The Search

Francis X. Eckle completed the last of his daily One Hundred. A hundred push-ups, a hundred crunches, a hundred squats. He performed these, as always, in the privacy of his motel room.

He showered, using his own unscented shower gel rather than the stingy sliver of motel soap. He shaved, using a compact electric razor that he cleaned meticulously every morning. He brushed his teeth with one of the travel brushes in his kit, which he then marked with an X for future disposal.

He never left anything personal in the motel waste can.

He dressed in baggy sweatshorts and an oversized white T-shirt, nondescript running shoes. Under the T-shirt he wore a security belt holding cash and his current ID. Just in case.

He studied himself in the mirror.

The clothes and the bulk of the belt disguised the body he’d sculpted to mean and muscular perfection, and gave the illusion of an ordinary man, a bit thick in the middle, about his ordinary morning. He studied his face—brown eyes, long, bladed nose, thin, firm mouth, smooth cheeks—until he was satisfied with its pleasant, even forgettable expression.

He kept his brown hair close-cropped. He wanted to shave it for ease and cleanliness, but though a shaved head had become fairly common, his mentor insisted it drew more attention than ordinary brown hair.

This morning, as every morning over the past weeks, he considered ignoring that directive and doing what suited him.

This morning, as every morning, he resisted. But it was becoming harder as he felt his own power grow, as he embraced his new self, to follow the lesson plan.

“For now,” he murmured. “But not for much longer.”

Over his head, he fit a dark blue cap with no logo.

There was nothing about him to draw the eye, to earn a glance by a casual observer.

He never stayed in the same hotel or motel more than three nights—two was better. He sought out one with a gym at least every other stop, but otherwise looked for the lower-end type of establishment where service—and the attendant attention—was all but nonexistent.

He’d lived frugally all of his life, dutifully pinching pennies. Before he’d begun this journey he’d gradually sold everything he owned of value.

He could afford a great many cheap motel rooms before the journey’s end.

He slipped his key card into his pocket and took one of the bottles of water from the case he’d brought in himself. Before leaving the room, he switched on the camera hidden in his travel alarm by his bedside, then plugged in the earbuds for his iPod.

The first would assure him housekeeping didn’t poke through his things; the second would discourage conversation.

He needed the gym, needed the weights and machines, and the mental and physical release they provided. Since he’d converted, the days without them left him tense and angry and nervous, clouded his mind. He’d have preferred to work out in solitude, but traveling required adjustments.

So with his pleasant expression in place he walked outside and across to the tiny lobby and the tiny health club.

A man walked with obvious reluctance on one of the two treadmills, and a middle-aged woman rode a recumbent bike while reading a novel with a bright cover. He timed his gym visit carefully—don’t be the first or the only.

He chose the other treadmill, selected a program, then switched off the iPod to watch the news on the TV bracketed in the corner.

There would be a story, he thought.

But as the newscasters reported on world events, he started his run and let his mind focus on the latest correspondence from his mentor. He’d memorized every line before destroying it, as he had all the others.

Dear friend, I hope you’re well. I’m pleased with your progress to date, but want to advise you not to push yourself too fast, too soon. Remember to enjoy your travels and your accomplishments, and know you continue to have my support and my gratitude as you prepare to correct my foolish and disappointing mistake.

School your body, your mind, your spirit. Maintain your discipline. You are the power, you are the control. Use both wisely and you will amass more fame, more fear, more success than any who have come before you.

I look forward to hearing from you, and know that I am with you, in every step of your journey.

Your Guide

Fate had taken him to that prison, Eckle thought, where George Allen Perry had unlocked the cell he’d been trapped in all of his life. He’d toddled like a child with those first steps of freedom, then had walked, then had run. Now, now he craved the heady taste of that freedom like breath. Craved it until he’d begun to twitch at the rules, the regulations, the absolutes Perry asked of him.

He was no longer the soft, awkward boy desperate for approval and hounded by bullies. No longer the child passed from hand to hand because of a selfish whore of a mother.

No longer the pimply, overweight teen ignored or laughed at by girls.

All of his life he’d lived inside that cage of pretense. Stay quiet, tolerate, obey the rules, study and take whatever was left when the stronger, the more attractive, the more aggressive took theirs.

