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with my virtue, or at least my reputation with a potential employee, we could call it even when he learned what happened in the chief’s office this morning.
    “I’m sure you’re right,” I capitulated, tucking away my annoyance and the leverage I’d just gained for later use.   “Let’s not keep Mr. Dawson on pins and needles any longer.”
    Hobbs hummed his agreement without looking up and didn’t appear to notice how easily I let the subject drop.   I’d learned a long time ago that this business required frequent compromise, give and take.   If you didn’t have the ammunition you needed, you usually got taken.   I preferred to remain armed and ready at all times.   Taking was a hell of a lot more fun than giving.
    I walked over to my office door, summoned my most professional demeanor, opened it and stepped inside.   The future of my agency depended upon my ability to hire a good, solid investigator.   As independent as I was, I recognized that it took two to draw in the necessary cash flow.   I needed a partner I could count on.
    “I apologize for keeping you waiting, Mr. Dawson.”   I strode to my desk and turned to face him.   “I’m Jackie Mercer.”   I offered my hand as he pushed out of his chair.
    His gaze collided with mine and in that instant I froze like a fan who’d just ran headlong into her favorite big screen movie star.   To say he caught me by surprise would be like saying Gandhi was a nice guy.   Derrick Dawson put the ooo in ooo la la .
    He smiled—my knees went a little weak—and then he closed his hand around mine.   “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Mercer.”
    I’m forty-five years old.   I was married for fifteen years, been divorced for ten.   I have a son, probably not much younger than this guy, in college.   All of which is precisely why I refused to acknowledge the jolt that went through me as he gave my hand a firm squeeze before letting go.
    Forcing myself to analyze rather than fantasize, I’d been right about his height.   Six one or two with broad shoulders.   The navy Ralph Lauren sports jacket looked good with the faded denim of his jeans.   The way that worn soft cotton hugged him had me starting to sweat all over again.   A plain white T-shirt that contoured to the terrain beneath and polished leather boots completed the look.   All he needed was a hat and a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate and he’d be ready to do a little shit kickin’ at the Ice House on Friday night.
    I recovered some measure of my composure and spackled the smile back on my face.   “Have a seat, Mr. Dawson.”   I started around my desk.
    “Most people just call me Dawson,” he said in that deep male voice that sent goosebumps frog leaping one over the other on my skin.
    Wrestling aside my foolish adolescent reaction to the guy, I settled into my chair and pretended to review his application.   No wonder Hobbs had gotten all giddy.   Dawson was an absolute hunk.   Killer blue eyes and the kind of chiseled profile that would make a nun hard pressed to stick to her vows.   He was actor material all right.   Even in his heyday, Brad Pitt had nothing on this guy.   I mentally sighed and noted the third strike against my only candidate for the vacancy I needed desperately to fill—too sexy.
    “Dawson,” I allowed, cramming all the businesslike tone I could into my voice, “what made you decide to leave New York and your work in homicide there?”   I opted not to ask about the acting sideline.   Though on second thought, the skill was actually more relevant than one would think in this business.   Assuming alternate identities and putting on an act comes second nature to a good PI.   I figured I should give him a break on strike two, which left him one last chance.
    He shrugged, one of those nonchalant gestures that could mean anything or nothing at all but gorgeous guys like him had down to an exact science.   “The truth?” he asked,