Josette tried not to check her watch, but the urge was strong, and she fought it, trying to focus on the man across from her at the table. He was good-looking, and seemed to be amusing, but there was something a little too predatory in his gaze for her comfort, and she turned back to her Ruby Red in an attempt to find something to do.

She hated blind dates.

But she owed Cecilia, and this was the marker, called in fair and square, a night keeping company with this Luis Ramon so that Cecilia could date his cousin without a third wheel for the evening. And Luis was certainly talkative, rambling on about the things he owned and the movies he'd seen.

But he didn't smell right, and all this chatter was starting to get on her nerves. Josette liked a chance to talk too, and the openings during Luis's monolog had been few and far between. She shifted thoughts and the image of her gentle, round-shouldered boss immediately came to mind, making her smile briefly.

David was a sweetheart. She'd watched him take over the Closet from the part-timers and turn it from a haphazard center of constant small crises into a smooth and efficient operation. He'd given her a big chunk of responsibility in running the schedule and ordering supplies and she loved it. She loved the way he looked over the list of requests each morning and discussed them with her over coffee. The way he kept the machines in good order and sometimes brought her a root beer when she wasn't even aware she was thirsty. In the four months since he'd joined the Shop, Josette had looked forward to work with delight instead of stress.

And he did it all without even raising his voice.

"And anyway, once the prescription kicked in and the fungus went away I was back on the scene, ready to meet up with all the fine ladies," Luis broke into her thoughts, "like you. So what do ya say, babe? Ready to go hot-tubbing with Lucky Luis?"

"Er, oh no. I'm really sorry, nice as that sounds, but—" she scrambled for an excuse, "I have . . . uh, mesomorphism."

"Ohhhh," came the response. "Whoa. Is it like, catchable?"

"Sometimes," Josette admitted, fighting to keep a straight face. "The thing is, I really wouldn't want to give it to you and all. I keep it under control most of the time."

Luis nodded uncertainly. "Pills and stuff?"

"Exercise," Josette added softly, as if ashamed to admit it. "And what it does to my figure—I just don't want you to see it. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," Luis nodded. "We don't have to keep the lights on, I understand."

Josette stared at him; Luis tried to look magnanimous. "Hey, a lot of my ladies tell me they like me better in the dark."

"Yeah, well listen, I've just met you and all. I don't really feel comfortable thinking about you in the dark," Josette told him, deciding it was time to end this date once and for all. Her words didn't help; Luis drew his thick brows together and scowled.

"I thought we were getting along just great, Janette—"

"—Josette."

"—Yeah, Josette. I know I was picking up a really good vibe off you, and now you're just shutting me down? Come on—I'm a good guy; one of the best!"

"Luis, I'm sure you have a heart of gold, but I've got to go into work early tomorrow. It's been an . . . interesting evening," Josette told him softly, but firmly. She rose up, patted his hairy-knuckled hand and slid her purse strap onto her shoulder, feeling relief.

The relief didn't last long when Luis rose up as well, his expression distinctly annoyed. He followed her out of the bar and into the night; At the parking lot, Josette glanced over her shoulder at him, and frowned. "Luis—I'm not interested."

"I don't think you're giving me a chance. And I hate bitches who do that," he shot back. "You think you're so high and mighty because you can get a drink for free from me well I got news for you; nothing's free with me!"

Luis reached out for her wrist, his fingers hooking around it, but when he tried to yank her closer to him, a low growl cut through the night air, menacing and very, very close. He looked startled.

Josette looked startled too, but she had enough of her wits about her to jam her key into the lock of her car door and pull it open. Before she could climb into it though, the growl rumbled out again, and she stared.

Luis stood looking not at her, but down, at the asphalt. Sitting there in front of him was a large dog, his teeth bared, right at crotch level. Even then, it still took Luis a moment to back up. "Holy shit!!"

He kicked, reflexively, and his foot connected with the animal's shoulder; a quick snap of teeth and the top part of his fancy sneakers were shredded, exposing a none-too-clean sock. Luis yelped in shock and pain, and turned, scrambling away back towards the bar.

The dog made no move to follow. Instead, as Josette watched, it seemed to spit out the remnants of the shoe and shake its head, almost in reaction to the taste. She slammed the car door closed, terrified it would turn and move towards her, but the animal merely looked over its shoulder at her for a moment, brown eyes big. Then it began to limp away, and Josette felt a pang in her chest for her unexpected defender.