How many times had he seethed in silence when passed over for a promotion, a prize, a girl? How many times had he, alone, in the dark, plotted and imagined revenge against coworkers, students, neighbors, even strangers on the street?

He’d begun these travels, as Perry had explained to him, before they’d met—but he’d carried the cage with him. He’d worked to discipline his body, pushing through pain and frustration and deprivation. He’d sought and found a rigid internal control, and still had failed in so many ways. Because he’d still been locked in that cage. Unable to perform with women when, at last, one deigned to sleep with him. Forced to humiliate himself with whores—like his mother.

No longer. Perry’s creed preached that the act of sexual intercourse diminished a man’s power, gave that power to the woman—who would always, always use it against him. Release could be gained in other, more potent ways. Ways only a relative few dared practice. With that release power and pleasure rose.

Now that the cage was open, he’d discovered in himself both an aptitude and an appetite for that release, and the power that charged through it.

But with the power came responsibility—and that, he could admit, he found difficult to navigate. The more he gained, the more he wanted. Perry was right, of course. He needed to maintain his discipline, to enjoy the journey and not rush it.

And yet . . .

As he pushed up the speed and resistance on the treadmill, Francis promised himself and his absent mentor he would refrain from seeking his next partner for at least two weeks.

Instead he would travel a bit more—meandering. He would allow his power to recharge, feed his mind with books.

He wouldn’t head north, not yet.

And while he recharged and fed, he’d monitor Perry’s disappointing mistake through her blog, her website. When it was time, he would correct that mistake—the only payment Perry asked of him, the price for tearing down the cage.

He looked forward, like a child to a parent’s applause, to Perry’s approval when he took, strangled and buried Fiona Bristow.

Bringing her image into his mind pushed him through the next mile while sweat ran down his face, his body. His reward came when the news-caster reported on the discovery of a young woman’s body in the Klamath National Forest.

For the first time that morning, Eckle smiled.

ON SUNDAY, Mai and her dogs came for a visit. Saturday night’s rain left the air cool and fresh as sorbet and teased out a haze of green on the young dogwoods flanking the bridge. In the field the grasses sparkled with wet while the creek bubbled busily and the dogs romped like kids in a playground.

On the scale of lazy Sunday mornings, Fiona rated this one a solid ten. With Mai, she relaxed on the porch with the mochaccinos and cranberry muffins the vet had bought in the village.

“It’s like a reward.”

“Hmm?” Slumped down, eyes half open behind the amber shades of her sunglasses, Mai broke off another piece of her muffin.

“Mornings like this, they’re like a reward for the rest of the week. All the get-up, get-going, get-it-done mornings. This is the carrot on the stick, the brass ring, the prize at the bottom of the cereal box.”

“In my next life I’d like to come back as a dog because, really, in the great scheme? Every morning is the prize at the bottom of the cereal box for a dog.”

“They don’t get mochaccinos on the porch.”

“True, but toilet water would taste just as wonderful.”

Fiona studied her coffee, considered. “What kind of dog?”

“I think a Great Pyrenees, for the size, the majesty. I think I deserve it after being short in this life.”

“It’s a nice choice.”

“Well, I’ve given it some thought.” Mai yawned, stretched. “Sheriff Tyson called me this morning to let me know they upgraded Walter’s condition to stable. He’s going to be in the hospital for another few days, but if he stays level, they’ll let him go home. The daughter and her family are making arrangements for a visiting nurse.”

“That’s good news. Do you want me to pass it along?”

“I let Chuck know, so I figure he’ll take care of that. Since I was heading over, I thought I’d just tell you in person. By the way, I really like your trees.”

“Aren’t they great?” Just looking at them made Fiona smile. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Now I’m thinking maybe I should plant something splashy at the far end of the drive. Like an entryway. It’d be a kind of landmark for new clients, too. Turn at the drive with the . . . whatever I decide on.”

Mai tipped down her glasses to peer at Fiona over the tops. “Moving out of the low-key stage? And I worried you’d put a gate up.”

Sipping her coffee, Fiona watched the dogs troop around the yard in what she thought of as The Peeing Contest. “Because of Vickie Scala?” she said, referring to the latest victim. “A gate wouldn’t do me much good if . . . and it’s a big if.”

