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Balkans.”
    “A lot of people pulled tours there.”
    “But not all of them led a re-supply unit through heavy enemy fire. Nor were they decorated for heroism as a result.”
    “Did you get all that from police records?”
    “No, from your official bio and the story the Daily News ran on you when you arrived. Our police computers contained only one entry from an old FI card – a field interview card,” he expanded at her look of polite query. “Seems one of our officers responded to a report of an out-of-control juvenile. According to his report, some bratty seven-year-old had bloodied the nose of one boy and blackened the eye of another.”
    A bratty-seven year old.
    Jess remembered her well. All arms and legs, toting around a chip the size of Idaho on her thin shoulders. A chip that had grown with every move and every taunt from the kids at school.
    They’d never accepted or understood her. She was always the newcomer, always the outsider. Always the scruffy kid whose mini-skirted mother raised brows each time she marched through the halls to extricate her daughter after yet another tussle.
    No wonder she and her mom had formed such a close bond. There had only been the two of them. Just her and her mother. Until Frank Blackwell. With a silent prayer of thanks for the gentle, patient garage mechanic who’d married Helen and adopted her daughter, Jess pulled her thoughts from her past to the man who kept dragging it into the present.
    “The boys were too embarrassed to admit they’d been bested by a girl,” he related, a smile tugging at his mouth, “so the incident was dropped with no further action taken.”
    The smile was potent. Too potent. Against her will, against every cannon of common sense, Jess felt a stir of sexual attraction. Evidently even a badge didn’t completely negate Sheriff Paxton’s brand of tawny hair, tanned skin, and lazy charm.
    Cursing herself for a fool, she turned her attention to the open windows. The sun was just kissing the Gulf, sandwiching a patina of gold between the darkening sky and deep emerald swells.
    Paxton ignored the magnificence outside. Swiveling his stool, he planted an elbow on the bar and leaned closer. Too close. The end of his tie drifted over Jess’s arm, raising a ripple along her nerves where the silk brushed the skin.
    “Why didn’t you mention last night that you’d lived in Choctaw Beach?”
    Deliberately, she blanked the memory of a rusted trailer mounted on cinder blocks a few miles from the half-dozen or so buildings that passed for the town of Choctaw Beach. Just as deliberately, she dragged her gaze back to his.
    “You didn’t ask and I didn’t think it was pertinent to your visit.”
    She might have carried off the careless reply if Paxton’s glance hadn’t dropped to her hands. With another silent curse, Jess saw that she was massaging the puckered flesh with her thumb. She reached for her tea to give her hands something else to do.
    “How’s the investigation into Ron Clark’s death coming?”
    “The ME confirmed the cause of death as carbon monoxide poisoning.” His long, tanned fingers stroked the frosted beer glass the bartender placed before him. “I talked to the folks at the Florida Department of Law Enforcement before I left Pensacola this afternoon. They’re ready to make a preliminary determination of suicide.”
    Relief seeped through Jess. She was searching for a noncommittal answer when she heard Paxton’s name called over the loudspeaker. He cocked his head, and Jess braced herself for the invitation she saw coming.
    “Care to join me?”
    Jess was already forming a refusal when she realized Steve Paxton might take that as a sign she had something to hide and dig deeper into her past. Better to go along, she decided. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to discover just how much he knew.
    “That depends,” she answered coolly.
    “On?”
    “On whether you’re still on duty.”
    “A cop never goes off duty.” His smile