Curled up on the sofa in a soft pale blue robe with a satin collar that her mother had given her for Christmas, Sam absently brushed her damp hair while she rewatched the videotape she'd made of Mack's statement to the press outside the apartment building, and then Mayor Edelman's statement, which followed an hour after Mack's.

Mack had obviously managed to persuade the mayor that Michael Valente was innocent and that the mayor needed to distance himself from Trumanti immediately. Smiling, she watched Edelman make his statement again: "The investigation into Logan Manning's death reached a sad, but final conclusion tonight when Lieutenant Mitchell McCord and his team interrupted Jane Sebring's attempt to murder Mrs. Manning at Mrs. Manning's apartment," Edelman said. "Before Miss Sebring fired her weapon at the police who'd entered the apartment, apparently she admitted to murdering Logan Manning, as well as psychiatrist Dr. Sheila Winters, whose body was discovered this afternoon in her office. According to the police they returned Miss Sebring's fire, and she died instantly."

The first and only question Mayor Edelman took after his brief statement was the inevitable one about Michael Valente's involvement. To that, the mayor replied emphatically, "Michael Valente had nothing whatsoever to do with Logan Manning's death. He was, however, responsible for assisting Lieutenant McCord's team in the investigation, and it is my clear understanding that, tonight, Mr. Valente risked his own life to save Mrs. Manning's life when shots were being fired.

"Tomorrow morning, my office will institute an investigation into all prior charges brought against Michael Valente by the City of New York. I have asked Lieutenant McCord to head up that investigation, and I'm awaiting his decision. In the meantime, I have asked for—and received—the resignation of Commissioner William Trumanti, effective immediately.

"My office will have no further statements to make on this subject until the investigation is completed. However, at this time, I am already in possession of enough information to ascertain that an apology is owed to Michael Valente for some grievous injustices done to him in the name of ' justice.' When I campaigned for this office, I promised the citizens of New York City that I would take a hard line against misuse of power and privilege by city officials at all levels, and I'm making good on that promise tonight."

Sam pressed the rewind button, rewound the tape all the way, and then watched Mack making his much shorter and, typically, more direct statement to the press outside the Mannings' apartment building. He was brusque, and so lethally, ruggedly handsome that she thought the mayor seemed insignificant and puny in comparison.

Clad in his leather jacket and open-collared black shirt, Mack looked straight at the cameras and said what he had to say: "Jane Sebring was shot and killed in the Mannings' apartment tonight while she was attempting to murder Mrs. Leigh Manning. Before her death, Miss Sebring implicated herself in the murders of Logan Manning and Dr. Sheila Winters. Two of Mrs. Manning's employees were more fortunate. Joseph O'Hara and Hilda Brunner were taken to the hospital a short while ago and are expected to make a full recovery."

He paused, waiting for the excited reporters to grow completely silent; then he said, "Throughout our investigation, Michael Valente was incorrectly targeted and treated as a primary suspect. Despite that, tonight he aided us in our investigation; then he risked his own life to save the life of Mrs. Manning, and in so doing, he may well have saved the lives of those of us who were present during the exchange of gunshots. I understand the mayor is preparing a statement regarding Mr. Valente, which he will make shortly. In the meantime, I would like to express my gratitude for Mr. Valente's assistance… and my admiration for his unbelievable forbearance." Finished, he looked up at the crowd and said, "I have time for three questions and no more."

"Lieutenant McCord," a reporter shouted, "are you trying to tell us that Michael Valente should never have been a suspect in Logan Manning's murder?"

Sam giggled at Mack's quick, incisive response. Instead of answering, Mack looked at his audience and said with amused disgust, "Does anyone have an intelligent question?"

"Exactly what was Michael Valente's involvement in Manning's murder?" another reporter yelled.

"Does anyone here know the definition of 'intelligent'?" Mack countered. "Last question," he warned.

"Lieutenant McCord," a woman's voice called, "would you care to speculate on the current relationship between Michael Valente and Leigh Manning?"

Mack's grin was lazy, baffled, and mocking. "Can you think of any reason on earth why I would care to do that?"

With that, he moved away from the microphones and strode off through the crowd, his broad shoulders clearing a path through the crush of reporters, photographers, and onlookers.

Sam pressed the rewind button again while she contemplated this recent proof that Mack did not suffer fools lightly. Her smile faded a little as she wondered if he was perhaps equally intolerant and unforgiving of a subordinate—namely, her—who'd knowingly circumvented his wishes tonight by telling Shrader and Womack the details of the Trumanti-Valente issue.

She was still wondering uneasily about that when the buzzer at her apartment door rang. It had to be Mack, she thought as she raced through the living room. Her doorman would have stopped anyone without a badge and insisted on phoning her first before letting someone up to Sam's apartment.

Forgetting that she was wearing a robe, she glanced out the peephole while she unlocked her apartment door; then she yanked it open.

Mack was standing there, his right hand braced high against the doorframe, his expression as enigmatic as his opening remark. "Don't you normally check to see who's standing out here before you open your door?"

"I knew it was you," Sam explained.

"Good, because I'd hate to think you open your door to just anyone wearing—" His gaze dipped to the expanse of smooth bare skin above her satin lapels. "—that."

Sam self-consciously pulled the lapels closer over her breasts and tightened the belt. "It's a robe," she explained foolishly and defensively. Then she smiled at her own absurdity and stepped back. "Would you like to come in?" she asked, certain that he would say yes.

"No," he said.

Sam looked at him in surprise. "Then why are you here? "

He took his hand down from the doorframe, and she saw her cell phone in his palm. "I came to return this," he said evenly. "And also to make sure you were doing all right after—what happened tonight."

