He had heard the section of D.C. mentioned from time to time and thought he remembered that it was a poor part of the city—mostly blacks and Hispanics. But he had no idea exactly where it was. There was a map in his desk. If there was time after examining Drew, perhaps he could take a ride there and familiarize himself with the bridge and the area beneath it. A final examination of the photograph and he turned toward the examining room.

Alison Cromartie, dressed for work in slacks, a light blue blouse, and a navy blazer, was leaning against the door frame, wearing a pair of rubber gloves.

"Hi," she said.

Until he heard his voice, Gabe wasn't certain he'd be able to speak. It felt as if his heart had stopped.

"Hi yourself," he managed. "I . . . loved your song."

"Thanks. When I was younger, and thinking about a career in show business, I used to moonlight singing in various disreputable places—sort of a low-rent lounge lizard. Now, I still love singing, but mostly it's in the shower."

The image of that was almost more than Gabe could handle. He struggled to remind himself that this was someone who had been placed in the medical unit to spy and to deceive, and who had almost certainly stolen the bloods he had drawn.

"You're here early," he said.

"Not really. I always come in about now to straighten up and see if anything needs ordering. Speaking of straightening up—" She went onto her tiptoes and adjusted his tie. "My daddy wore ties all the time—all kinds."

"Well, it's pretty obvious that I don't," he replied, dizzy as he had been that first night from the closeness of her.

She moved back to survey her handiwork, but only half a step.

"I didn't think you were on duty today," she said.

"I . . . I'm not. I have an appointment that will take up most of the day. I just came in to . . . pick up some papers and check in on The Man and the First Lady before I leave."

Alison lifted her hands between them, slowly pulled off the gloves, and flipped them into the leather waste can by his desk. Although there was no sense that she meant it to be, the mundane gesture was at once sensual and incredibly sexy. Even more sensual were her dark eyes, which never left his.

Gabe felt an exquisitely unpleasant fullness in his throat. This wasn't like the other instances when they had been together—not even the first time. The connection he was sensing between them was far more intense and mesmerizing. He felt at once consumed by the need to touch her—to hold her—and as awkward as a teen at his first dance.

"You want to sing some more?" he ventured.

"Some other time, maybe, you can have a command performance."