The detective watched as she did a header over a cable and landed flat on her face, giving him ample opportunity to notice that Autumn Adams-"Homey Helen" to the rest of the world-wasn't wearing a skirt with that jacket.

She wore a pair of baggy black soccer shorts, shin guards, thick socks, and cleats.

The detective looked down. OK, so maybe she wasn't exactly the fantasy, but she'd just skidded to a stop spread-eagled, her nose at the tip of his polished tassel loafer, the soccer shorts riding up her rather extraordinary bottom.

"Watch out for that loose wire," he whispered.

Autumn let her forehead fall to the floor and closed her eyes, pausing to gather her wits and what remained of her pride. She had a feeling she'd need both when she met the owner of that gravelly, smug voice.

"Need a hand?" He reached for her, and Autumn looked up, scanning him from the tips of his fingers, up the long arm, all the way to the green eyes sparkling with suppressed amusement.

The face was just as smug as the voice.

"No thanks." Autumn hoisted herself up and gave an indelicate yank on her shorts. With a huff she began to walk past the man, but he placed a hand on her arm.

"Miss Adams, I'm Chicago Police Violent Crimes Detective Stacey Quinn. I believe you were expecting me."

Autumn's mouth fell open and she snorted. "But that's a woman's name! They said Stacey-I was expecting a woman!"

Detective Quinn was unfazed. "Yeah? And I expected you'd be wearing a skirt. We'll call it even."

She blinked at him, stunned, watching as a corner of the policeman's mouth curled up in delight. It was completely involuntary, but she smiled back.

"OK, Mister Detective Stacey," she said, laughing. "You get twenty minutes, but you have to take a ride with me because I'm late. Can you drive a stick?"