled a dubious sound. “Are you kidding? That’s when I’ll need it the most.”

Rosie shook her head again. “I’m sure it’s just the pressures of college that are making Devin…you know.”

Shannon made a wistful sound now. “I hope you’re right,” she said. She fiddled with the pouch again. “I guess it would be pretty bad to have to rely on this stuff for the rest of our lives, wouldn’t it?”

“You won’t need it,” Rosie assured her. “You guys will be fine.”

Shannon eyed her thoughtfully for a moment. “As long as you’re here for now,” she said, “supplying us with what we need. Thanks, Rosie.” And with that, she spun on her heel and left the store.

Kids, Rosie thought, ignoring the fact that there was barely a decade between her and Shannon’s age. Some people grew up a lot faster than others. And Rosie should know. She hadn’t been a kid since… Well. She hadn’t even been a kid when she was a kid.

Before more thoughts of the past could put her into a less-than-cheerful mood, she pushed them to the very back of her brain, where she relegated all the things that threatened to stain the picture-perfect life she was trying to paint for herself in Northaven. She’d struggled through a lot to get where she was, dammit. She was a survivor in the strictest sense of the word. She’d worked hard to achieve a fragile kind of satisfaction—with her life and herself—that she wouldn’t mess with for anything. And she was still working hard, still trying to move forward. Even if Kabloom wasn’t a booming success, she was still turning a profit at the end of every month.

Okay, so maybe she hadn’t shown the best judgment, opening a florist and organic gardening shop in a town that catered to young, carefree students who didn’t give a second—or even first—thought to such things. But there were only a handful of florists in the entire county—and none in Northaven proper—so when someone did need flowers, they called Kabloom to order them.

Besides, her aphrodisiac business had begun to flourish over the past six months, even though she hadn’t gone out of her way to advertise it. And that was a direct result of living in a college town. Rosie hadn’t consciously considered the benefits of that, but the college atmosphere here did foster a culture of more tolerance—and even enthusiasm—about her products. She was grateful to the campus crowd for taking such an interest. Word of mouth alone had been phenomenal.

It had even traveled beyond campus. She had clients now who were scions of the community. You really couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Or even the mayor of Northaven, since she was one of Rosie’s biggest customers.

Rosie sighed as she looked around her shop. Her empty shop. Her empty shop that was empty most of the time—save those busy lunchtimes when so many Northaven students came in to pick up their special orders. Rosie hadn’t even had to hire another employee, since she kept only daytime hours. Save a handful of feminine holidays like Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, any traffic she saw in the shop was sporadic. When she’d come to Northaven two years ago after everything went to hell in Boulder, she’d had hopes for building her business a little faster, but at this rate… Well, thank goodness people here died on a regular basis, so at least she had the funeral orders.

And that, more than anything, told Rosie she couldn’t afford to skimp on the aphrodisiac side of the business. Because, call her crazy, being grateful for the death of one’s neighbors did not seem like a sound business plan. In fact, it seemed kinda ooky.

Her gaze strayed to the back of the shop and fell on the cabinet from which she had just pulled Shannon’s special order. Maybe, if she was very, very careful, she could expand a little bit on her aphrodisiacs. Start looking into other preparations that might have the same effect as the teas she blended for her customers. Incense, maybe. Massage oils. Candies. As long as Rosie stayed behind the scenes herself and never became a public persona, she shouldn’t have any problems. That had been what caused the trouble in Boulder. Putting a public face onto her work.

Yeah, maybe she should start focusing a little more of her professional efforts where they would turn the greatest profit, even if that profitable area wasn’t exactly—to some people’s way of thinking anyway—conventional. There had been a time in the nation’s history, after all, when a respectable woman couldn’t even buy a cocktail legally. These days, you’d be hard pressed to find a social gathering where someone wasn’t drinking. A few years from now, what Rosie was selling from that cabinet might very well be the centerpiece at every party. Why shouldn’t she be the front-runner as a supplier?

Hey, who was there in Northaven to say she couldn’t?

SAM CURBED HIS IMPULSE to flee as he folded himself into the chair before Ed Dinwiddie’s desk at the Northaven College Campus Security Office. Although the college could have been the poster child for New England Liberal Arts schools right down to its pillared entrances and ivy-encrusted brick walls, the decor of campus security was nowhere close to the quaintness of the Northaven police station. In fact, Ed’s office had a lot in common with Sam’s Boston precinct, and somehow Sam got the feeling it was because Ed wanted it that way to make himself feel more like a real, live cop.