But like Mai and her next life as a dog, she’d given it some thought.

“It makes me sick to think about those girls, and their families. And there’s nothing I can do, Mai. Nothing at all.”

Mai reached over, squeezed Fiona’s hand. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s on my mind. How could it not be? And I’m scared. You’re probably the only one I can say that to, just flat-out.” Fiona held on to Mai’s hand a moment, steadied by the contact. “I’m scared because if. I’m scared because there’s nothing I can do. I’m scared because it took them years to catch Perry, and I don’t know how I’ll cope if the pattern repeats. If I said that to Syl or my mother, they’d turn themselves inside out with worry.”

“Okay.” Tone brisk, Mai shifted to face Fiona. “I think you’d be stupid not to be scared, and why the hell would you be stupid? I think if it wasn’t on your mind, you’d be hiding in denial, and what good would that do? And I think if you didn’t feel sick and sorry about those girls, you’d be heartless, and how could you be?”

“And there,” Fiona said on a wave of relief, “is why I could say it to you.”

“Now, on the other end of the scale, on the solid reasons not to freak—scared, yes, freaked, no—you have the dogs, and you have people who’re going to be checking on you with such annoying regularity you’ll be tempted to tell them to butt the f**k out. Oh, and don’t bother to tell me to butt the f**k out,” she added. “I’ll just kick your ass. Short, yes, but mighty.”

“Yes, you are. I also know we’re sitting here drinking mochaccinos and watching our dogs play because you’re checking on me. And I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. I want you to plant your splashy whatever at the end of your drive, Fee, if it makes you happy. But I want you to be careful, too.”

“Part of me wonders if I’ve ever really stopped being careful since the day Perry grabbed me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I stopped running, and God, Mai, I used to love it. Now I use a treadmill, and it’s not the same rush. But I settle because I feel safer. I haven’t gone anywhere alone in years.”

“That’s not . . .” Mai paused. “Really?”

“Really. You know, it didn’t occur to me until this started that I never go anywhere without at least one of the dogs—and part of the reason is what happened to me. I wait for movies to come out on DVD or cable instead of going to the movies because I don’t want to leave one of the dogs in the car that long—and more, I only take all three of them, leaving the house unguarded, when it’s for training or when I’m taking them into your office.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No, and I’m okay with it—I just didn’t realize the underlying reason for it. Or didn’t admit it. I leave my door open a lot. I rarely lock it—until recently—because the dogs give me the sense of security I need. I haven’t actively thought about all that happened, not really, in the last year or two, but I’ve protected myself, or at least my sense of security, all this time.”

“Proving you have a smart unconscious.”

“I like to think so. My conscious is also doing some target practice. I haven’t done any shooting in a couple years either. So . . .” She shook it all off. “I’m doing whatever I can, which includes not obsessing about it. Let’s talk about the spa.”

Enough, Mai decided. She hadn’t come to drag Fiona into the stress but to help ease it. “We could, and we should, but first I could tell you about my date for drinks this evening.”

“You have a date?” This time Fiona lowered her sunglasses. “With who?”

“With Robert. He’s a psychologist, with his own practice in Seattle. Forty-one, divorced, with a nine-year-old daughter. He shares custody. He has a three-year-old Portuguese water dog named Cisco. He likes jazz, skiing and travel.”

“You used HeartLine-dot-com.”

“I did, and I’m taking the ferry over and meeting him for drinks.”

“You don’t like jazz, or skiing.”

“No, but I like dogs, I like to travel when I can, and I like kids, so it balances out.” Stretching out her legs, Mai studied the toes of her shoes. “I like ski lodges, with roaring fires and Irish coffee, so that’s half a point. Besides, I have a date, which means I’m going to put on a nice outfit, fuss with my makeup and go have a conversation with someone I haven’t met. And if there’s no zing, I get on the ferry, come home and try again.”

“I’d be nervous. Are you nervous?”

“A little, but it’s a good nervous. I want a relationship, Fee, I really do. It’s not just the dry spell, because, hello, Stanley. I want someone I care enough about to want to spend time with, be with, fall in love with. I want a family.”

