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a better look at his behind. “You look like fun.”
    He hesitated—and just like the evening before, he narrowed his eyes slightly, taking the moment to look at her, really look at her. She astonished herself by blushing, relieved that he wouldn’t see it. And she tipped her head to put her eyes in deeper night shadow, all too aware that they were the one thing she’d never been able to change. Her eyes were always Sam’s eyes, honey-brown and dark-lashed. Not waiting for his response, she lowered her voice. “If you’re not buying, bud, best you move on. My man is in that house,” she nodded at the refuge, “and if he sees you out here with that camera, he’ll bust it—and then he’ll bust your ass.”
    “So I’ve been told.” He didn’t look like he doubted her. He looked as though it didn’t matter enough to deter him from finding the one he’d lost. His attention went inward…it went sad. Thinking of her. Ex-girl-friend, ex-wife? Odd. Usually the look was anger. Frustration. Not sadness.
    Sam reminded herself that someone had run from this man, or he wouldn’t be looking. “You’ve got a bad case of not listening.”
    “Yes.” His gaze sharpened, returned to her. That same dark gray…giving her that same certainty from the night before, that he could see right through her to Sam I Am. But she held fast against the suddenly rapid beating of her heart, and released her breath in surreptitious relief when he gave an abrupt shake of his head. “No, I guess I don’t.”
    “You better,” she advised him. A battered van turned onto the street…the refuge vehicle, an old plumber’svan with the fading logo still splashed across the sides and a convenient paucity of windows. She circled him, pulling out the stops on her strutty walk, tossing back her hair…and coming to a stop in just the right spot to block his view of the van when it stopped. “You really better. ”
    Gently but firmly, he put his hands on her shoulders and moved her aside. “I’ve got someone I need to talk to—”
    “You don’t belong here!” She put herself right back in his path and went so far as to shove his chest. Hard muscle under that sweatshirt; she’d have to hustle in an entirely different way if he got rough with her—and she fully expected that he was capable and inclined.
    “Easy.” He backed off with his hands raised in placation, contrasting with the annoyance on his face. “This is none of your—”
    She heard the van door opening. Knew a shrouded woman would be headed for the house, under escort by the Captain.
    She shoved him again.
    “Hey!” He spoke more sharply this time—and this time she figured she’d see his temper; she braced herself.
    Angry voices rang out from across the street. From the very whorehouse with which she’d been threatening him, except that neither of them needed that confrontation—not when she wasn’t really one of the house girls, and yet she was here working house turf. He jerked in response, as quick as Sam to see the figure emerging from the whorehouse. When he reached for her she felt a flash of irritation—now she was going to have to deal with both of them—but something in his face made her hesitate to reach for the pepper spray waiting in her outlandishly pink littlepurse, and this time when he put his hands on her shoulders, he moved her aside just enough so the next step put him directly between Sam and the approaching threat.
    Chivalry. Imagine that. Totally unexpected from any man who’d driven a woman underground, but chivalry nonetheless.
    Totally in her way.
    “Go.” She dropped her voice low, injecting intensity and even a little pleading, and this time when she pushed him—from behind—it was more of a request. “Please. I can handle this. It’ll be easier for both of us.”
    His long, searching look made his reaction plain enough. And leave you here with him?
    “I can handle this— if you’re not here to piss him off. Don’t make it