“Oh, for the love of God!” Angrily she twisted off the spray, reached past the curtain, and pulled her towel from a decorative hook. What the hell was she doing, thinking about a steamy sexual encounter, a fantasy? Now? With all that was going on? But wasn’t that always the way it was in times of stress, she thought, drying first her body, then her hair. People sought physical and emotional release, whether it be running the city streets, swimming miles, maniacally cleaning house, or, yes, having wild, passionate, stress-relieving sex.

Not that she would know personally.

Lately her love life had been nil.

Angry with herself, she threw back the curtain to find St. Ives seated on the small counter next to the sink. His tail was flicking dangerously close to her can of hair spray and her toothbrush holder. “Pervert,” she accused as he stared at her, and she wrapped the towel around her torso. “What’re you looking at?”

He stared at her with unblinking eyes.

“Down!”

Ignoring her, he set about washing himself.

“Fine. Suit yourself,” she said, but petted his head.

He paid no attention.

Using a washcloth, she tried to wipe away the condensation that had collected on her mirror. When that didn’t work, she opened the window over the tub. As she did, she peered outside to the darkness and told herself there was no one lurking outside. She forced herself to remain calm, just as she had earlier on her drive home when she’d thought for a few anxious minutes that someone was following her.

Of course the delivery truck had turned off.

“Silly,” she said as she padded to the bedroom. Discovering her robe at the foot of her unmade bed, she let the towel fall to the floor and shrugged into the soft terry wrap. Back in the bathroom she stood in front of the mirror and tried to untangle her wet hair. As usual, her curls fought her, but when the mirror slowly defogged, she was able to drag her comb through her wet hair.

Again, she thought of Jase. Of course. Despite all her worries about the Denning girls, his image had chased her home. She’d replayed their conversation and tried to convince herself that her only interest in him was as a partner, someone who would help her find Selma’s daughters. She wouldn’t even go as far as saying she thought of him as a “friend,” because she didn’t really know him. She hadn’t befriended him when she was in her teens, and now she knew little about him aside from what he’d divulged.

Who knew how much of that information was true and how much was, if not fiction, an edited version of his life, a whitewashed story molded to gain her trust?

And that was a big part of the problem.

Her inability to trust.