"Have you got another bottle of that?"

After a moment, she shrugged, then stepped over the phone books again to snatch one out of the refrigerator. "I don't think you came down off your mountain for a drink."

"But I rarely turn one down." He twisted off the top after she handed him the bottle. He skimmed his gaze over her, taking in the snug jeans and the scarred boots, then moving back up, to the tipped-up chin, with its fascinating little center dip, all the way to the distrustful dark green eyes. "You certainly look fetching this morning, Mary Ellen."

"Don't call me that." Though she'd meant merely to sound firm, the words gritted out between her teeth.

"Such a lovely, old-fashioned name." He tilted his head, baiting her. "Then again, I suppose Mel suits you better."

"What do you want, Donovan?"

The teasing light faded. "To find David Merrick."

She was almost fooled. Almost. The simple statement sounded so sincere, so keenly honest, that she nearly reached out. Snapping herself back, she sat on the corner of her desk and studied him.

"It's just you and me now, pal. So let's cut to the chase. You don't have any stake in this. I humored Rose because I couldn't find a way to talk her out of going to you, and because it gave her some temporary comfort. But I know your kind. Maybe you're too slick for the obvious con. You know the sort—send me twenty bucks and I'll change your life. Let me help you obtain money, power and great sex for only a small monetary contribution."

She gestured with the bottle, then drank again. "You're not the small-change sort. More the beluga and Dom Perignon type. I suppose you get your jollies by going into trances around crime scenes and spouting out clues. Maybe you even hit a few from time to time, so good for you. But you're not going to get your jollies out of Rose and Stan's unhappiness. You're not going to use their little boy as an ego boost."

He was only mildly annoyed. Sebastian assured himself that he didn't give a tinker's dam what this smart-mouthed green-eyed bimbo thought of him. The bottom line was David Merrick.

But his fingers had tightened on the bottle, and his voice, when he spoke, was entirely too soft.

"Have me all figured out, do you, Sutherland?"

"You bet your buns I do." Arrogance came off her in waves as she sat on the corner of the desk. "So let's not waste each other's time. If you feel you're owed something for hearing Rose out yesterday, bill me. I'll see you get what's coming to you."

He said nothing for a moment. It occurred to him that he'd never had the urge to throttle a woman before. Excepting his cousin Morgana. But now he imagined closing his hands around Mel's long, tanned throat. And he imagined very well.

"It's a wonder you don't stagger with that chip on your shoulder." He set the half-empty bottle down. Then, pushing impatiently through the chaos on her desk, he unearthed a pencil and a sheet of paper.

"What're you doing?" she asked when he cleared a small space and began to sketch.

"Drawing you a picture. You seem like the kind who needs visuals."

She frowned. Watching the careless way his hand streaked over the paper, she frowned deeper. She'd always envied and resented people who could draw so effortlessly. She continued to drink, telling herself she wasn't interested. But her gaze continued to be pulled back to the face emerging from the lines and curves he made.

Despite herself, she leaned closer. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that he smelled like horses and leather. Sleek, groomed horses, and oiled leather. The deep purple of his amethyst caught her eye. She stared at it, half-hypnotized by the way it glinted in that twist of gold on his little finger.

Artist's hands, she thought dimly. Strong and capable and elegant. She reminded herself they would probably be soft, as well—accustomed to opening champagne or undoing a lady's fancy buttons.

"I often do both at the same time."

"What?" More than a little dazed, she looked up and saw that he had stopped drawing. He was simply standing, closer than she'd realized. And watching.

"Nothing." His lips curved, but he was annoyed with himself for probing. He'd simply been curious as to why she'd been staring at his hands. "Sometimes it's best not to think too loudly." While she was chewing that over, he handed her the sketch. "This is the man who took David."

She wanted to dismiss the drawing, and the artist. But there was something eerily right about it. Saying nothing, she walked behind her desk and opened David's folder. Inside were four police sketches. She chose one, comparing it to Sebastian's work.

His was more detailed, certainly. The witness hadn't noticed that little C-shaped scar under the left eye or the chipped front tooth. The police artist hadn't captured that expression of glittery panic. But, essentially, they were the same man—the shape of the face, the set of the eyes, the springy hair beginning to recede.

So he has a connection on the force, she told herself, trying to settle her jumping nerves. He got hold of a copy of the sketch, then embellished it a bit.

She tossed the sketch down, then settled in her chair. It squeaked rustily when she leaned back. "Why this one?"

"Because that's the one I saw. He was driving a brown Mercury. An '83 or '84. Beige interior. The back seat's ripped on the left side. He likes country music. At least that's what he had playing on the car radio when he drove off with the child. East," he murmured, and his eyes sharpened to a knife edge for just a heartbeat. "Southeast."

One of the witnesses had reported a brown car. Nondescript but unfamiliar, parked near Rose's apartment. Several days running, he'd said.

And Sebastian could have gotten that information from the police, as well, Mel reminded herself. She'd called his bluff, and he was just pushing buttons.

But if he wasn't… if there was the slightest chance…

"A face and a car." She tried to sound disinterested, but the faintest of tremors in her voice betrayed her. "No name, address and serial number?"

"You're a tough sell, Sutherland." It would be easy to dislike her, he thought, if he couldn't see—feel—how desperately she cared.

What the hell. He'd dislike her on principle.

"A child's life is at stake."