Monica Grant reached for a final book to add to the stack in her arms. She picked it up, skimmed the back-cover copy, then replaced it on the shelf. It was set in the Caribbean. She'd already chosen one story set there, plus several others that were set abroad. No, she mused, pensively studying the display before her, she was in the mood for something American, something contemporary, something dramatic. She pondered two other books before settling on a third and tucking it into the crook of her arm with the rest. Then she stole a glance to either side of her.

To her relief the aisle was still empty. The bookstore itself was nearly deserted. There was a browser one row to the left in Games and Hobbies, another two rows to the right in Psychology, and several others scattered along the far Non-Fiction rack. She had Romance all to herself.

With a smile of satisfaction she snapped up a magazine to camouflage the selections nearest her heart, then at a more leisurely pace she ambled toward the best-sellers. A first and a second, each by authors she hoped to interview during their forthcoming publicity stops in Boston, topped the pile. Then, with another cautious glance around, she headed for the cash register.

Luck was on her side. There was only she and the clerk, a studious-looking young man who tactfully rang up her sales without commenting on either her choices or the sheepish look she was trying so hard to suppress. She half-wished he'd ask, then she might tell him the tale of her friend in the hospital who was hopelessly addicted to love stories. But he didn't ask, and she left well enough alone.

It was only when the books were all safely tucked into a bag and hidden from public view that she dared look the clerk in the eye. "Thank you." She smiled more comfortably.

He nodded. "Come again."

"I will," she said and knew that she would. Next week, next month, the month after... whenever her supply ran out, she'd be back.

Clutching her treasures to her breast, Monica stepped out into the bright midmorning sunshine, took a deep breath of pleasure, and turned to head for home. But just as quickly the breath was knocked from her lungs when a body barreled into her, throwing her against the concrete wall of the building. Stunned, she slid to the sidewalk, oblivious to the shouts around her until one deep voice came through, close by her ear.

"Are you all right, miss?"

She gasped in the struggle to catch her breath but didn't move from where she sat slumped against the wall, her legs curled beneath her, her arms gripping herself and her belongings protectively. Her head was bowed, sending curled ribbons of light brown hair cascading over her face like a screen, behind which she slowly regained her composure.

"Miss?" The deep voice came again, and a gentle hand drew back her hair. "Are you hurt?"

Eyes still closed, Monica shook her head. "I don't think so," she whispered, but already she felt a stinging in her forehead, another in her shoulder.

"Can you stand up?"

Again she shook her head. "Give me a minute."

Her rescuer held her arm lightly as he reached into his shirt pocket. "Here. Press this to your head." Without a pause he did it himself. "You've scraped your temple. It doesn't look serious. Anything else hurt?"

Lifting a shaky hand, she relieved his hand and pressed the handkerchief to her temple. "My shoulder." Only then did she open her eyes to examine the damage herself. It might have helped if it had been winter and she had been bundled up to the hilt. But this was the middle of June, it was hot, and she wore a bare sundress that had offered no protection when she'd hit the wall. Her shoulder was badly scraped, and she could begin to imagine what her forehead looked like.

"Can you move your arm?"

She gave it a try and grimaced but succeeded. "It's okay. Just messy, I guess." Then she caught sight of the crowd gathered around in a semicircle and winced with distaste.

"Okay, folks." Her attendant understood instantly that she needed privacy and gestured toward the crowd. "Move on now. She's all right."

When she heard the note of authority in his voice, Monica looked up for the first time at the man who'd come to her aid. He had crouched down beside her, one knee braced on the sidewalk. He wore navy-blue pants, a matching navy shirt with a badge on the breast pocket and the departmental insignia on its sleeve, and the standard patrolman's hat. Had it not been for the surprisingly warm depth of his brown-eyed gaze she might have stiffened on pure reflex. Instead she could only stare for a perplexed moment before gathering her strength to stand up.

He was right beside her, lending his firm support with a hand at her elbow, an arm at her waist. When it appeared that her legs would hold her, he released her. "Better?" His voice was as deep and as warm as his gaze.

"A little shaky... but, yes." She dabbed her forehead with the clean handkerchief he'd given her, folded it over, then replaced it on the swelling bruise. "I suppose I'll have a whopper of a headache later." She laughed weakly, feeling strangely self-conscious. "What hit me, anyway?" Chancing a glance past him, she saw that the crowd had dispersed, leaving no sign of a guilty party.

"A pickpocket" came the quiet reply.

Monica's eyes widened in disbelief as she raised them to meet the more penetrating gaze of the policeman. "The pickpocket?"