His desk was a scarred, ugly gray metal thing, his chair a beat-up number upholstered with cheap soiled fabric and wheels that cried out in pain when Ed settled his ample frame into it. The only decorations on the grayish-white walls were framed awards of dubious origin with Ed’s name emblazoned on them, and a handful of eight-by-tens of Ed shaking hands with people, most of whom Sam recognized as members of the Northaven Chamber of Commerce. It was all Ed, all the time, and it was more than a little creepy.

“Vicky tells me you have a suspect in the campus narcotics traffic,” Sam said to open the conversation, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. He didn’t bother to point out that there was no actual proof of any campus narcotics traffic. Ed would have just taken ten minutes to insist otherwise.

“I do,” Ed told him. “Rosie Bliss.”

Wow. Sam hadn’t thought it could sound any more ridiculous a second time, but coming from Ed’s mouth, the suggestion that Rosie was peddling dope sounded even sillier than when Vicky had said it. And Vicky had been laughing hysterically at the time.

“Rosie Bliss,” Sam echoed, swallowing the hysterical laughter he felt threatening himself.

“Yep,” Ed said with complete confidence, running a hand over his graying crew cut.

Sam inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. Only when he was certain he could continue with a straight face did he do so. “And what leads you to this conclusion, Ed?”

“Well, it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” the other man countered. “The drug traffic on campus started not long after she moved here. She owns a flower shop, for God’s sake, so she must know all about plants and how to grow them illicitly. Kids go into her shop on a regular basis but rarely come out with flowers or plants. At least none that I can see.”

Sam eyed the other man levelly, not much liking what he was hearing. “Are you telling me you’ve been staking out Rosie’s shop?”

“Not at all,” Ed assured him in a way that was in no way reassuring. “I eat lunch in the square when the weather’s nice, and I’ve just happened to notice that lunch hour is often a pretty busy time for Kabloom. Only the kids that go in there don’t seem to be coming out with anything.”

“Maybe they’re ordering flowers to be delivered,” Sam suggested.

“Maybe,” Ed conceded. “But I doubt it.”

“Maybe Rosie’s just popular with the college crowd,” Sam further posited. “She’s not that much older than they are. Maybe she’s just made a lot of friends since moving to town.”

“Oh, she’s popular, all right,” Ed agreed readily. “And she’s made lots of friends. Because she’s supplying them with drugs.”

Sam uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. This really had to stop. If Sam didn’t dissuade Ed from his belief in Rosie’s guilt, he could potentially start skirting harassment behavior. Maybe even stalking behavior. Ed did seem to have one of those borderline personalities. Of course, Sam thought further, just about everyone in Northaven was at least a little surreal.

“Look, Ed,” he began, “I appreciate all the hours you’ve put in on this thing, but—”

Ed started talking again before Sam had a chance to finish. “And then there’s the fact that no record of Rosie Bliss exists anywhere in the entire United States.”

Okay, that got Sam’s attention. Not so much the part about there being no evidence of Rosie Bliss’s existence, but that Ed had taken it upon himself to look into Rosie’s background and had possibly violated police procedure—not to mention Rosie’s basic human rights—to do it.

“Ed, seeing as how you’re head of campus security,” Sam said cautiously, “I’m not sure it’s within your jurisdiction to run a background check on a Northaven citizen.”

Ed seemed in no way perturbed by Sam’s suggestion that he may have overstepped the bounds of his position. On the contrary, looking quite calm and complacent, he turned around to face his computer, typed a few keys and then moved out of the way. “Switchboard-dot-com,” he said as his browser opened a page on the Internet. “It’s a matter of public record for any private citizen who might be interested in looking.”

Sam duly noted the other man’s emphasis on the phrase that indicated he hadn’t been snooping on Rosie’s private life while he was on the clock. Which, it went without saying, was a huge reassurance to Sam. Not.

“No Rosie Blisses are listed in the entire United States,” Ed continued. “Not even in Northaven.”

“Ed,” Sam said patiently, “Switchboard-dot-com is an online phone directory. If someone has an unlisted number, it won’t show up there. Obviously, Rosie’s kept her number unlisted, which is something a lot of women who live alone choose to do for the sake of security.”

Ed blinked at him, looking a little nonplussed now. But all he said in reply was, “Oh.”

“Besides, Rosie’s probably a nickname,” Sam pointed out. “Try Rose Bliss this time.” And he tried not to think about how he was just encouraging Ed. Okay, so maybe he was interested in Rosie, too. Just in a non-criminal way. Except for the fact that the way she made him feel sexually was actually pretty criminal.

Ed turned back to the computer and entered the altered information, and this time more than a dozen names appeared.

“See there?” Sam said.

“There’s not one listed for Northaven,” Ed pointed out, though with considerably less flair this time.