Sam wasn't certain whether he was referring to what happened to Jane Sebring or to his attitude toward her after she told Shrader and Womack about Trumanti. She studied him in silence, wondering why all her expertise on males never worked when Mack was involved. The Manning case was over, therefore, they could begin, but evidently Mack wanted to rethink the matter—or else he wanted to nurse a grudge for what she'd done. Or else he was simply exhausted from an incredibly long, stressful day. Whatever the case, she gave him the only answer she felt was appropriate: "I'm fine," she assured him, taking her cell phone from his outstretched hand, but she gave conversation one last try. "I saw your interview and the mayor's statement," she said softly, smiling. "It looks like you've won your battle with city hall already."

He nodded, his gaze shifting momentarily to the hair spilling over her shoulder; then he stepped back away from the door. "That's the way it looks," he agreed.

Mentally, Sam decided to let the unpredictable male in her hall walk away and the hell with being in love with him, so she was understandably startled when she heard herself say, "Are you angry with me for telling Shrader and Womack about what Trumanti did?"

"I was," he admitted, "earlier."

That did it. Sam never lost her temper—except with him. Folding her arms over her chest, she leaned against the doorframe. "Then it's just as well we never got started, Mack, because there's something about me you don't know."

"What's that?"

"I have a brain," she informed him. "Every morning when I wake up, it wakes up, too, and starts working. I don't know why, but it just does. Since you had not specifically ordered me never to tell Shrader and Womack about Trumanti, my brain decided tonight—rightly or wrongly—that it was the correct thing to do. I'm sorry," she said, feeling suddenly sick and eager to retreat to her apartment. "I really am. Thanks for coming by and returning this—" She waggled the cell phone in her hand, smiled to show him that she wasn't upset; then she stepped back into the apartment and started to close the door.

He stopped it with his hand. "Now let me ask you a question. In fact, I have two questions to ask you. First, by any chance, are you upset because I'm not coming in?"

"No," Sam lied emphatically.

"Good," he retorted. "Because I am trying my damndest to live up to the spirit of the bargain I made with you yesterday. I gave you until the Manning case was over to decide if you wanted to be with me, but I never imagined it would be over so soon. And while I'm on the subject, I think that after what happened between us last night, your remark just now that 'it's just as well we never got started' was either heartlessly flippant or else it was a final decision. Which was it?" he demanded shortly.

Sam felt an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh hysterically because she could not seem to maintain a grasp on what was happening.

"I'm waiting for an answer, Sam."

"In that case," she replied, "I would have to pick 'heartlessly flippant.' "

His jaw relaxed a little. "Don't do it again," he warned.

"Don't give me orders, Lieutenant," she shot back smoothly. "Not on personal matters. You said you had two questions; what was your second question?"

"Are you naked under that robe?"

Sam blinked at him, more disconcerted and more amused than ever. "Yes. And what possible difference does that make?"

He shook his head and backed up a step. "I can't believe you can ask me that. Last night, I barely managed to keep things under control when I had several imperative reasons to stop. Now I have none of those reasons except that we had a bargain, and I intend to keep it. Take your time deciding about us, Sam, and when you've made up your mind, then you can invite me in."

"Is that all?" Sam asked dryly, "or do you have any other orders to give me?"

"One," he said. "The next time you invite me in when you're wearing a robe, you'd better be damned sure you want me to stay." His gaze dipped to her lips, dropped to the shallow cleft above the crossed lapels of her robe; then he lifted his smoldering gaze to hers and shook his head. "I'm going home now, while I'm still fit to drive."

Sam finally, completely, understood what he was saying… and doing. The look she gave him back was every bit as warmly intimate as his had been, and it was just as deliberate. "Good night," she said softly, biting her bottom lip to hold back her smile. "I'll let you know when I've made up my mind and I'm ready to invite you in, Mack," she promised sweetly, closing the door.

Holding her cell phone in her hand, Sam pressed the numbers for his cell phone, but not the button that would make the call go through and his phone vibrate. She waited more than a full minute to do that… long enough for him to have taken the elevator down to the lobby… then she pressed the send button on her phone.

He answered almost instantly with his name, his deep voice clipped and businesslike. "McCord."

"Mack?"

"Yes?"

"I've made up my mind."

"Open your door."

Sam turned the knob; then she stepped back in shock. He was standing exactly as he'd been when she opened the door the last time—with his hand braced high on the doorframe, only this time he was holding his own cell phone in his hand. He wasn't laughing; he was looking at her intently, and Sam felt her voice shake at the enormity of what he was telling her solemnly with his eyes.

"Would you like to come in?" she asked unsteadily.

His arm dropped from the doorframe. He nodded slowly, twice.

Sam stepped back. He stepped forward.

He closed the door. She opened her robe and let it slide to the floor.

His burning gaze followed it down; then he pulled her tightly into his arms. "You just ran out of time, Sam," he warned, his lips slowly lowering to hers.

"Time for what?" she whispered, sliding her hands over his shoulders and around his neck.

"To change your mind about us."

"I'll never change it," she promised him achingly—a moment before she lost the ability to use her mind at all.

IN the hospital waiting room, Michael stood in front of the television set, his hands shoved into his pants pockets, watching the rerun of McCord's brief press conference on the late-night news: "I understand the mayor is preparing a statement regarding Mr. Valente, which he will make shortly," McCord said. "In the meantime, I would like to express my gratitude for Mr. Valente's assistance… and my admiration for his unbelievable forbearance."

Beside him, Leigh slipped her hand through his arm and smilingly said, "I think we should send him and Samantha Littleton tickets to the play next week, and then take them out to dinner, don't you?"

"In Paris," Michael agreed with a chuckle.