His lips twitched. "Unless my buddy catches him, we'll never know, will we?"

She followed the line of his sight up the street, then glanced down at her purse and the bag containing her books. Both appeared to be undisturbed. Involuntarily she hugged them closer. "I thought pickpockets were supposed to be subtle. Whatever hit me couldn't have known the meaning of the word."

To her chagrin the policeman chuckled. "You wouldn't pose much of a challenge to a pickpocket." His eyes skimmed her slender form, bringing a wash of color to her cheeks. "It doesn't look to me like you've got a pocket on you. Besides," he went on smoothly before she could react to his appraisal, "he wasn't looking for a victim. He was running from us."

Eyes flashing, Monica scowled. "That figures. Why is it that innocent people so often get hurt when you fellas get the urge for a chase?" She twisted her head around and peered at her shoulder in disgust.

Her hero was undaunted. "It's unfortunate when it happens, but there's not much we can do when someone walks blindly into the fray the way you did." He paused long enough to convey a hint of doubt, which he then proceeded to express backhandedly. "I'm assuming it was pure coincidence."

"Coincidence?" she cried, glaring sharply up at his shaded face. "It was my misfortune is what it was. And if you're implying that I purposely wandered into something looking to get hurt --" But she suddenly understood his full implication and gaped at him openly. "Now, wait a minute --" Wincing, she recalled another time, another place, and couldn't suppress a shudder.

"Are you all right?" he asked again, more gently, concerned by her sudden pallor. He reached for her arm to steady her, but before she could respond his partner approached, visibly winded. "No luck?"

The newcomer removed his hat and mopped his brow with his arm. "Sorry, Mike. I lost 'im. He must know every street and alley around here. She have anything?" He cocked his head toward Monica, who wanted nothing more than to return to her nice cool apartment. She didn't like the heat. She didn't like the stares of the passersby. And she most definitely didn't like the police.

"I'm working on it now," the officer called Mike informed his partner as he turned back to Monica. Reaching into a back pocket, he withdrew a small notebook and flipped it open. "I'd like to ask you several questions, miss."

Monica sighed, trying to recall what a lovely morning it had been such a short time before. "Is this absolutely necessary? I'd really like to get going." A soft chair, a cool drink, and the first of those mind-pleasing novels sounded about right.

"It's necessary." He took a pen from his pocket. "Your name?"

Once more the past crowded in. "Why do you need my name?"

"Routine. You may be able to help us nab whoever-he-was." He cocked his head in the direction in which the suspect had vanished.

"But I didn't see him," Monica argued. "If I'd seen him, I might have avoided him. I wish I could help but --"

"May I see your purse?" he asked politely. Politely... but firmly.

She felt her hackles rise. "You may not! You can't just stop people on the streets and --"

"If I suspect an obstruction of justice, I can."

"Obstruction of justice? That's ridiculous! I was in that bookstore very innocently buying books..." She remembered her books and tightened her arm around them.

The policeman had begun to take notes. "Now we're getting somewhere." His partner ducked away to retrieve the cruiser and call in to headquarters. "What happened then?"

Frustrated, she leaned back against the wall. "I paid for my books, left the store, and began to walk. Then... wham! You know the rest."

"Where were you headed?" He studied her closely. But she kept her mouth shut, annoyed at this invasion of her privacy. Bickering with him had gotten her nowhere. Silence might be more effective. Sensing her ploy, he lowered the notebook. "Do you work around here?"

She stared at him as defiantly as she could, trying to dislike him, succeeding only in acknowledging that he was the best-looking policeman she'd ever seen. Tall, tanned, and strong-featured, he had an air of refinement with which he could as easily have been a very proper Bostonian as a member of its police department. He was also persistent and very clever.

"Do you have something to hide?" he asked more slowly, narrowing his gaze in suspicion.

He'd asked the one question she couldn't let pass, for fear of incriminating herself. "Of course not!"

"Then tell me your name."

She hesitated briefly, wondering again how he could be a policeman. Those eyes... brown, almost golden in warmth... more persuasive than any legal threat. "Monica. Monica Grant."

"Monica Grant." He tested the sound, and she feared for an instant that he'd recognized it. But she used her middle name professionally. There had to be another reason for his pause. Then, as though recalling his duty, he jerked up the notebook and jotted it down. "Address?"

From here on he'd be able to learn it anyway. "One forty-five West Cedar."

"Ah. Beacon Hill."

"That's right." She waited for the typical gibe, but it never came. Rather, he lowered the notebook again.

"Nice area. Have you lived there long?"