“Like I said, Ed. Unlisted.”

Sam thought the other man would just let it go at that, and started to rise to make his way out. But he halted when Ed reached for the gold-tone badge pinned to his blue uniform shirt and unpinned it, then unhitched the gun on his belt and set it on the desk.

“Oh, now, Ed, there’s no reason to go to that extreme,” Sam hastily reassured him, taking his seat once more. “You don’t have to resign over something like this. It’s no big deal, really. You and I can just keep your investigation of Rosie Bliss that may or may not be a violation of police procedure,” he inserted meaningfully, since it never hurt to emphasize a reminder like that, “between ourselves. No one else has to know. Now put your badge and gun back where they belong.”

Ed looked confused for a minute, then when he seemed to understand what Sam had said he looked shocked. “Resign?” he echoed indignantly. “I’m not resigning. I’m taking a break. As of this moment, I’m a private citizen, off the clock.” He pointed to his watch. “It’s lunch hour. Man’s gotta eat.” And with that, he pulled a paper sack out of the side desk drawer and unwrapped a sandwich, chips and can of soda.

Feeling a little confused himself now, Sam nevertheless said, “Well, then, I’ll be off.” Though he still wasn’t confident Ed had let the matter of Rosie Bliss go.

That was only reinforced when Ed said, “And maybe while I’m having lunch, I’ll just do a little surfing on the ’Net. I like to surf the ’Net to search for things. Search for people. You never know what’ll turn up. You ever surf the ’Net, Sam?”

Sam closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten. However, it was less because he was trying to manage his impatience with Ed and more because he was trying not to think about, ah, surfing the ’Net of someone whose net he very much wanted to, ah, surf. In fact, he was probably thinking about, ah, surfing the net of the same person Ed wanted to surf the ’Net for. Just, you know, not in any Internet sense of the word.

“Ed…” he began wearily.

But Ed had turned around to the computer again, and was punching more keys. This time, the Web site that popped up on the screen was for an online private investigative firm called WeFindEm.com. In big red letters at the top, it said, When You Can’t Find ’Em, We Can! And We Can Find Out Things About ’Em You Never Knew! In A Matter Of Minutes! In smaller letters, it said how much it would cost someone to have WeFindEm.com do just that. Very little, to Sam’s way of thinking. Amazing how people’s lives and secrets could be purchased so reasonably on the Internet.

“So since I’m on my lunch hour,” Ed said, “and since I’m not, technically, in uniform, I’m visiting this site as a private citizen. Which means I’m not violating police procedure.”

Maybe, Sam thought. It was a blurry line Ed was walking. Of course, it really didn’t matter, since the idea of Rosie Bliss being a drug pusher was still laughable, so any information Ed may uncover about her—or even purchase about her—was beside the point. If it was even reliable. Were those online investigators monitored? Hell, were they even licensed? Who knew what Ed would get for his $49.99? Other than the shaft? $99.99 if he wanted Rosie’s criminal records along with the shaft.

“Ed,” Sam began again.

He chose his words carefully, reminded himself to be gentle. It was common knowledge in Northaven that Ed Dinwiddie’s dream in life was to make a major bust that would gain him national acclaim. It was also common knowledge in Northaven that that wasn’t likely as long as he was head of security at the college. Hell, Ed being Ed, that wasn’t likely to happen even if he found a job with a metropolitan police department. Any force in their right minds—assuming they lost their minds long enough to hire Ed in the first place—would assign him to desk duty. Preferably in the fund-raising department where the most damage he could do would be to the decorating committee of the Policeman’s Ball.

“This’ll just take a few minutes,” Ed said as he turned to the computer, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket as he did.

“Ed,” Sam tried again.

But Ed started humming “Stairway to Heaven”—loudly—interspersing it with admonitions like, “I can’t hear you. I’m humming ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ La la la la la. I can’t hear you. Buying…the stair-way…to heaven. La la la.”

So Sam had no choice but to give up and accept the inevitable. The inevitable being that Ed wasn’t going to let this go until Sam had had a look at the report with him. Which actually might not be such a bad thing. Because once that report came through and showed that Rosie Bliss wasn’t the hardened criminal Ed was certain she was, he’d have no choice but to abandon his conviction and leave Rosie alone.

WeFindEm.com was as good as their word, and by the time Ed finished his lunch—and a few more fractured Led Zeppelin numbers—the computer was telling him he had mail. The report was attached, and Ed immediately printed up two copies, one for himself, and one for Sam, who accepted it grudgingly and gave it a perfunctory look.

