“Practically every night for the next six months, I woke up and found her standing at the foot of my bed.”

“See?” Nick said. “What did I tell you?”

Get out, I told him mentally, without looking away from Tucker’s face, or I’ll never forgive you. Not ever.

“I thought I was dreaming,” Tucker finished hoarsely. “But I’ve always wondered, because she looked so real. I used to get up, turn on the light, go downstairs for a drink of water—whatever I could think of, and when I got back, she’d still be there.”

“Did she ever speak to you?”

Tucker shook his head. “She’d just watch me. After five minutes or so, she’d vanish. Then we moved—my dad got a job in Flagstaff—and I never saw her again.”

“Know what?” I asked gently.

“What?”

“I believe you, Tucker.”

“‘I believe you, Tucker,’” Nick mimicked.

WILL you get out?

“Thanks,” Tucker said gruffly, and rested his forehead against mine.

“You just want to get him naked,” Nick accused.

You’re damn right I do, I answered. Thanks for sticking around all night, and goodbye.

Nick sighed. I felt him leave.

“What you need,” I purred to Tucker, “is somebody to wash your back.”

Tucker kissed the tip of my nose. Then he kissed my mouth.

His tongue tasted of mint mouthwash.

One thing about Tucker. Even when he was working undercover, he practiced good oral hygiene.

The harsh buzzing of my ancient doorbell interrupted, chewing its way between us, pushing us apart.

“You’d better get that,” Tucker said, sounding a little breathless. His lips were almost touching mine; I felt a subtle vibration coming from them.

“If we ignore them,” I reasoned, “they’ll go away.”

“Not if it’s the cops,” Tucker said.

I sighed. Mental note: I am a person of interest in a felony assault.

I hate it when that happens.

The bell rasped through the air again, more insistent this time.

Tucker grinned. “I’ll grab a shower. You deal with whoever’s out there.” He kissed me again, just before shoving off his chair and rising to his feet. He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Get rid of them.”

I waited until he was behind the bathroom door before I answered the bell. I kept the chain on and peered around it.

An acne victim of indeterminate gender stood on the landing, holding a striped box in both hands and looking irritated.

“I didn’t order anything,” I said, none too patiently.

“It’s your free Chinese dinner,” the delivery person insisted, sounding testy, and probably male. “We called and left a voice mail. You won it.”

“I don’t want—”

“It’s free,” he said.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I replied, “just leave it on the mat.”

“People are starving in Africa, you know.”