“It’s me. I’m sorry.”

“Rebecca,” Catherine said with a soft sigh. She held out her hand. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long—fifteen minutes, maybe. Joyce said that you had an eight-thirty so I figured you’d be done about now.” She linked the fingers of her left hand through Catherine’s. She was right-handed and needed to keep her gun hand free on the street.

“You could have waited inside.”

“I didn’t want to run into a patient. Besides, it’s nice out here.” They began to walk. “Drive you home?”

“Mmm, yes. My car’s in the parking garage. I can leave it if you bring me in tomorrow. Can you stay tonight?” It was hard needing to ask, but this was new territory for both of them. She didn’t want to make assumptions.

“I’ll need to go early. There’s a meeting in the morning.”

“Ah—you’ve seen your Captain.” She’d known it would be soon, but did it have to be this fast? Of course, there were some things that the police always did quickly. They worked nonstop when a case was new and the blood was still fresh; they interrogated people before the tears had dried and they were emotionally the most vulnerable; they buried their dead and moved on before the ground was cold. At least they tried to, until something inside them broke or turned to stone. She thought about her new patient, the young officer who was trying so hard not to acknowledge the pain and terror and abandonment she must have felt walking down that dark alley with no one at her back. Her heart twisted, but her voice was even. “You’re working again?”

Rebecca leaned down to unlock the Vette. “Not quite. He put me on a desk. Have you eaten?”

“Uh—lunch.” She was relieved at the idea of a desk assignment and then reminded herself that the reprieve was temporary at best. “Doing what?”

“Feel like Thai?” Rebecca pulled away from the curb and reached for her cell phone at Catherine’s affirming nod. “There’s a menu in the door. Just call out what you want,” she added, punching in numbers from memory. She relayed the order, then drove in silence a few blocks, watching the traffic, the people on the sidewalks, the city teeming with life. Finally, she said grimly, her jaw tight, “I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to be doing. I’ll find out in the morning. It’s a task force to ferret out the important players in an interstate porn ring. Maybe even an international one, apparently. I don’t have the details yet. It’s need to know bullshit, which means that probably no one knows anything.”

“Why a task force?”

Rebecca shrugged. “To make the job twice as complicated and three times slower. The feds are involved, but they can’t really operate effectively on a local level. They’re bureaucrats—they don’t have any street contacts.”

“But you do,” Catherine said slowly. No wonder she’s not more upset.

“Yes.” Rebecca smiled for the first time. “I do.”

“How come I get the feeling that this isn’t such a desk job after all?”

Rebecca pulled to the curb and turned on the seat, stretching her arm behind Catherine’s shoulders, her fingertips resting on the bare skin at the base of her neck. “It’s the fastest way for me to get back to work. I don’t have much choice. And I do know this territory. Four months ago, Jeff and I busted two prostitution houses that were dealing children. We bagged a handful of low-level organized crime members, but we knew at the time it was just the tip of the iceberg. We were never able to figure a way inside the network, and then the Blake thing sidetracked us. Maybe this internet angle will give us a break.”

Catherine listened to her talk about her partner Jeff Cruz as if he were still alive. Of course, he had only been dead a few days before Rebecca herself had been shot, and the two intervening months had an aura of unreality about it. Time and events had been suspended while the detective struggled to survive and then heal. It was no wonder that Rebecca hadn’t really assimilated the hard truth of his death. What in god’s name was the police psychologist thinking to let her work? “What internet angle?” Catherine asked, trying unsuccessfully to quell her anger. She couldn’t believe that Rebecca’s superiors didn’t know that this was a tacit approval for her to go back to street duty.

“The feds brought a couple of civilian computer hotshots on board, at least that’s what I think they are. They’re going to try to contact some of these characters on the Internet.”

“Why civilians? That seems unusual.”

“It would be if it were any other kind of case, but we sure don’t have anyone with the technical know how.” She thought about the conversation she’d had with the computer consultant, Sloan, earlier that afternoon. It had shed a little light on the situation, but she knew damn well there was more that the woman hadn’t told her. “Apparently there are so many problems on the national level with corporate and even military breakins by hackers that the feds are stretched thin enough to see through. They’re recruiting college kids to fill in the gaps.”

Rebecca pushed open the car door and caught her breath as a sharp twinge knifed down her left arm. “Let me run in and get dinner.” Carefully, she slid the rest of the way out and straightened up. The pain was gone.

Catherine watched her cross the sidewalk, wondering if the detective really thought she hadn’t noticed her quickly suppressed grimace of pain. When Rebecca returned, by unspoken agreement they avoided further talk of her new assignment, letting casual conversation and easy silences dissipate the vestiges of tension.

“I’ll get plates,” Catherine said as she dropped her briefcase by the door, and Rebecca carried the take out toward the coffee table in front of the sofa. Walking into the kitchen she called, “Want soda?”

“Just water is fine,” Rebecca answered, settling wearily on the couch. She glanced at her watch, amazed to see that it was only ten-twenty. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and absently rubbed the ache in her chest.

A minute later Catherine returned, balancing plates, silverware and napkins. She stopped a few feet from the sofa and quietly set the items on the table. Carefully, she lifted a light throw she kept on the back of the nearby chair and spread it out over the slumbering woman. She could wake her, but Rebecca was already deeply asleep. If she awakened before dawn, she would come to the bed. If she didn’t, Catherine would sleep well knowing that for tonight at least, she was safe. That thought comforted her, but there was a dull ache of loneliness in her heart as turned off the light and made her way by the dim light of the moon through the quiet apartment toward the bedroom.