The look became less perfunctory, however, as the information became more inculpatory. Because if WeFindEm.com was right, Rosie Bliss hadn’t existed anywhere in the entire United States before she moved to Northaven.

“There you go,” Ed said triumphantly, having obviously read to the end as Sam had. “No evidence of Rosie Bliss’s existence prior to her having moved here two years ago. No birth records, no work records, no addresses, no licenses for anything, nothing. She doesn’t show up anywhere until she moved here.” He glanced up at Sam, looking even more triumphant than he sounded. “Now how do you think she’s made her way as an adult without having a bank account, owning property or applying for a job? The first time her name shows up as having any of those things, it’s here in Northaven.” He pointed to the investigative report before adding, “And look at this. She doesn’t even have a mortgage on Kabloom. When she bought it two years ago, she paid for it in full, to the tune of a hundred and fifty-eight thousand dollars. Cash.”

“That doesn’t make her a criminal, Ed,” Sam pointed out. But even he was starting to feel a little niggle of suspicion at the back of his brain. What Ed had discovered about Rosie was a little odd.

“Maybe not,” the other man conceded with clear reluctance. He pointed to the investigative report. “But this sure isn’t the report of a person who has nothing to hide.”

“Maybe she’s an heiress,” Sam said. Not that he believed it for a minute. The last thing Rosie acted or seemed like was a person from a monied, privileged background. “She never had to work or live anywhere other than with Mommy and Daddy Warbucks, who took care of everything for her.”

“That still doesn’t explain why she doesn’t have any birth records,” Ed said. “Or why she never turned up anywhere before now.”

Sam sighed heavily. As much as he hated to admit it, the information in the report, if accurate, certainly roused his curiosity. It was odd that there was no record of Rosie’s existence anywhere prior to her coming to Northaven. But it certainly didn’t mean she was selling drugs. Or that she was committing any crimes, for that matter. There was still enough of the Boston vice cop lingering within him to think that maybe, just maybe, she deserved another look.

Maybe he should verify the information from WeFindEm.com himself, if for no other reason than to make sure the Web site wasn’t peddling erroneous background checks to people like Ed who might use them to feed their erroneous assumptions. There was a good chance WeFindEm.com had made a mistake in reporting Rosie’s vital statistics. And Rosie deserved to have any misinformation about herself that was floating around out there erased. She was part of what was good and decent in Northaven. She was part of what needed protecting. Sam wouldn’t be doing his job if he just let this thing go as it stood.

And damned if that wasn’t the finest bit of rationalizing he’d ever concocted for sticking his nose into someplace where it didn’t belong.

He gazed at Ed levelly as he folded the report in half, then quarters, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “All right, Ed. I’ll look into it. Just promise me that, from here on out, you’ll stay out of it.”

“Until you need me to coordinate on an investigation,” the other man said.

Sam nodded reluctantly. “All right.”

With any luck at all, though, it would never get that far.

3

THE MORNING FOLLOWING her sexual encounter of the baguette kind with Sam in Alice’s studio, Rosie was in her not-yet-open flower shop, still thinking about him. In fact, she hadn’t really stopped thinking about him during the past twenty-four hours. He might have drifted from her conscious into her subconscious from time to time—something she’d realized when she sat down to eat her dinner of bagel and Polish sausage, which she’d for sure never fixed for dinner before—but he’d always been present in her brain in some form. And his form was usually naked and sweaty when he’d been present in her brain. And he hadn’t been present in just her brain, but he’d also been present in her heart. And also a couple of other body parts—at least, figuratively speaking—that she’d as soon not dwell on right now.

She sighed and brushed a hand down the front of her embroidered, dark green peasant shirt and faded blue jeans to dislodge a few remnants of dirt, but mostly all she dislodged was the shirt—over one shoulder, something it had a habit of doing thanks to its deeply scooped neckline. The spilled dirt was another by-product of thoughts about Sam, since being preoccupied was what Rosie had been doing when she pulled a big bag of potting soil off a shelf without realizing it was open—until she’d dumped a good bit of it down the front of her clothes. Pulling her shirttail from her jeans, she shook the rest of the dirt out, not bothering to tuck the garment in again when she was done.

Oh, hang it. She wouldn’t be opening for another two hours, so she had time to run to her apartment upstairs and change, once she had everything in the store set to go. All that was left to do—other than sweeping up what was left of the dirt—was to brew up and sample a new aphrodisiac tea she had blended for a client.

And, it went without saying, to think about Sam.

What was weird was that, as Rosie swept, she found herself thinking about him less in the hot, naked sex sense and more in the quiet, candlelit dinner sense. In fact, she found herself pondering the pros and cons of asking him out. Loaf of French bread aside, there had just been something about the way he’d looked at her in Alice’s studio yesterday that made her think maybe, possibly, he felt steam ballooning around them, too, but was just trying to pretend he didn’t.