“I hope he’s wonderful. I hope Robert the psychologist is freaking amazing. I hope there’s zing and common ground and palpitations and laughs. I really do.”

“Thanks. The best part is, I’m doing something for myself. Taking a chance, which I haven’t done, not really, since the divorce. Even if there’s zing, I’m going to take it slow. I want to get a feel for how this whole thing works before I jump into the pool.”

Feeling the vibes of Mai’s good nerves and anticipation, Fiona sat silently a minute. “Well, speaking of zing, I guess I have to tell you I’ve lost the contest.”

“The—You had sex?” Mai scooted around in her chair, whipped off her sunglasses. “You had sex and didn’t tell me?”

“It was only a couple of days ago.”

“You had sex a couple of days ago and didn’t immediately call me? Who—Well, shit, why would I even ask? It has to be Simon Doyle.”

“It could’ve been a new client I was suddenly hot for.”

“No, it was Simon—who actually is a new client you’re hot for. Details. The nitty and the gritty.”

“He gave me the trees.”

“Oh.” Mai sighed, turned to look at them. “Oh,” she sighed again.

“I know. The first one was part of a deal, a trade for this stump he wanted.”

“The stump sink. I heard about it.”

“I said maybe I should get another, and he got it, planted it—when we were out on the search. I came home, and there it was—planted, mulched, watered. I got the other dogs and went over to thank him. And I guess I thanked him by having sex with him on his dining room table.”

“Sweet magnetic Jesus on the dashboard. On the table?”

“It just sort of happened.”

“How does it happen that trees lead to table sex?”

“One minute we’re outside talking, then he’s pulling me to the house. Then we’re all over each other and pulling and dragging each other toward the front door.”

“This is the flaw in the Stanley system—the lack of pulling and dragging. Then what?”

“And when we got there, I’m up against the wall, actually telling him to hurry. So he dumped me on the table, shoved things off and wow. Wow.”

“A moment to recover, please.” Sitting back, Mai waved a hand in front of her face. “Obviously this wasn’t crappy sex.”

“I almost hate to say it because it might make it more than it might be, but it was, it really was the best sex of my life. And I loved Greg, Mai, but this? It was outrageously stupendous sex.”

“Are you going to see him again that way?”

“Definitely.” Fiona laid a hand on her heart, did a pat-pat. “Plus or moreover or first and foremost, I like him. I like the way he is, the way he looks, the way he is with his dog. And you know, I like that I’m not his type—at least according to him—but he wants me. It makes me feel . . . powerful, I guess.”

“That much like could get serious.”

“It could. I guess, like you, I’m doing something for myself, and taking a chance.”

“Okay. Here’s to us.” Mai lifted what was left of her coffee. “Adventurous women.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Seeing as you had sex on the dining room table, it probably feels better to you. But yeah, it feels good.”

They both glanced over as the dogs sounded the alert.

“Well, well, lookie here,” Mai murmured as Simon drove over the bridge. “Is your table cleared off ?”

“Ssh!” Fiona strangled a laugh. “Either way,” she muttered, “I’ve got the first of my Sunday sessions in about twenty minutes.”

“Just enough time to—”

“Cut it out.” She watched Simon get out and Jaws leap after him. Jaws raced for her dogs, then stopped to sniff and wag at and around Mai’s. “No aggression,” she commented, “no shyness. He’s a damn happy dog.”

Simon walked over, held out a collar. “The one I borrowed before. Dr. Funaki.”

“Mai. Nice to see you, Simon, and with such good timing as I have to go. But first. Jaws, come here. Here, Jaws.”

The pup reacted with joy, bulleting over and onto the porch. Mai held her hand out, palm first, as he bunched to leap. He shivered, so obviously dying for just one jump, but stayed down.

“What a good dog.” She stroked, rubbed, smiled up at Simon. “He reacts well to a group, is cheerfully friendly, and he’s learning his manners. You’ve got a winner here.”

“He’s stealing my shoes.”

“The chewing stage can be a problem.”

“No, he’s not chewing them—anymore. He just steals them and hides them. I found my boot in the bathtub this morning.”

