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into hiring her as a model for his next show. Her hair, thick and short and impossibly black, trimmed to her ears and swept back from a broad brow by an impatient hand, was nothing a trendy New York stylist couldn't improve upon with a hacksaw. Her clothes, white T-shirt, faded jeans, a worn brown leather belt, thin white ankle socks, black-and-white tennis shoes, were so unselfconsciously nondescript as to be almost characterless.
     
    The scar, a thin rope of pale, knotted skin that bisected her throat almost literally from ear to ear, could not by any stretch of the imagination be called arousing. If anything, one look at that, one listen to the rusted voice that throat produced ought to have a sensible man beating feet in the opposite direction at once, if not sooner.
     
    Instead, when she smiled at him, a wide, knowing smile that revealed a set of healthy white teeth whose incisors seemed to him to be noticeably longer than they had been the last time he'd seen them, he had an inexplicable desire to fall to his knees and bare his throat and let her suck right out of him the last drop of any bodily fluid he had on offer.
     
    Maybe it was the way her hips moved beneath the denim, or the way the knit fabric outlined her breasts, or the way her hands curled slightly at her sides, as if in anticipation. Maybe it was the way she moved, a smooth, confident fusion of muscle and bone that did a good job of hiding the strength, the quickness, and the agility latent beneath.
     
    He'd known other women who exuded sex. He'd known other women who had been able to slay men with a single smile.
     
    Kate smiled at him now. "Hey, Jim," she said, and the two words ran like a rasp right up his spine to the base of his skull.
     
    He'd just never known one like this. Everything he had was at attention. He cleared his throat. Hormones. He was male, she was female. He'd react the same way to any woman. "Kate."
     
    He was helpless to stop the single syllable from sounding like a plea, and he watched her smile widen. Desperately, he sought for something to say. "I haven't seen you around the Park lately."
     
    She laughed, a low, intimate sound in the increasing dusk. A strand of hair fell into her face and she tucked it behind an ear, holding his eyes all the while. "Is that what you came to tell me?" She took a step closer. "Have you been missing me?"
     
    "No," he said, "no, not at all. I've been too busy to miss anybody."
     
    "Really? What with?"
     
    He tried to think of something noteworthy he'd accomplished over the summer. "Oh. Well. You know. Claim jumping. Fishing behind the markers. Hunting out of season. Rape, robbery, murder. The usual."
     
    She didn't move. She didn't look away from him, either. He started to sweat. It was getting harder and harder to remember why he'd walked away from her last May, why he'd announced an end to his ongoing pursuit, why he'd renounced his goal of getting her into his bed.
     
    It was something about love—he remembered that much. Well, he didn't love her, and he wasn't going to, wasn't going to get anywhere near it, or her, damn it.
     
    Johnny Morgan, elbows on the railing, watched from the deck. It was pitiful, was what it was. Here was this tiny little woman, couldn't weigh 120 pounds wringing wet, facing down this big, strong, good-looking guy, an Alaska state trooper no less, a man accustomed to command, a man who hunted down criminals and brought them to justice, a man to whom Park rats of every age, culture, and occupation looked to lay down the law of the land. He had to be at least six two, although the Mountie hat he used to wear had made him look even taller than that, and he had to weigh two hundred pounds easy, although the bristling arsenal of badges and guns and epaulets and handcuffs and nightsticks added heft. He was good-looking, too, with heavy dark blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and strong features—jaw, cheekbones, nose. He didn't look like a wimp, and if half of the