Cautiously she opened her door. "Hey boy--"

His ears perked up, and under the streetlight she could see that he had a shaggy coat of dark curly hair, more like a terrier than a German shepherd. Noise came from the bar, and people began coming out, shouting. Josette looked at the dog, who seemed to cringe a little.

She whistled. He glanced at the approaching people and seemed to come to a decision, leaping clumsily over Josette's lap and scrambling for the passenger side seat. She closed the door, started the car and wondered exactly how smart it was to lock oneself into a small, enclosed space with at strange dog.

Mr. Peppermint was awake. He kept his eyes closed though, and concentrated on listening, trying to decipher the sounds around him. Unfortunately, there were very few, and from the cramped position and rancid smells around him, he guessed that he was in the hold of a fishing boat, probably still in Cabo or very near it. There were no engine sounds, and the small rocking motions were familiar to him from his time on the Bohemian; they were either at berth or at anchor somewhere, not traveling.

Anger rose up in him as he recalled the ambush. It had been careless of him not to check the room; that was standard for any place used more than twice, especially out of the country. Nevertheless, whoever had taken him hadn't gotten away with out a few bruises; Mr. Peppermint remembered getting at least one good punch in before going under.

He tested his bonds. The bite of plastic restraints locking his hands together let Mr. Peppermint know whoever his assailant was, they were taking this seriously. He shifted a little and cautiously opened one eye into a dark hold. It was probably after ten o'clock, he guessed. Under him was a canvas covering what felt like coiled rope and crates of some sort: the assorted junk of a commercial fishing boat.

Mr. Peppermint flexed his fingers thoughtfully. His hands were in front of him, which was a definite advantage, and he assessed his person, wondering if any of his standard tools was still on him. He still had his shoes, but by the feel of it he didn't have his wallet, his watch or keys, so level one was out. He brought his bound hands to his chest and patted it.

He'd been frisked, and whoever had done it had snagged the collar knife. Frowning, Mr. Peppermint found his reading glasses in his breast pocket and hesitated.

Damn it, he really liked these glasses.

With a sigh, he pulled them out and looked around the cramped space. Mr. Peppermint rolled and found a section of cinderblock that someone had been using as an anchor for a crab pot; he set the glasses down and brought the heavy weight down on the lenses, wincing at the tinkle and crack. Carefully he used his two hands to find the largest, sharpest piece and turned the edge towards the plastic cuff, sawing on it gently.

No point in severing a vein by hurrying.

As he worked, he let his mind move over the list of potential assailants, and while the list wasn't long, the three names on it were all enough to make him slightly anxious. Not as much for himself, but for Miss Chocolate, and to a lesser degree the rest of his fellow confectioners. He was grateful his mother was safely honeymooning in Lisbon, and hopefully out of harm's reach.

A noise made him pause, and listen. The faint sound of a voice, but too soft to determine sex. Mr. Peppermint strained to hear, but the sound faded, and he realized the person was pacing overhead, and probably talking on a cell phone.

Interesting. So he was being held in captivity by a second in command, or hired goon. That explained the ease of ambush—probably a local, who bribed the concierge or threatened her family, then stayed in hiding until the right moment. A local would know exactly how to transport him without rousing suspicion as well.

The plastic band at his wrists snapped quietly under the last stroke of the broken glass and Mr. Peppermint smiled; his odds had just gotten better.

Mike TeeVee watched Toffee circulate, and admired her facile capacity for small talk. She'd told him earlier that the secret to working a party was to remember key words and smile a lot; something that clearly worked for her at the moment. He stood off to the side, drink in hand and let his gaze reluctantly move from her highly attractive backside to the faces of the other figures in the room.

A lot of them were vaguely familiar; lobbyists and Washington big names mingling with trophy wives, hangers-on and international guests, all loitering and lingering around the bar where two tenders were quietly working full speed. Mike admired their efficiency, and hoped their tips were good. The vodka martini they'd made for him was excellent, and he'd nursed it for the better part of an hour.

It was difficult not to scratch his beard, and Mike hoped he'd be able to get it off before too long. This posing as a Russian engineer was all well and good, but all he really wanted to do was . . . well it was pretty much not suitable for family hour, and involved a certain Senator's daughter. He checked his watch and sighed.

A little wrinkled woman with far too much eye shadow and a predatory stride came over to him. She barely came up to his shoulder, orange-red bouffant and all, and tipped her head up to meet his inquiring gaze. "You're a long drink of water, partner."

