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almost wished she’d let him get out and walk. Another five minutes so close to all that manliness, and her screaming hormones would become audible.
    Michael felt like an idiot as he sat silently, finishing his coffee, while Wendy drove back to her storefront. How had he managed to forget that they’d driven three blocks from his car to get coffee? That was the problem. When he was around Wendy, his brain short-circuited.
    He’d known it was a mistake when he’d climbed into the close confines of her van. The van
smelled
like her, a light, breezy fragrance as fresh as a spring morning and twice as intoxicating. He didn’t know if it was perfume, soap, or just Wendy, but he couldn’t seem to get his fill of it.
    He’d tried to concentrate on his note taking, but every so often he had to look up at her. Even in the direct light of the morning sun, her face was as smooth as a child’s, not a line or wrinkle in sight. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a youthful ponytail with a purple ribbon, showing off a long, slender neck.
    Today she was wearing a short denim skirt and matching sleeveless vest, revealing enticing amounts ofsmooth, tanned arm and leg. Her dainty feet were encased in flat multicolored sandals. Her toenails were painted purple.
    He’d never made love to a woman with purple toenails, he mused. And why in hell was he thinking about making love to this one? It wasn’t as if that were even a remote possibility.
    She pulled into the same parking spot, beneath a green-striped awning, that she’d left a few minutes ago. “I have to run inside and spend about ten minutes covering all the bases,” she said. “Then I’ll meet you there.”
    “You’re not going to change your mind?” he asked warily, having been burned too many times by too many promises from suspects, witnesses, victims, and snitches alike. In general, he’d discovered, people didn’t like dealing with police.
    “No, I’ll be there. If the artist can come up with a reasonable likeness of Mr. Neff, I’ll pay to have it plastered all over town. I’ll be ten minutes behind you.”
    With that she hopped out of the van, grabbed a tote bag and the organizer, and scurried inside.
    Michael returned to his own car, shaking off a feeling he’d decided to label the “Wendy Thayer Effect.” Had he been fantasizing about her toenails? One would think he’d never sat close to a beautiful woman before.
    His ex, Faye, was beautiful, but she had a totally different look. Faye was polished, like a high-maintenance showhorse that had been freshlygroomed. Wendy had a natural quality about her, as if she’d just been swimming in a mountain lake. Nude.
    Oh, hell, he had to stop this—now. He climbed into his car and turned the key. The coughing and sputtering started up again, but the engine didn’t. Start up, that is. Michael cranked and cranked for a good five minutes, but the damn thing just wouldn’t catch.
    Wendy peeked out the door, perplexed. After waving to someone inside, she walked out and headed straight for him. He rolled down the window.
    “Problem?” she asked.
    “Won’t start,” he admitted. “I’ll have to radio in for someone to come get it.”
    “Oh, but we’re still going to the police artist, right?” she asked. “You can ride with me.”
    “I can’t just leave the car here. I’ll have to turn over the keys, sign papers—”
    “Jillian, my office manager, can hold the keys for you and give them to whomever. She’s bonded and insured. For that matter, Fritzie, one of my drivers, is a great mechanic. You should let her take a look at that engine.”
    Michael wasn’t about to turn over his car keys to the associate of a suspected felon. That was strictly against policy. But if he didn’t get Wendy to the police artist now, while she had enthusiasm, he might lose the opportunity.
    He climbed out of the car and pocketed the keys, then grabbed his cellular phone. He’d deal with the car later. “Let’s just