She knew he had no business asking her this question but somehow found herself responding. "Four years now."

He smiled, and she felt rewarded. "You're not from Boston originally, are you? You speak differently." He seemed genuinely interested, less of a cop, more of a man. She couldn't help but return his smile.

"No more so than you." She thought she heard a twang in his speech, and it was a far cry from the usual Boston accent. "I'd guess... the Midwest?"

He arched a brow. "Not bad." But he would say no more. And at that moment his partner drove up, drawing the tall officer's attention first to the cruiser, then back to Monica. "I've got to go through your bags. There's a chance our pal may have dropped something on you."

"That's imposs--"

He held up a hand to stifle her outburst. "Without your knowledge, of course."

"I'm telling you that my things weren't touched."

"It's my job, Ms. Grant. Look at it reasonably. This whole area has been bothered by a mysterious hunt-and-peck thief for several months. If he managed to plant something on you, we may be able to get fingerprints. It's a start."

Though she knew this made sense, Monica still disliked the idea of being searched. "So... I'm the innocent victim again?"

He ignored the barb and took a step closer, speaking softly, almost intimately. "I realize that it may be embarrassing for you out here on the sidewalk. We can either sit in the car, go to your place or... head down to the station."

"The station?" she exclaimed, then quickly lowered her voice. "I'm not going to the police station. This is ridiculous!"

"Maybe so" -- he held her gaze -- "but I've got to check."

Feeling weary and suddenly aware of the throbbing at her temple, Monica lowered her head and closed her eyes. The pose of fatigue seemed to be the deciding factor.

"Come on. I'll give you a lift home. You could use some ice on that bruise." Without another word he took her arm and led her to the car, gently depositing her in the back seat before joining his partner in front.

It took less than five minutes to reach her apartment. Monica sat back helplessly, feeling herself the victim not only of a hit-and-run fugitive but of the law itself. It occurred to her that all the reasoning in the world couldn't thwart this policeman's search. He was clearly determined, and she might well do more harm than good by protesting further. In the legal scheme of things she had nothing to hide. Her purse held no more than the usual feminine paraphernalia. But those books... when he ever saw those books...

All too soon the squad car drew to a halt on West Cedar Street. Monica was out the door and halfway up her steps before the handsome one caught up. She was too intent on letting herself into the building to hear the cruiser drive off. The few minutes' rest in the car had revived her. It was with remarkable pep -- or was it the urge to escape her custodian? -- that she trotted up the two flights to her apartment. He reached the landing a single step behind, though, and stood patiently while she unlocked the door.

Once inside, she dropped her purse on the living room sofa, ducked into her bedroom for a split second to toss the bag of books onto a free corner of the open shelving unit, where it might easily be overlooked, and retreated to the bathroom. One look at the face in the mirror caused her to gasp, grow apprehensive, then lean closer toward the mirror.

"It's quite a gash, isn't it?" came the deep voice at the door.

Monica started with fright. "Oh! It's you!" she cried, having somehow expected to be granted this modicum of privacy.

"I thought you might need some help," he returned calmly, studying her bruised temple. She turned back to examine it herself.

"Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"

"There was nothing you could do about it there on the sidewalk. Here, let me take a look. Have you got a washcloth?"

Monica knelt to the vanity below the sink, fished out a clean cloth, and handed it to him. "What's your name?" she asked, with perfect spontaneity.

The policeman was silent while he put the cloth under the warm tap, then squeezed out the excess water. "People aren't usually interested in that kind of detail. A cop is a cop." He carefully began to sponge the bruise at her temple.

She gritted her teeth against the soreness. "This one happens to be in my bathroom playing doctor, and I'd like to know what to call him. Acchhh!" She flinched. "Be careful!"

"Hurt?"

"Mmmm."

"I'm sorry. I'm trying to get it clean." He worked on, rinsed the cloth, then continued.

Monica focused on his image in the mirror. "Well?"

He dabbed cautiously. "It doesn't need to be stitched. I would have taken you directly to the hospital if I'd thought it did. Have you got any antiseptic?"

"Your name...?" She could be stubborn herself.

He straightened up and dropped the cloth into the sink. Then he looked her in the eye. "Michael. Michael Shaw." And he held out a large, lean hand. "The antiseptic, please?"

She stared at him for a minute longer, trying in vain to decipher the coded message in his eyes. The bathroom seemed suddenly very, very small. "Uh... I can take care of it," she stammered, tearing her gaze from his, opening the medicine chest, reaching for the spray can, only to have it quickly removed from her fingers.

