“Not on purpose, maybe, but someone definitely doesn’t want me to know the truth.” She leaned her head back against the panels of the door. “Oh, hell,” she muttered, and Slade touched her on the shoulder.

“I’ve got a Pomeroy lock-pick set in my truck.”

“Not on you?” But she felt a rush of adrenaline; they could actually get through this blocked passage.

“No.” His grin was a slash of white. “I really didn’t think I’d need one.”

“You were wrong.”

“Again, apparently.” He shook his head. “I’ll go get it and will be back in ten minutes, so don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t.”

“I don’t know . . .” He glanced nervously down the darkened hall.

“I’m here with five hundred people and police everywhere,” she said, reading the worry in his eyes. “And I was a cop.”

“Was being the operative word in that sentence. And you don’t have a weapon.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Why do I think I’m making a mistake?” he muttered, then to her surprise grabbed her around the waist, drew her tight against him, and pressed anxious lips to hers.

When he lifted his head, he rested his forehead on hers. His breathing was as ragged as her own, his heart beating hard enough that she could feel its restless cadence.

“You think you’re making a mistake,” she said breathlessly, trying to make light of the situation, “because you’re the husband. That’s what husbands do.”

“Yeah, right.” He snorted his disbelief and pulled the pistol from the waistband of his pants. “Take this.”

“We’re at a charity event at an orphanage, for God’s sake!”

“And you’re chasing a killer.”

“You didn’t think you’d need lock picks, but you thought a gun might come in handy?”

He glowered at her and pressed the .38 into her palm. It felt good. Solid. Reminded her of her days as a detective. “Take it, or I won’t go.”

“Fine!” She tucked the gun into her purse.

“Use it if you have to.”

“I won’t have to.”

He wasn’t listening to any excuses. “You owe me, wife.” He pulled away and started jogging for the main doors. Tall and athletic, his jacket flapping, his boot heels ringing in the hallways, he disappeared around a corner.

“Oh, don’t I know it,” she whispered, her heart twisting a little.

Sister Charity slipped from the gymnasium after the bidding had begun on a premier item, a trip for two to Las Vegas. That’s what all her devotion and sacrifice had come to; it felt like pawning Jesus for “two fabulous days and nights” in Sin City, an expensive penthouse hotel room, complete with a hot tub big enough for six and complimentary tickets to some concert—Wayne Newton—or Cirque du Soleil.

All in the name of the Holy Father.