“I don’t feel safe living where I live,” she lied baldly. It wasn’t as if she could possibly get caught and tried for what she was planning to do, she reassured herself. In order to establish murder, one had to have not only a weapon but a body. And since nobody but her could actually see the body-to-be, voilà—no crime. Besides, it was self-defense, through and through.

“Take a karate course.”

She rolled her eyes. “And what do I do for the next however-many-years it takes before I manage to become remotely proficient at that?”

He shrugged. “Make your boyfriend move in.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend anymore,” she said peevishly.

He didn’t look at all surprised. “Probably because you work so much, Gabby. I bet he got sick of you being married to your job. I would. You know”—he glanced around and cautiously lowered his voice—“Jeff wouldn’t push you around so much if he didn’t know you’d take it. He knows you’ll spend the whole weekend researching the Rollins case. He knows you’ll bust butt trying to prove yourself. And what’s he planning to do this weekend, you ask? I’ll tell you. I overheard him making plans this morning to meet some buddies and spend the weekend golfing at Hilton Head. He’ll be out catching some rays, drinking some beer. While you sit here in your—”

“All right, already,” Gabby bristled, temper spiking. But first things first: one dastardly fairy out of the way, then she’d deal with Jeff Staller and his sneaky little golfing plans. “This is not about me, or my ex-boyfriend, or our boss. This is only about where I can get a gun.”

“You’re scaring me. And I’m not telling you.” Jay turned back around, nose to his computer screen.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ll just look in the phone book if you won’t help me.”

“Fine. Then I can’t be implicated as any sort of accomplice.”

Law students could be such sticks-in-the-mud about potential liability issues, Gabby thought, sniffing, as she turned back around to her desk.

And gritted her teeth. Adam Black was perched on the low, half-wall of her cubicle, clad in leather pants again—these a deep charcoal and positively buttery-soft-looking, and her gaze got stuck on them for a moment—white T-shirt stretched across his massive chest, and yet another pair of expensive-looking slate-gray suede boots. He was holding the Yellow Pages in one big hand. His black hair spilled in a shimmering fall of silk to his waist, with a plait swinging at each temple. Merely looking at him made her mouth go dry, her palms sweaty. Made every hormone in her body leap to quivering, delighted attention.

“Is it to be war between us, then, ka-lyrra?” he said softly.

Snatching the phone book from his hand, she hissed, “It already is. It has been since the moment you invaded my life.”

“What?” Jay said behind her.

“Nothing,” she tossed over her shoulder.

“It doesn’t have to be, Irish. Things could be good between us.” Hand still outstretched, he captured a silky fall of her hair, sliding it between his fingers. His eyes narrowed, darkening with desire. “I like your hair down. You should wear it this way more often. Masses of silky stuff for a man to bury his hands in.” He made a soft purring noise deep in his throat that was so erotic it made her nipples tighten. Dropping from his perch atop the half-wall, he sat back on the edge of her desk, facing her, legs splayed on either side of her chair. It put her at eye level with his groin, with a heavy swollen leather-clad bulge that simply could not be missed.

Jerking her gaze to his face, she hissed, “You’re not a man, you’re a thing.”

Oh, who was she trying to convince?

It just wasn’t humanly possible for a woman to look at Adam Black and call him an “it.” It was wearing her out, trying to. Diverting her attention from larger issues, like figuring out how to get rid of him. Give it up, O’Callaghan, she told herself, exasperated. It’s hardly worth the effort, considering how consistently you’re failing. Devote the effort to better causes. Causes you might succeed at.

“And it’s only down,” she continued frostily, not about to miss an opportunity to air her backed-up grievances; it had been such a sucky morning, “because you were hogging the upstairs bathroom, and I couldn’t get my hair dryer or any of my clips. I couldn’t even get my toothbrush. And you ran me out of hot water.” She’d showered downstairs (hastily and with the door locked—as if that were much of a barrier against a being that could “sift place”—still, it had given her an illusion of security, and Gabby was willing to settle for illusion, being that her reality was so depressing) in water that had raised chill bumps all over her skin. Then she’d tugged on panty hose and a suit, reluctantly skipped breakfast, and dashed out, determined to avoid him for as long as possible.