"Madam?" Mike replied cautiously. The woman had moved closer, and one long-nailed claw held a highball glass. She winked at him; a scary action that made her false eyelashes momentarily look like fighting tarantula legs.

"Been watching you. All alone tonight, huh Boris?"

"Not qvite," he rumbled back quickly, feeling a surge of panic run up his spine. Clearly someone's grandmother was feeling frisky tonight, and he wasn't about to be her Latvian love toy for any price. She gave him a pout that was supposed to be girlish, but ended up making her look more like a Raggedy Anne left out to dry. "A big hunk 'a borscht like you—I'm sure you're up for sharing, right?"

The idea of borscht coming in hunks was disconcerting enough, but the added horror of a threesome with this lusty Norfin troll set Mike's teeth on edge. He glanced around quickly, looking for rescue. Meeting Catherine's eyes, Mike sent her a silent plea; she smothered a grin and sailed over, hands extended to the tiny terror beside him, who had just patted his ass.

"Dixie! Oh honey, you look wonderful!" Catherine purred, bending down for an airy kiss alongside the withered old cheek proffered to her. The other woman reluctantly allowed her free hand to be plucked from Mike TeeVee's backside and patted between Catherine's fingers. "Good to see you keeping everyone on their toes."

"Cath! Hey honey! Heard you moved to Vegas and took that little sweet pea of yours with you!" Dixie brayed loudly enough to share this info with the people within ten feet of them. Catherine flinched the tiniest bit, but smiled again, her teeth very white.

"Yeah, I was just feeling a need to get back to my roots and all," she admitted. "And it's good for Lindsay to get to know my side of the family too."

"Oh yes, that's always good, you bet. I'm just surprised Sam didn't kick up a fuss about it. He's been grouchier than a bear with a beehive up his ass the last few months," Dixie confided. "I think he's not getting any, you know?"

Mike noted Catherine's mouth tightening a little at that, but she gave a shrug and laughed. "Well you know Sam—all work and no play."

"Oh I dunno—I've seen him flip through the pages," Dixie muttered in a lower, suddenly discreet voice. "Oy, listen to me and my big mouth. Forget that, honey. I think I need another drink--"

Toddling off, Dixie headed towards the bar, her short legs carrying her away quickly. Catherine looked up at Mike, and although she tried to look pleasant, there was worry in her expression too. Mike stuck his hand out and made a formal little bow.

"Mikhail Tevanovich," he rumbled, "I am electronics engineer from the East."

"How fascinating," Catherine replied with as straight a face as she could, taking his hand and shaking it. "I take it you and Dixie are an item?"

"Nyet. It is forbidden to date Stalin's babysitter," Mike told her solemnly, and Catherine had to turn away to hide her sudden attack of giggles. When she had recovered, she looked up at him again, her expression more serious.

"Time to head home—I've gotten Sam's itinerary and the inside info on that wedding hit. Oooh, you look ill."

"I do?" Mike murmured quizzically. Then Catherine reached up to feel his forehead and he closed his eyes, enjoying her cool touch. "Dah. Vodka not like old country. I must go lie down."

"Oh I agree, Mr. Tevanovich. Let me call you a cab—" Catherine told him with concern.

Miss Chocolate puttered around the loft, trying to settle down, but the tiny sense of unease wouldn't leave her. She'd re-alphabetized all the CDs over by the music system, and washed all the windows; she'd cleaned out the freezer and fed—well overfed, really—the cats, and still the little nagging disquiet kept her on her feet instead of going to bed.

The full moon hung low in the sky, and Miss Chocolate wondered if Mr. Peppermint was looking at it even now, and thinking of her as she was of him. She sighed, wishing she could have gone with him to Cabo. But it was a routine delivery, and she knew he would be home in less than twenty-four hours anyway, and then they could get back to the ongoing process of household negotiations.

Marriage? Yes. Wedding? Yes. One household? No. The gentle tug-of-war continued over the loft VS the Bohemian with neither party quite ready to give up either home. Miss Chocolate was every bit as stubborn as Mr. Peppermint was on the issue, and secretly suspected that both residences would be kept simply because it fit their lifestyle.

The phone rang.

Miss Chocolate answered it, but the voice on the other end of the line wasn't the one she'd been hoping for.

"Channel three."

Miss Chocolate reached for the remote and turned the television on. The video of a burning building shown on the screen behind the reporter at his desk, and the caption under it read: Three motel fires in Cabo San Lucas: Arson suspected.