She tugged it on, then whipped around to the doorway. For a moment, she had thought he was there, had been sure of it. Then she realized it was his scent, clinging still to the shirt that was now brushing softly against her skin.

What was that fragrance, exactly? Experimentally she lifted her arm to sniff the sleeve. Nothing she could quite pinpoint.

Something wild, erotic. Something you'd expect to catch just a whiff of in the forest in the dark of the moon.

Annoyed with herself, she pulled on her jeans. If this kept up, she'd actually start believing in witches.

After rolling the sleeves of the borrowed shirt up to her elbows, she went to investigate the galley. She helped herself to a banana, ignored a jar of caviar and tossed some ham and cheese on a piece of bread.

"Got any mustard?" she called out, then swallowed a gasp when she felt his body bump against hers. He'd made no more sound than a ghost.

He reached over her head for a jar and handed it to her. "Want some wine?"

"I guess." She slathered mustard on the bread, wishing there was a little more room to maneuver away from him in the small space. "I borrowed a shirt. Okay?"

"Sure." He poured her wine and topped off his own glass. "You rested well."

"Yeah, well, it helps the time pass." The plane danced in some turbulence. His hand came down to steady her and stayed on her arm. "The pilot said there'd be a few bumps." Testing both of them, he rubbed his thumb over the inside of her elbow. The pulse there was fast and steady. "We'll be starting our descent soon."

She lifted her face to his. Studying him, she felt what she had felt in the desert. The beginning of something. Mel wondered if she'd be less restless if she were able to see the end as well.

"Then we'd better sit down. And strap in."

"I'll take your wine."

With a long breath of relief, she picked up her plate and followed him. As she dug happily into the sandwich, she noticed him smiling at her. "Problem?"

"I was just thinking that I really do owe you an actual meal."

"You don't owe me." She took a sip of wine, and then, because it was so different, so delightfully different, from what she was used to, she sipped again. "I like paying my own way."

"I've noticed."

Mel tilted her head. "Some guys are intimidated by that."

"Really?" A smile played around his lips. "I'm not. Still, after we're finished, maybe you'd agree to dinner. A celebration of a job well done."

"Maybe," she said over a mouthful of sandwich. "We can flip to see who buys."

"Lord, you are charming." He chuckled and stretched out his legs, pleased she'd chosen the seat facing him rather than the one beside him. Now he could look his fill when she was awake. "Why private investigations?"

"Hmmm?"

His lips curved again. "It's time I asked, don't you think? What made you choose your profession?''

"I like to figure things out." She moved her shoulders and started to rise to take her empty plate away. But he stood up and took it into the galley himself.

"It's that simple?"

"I believe in the rules." The seats were roomy, so she tucked her legs up and crossed them. She was comfortable, she realized. Refreshed from the nap, and from a surge of hope that had yet to fade. Easy in his company. Well, she supposed, anything was possible.

"And I think when you break the rules somebody should make you pay for it." She felt the subtle shift and change in the cabin as the plane began its descent into Atlanta. "I also like to figure things out—by myself. That's why I only made a pretty good cop but I make a really good PI."

"So, you're not a team player."

"Nope." She cocked her head. "Are you?"

"No." He smiled into his wine. "I suppose not." Then, abruptly, his eyes were intense again, focused on her. Into her, she thought. "But rules often change, Mel. The lines between right and wrong sometimes blur. When that happens, how do you choose?"

"By knowing what things shouldn't change, what lines can't be blurred—or crossed. You just feel it."

"Yeah." With that sudden flash of power banked again, he nodded. "You just feel it."

"It has nothing to do with being psychic." She thought she understood just where he was leading her. She wasn't ready to give him quite that much rope. "I don't go in for visions second sight or whatever you call it."

He lifted his glass in toast. "But you're here, aren't you?"

Her eyes remained level. If he expected her to squirm, he'd be disappointed. "Yeah, I'm here, Donovan. I'm here because I won't risk not following up any lead—no matter how slim, or how weird."

He continued smiling. "And?"

"And because maybe I'm willing to consider that you might have seen or felt something. Or maybe you just had a good gut hunch. I believe in hunches."

"So do I, Mel." The plane bumped down on the runaway. "So do I."

It was always difficult to turn over the reins to another. Mel didn't mind cooperating with local authorities or the FBI, but she preferred doing it on her own terms. For David's sake, she had to bite her tongue a dozen times during the interview with Federal Agent Thomas A. Devereaux.

"I have reports on you, Mr. Donovan. Several, in fact, from associates of mine who consider you not only trustworthy but something of a wonder."

Mel thought Sebastian sat in the small, beige-toned office like a king at his court. He responded to Devereaux's statement with a slight nod.

"I've been involved in a few federal investigations."

"Most recently in Chicago," Devereaux said, flipping through a file. "A bad mess up there. A pity we couldn't stop it sooner."

"Yes." It was all Sebastian would say. Not all of those images had faded.

"And you, Ms. Sutherland." Devereaux rubbed his round, bald head, then poked a finger at the nosepiece of his glasses. "The local authorities in California seem to find you competent enough."

"I can sleep easy now." She ignored Sebastian's warning glance and leaned forward. "Can we bypass the introductions, Agent Devereaux? I have friends back in California who are desperate. David Merrick's only a few miles away—"