The thought startled her, but she forged ahead, giggling quietly, trying to imagine what all that hot muscle would feel like under the flat of her palms, what it would feel like to have a man his size press his hard weight into her, wrap his arms around her waist, take her.

She breathed deep, then exhaled slowly.

Her reaction to Thomas Tobin was perfectly understandable-he was just different, that was all. Aaron was slim and wiry and dark and for most of her adult life that's what Emma equated with sex-Aaron's whipcord body, his efficient, medium-sized package of maleness, his quick, light movements and charming smile.

Of course that's why Thomas Tobin fascinated her so. He was everything Aaron was not. He was golden and broad and brooding and looked like he could pick her up, toss her over one shoulder, and carry her away to his cave, where he'd ignore her feeble protests, pin her against the nearest flat surface and…

Whoa! Emma shot up out of the rocking chair like she'd been launched from a catapult, the cotton gown falling below her knees.

What time was it? Who in God's name would be calling her at this hour? What the hell was she doing nearly grooming the poodle on the front porch?

What if Leelee had seen her? What kind of example was she setting? Hadn't the poor kid seen enough?

Emma grabbed the portable phone in the hallway and took it back outside where she wouldn't wake anyone.

"Hello?" She was aware she sounded out of breath and somewhat annoyed.

"Dr. Jenkins. I'm very sorry to disturb you so late, but-"

And before she could stop herself, she heard the words slide out of her mouth: "Well, hello there, Thomas Tobin."

Emma winced, aware that she'd just committed a major error. Was there any logical, work-related reason why she'd remember the sound of his voice?

No.

Was there any reason for her to say his name like that, in a sigh and a whisper, unless she'd just been rubbing her hand along the inside of her left thigh while picturing him in a Conan the Barbarian loincloth?

No. And he'd know that immediately. And she could just see him on the other end of the line, one eye narrowed, his mouth drawn in a severe line of displeasure.

So when she heard him laugh-granted it was just a short spurt-she was shocked.

"You got ESP or something?"

Emma forced herself to take advantage of the opening. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Tobin, in a way, I do. It just so happens that I was dreaming about your dog… uh… "

"You were dreaming about Hairy?"

"That's right. Hairy."

After a pause, Thomas said, "Do you dream about weird little dogs a lot, Dr. Jenkins?"

Only when they're owned by stud puppies like you…

"It's very common for vets to have work-related dreams," she said, trying hard to sound authoritative. "It's an outlet for stress. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Tobin? Is there something wrong with Hairy?"

It suddenly occurred to her that he couldn't possibly know her home number. It was unlisted and she only gave patients her answering service number-for precisely this reason.

"And how in the world did you get my home number?"

"Oh. Under the circumstances, I didn't think you'd mind that I… uh… had a friend find your number."

What kind of friend had access to unpublished numbers in the middle of the night? What were the circumstances? Emma was waiting.

"It's Hairy. He's been having trouble breathing for a couple hours now and I'm not exactly sure how serious it is or what I should do, but it seems to be getting worse."

Emma straightened to attention. It was possible the dog was having a reaction to the medications she'd prescribed-not likely, but always possible. "Describe his breathing right now, Mr. Tobin, and tell me exactly when and how it started."

Emma listened to Thomas's description of a night of cards and cigars and she found herself relaxing. "Who is your primary veterinarian again?"

"I don't have one."

"What? Well, I'm a behaviorist, Mr. Tobin, and I'm not usually on call for this kind of thing, but I agree that the dog is probably having a reaction to the smoke and it could be serious. Where do you live?"

"Federal Hill. Baltimore."

That was a good half-hour away. "There's a twenty-four-hour emergency clinic in Catonsville called VetMed. You should go right away, and be sure to keep an eye on him during the drive."

"Thank you."

"Take his medications along to show the vet, all right? I'll call ahead and meet you there."

Silence.

"Mr. Tobin?"

Thomas cleared his throat. "You're meeting us there? Why would you do that?"

That was a good question. How many times had she gone out to see a patient in the middle of the night since she and Aaron opened the practice? Exactly once: when Adolph the St. Bernard attacked his owner while she made herself a midnight snack of ham on rye.

"Hairy is my patient," she said.

More silence. "Please call me Thomas, and that's very nice of you, Dr. Jenkins."

"It's Emma, remember?"

When he finally responded, it sounded like he was in severe pain.

"All right-Emma."

Aaron Kramer sipped his whiskey and peered into the darkness of the hick bar. Even without the small changes he'd made to his appearance he would be nobody out here. Nothing. He was blissfully invisible-more than a hundred miles from home and a million miles away from his life.

Could he risk thinking that he was safe? Could he really believe that he'd gotten away with it? Could it really be that for once in his fucking life he'd gotten lucky?

It had been twelve days now since he'd killed that weasel, and the police had yet to come smashing in his door. Of all the times in his life when he'd needed luck to be on his side, this was it.

He'd take it.

The truth was, Aaron wasn't comfortable thinking of himself as a killer. It went against everything he thought he was. Sure, he had a few bad habits, but he'd never killed anyone. Scott Slick changed all that. The little faggot had gone too far.

Aaron looked around him-this place would be perfect for his purposes, if the time came. He didn't want to have to do it-and he hoped to God he wouldn't have to-but he was ready just in case.

He wasn't a stupid man, but when he lost big, he could get so angry that he couldn't think straight. If Slick had only been willing to listen to him, it wouldn't have happened. But Slick had laughed at him, told him it was out of his hands now, and Aaron got so pissed off that he reached around, grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on, and hit that little pecker in the head with it-blood everywhere, all over his new Reeboks and down the front of his shirt.

He'd had to drive out to the boonies and start a fire at the edge of a farm field, where he burned everything to a crisp.

And he'd just paid a hundred bucks for those shoes! He drained the drink and thought about leaving. He had a long drive and he'd had a lot to drink.

But the woman at the bar was still looking at him, still grinning at him, still sticking her boobs in his direction.

Why the hell not?

He got up and walked toward her. It's not like he was married anymore. Not that that had ever stopped him.