“He’s found a new game.” Mai ruffled his ears while the other dogs came up to bump and squeeze in for attention. “Your shoes carry your scent, obviously. He’s attracted to and comforted by your scent. And he’s playing with you. Aren’t you clever?” She gave Jaws a kiss on the nose, then rose. “It’s time to think about neutering.”

“What are you two, a tag team?”

“Read the literature I gave you. We’ll talk soon,” she said to Fiona. “Oh, cle**age or legs?”

“Legs, save the girls for round two.”

“That’s what I thought. Bye, Simon. Come on, babies! Let’s go for a ride.”

“You won’t ask,” Fiona said as she waved Mai and her dogs off, “so I’ll just tell you. She has a date—a first date—and was asking which asset to highlight.”

“Okay.”

“Men don’t have to worry about that particular area of dating ritual.”

“Sure we do. If it’s cle**age we still have to look you in the face and pretend not to notice.”

“You’ve got a point.” Since he stood on the steps, she laid her hands on his shoulders, leaned in for an easy kiss. “So, I’ve got a class in a few minutes. Did you time this visit to check up on me?”

“I returned the collar.”

“So you did. If you want you can stay for the class. It might be good for Jaws to interact with another set of dogs. It’s a small group, and we’re going to work on some basic search skills. I’d like to see how he does.”

“We’ve got nothing else going on. Teach him something else.”

“Now?”

“I need a distraction. I’ve been thinking about getting you naked since I got you naked. So teach him something else.”

She slid her hands up, brushed them over his cheeks. “You know, that’s oddly romantic.”

“Romance? I’ll pick a couple wildflowers next time I think about getting you naked. And this isn’t distracting me, so . . . where the hell is he?”

Simon scanned the porch, turned. “Oh, shit.”

Fiona grabbed his arm as he braced to run.

“No, wait. He’s fine.” She studied Jaws as he climbed up the ladder of the sliding board after Bogart. “He wants to play with the big guys. If you run or call out, you’ll break his focus and balance.”

Jaws climbed to the top, tail waving like a flag, but unlike Bogart, who pranced his way down the short slide, he slipped at the top, belly-flopped, then did a slow header into the soft ground below.

“Not bad,” Fiona declared as Simon snorted out a laugh. “Get your treats.” She walked over, calling out praise and approval in a cheerful voice. “Let’s try it again, want to try it again? Climb,” she said, adding a hand signal. “He does well on the ladder,” she said as Simon joined her, “and that’s generally the most difficult. It’s open and it’s vertical. He’s agile, and he’s watched the other dogs do it. He’s figured out how to go up. So . . . there we are, good boy.”

She took a treat from Simon, rewarded the dog when he reached the top. “You just need to give him a little help figuring out how to walk down, keep his footing. Walk. That’s it. Good balance. Good, good job.” She rewarded him again at the bottom. “You do it with him so . . . What?” she demanded when she looked up to find him staring at her.

“You’re not beautiful.”

“There you go again, Mr. Romance.”

“You’re not, but you grab hold. I haven’t figured out why.”

“Let me know when you do. Take him up and down.”

“And I’m doing this because?”

“He’s learning how to navigate unstable footing. It gives him confidence, enhances his agility. And he likes it.”

She stepped back, watched the two of them play the game a few times. Not beautiful, she thought. The observation, and the fact that he just said it, should’ve been a flick to the ego—even though it was perfectly true. So why had it amused her, at least for the few seconds between that and his next comment?

You grab hold. That made her heart flutter.

The man incited the oddest reactions in her.

“I want him,” Fiona said when Jaws all but swaggered down the slide.

“You’ve got your pronouns confused. Me. You want me.”

“I admire your ego, but I meant him.”

“Well, you can’t have him. I’m getting used to him, and besides, my mother would be seriously pissed if I gave him away.”

“I want him for the program. I want to train him for S-and-R.”

Simon shook his head. “I’ve read your website, your blog. When you say train him, you mean us. Those crazy pronouns again.”

“You read my blog?”

He shrugged. “I’ve skimmed it.”

She smiled. “But you have no interest in S-and-R?”

“You have to drop everything when a call comes in, right?”

“That’s pretty much right.”

“I don’t want to drop everything, or whatever.”

