Her eyes narrowed. “Out.”

“Damn it, Bess…”

“I said out.” She gave him a hefty shove toward the door. “We went on one date,” she reminded him. “One. Maybe I entertained the idea of something more, but that gives you no right to come into my house and tell me what to do and who to talk with.”

He grabbed her hand before she could push him again. “One has nothing to do with the other.”

“You’re right. Absolutely right. What I should have said is that I run my life, Detective.” She snatched her hand away so that she could poke a finger at his chest. “Me. Alone. Get the picture?”

“Yeah.” He wondered how she’d like a nice clip on that pointy little chin of hers. “I’ve got a picture for you.” He hauled her up and kissed her hard. No gentle touch, no finesse. All steam heat. It lasted only seconds, but he succeeded in shocking her speechless. “Things change, McNee.” Dark, furious eyes pinned her to the spot. “Get used to it.”

With that, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

“Well.” Bess took one breath, then another. Her throat felt scalded. “Of all the incredible nerve. Who the hell does he think he is, marching in here that way?” Hands on her hips, she spun to face Rosalie. “Did you see that?”

“Hard to miss it.” Grinning, Rosalie snatched a french fry from a plate.

“If he thinks he’s getting away with that—that attitude—he’s very much mistaken.”

“Man’s nuts about you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Girl, that was one lovesick puppy.”

Bess snatched up her wine and gulped. “Don’t be ridiculous. He was just showing off.”

“Uh-huh. If I had me a man who looked at me like that, I’d do one of two things.”

“Which are?”

“I’d either sit back and enjoy, or I’d run for my life.”

Frowning, Bess sat down and picked up her fork. “I don’t like to be pushed.”

“Seems to me it depends on who’s doing the pushing.” She sat, as well, and dug right into her steak. “He sure is one fine-looking man—for a cop.”

Bess stabbed at her salad. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“You’re paying the tab,” Rosalie said agreeably.

With a grunt of assent, Bess tried to eat. Damn cop, she thought. He’d ruined her appetite.

There was something to be said for beating the hell out of inanimate objects. Alex had always found the therapy of a pair of boxing gloves and a punching bag immeasurably rewarding. With those so easily accessible, he could never figure out why so many people felt the need for a psychiatrist’s couch.

Until recently.

Twenty minutes of sweating and pounding hadn’t relieved his basic frustration. He often used the gym—in the middle of a difficult case, when one went wrong, when a good arrest turned sour in court. The same ingredients had worked equally well for him whenever he’d fought with family, or friends, or had female problems.