I was distracted by a blur of color on the other side of the translucent, soap-slicked shower curtain. The blur moved and my heart momentarily stopped dead in my chest. Someone was in my bathroom. The shock was numbing. I stood statue still for a few beats without a thought in my head. Then I remembered Ramirez, and my stomach rolled. Ramirez could have come back. He could have talked the super into giving him a key, or he could have come in through a window. God only knows what Ramirez was capable of doing.

I'd brought my pocketbook into the bathroom, but it was out of reach on the vanity counter.

The intruder crossed the room in two strides and ripped the shower curtain off the rod with such force the plastic loops at the top popped off and scattered. I screamed and blindly threw the shampoo bottle, cowering back against the wall tiles.

It wasn't Ramirez. It was Joe Morelli. He had the curtain bunched in one hand; the other hand curled into a fist. A welt was forming on his forehead where the bottle had made contact. He was beyond angry, and I wasn't so sure gender was going to keep me from getting a broken nose. Fine with me. I was spoiling for a fight. Who did this yodel think he was, first scaring me half to death and then wrecking my shower curtain.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shrieked. "Haven't you ever heard of a goddamn doorbell? How did you get in here?"

"You left your bedroom window open."

"The screen was locked."

"Screens don't count."

"If you've ruined that screen I'll expect you to pay for it. And what about this shower curtain? Shower curtains don't grow on trees, you know." I'd lowered the volume on my voice, but the pitch was still a full octave higher than normal. In all honesty, I hadn't any idea what I was saying. My mind was racing down uncharted roads of fury and panic. I was furious that he'd violated my privacy, and I was panicked that I was naked.

Under the right circumstances naked is fine—taking showers, making love, being born. Standing naked and dripping wet in front of Joe Morelli, who was completely clothed, was the stuff nightmares are made of.

I shut the water off and grabbed at a towel, but Morelli slapped my hand away and threw the towel onto the floor behind him.

"Give me that towel," I demanded.

"Not until we've gotten a few things straightened out."

As a kid, Morelli'd been out of control. I'd reached the conclusion that as an adult Morelli had control in spades. The Italian temper was clear in his eyes, but the amount of violence displayed was tightly calculated. He was wearing a black rain-drenched T-shirt and jeans. When he twisted toward the towel rack I could see the gun stuck into his jeans at the small of his back.