“That’s fair enough.” She took a little band out of her pocket, bound her hair back with a couple of quick twists. “I could train him as an alternate. Just him. He responds to me, obviously. And any S-and-R dog needs to respond to other handlers. There are times one of our dogs is unable—sick, maybe, injured.”

“You have three.”

“Yes, because, well, I want three, and yes, because if someone else’s dog is unable, one of mine can go as backup. I’ve been doing this for years now, Simon, and your dog would be good. He’d be very good. I’m not giving you the pitch to join the unit, just to train your dog. On my own time. If nothing else, you’ll end up with a dog with superior skills and training.”

“How much time?”

“Ideally, I’d like to work with him a little every day, but at least five days a week. I can do it at your place and stay out of your way while you’re working. Some of what I teach him you’ll want to follow up on.”

“Maybe. We can see how it goes.” Simon glanced over to where Jaws was engaged in one of his favorite activities: chasing his own tail. “It’s your time.”

“Yeah, it is. Clients coming,” she announced. “You can sit this one out if you want. I can work with him solo.”

“I’m here anyway.”

IT WAS INTERESTING, Simon decided, and semi-distracting. Fiona called it The Runaway Game, and it involved a lot of running—dogs and people—in the field across her bridge. The class worked in pairs, or with Fiona as a partner—one dog at a time.

“I don’t get the point,” he said when Jaws was up. “He’s going to see where I’m going. He’d have to be an idiot not to find me.”

“It teaches him to find you on command, and to use his scenting skill—that’s why we’re running against the wind, so our scent goes toward the dog. Anyway, he’s going to find me. You need to get him excited.”

He looked down at the dog, whose tail chopped the air like a Ginsu knife. “He gets excited if somebody glances in his direction.”

“Which is to his advantage. Talk to him, be excited. Tell him to watch me when I run away. Watch Fee! Then the minute I drop down behind the bush, tell him to find and release him. Keep telling him to find me. If he gets confused, give him a chance to catch my scent. If it doesn’t work the first time, I’ll call him, give him an audio clue. You need to hold him, keep him with you while I get his attention, and run. Ready?”

He finger-combed his breeze-ruffled hair out of his face. “It’s not brain surgery.”

She gave Jaws a rub, let him lick and sniff at her before she straightened. “Hey, Jaws! Hey.” She clapped her hands. “I’m going to run. Watch me, Jaws, watch me run. Tell him to watch me. Use my name.”

She took off at a dash.

She hadn’t exaggerated, Simon noted. She was fast.

And he’d been wrong. When she moved, she was beautiful.

“Watch Fee. Where the hell’s she going, huh? Watch her. Jesus, she’s like an antelope. Watch Fee.”

She dropped down, out of sight, behind a bush.

“Find her! Go find Fee.”

The pup tore across the field, expressing his excitement with a couple happy barks. Not as fast as the woman, Simon thought, but . . . Then he felt a quick surge of surprise and pride as Jaws homed straight in.

A couple of the other dogs had needed the hider to call out, and one had required the visual clue of the hider waving a hand beside the bush.

But not Jaws.

Across the field he could hear Fiona laughing and praising even as his temporary classmates applauded.

Not half bad, Simon thought. Not bad at all.

She ran back with the dog happily chasing her.

“We do it again, right away. Praise first, reward, then we go again.”

“HEACED IT,” Simon murmured when the class was over. “Three times in a row, different hiding spots.”

“He’s got the knack. You can work with him at home, with objects. Use something he likes, that he knows the name of—or work to teach him the name. Show it to him, then make him sit/stay and go hide it. Easy places at first. Go back, tell him to find. If he can’t find it, guide him to it. You want success.”

“Maybe I should tell him to find my tennis shoe. I don’t know where the hell he put it.” He looked at her, a long, thorough look that had her raising her eyebrows. “You run like the f**king wind, Fiona.”

“You should’ve seen me run the four-hundred-meter hurdles in college. I was amazing.”

“Probably because you have legs up to your ears. Did you wear one of those skinny little uniforms—aerodynamic?”

“I did. Very flattering.”

“I bet. How long before the next class?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“Long enough.” He began to back her toward the house.

She kept her eyes on his, and he saw the laugh in them, a sparkle on the serene blue. “No ‘Would you like to?’ or ‘I can’t resist you’?”

