“I’m not,” he said quietly. “I think you’re fabulous. I want to be with you all the time. You’re beautiful and smart and tough and vulnerable and sweet and a fantastic kisser and you have the prettiest breasts I’ve ever—”

“Stop it! You don’t know me, you don’t know anything about me now let me go .”

He did and slowly got to his feet. But she had lost the urge to flee. “There’s something else I know about you,” he said. “You’re scared shitless, but I’ll be damned if I know what could scare you .”

Complete rejection for a start. Being left alone…again. She pushed the thought away. “Jared, I’ve told you this before. If you knew me, knew who I really was—what I’ve done, the things I’ve—you wouldn’t like me. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere near me.” She shuddered. “Sometimes I can’t stand to be in my own skin.”

He yawned. She gaped. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a real badass, worse than Manson and Bundy put together.”

Shocked, she opened her mouth to say…what, she didn’t know, but he never gave her a chance. “Hey, you don’t have to tell me a damned thing about yourself if you don’t want to. Like you’ve said, this is business, right? That’s assuming you don’t have feelings for me. Which I would have believed before you let me put my hands all over your luscious bod.”

“That’s not—”

“You weren’t faking, any more than I was—you feel the same thing I do. The connection. The heat.” He poked her in the chest, an umpire making a point to the pitcher. “Difference is, I’m willing to admit it.

You’ve been running away from it for days. So which one of us is the fearless bodyguard and which of us is the coward?” He sighed, while she stared at him, stunned. “Too bad, so sad. I didn’t think you were scared of anything or anyone. So disappointing to be wrong about people you care about.”

Kara forced her fist to unclench. It’s not nice to punch doctors, no matter how outrageously provocative their comments, she reminded herself. “You don’t know anything,” she snapped. “And you don’t care about me.”

They were nose to nose, or as close as they could get, as she was a head shorter. “Don’t tell me how I feel,” he growled. “You’re fabulous, dammit and that’s the end of it.”

“You don’t even know me.” Her voice cracked with desperation. “Jared, if you knew what I did for a living, the things I had to do to survive, you wouldn’t feel this way.”

His finger came to rest on the tip of her nose. He didn’t smile. “Prove it.”

There was a long silence and then she said it, ignoring the way her heart was pounding crazily, the way her head was screaming ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?

“You got it, Dr. Dean.”

* * * * *

“Uh. Kara.”

“Shhhhh.”

“Kara. This isn’t my house. Or yours.”

“No talking.”

“So this is breaking and entering.”

“Well, yes. Technically.”

“Technically?” he nearly shouted, then remembered he didn’t want to go to jail and lowered his voice.

“We’re standing inside a house the size of the Playboy Mansion—”

She snickered. “That’s not far off.”

“—and I don’t even want to know how you cracked that lock. Now there’s little red lasers all over the living room, starting about two feet from where we’re standing…”

“It’s the security system. Don’t walk in there yet.”

“Duh,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “And now you’re futzing with the alarm. Do you think they’ll let me kiss you goodbye before they cart me off to the local hoosegow?”

She ignored him, simply popped the cover off the alarm plate and hooked up a small silver box, about the size of an ATM card. She crossed a few wires, then numbers started to stream across the digital display. A few seconds later, the lasers shut off.

“Cake,” she said, brushing by him. “Don’t touch anything.”

“Thanks. Maybe you should remind me to keep breathing and any other obvious advice you can think of.” He followed her nervously. Prove it, he’d said and she had taken him right up on it. Your own fault, moron .

He’d suspected nothing when she drove them to the house. Hell, he hadn’t even noticed they’d left his own modest neighborhood for the much more pretentious Carleton area, where mansions were as plentiful as street lamps. He’d spent the drive trying to figure out a way to prove to her that her past and her current activities didn’t change the way he felt about her. Hell, her past had shaped the woman he was falling in love with. Far from scaring him off, it just made him feel closer to her.

He was close to her right now, in fact. So close he could have strangled her, which he felt like doing.

This was big-time trouble if they were caught. They were both looking at prison terms for the evening’s exercise, all so Kara could prove she was a criminal sociopath.

