I was ready. Bel y-sucking size-four Christmas-red jeans. Hair tucked behind my ears and disheveled Meg Ryan style in back.

Fluffed bangs. Orchid and lavender lids. Katy's idea. Hazel eyes-- lavender shadow. Dazzling!

Ryan arrived at seven-thirty with a six-pack of Moosehead, a baguette, and a smal white box from a patisserie. His face was flushed from the cold, and fresh snow sparkled on his hair and shoulders.

Bending, he kissed me on the mouth then wrapped me in his arms.

"You look good." Ryan pressed me to him. I smel ed Irish Spring and aftershave mingled with leather.

"Thanks."

Releasing me, Ryan slipped off his bomber jacket and tossed it on the sofa.

Birdie rocketed to the rug and shot down the hal .

"Sorry. Didn't see the little guy."

"He'l cope."

"You look real y good." Ryan caressed my cheek with his knuckles.

My stomach did jumping jacks.

« 20 »

I

"You're not half bad, yourself, Detective."

It's true. Ryan is tal and lanky, with sandy hair, and impossibly blue eyes. Tonight he was wearing jeans and a Galway sweater.

I come from generations of Irish farmers and fishermen. Blame DNA. Blue eyes and cable knit knock me out.

"What's in the box?" I asked.

"Surprise for the chef."

Ryan detached a beer and placed the rest in the fridge.

"Something smel s good." He lifted the cover on the salsa bowl.

"Melon salsa. Crenshaws are tough to find in December." I left it at that.

"Buy you a beer or mixed drink, cupcake?" Ryan flashed his brows and flicked an imaginary cigar.

"My usual."

I checked the rice. Ryan dug a Diet Coke from the fridge. His lips iv, itched at the corners as he offered the can.

"Who's cal ing most?"

"Sorry?" 1 was lost.

"Agents or talent scouts?"

My hand froze in midair. I knew what was coming.

"Where?"

"Le Journal de Montreal."

"Today?"

Ryan nodded. "Above the fold."

"Front page?" I was dismayed.

"Fourteen back. Color photo. You'l love the angle."

"Pictures?"

An image flashed across my mind. A skinny black man in a knee length sweater. A trapdoor. A camera.

The little turd at the pizza parlor had sold his snapshots.

When working a case, I am adamant in my refusal to give media interviews. Many journalists think me rude. Others have described me in more colorful terms. I don't care. Over the years I have learned that statements inevitably lead to misquotes. And misquotes invariably lead to problems.

And I never look good in the pics.

"Can I open that for you?" Ryan retrieved the Coke, pul ed the tab, and handed it back.

« 21 »

"No doubt you've brought a copy," I said, setting the can on the counter and yanking the oven door.

"For the safety of diners, viewing wil take place when al cutlery's cleared."

During dinner I told Ryan about my day in court.

"The reviews are good," he said.