Though why he would pretend something like that if he was feeling the steam was a mystery. Rosie thought she’d made clear her interest in him a long time ago. Why would a man deliberately avoid a woman who was interested in him and capable of putting a loaf of French bread in his pocket? That didn’t make any sense.

Okay, so that was one con about asking him out—even if he did like her, he still might turn her down on account of that mysterious pretending the steam didn’t exist thing. Pro, however, she was pretty sure he did like her. Con, on the other hand, if he turned her down, things between them might end up being even more awkward than they already were, and it might make for discomfort whenever their paths crossed again. And Northaven being a small town, their paths did cross fairly regularly.

Another con was that, since gossip was a popular pastime in Northaven, everyone in town would hear about the incident, and then everyone would know Rosie was jonesing for Sam. Not that she’d ever been bothered by gossip, but having it known publicly that she had tried unsuccessfully to enter the dating arena, everyone in town would suddenly want to fix her up with whatever single man they could find. Nephews. Cousins. Plumbers. Accountants. Plumbers’ cousins. Plumbers’ cousins’ nephews. Plumbers’ cousins’ nephews’ accountants.

In a word, oog.

Putting aside the cons, since they seemed to be piling up, Rosie considered the pros instead. Pro, if Sam agreed to go out with her, there might be some smokin’ sex at the end of the evening.

Well, there you go, she thought. Pros win, hands down. Next time she saw Sam, she’d figure out some way to work an invitation to dinner or a movie—or, you know, smokin’ sex—into the conversation.

When she finished sweeping, Rosie brewed up a batch of her new aphrodisiac tea. For convenience’s sake, she used the teapot in the front of the shop she always kept filled with regular herbal tea for her customers, so that they could help themselves as they browsed or placed their orders. As she waited for the tea to steep, she pushed all thoughts of Sam out of her brain. It was essential that she not be thinking about him when she drank the tea, to ensure it worked the way it was supposed to. Thinking about Sam just naturally turned her on. He was a walking, talking aphrodisiac unto himself.

After removing the muslin pouch full of herbs from the infusion, Rosie squeezed out the last few drops and set the bag aside. Then she filled one of an assortment of earthenware mugs on the shelf beside the teapot and lifted it to her nose, inhaling deeply and smiling at the hint of cinnamon she’d added this time to give the added benefit of freshening breath. After blowing gently on the concoction, she took an experimental sip.

The taste was better than the batch she’d mixed up yesterday, thanks to the cinnamon, and she couldn’t taste the kava kava now at all. But reducing the amount of kava kava might have also weakened the power of the recipe, so she’d doubled up on the damiana this time. Still, she knew she’d have to finish the entire cup and wait anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes before she could be certain of its full effect.

She was consuming the last swallow when the bell on the front door announced the arrival of a customer, even though the store’s Open-Closed sign was flipped over to the Closed position, and the hours clearly printed on the window indicated opening was nearly ninety minutes away. Stifling her irritation, Rosie turned around to politely tell the newcomer just that—

And saw Sam Maguire standing framed in the doorway, his hands hooked loosely on his hips.

The door swung closed behind him, but he took a step forward and landed in a pool of golden, early-morning sun that filtered through the window beside him. The light was almost otherworldly, lighting dark amber fires in his chocolate-brown hair and somehow softening his rugged features. Even the starkness of his white cop shirt seemed to fade to a softer cream, the sun reflecting off the gold badge pinned to his pocket and making it shine like a beacon of goodness and decency.

The look he was giving her, however, was anything but decent. His eyes were narrowed, and his lips were flattened into a tight line. But the scowl did nothing to detract from his extreme good looks, and in fact made Rosie feel kind of—

Well. There was no denying it. Either her new recipe was working way faster than she’d thought it would, or Sam Maguire’s simple nearness was about to bring her to a cataclysmic orgasm. And although Rosie knew her aphrodisiac teas were good, she was pragmatic enough to realize they weren’t that good. So she had no choice but to accept the fact that human flesh and blood would always be more powerful than plant life in bringing a woman to the brink of sexual fulfillment.

Damn, she thought. So much for not polluting the effects of the infusion with thoughts of Sam Maguire. He hadn’t even said hello to her, and already her skin was growing warm—which was always her first indication that a new tea was working. The next indication was always the dampening of her palms, which—

Yep. There they went, right on cue. Except way too early for the reaction to be a result of the tea. Rosie just hoped the other kind of dampness that came next, the dampness between her legs, held off for a little while long—

Uh-oh.