JT Sloan leaned against the window’s edge in the large darkened loft, staring into a night only faintly illuminated by the glow from ships moving slowly on the wide expanse of river a few hundred yards below. Off to the left, the huge steel bridge arced over the water, its towering arches outlined with rows of small blue lights. She’d stood in the same spot countless times before, but the melancholy that had been her companion then was gone. The muted sounds of the elevator ascending in the background brought a smile to her lips. She walked to the long bar-like counter that separated the loft living space from a sleek, efficient modern kitchen, turned on a few recessed track lights, and poured from a bottle of Merlot she had opened earlier to allow it to breathe. On her way to the door, she set the wine glasses and a cutting board with crackers and cheese on the low stone coffee table that fronted a leather sofa in the sitting area. She slid the heavy double door back on soundless tracks just as the blond in the hallway outside approached.

“Hello,” Michael said, her full mouth curving into a soft smile.

“Hey.” Stepping forward, Sloan slid her arm around the slender woman’s waist and pulled her close to kiss her. She’d only intended to say hello, but the touch of her, the faint hint of her perfume, settled the lingering uneasiness in her stomach that had been plaguing her all afternoon, and she brought her other hand under the hair at the back of Michael’s neck, caressing the smooth skin while she explored her mouth. Finally she lifted her lips a whisper and murmured, “Welcome home.”

“Yes,” Michael said softly. “It certainly is.” She leaned back in Sloan’s arms and studied her intently. “Are you all right?”

Sloan smiled ruefully. “Just missing you.”

“Uh huh. And as smooth as ever.” Michael reached for her hand and gave it a tug. “Come on, let’s take this inside.”

Sloan grabbed one of the suitcases and followed. Inside the door, Michael kicked off her heels, shed her suit jacket to the back of a chrome and leather Breuer chair, and pulled her silk blouse from the waistband of her skirt.

“Tired?” Sloan asked, resting her palm against the small of Michael’s back, under the fabric, on her skin. It was always like this when she’d been gone. She had to keep touching her, just to be sure. That she was back, that she wasn’t a dream.

“Yes,” Michel replied. She found Sloan’s hand again and drew her around to the sofa. When they were settled, she reached for the wine. “This is wonderful. Just one of the many reasons that I love you.”

“How was Detroit?”

Michael groaned. “Hot and smoky. Four days felt like a month.”

“And the meetings?”

“They went well.” Michael sipped the full-bodied red wine and sighed. “A decade ago, the catch word was image. Image was everything. Now, thank god, innovation is everything. Daimler-Chrysler has a new team of design consultants and I have a lot of work to do.”

“Congratulations.”

Michael smiled. “Thanks.”

“Are you going to have to go back?” Sloan tried to keep her tone casual, but she hated it when Michael traveled, which as head of her own company, Innova Design Consultants, she did frequently. She just plain old missed her. Nothing felt quite right, no matter how busy her days might be, when at the end of the night Michael wasn’t beside her in bed.

“Not often,” Michael answered, glancing at Sloan quickly. She lifted a hand, ran her fingers lightly along the edge of her jaw. “Danny will do that. He likes to travel. I don’t.” Michael hooked her fingers under the collar of Sloan’s T-shirt and pulled until the other woman was leaning toward her, then kissed her. “I don’t like being away from you either.”

“I know that. Sorry.”

Then, patting her lap with her free hand, Michael said, “Stretch out, put your head down here, and tell me what’s going on.”

Sloan considered protesting, but she knew it would do no good. Michael read her too well. Besides, she wanted to talk. She just hadn’t quite gotten used to doing it, even after a year of never being disappointed. With a grateful sigh, she turned and laid her head in Michael’s lap and closed her eyes.

“So,” Michael asked, running strands of thick dark hair through her fingers, “talk. You’re edgy and something is not right.”

“I took that job with Justice.”

Michael stiffened, her hand stilling on Sloan’s cheek. “When?”

“Two day ago.” Sloan opened her eyes, reached into the back pocket of her jeans, and removed a thin black leather case. She held it up, allowing it to fall open. “I’m an official civilian consultant, ID badge and all.”

“What about Jason?”

“Him, too.”

Michael considered the night she’d sat on this couch for the first time, a little over a year before, and listened to Sloan’s tale of Justice and the injustices done in the name of patriotism and honor and national security. She remembered every anguished word, and every tremor of pain in Sloan’s body, and now her own anger at the memory threatened to make her voice harsh. Tenderly, still stroking her lover’s face, she took a deep breath and asked quietly, “What about everything that happened before?”

“They made nice; all is forgiven.” She said it lightly, but her shoulders were tight against Michael’s thigh.

“I don’t care about them. I care about you. Are you all right to work with them again?”

Sloan turned her face and pressed her cheek against Michael’s breast, brushing her lips over the swell of flesh beneath the sheer fabric. “I’m okay with it. Clark is a straight shooter, and I don’t have any history with him. It feels a little weird right now, but it’s just another job.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“No.” Sloan laughed. “I’ll just be doing some net trolling, looking for sites that are clearing houses for the hard core porn sites and trying to find any that are actually making the stuff. Especially the videos. Jason is going to play net bait and see if he can make contact with anyone that way. The police will be doing the search and seizure part of it—if we ever get that far.”