"Close your eyes," he ordered, and she did. He angled his hand as added protection while he sprayed the cut and the surrounding network of scrapes. Monica gasped at the momentary sting, but it eased instantly.

"Ah. That's better." She breathed more freely when the antiseptic spray had dried. But her relief was short-lived. For Michael Shaw went to work on her shoulder before she could anticipate his move. "I can do that," she protested, to no avail. He held her arm firmly while he repeated the course of treatment on this, the lesser bruise.

It also proved to be the more painful of the two. Monica was increasingly aware of him -- the way his fingers easily circled her arm, the way his throat was tanned down the open collar of his shirt, the way she had to look up such a great distance to see his face.

"I take it you live alone," he stated, sparing a second's glance from his work.

"Is this for the record?" she teased softly.

"Would you like it to be?"

"Not particularly. I'd rather the world assumed I had two live-in bodyguards and a growling Doberman."

He finished cleaning her shoulder and reached for the antiseptic. "Have you ever had any trouble?"

"No," she said, "but I hate to invite it." She sucked in her breath when the cold spray hit its mark, then slowly exhaled.

"There you go," he said, replacing the cap of the spray can with a snap. "That should do it."

Monica viewed his handiwork. "Nice job, Shaw. That was above and beyond the call of duty." She met his gaze for an intense moment, then whispered a softer "Thanks."

He too stared for those few seconds as though he were puzzled, before breaking into a slow smile. "My pleasure," he said, tipping an imaginary hat. Only then did she realize that he was indeed without one. His hair was rich and full and sandy brown, finely interwoven with gray threads to lend him an even greater air of dignity. She would never have pegged him for a policeman if it had not been for the uniform.

"Is something wrong?" he asked through the lingering half-smile.

Sensing her imagination was getting out of hand, she broke away from his gaze. "I think I'll get some ice," she murmured and headed for the kitchen.

Several minutes later she emerged, with an ice pack pressed to her temple, to find the kind Officer Shaw in her living room very calmly and deliberately examining the contents of her purse. Annoyed but knowing she couldn't stop him, she crossed to her favorite peacock-backed chair and sank into its comfortable cushions.

"Find anything interesting?" she asked coolly, crossing one leg over the other in an attempt at nonchalance.

"Not yet," he answered, spreading the items out on her coffee table. "Wallet, checkbook, makeup case..." He looked up. "I didn't think you were wearing makeup."

"I'm not."

"But you sometimes do?"

"Sometimes." When she was going out socially or to work. For days like today the rule was au naturel. She heard the zipper of the makeup case open, then close. "Any other questions?"

"An empty eyeglass case. Why empty?"

Monica's hand flew to the top of her head. "My sunglasses! Oh, no! They must have fallen off when I was hit!"

He looked up, faintly amused. "What were they doing on your head?"

"Keeping my hair out of my eyes," she offered facetiously. "Besides, the sun wasn't terribly bright inside the bookstore." Then she sobered. "It's a shame. They were a terrific pair."

"Prescription?"

"No. Just... just... terrific." Designer would sound pretentious, and it wasn't her habit. "Any chance of finding them?"

He shook his head as he continued to sort through the random assortment of cards and sales slips that had been floating about in her purse. "I doubt it. Someone will have adopted them by now, particularly if they're as terrific as you say." He dangled a set of keys in his hand, a different set from those that had opened her door. "Where to?"

"The building where I work."

"Where's that?"

She took a breath to object but he cast her a stern look and she thought twice. "One-ten Boylston."

"The Harper Building?"

"Uh-huh." This was shaky ground, and she knew what was coming.

"What do you do?"

"I work at the radio station."

"WBKB?"

"That's right. You are pretty familiar with Boston." One way to avoid the worst was to change the subject as smoothly and quickly as possible. "How long have you lived here?" There was still that untraceable accent.

She watched Michael shake the purse for anything he may have missed. "Several weeks." He carefully began to replace everything he'd removed.

"Several weeks? You can't be a rookie..." Shifting more comfortably in the chair, she propped her elbow on the arm and pressed the ice pack back against her head.

He sat back more casually. "Why not?"

She hesitated, wanting to be tactful. "The usual rookie is not much more than a kid. You're a man." The instant she said it she regretted it. It was an understatement.

"You noticed?" He smiled crookedly.

Grateful for the cooling effect of the ice just above her warm cheeks, Monica bid herself stand firm against his appeal. "I couldn't help but notice. You must be slowing down in your old age. You let your buddy do all the running back there."

Those deep brown eyes glinted with humor. "Maybe I chose to be with you. As you said, I am a man."