Great, she thought as she vaguely registered Sam’s nod and softly muttered hello. At this rate, her nipples would begin to tingle in no time fla—

Oh, yeah. There they went, too, way ahead of schedule. Maybe doubling up on the damiana hadn’t been such a good idea after all….

Because it couldn’t just be Sam’s simple presence making her want to wrestle him to the floor the way she did just then. Could it? She always at least indulged in a little small talk before it came to that, even in her fantasies. It had to be some faster-than-usual reaction to the tea. Maybe the cinnamon and damiana worked better together than she’d realized.

“Um, hi, Chief,” she said, gripping her mug tightly with both hands to keep herself from…oh, she didn’t know…grabbing the placket of his shirt and ripping it down the middle, buttons flying. The top two were already undone—something that would have made her job much easier—and dark hair sprang from the opening, making her fingers itch to investigate further.

Unbidden, an image erupted in her head of him naked and prone on her bed as she dragged her fingers through the dark hair on his chest before inching them slowly, slowly, oh-so-slowly down to his flat abdomen. Then lower still, into the thatch of dark hair surrounding his cock, which she circled with sure fingers and drew eagerly toward her waiting mou—

Rosie squeezed her eyes shut tight in an effort to drive the vision out of her head. But that only made it more vivid. Because now she saw herself, too, naked and crouched over him on her hands and knees and faced in the opposite direction, with Sam gripping her hips in strong fists, his head lifted between her legs. Both of them seemed to be competing over who could consume the other first, and neither seemed to be slaking their hunger. As he hungrily ate her, she moved her head slowly up and down, pulling his big cock farther into her mouth with every descent. Immediately, Rosie snapped her eyes open again, but not before she saw the fantasy Sam’s tongue dart quickly in and out of her damp—

“I’m, um…I, uh…” She tried to remember what she’d been about to say, but couldn’t seem to string two thoughts, never mind two words, together. Definitely needed to lighten up on the damiana in the next recipe, she told herself. And also, the next time she mixed one up, she needed to be in a different ZIP code than Sam Maguire was in. Or maybe a different area code. Or country. Or hemisphere. Or galaxy. Yeah, that might be enough.

Finally, she managed to say, “I’m, ah, I’m actually not open yet….” Well, not her store anyway. There were other parts of her that were wide open, at least in the fantasy she couldn’t seem to chase out of her brain. “I mean, I, um, I haven’t even picked up my bank float for the ass register. I mean cash register,” she quickly corrected herself when she realized how egregiously she’d misspoken.

“That’s okay,” Sam told her. Though the look he was giving her was anything but okay.

Still, she couldn’t help thinking, if he wasn’t going to buy anything, then he must have come here for another reason, and maybe that reason was, oh…Rosie didn’t know…to have really smokin’ sex.

His expression changed suddenly, to one of worry. Color her crazy, but worry didn’t seem like the thing a man should be feeling if he’d just shown up for really smokin’ sex.

“Are you okay, Rosie?” he asked cautiously. Caution, too, she thought, probably wasn’t a good indicator of that smokin’ sex thing being only minutes away. “You look a little…”

“What?” she asked.

“Distracted,” he told her. Though he looked as though he’d been about to say something else. Something like, oh…Rosie didn’t know…profoundly turned-on in a way that makes me want to pull down your pants, spin you around, bend you over and bury myself inside you to the hilt.

Oh, God…

Rosie did her best to calm herself, her thoughts and her privates. “Can I, um, can I help you, Chief?” she tried again, somehow stopping herself before uttering the entire question she’d really wanted to ask, which was Can I help you, Chief, out of those clothes?

“Yeah, actually, you can,” he said.

Rosie knew a moment’s euphoria, until she realized he wasn’t talking about the clothes thing, but was simply answering the standard question of retailers everywhere. Note to self, she thought, doubling up on damiana makes for excellent fantasizing but it’s not so good on the coherent thinking. Or maybe it was just the way Sam Maguire was put together that made for incoherent thinking. Not to mention the excellent fantasizing.

Um, what was the question again?

Thankfully, she didn’t have to remember, because Sam replied, “I need to order some flowers.”

Well, hell. If he was ordering flowers, it was doubtless for a woman, and that could seriously jeopardize any asking him out on a date she might do. Worse, it could jeopardize his response to her invitation. Worst of all, it could jeopardize any potential for smokin’ sex. Unless they were flowers for a funeral, she thought further, brightening. If he was going to order flowers for a dead woman, well, that was a whole ’nother ball game. Not to mention A-okay with Rosie.