“I thought you said we were going hacking,” he muttered, following her through the mansion. “I pictured us in a cozy computer room somewhere, pressing buttons. Not hanging around in a living room that looks like it was decorated by the director of the Guggenheim.”

“Hacking doesn’t have much to do with computers these days.” She was climbing the stairs slowly, steadily, not looking back. “It’s B&E-speak for getting into a business to steal from it.”

“But this is somebody’s house. Thirty or forty somebodies, given the size, but still...”

“It’s a business,” she said with maddening mysteriousness and wouldn’t continue, no matter how much he kept bugging her.

Although the house was empty, the owners had left several lights on, shattering another of Jared’s theories about burglaries. Kara wasn’t a twitchy junkie with a heroine habit to feed, the “breaking” of the breaking and entering took about ten seconds and nothing was broken and there were lights all over the place, so no creeping in the dark like a demented boogeyman. Jared wondered what else popular fiction had wrong about crime.

The bedroom was a joke. Something out of a bad movie…a bed the size of his kitchen, covered with a red satin comforter and about a thousand pillows. Mirrored ceiling. Dark furniture the owner’s family probably brought to America via the Mayflower . The carpet (cream shag) was so deep, he could feel himself actually sink into it. The dressers were spotless, except for one large picture of a middle-aged white male, bearded and benevolent looking, with a smile so large, it showed his back teeth. The guy looked like Santa on acid. And, if this was his house, it was kind of in bad taste to have the only photo in the bedroom be of the owner.

Bad taste, Jared thought with grim humor, sure. Almost as bad as breaking into someone’s house.

There were mirrors everywhere. It was like being trapped in a carpeted disco. Jared could see seven reflections of himself and seven Karas stepping to a mirror and doing something…and then the mirror was swinging open and…

“Jesus!”

…they were in a vault. Kara, her fingers safe in surgical gloves, was opening a drawer and withdrawing a necklace worth, he estimated, the GNP of China.

“You can’t steal that,” he said, trying to sound authoritative, but very much afraid he was whining.

She smiled at him like a cat. It was irritating, he thought, how beautiful she looked even when she was being sly. “Can’t I? If you mean I don’t have the ability, you’re wrong. If you mean my moral code won’t let me, you’re wrong. If you mean I’ll go to jail, you’re wrong again.”

“If I mean it’s rotten, I’m right. Put it back.” She moved to tuck the necklace away and he grabbed her wrist. She raised an eyebrow at him and looked pointedly at his hand, but he didn’t loosen his grip.

“Look, you’ve made your point. I see what you do now.”

“Do you?”

“You’re terrible, awful, evil, a real blight on society, I should have listened to you back at the apartment, blah-blah. But don’t steal from these folks just to prove me wrong.”

“Open the last drawer on the left,” she said quietly. “Use your shirt sleeve, don’t leave prints.”

“Look, I don’t care how much jewelry they—”

She pried his fingers off her wrist. “Just open it, please, Jared.”

He did. At first his eyes wouldn’t translate what he was seeing. When they did, he blindly put his hand out for something to lean on, certain he was about to be sick. Kara was there, not letting him touch anything, letting him sag against her.

“Those men—”

“And children, yes.”

“Filthy goddamned perverts!”

“Yes and they’re having terrible luck,” she said sympathetically. He stared at her; she sounded genuinely sorry for them. “The film from their last drop-off was intercepted by the cops. And now they’ve been robbed. When the cops come, they’ll find…this.”

In a flash, he saw her brilliance, saw the trap she had lain for the pedophiles. “The police can’t search without a warrant,” he said slowly, “but if there’s a robbery…and they happen to find pictures, say, all over the hallway…” He paused. “But you’re never caught.”

She grinned at him. “We’re going to trip the alarm on the way out. Cops’ll be here in about five minutes.” She opened another drawer full of filth and waved a spare pair of surgical gloves at him. “Want to help?”

* * * * *

“That was fun,” he said half an hour later, feeling more deeply satisfied than he ever had. Saving lives was fabulous, but preventing the further brutalization of children was even better. “Now where are we? Is it time for ice cream?”