“No.” He clamped her waist, lifted her up the porch steps.

“If I said I’m not in the mood?”

“I’d be disappointed, and you’d be lying.”

“You’re right about the lying. So . . .” She pulled the door open, tugged him inside.

But when she backed toward the steps, he shifted directions.

“Couch is closer.”

It was also softer than the dining room table, at least until they rolled off and hit the floor. And it was, Fiona thought when she lay beside him trying to regain her breath and the path to coherent thought, every bit as exciting.

“Eventually we might make it to a bed.”

He trailed, very lightly, a fingertip over her breast. “Cancel the class and we’ll go up now.”

“It’s a shame I’m a responsible woman—and one who barely has time to take a shower.”

“Oh yeah, the obligatory shower. I could use one.”

“Doubling up would only lead to shower sex.”

“Damn straight.”

“Which, while fun, I have no time for. Besides, you and Jaws can’t do the next class. It risks overtraining. But you could—” She broke off when the dogs announced visitors. “Oh hell, oh shit!” Scrambling, she grabbed her shirt, her pants, bundled them in front of her as she hunched toward the window.

“It’s James, and oh God, Lori. It’s James and Lori and I’m naked in the living room on a Sunday afternoon.” She glanced back. “And you’re naked on the floor.”

She looked so sexily flustered, a little wild in the eye and pink from her toes to her hairline.

Delicious, he thought. He could’ve lapped her up like ice cream. “I like it here.”

“No! No! Get up!” She waved her hands, dropped her shirt, grabbed it again. “Up, get something on. Go . . . go tell them I’ll be out in five minutes.”

“Because you’re taking an after-sex shower?”

“Just . . . get your pants on!” Still hunched, she sprinted for the stairs.

Grinning—she looked even more interesting running naked—he tugged on his pants, tossed on his shirt and, grabbing his socks and boots, strolled out onto the porch.

James and Lori stopped greeting the dogs. James’s eyes narrowed. Lori flushed.

“She’ll be out in a couple minutes.” Simon sat to put on his socks and boots. Jaws instantly made a lunge for a boot. Simon swung it out of reach, said, “Cut it out.”

“Nice-looking dog. How’s his training coming?”

“It’s coming. We just took in a class.”

James’s eyes stayed narrowed. “Is that what you just did?”

Simon laced up his boot, smiled coolly. “Among other things. Is that a problem for you?”

Lori patted frantically at James’s arm. “We just dropped by to see if Fiona wanted to grab some dinner after her classes. You could join us.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to get on. See you around.” He walked to his truck. Jaws danced in place, obviously torn, then ran after Simon, leaped into the cab of the truck.

“I don’t know about this,” James muttered.

“It’s not our business—exactly.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon, practically. It’s daylight.”

“Prude.” Lori elbowed him and laughed.

“I’m not a prude, but—”

“People make love in the daylight, James. Plus I like knowing he’s around, spending time with her. Didn’t you say we should come by just to check on her?”

“Yeah, but we’re her friends.”

“I think Fee and Simon are pretty friendly. Just a wild guess. I’m sorry if you’re jealous, but—”

“I’m not.” Genuinely surprised, he stopped scowling after Simon and turned to her.

“I know you and Fee are close,” Lori began, lowering her lashes.

“Wow. No. Not that way.”

The lashes lifted again. “At all?”

“At all, as in never. Jeez, do people actually think . . . ?”

“Oh, I don’t know about people. I guess I just thought you were, or had been or maybe hoped to.” She managed an embarrassed laugh. “I’ll shut up now.”

“Listen, Fee and I are . . . we’re like family. I don’t think about her that way. I don’t think that way.” He paused until she looked at him, looked in his eyes. “About Fee.”

“Maybe you think that way about somebody else?”

“All the time.”

“Oh.” She laughed again. “Thank God.”

He started to touch her; she started to let him. And Fiona rushed out of the house.

“Hey! Hi. It’s my day for pals. Did Simon leave?”

James let out a long breath. “Yeah, he said he had to go.”

“Sorry,” Lori put in. “Lousy timing.”

“Actually, it could’ve been worse. Or much more embarrassing for all. Let’s just close the door on all that. So.” She offered a big, bright smile. “What are you two up to?”