“For a funeral?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as optimistic as she felt, since that would be in really bad taste.

Sam’s expression turned confused this time. “Uh, no. For my mother.”

Even better, Rosie thought. Not only did it offer a new positive dimension into his character—one of caring son—but it would save her a bundle in the therapist bills she’d be paying to help her cope with her joy at hearing the news of someone else’s death. Talk about a win-win situation. The only thing that might improve it would be if Sam, oh…Rosie didn’t know…stepped forward and filled her mouth with his tongue, shoved one hand up her shirt to massage her breast, and thrust the other into her pants to fondle her until she was insensate with ecstasy. Other than that, the conversation was moving along swimmingly.

Sam looked at Rosie and told himself for the tenth time that she couldn’t possibly be feeling the way she seemed to be feeling. Surely it was just wishful thinking on his part making her look as if she were incredibly, well…turned-on. Because she really did seem to be incredibly, well…turned-on. In fact, she’d been looking as if she was incredibly, well…turned-on, ever since he walked into the shop. But there was nothing about the scenario that should have, well…turned her on so incredibly.

She was fully clothed—except for the way her shirt had fallen off one shoulder. One naked, ivory, luscious shoulder. Which, in case he hadn’t mentioned it, was naked, something that pretty much indicated she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Which meant that, under her shirt, she was naked. And also naked. Had he mentioned she was naked under her shirt? Which was also untucked? Something that would make it really easy for him to scoop his hand under the garment to experience her nakedness for himself?

A sudden, nearly overwhelming urge came over him then to lean forward and lick her ivory, luscious—and naked, in case that part wasn’t obvious—shoulder. Which, in turn, made him feel incredibly, well…turned-on. God, he hoped he didn’t look incredibly, well…turned-on. Not the way Rosie did.

He told himself again that he was only imagining the way she looked. How could anyone feel turned-on in her place of employment, first thing in the morning, when, if the broom behind her was any indication, she’d just been sweeping up? No way was sweeping a turn-on. Unless, you know, it was Rosie Bliss and her naked shoulder doing it.

Ah, hell.

His mouth and throat were starting to feel a little dry when he noticed the mug Rosie was holding in her hand. There were more like it on the shelf behind her, next to a teapot from which she had obviously just poured herself something to drink. Sam wasn’t much of a tea drinker—okay, he never touched the stuff—but something wet sounded really good right then. Other than Rosie, he meant.

Damn. Then again, she did look incredibly, well…turned-on.

“Do you mind?” he said as he strode forward and reached past her for a mug.

It was a rhetorical question, naturally, since he also reached for the teapot and, without even asking for her okay, poured himself a mugful of tea. After all, there was a sign behind it that said Help Yourself, so why shouldn’t he? Unless, of course, the sign referred to something other than the tea. But what were the chances Rosie had put up a sign in her shop inviting her customers to help themselves to her? Not that that probably wouldn’t have been great for business.

He wasn’t here for business, Sam reminded himself as he splashed tea into the mug, regardless of what he’d just said about ordering flowers for his mother. He was here to pump Rosie. Uh, for information, he meant. Only he needed to do it in a way that she wouldn’t realize he was pumping her. Uh, for information, he meant. Because if he was here to actually, you know, pump her, she’d sure as hell know it.

He’d spent the bulk of his afternoon yesterday trying to find out more about Rosie Bliss, only to discover there was almost no information available anywhere on Rosie Bliss. Sam wasn’t quite ready to throw in with Ed Dinwiddie and start suspecting her of illicit activity, but his curiosity about her had definitely been piqued. Even more so than before. He’d figured a little reconnaissance under the guise of patronizing her shop—especially at a time when it wasn’t open and Rosie might be a little more relaxed—ought to lend itself to some conversation that would reveal a little more about her. Or, at the very least, give him a bit more information to go on in his search to uncover more about her. Besides, it had been a while since he’d sent his mother some flowers.

Still watching Rosie, who suddenly looked as if she were worried about something—in addition to still looking incredibly, well…turned-on—Sam started to lift the mug of tea to his lips.

But before he had a chance to taste it, she cried out, “Stop!”

Automatically, he lowered his hand. But he continued to hold her gaze steady as he asked, “Why? I thought it was for your customers.”

“It is,” she replied quickly.

A little too quickly to Sam’s way of thinking. She seemed pretty agitated about something all of a sudden. Though she still looked very turned-on. Her pupils had expanded to the point where her green irises were mere rims around them. Her cheeks were stained with a crimson blush, and her lips looked redder than usual and were parted slightly, as if she needed more air. The skin above the low-lying neckline of her shirt was flushed, too, and something told Sam it would be hot to the touch.

The fingers of his free hand began to curl involuntarily at his side, as if they very much wanted to test that theory right now, and it was with no small effort that he managed to curb the impulse. But it rose right up again when he noticed how her chest was rising and falling rapidly, pushing her breasts against the thin fabric of her shirt. Her nipples, he couldn’t possibly help noticing every time she inhaled, were hard and distended, another indication that she was indeed turned-on.

And dammit, now Sam was, too.

“Let me brew you a fresh pot,” she said as she began to reach for the mug, pulling his attention—and his gaze, finally—back to the tea he’d just poured for himself. “That’s been sitting there awhile.”

“It’s barely eight in the morning,” he pointed out. “It can’t have been sitting there that long. Hell, it’s still hot,” he added when he felt the temperature of the tea through the mug. “Besides, you obviously just had some yourself. It’ll be fine.”

“But you’d probably prefer coffee,” she said, reaching for the mug again, moving her hand even closer.

Without asking himself why, Sam pulled the cup out of range before she could touch it. He told himself it was because he didn’t like it when people made decisions for him. It wasn’t because he was hoping on some level that, by removing the cup from her reach, she’d be forced to take a step forward to get it, something that would bring her body closer to his.

“It’ll be fine,” he repeated. “I just need a little something to quench my thirst.”

“But—”

He only took a small sip first, in case the tea was hot, then, when he discovered the temperature was perfect, enjoyed a few hearty swallows. He grimaced a little when he realized it wasn’t regular tea, but some herbal stuff that was a little heavy on the cinnamon. Still, it tasted fine, and it went a long way toward alleviating the dryness in his mouth.

He continued to watch Rosie as he enjoyed a few more sips, and couldn’t help thinking she looked more and more panicked with every passing second. Something wasn’t right with her. She just had some kind of vibe coming off her at the moment that wasn’t in keeping with her usual easygoing self. And he couldn’t help thinking it was his presence in her shop that was causing it.

Maybe Ed Dinwiddie was on to something, he thought before he could stop himself. Maybe everything about Rosie wasn’t on the up-and-up, after all. Because somehow Sam was starting to get the impression that she’d been doing something just now, before he came into the shop, that she shouldn’t have been doing. He honestly couldn’t say what, but right now she seemed edgy and anxious, as if she feared she was about to be caught.

Unable to help himself—hey, you could take the cop out of vice, but you couldn’t take the suspicion out of the vice cop—he drove his gaze around the shop as surreptitiously as he could, trying to discern if anything was amiss or out of place. But the place was tidy to a fault, and even more quaint than the police station. The dark hardwood floor was buffed to a rich sheen, the walls were painted forest green, striped with wooden shelves that were overflowing with plants and flowers and pots. An antique cash register sat on the countertop to his left, behind which were more shelves, more plants, more flowers, more pots. There was a door leading to a back room that was open, and Sam could see more of the same beyond, along with tables and stools and flower arrangements in varying stages of completion.

For the first time, he noticed the smell of the place, a mixture of sweet blossoms, cinnamon tea and loamy earth. The only window was the one to the right of where they stood, the faint golden sunlight filtering through it the only light present at the moment. From Malcolm’s Music Mart next door, he could hear the faint strains of something classical and heavy on the horns, music from another time tumbling into a room that might as well have sprung from the same century. All combined, the impressions gave the shop an otherworldly ambiance, where Sam could almost believe time had stopped and he and Rosie were the only people left on the planet.

It was such a whimsical thought for such a practical man. What the hell had come over him to make him think like that? Shaking the odd sensations out of his head almost literally, he downed what was left of his tea and set the mug on a different shelf from the clean ones. Then he looked at Rosie again.

Big mistake, he immediately realized. Because where before she had looked incredibly, well…turned-on, now, suddenly, she looked thoroughly and profoundly aroused. Not only that, but she hadn’t dropped the hand with which she’d been reaching for his mug, and it still hovered near Sam’s shoulder, as if she were having trouble deciding what she wanted to do with it.

And suddenly, completely unbidden, Sam had a very good idea of what she should do with it. Not only that, but he had a good idea for his own hand, too. In fact, the idea was so strong, and so demanding, he couldn’t push it out of his brain. Because there, in his mind’s eye, he saw himself and Rosie, standing right where they were in the middle of the flower shop, her fingers wrapped possessively around his cock as she jerked him to completion, him with his long middle finger buried in her damp slit as he drilled her for all he was worth.

And good God, where had that thought come from? he wondered as he did his best to squash it. More to the point, why wasn’t it going anywhere, no matter how hard he tried to push it away?

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