Next, Autumn Adams yanked off her pink suit jacket, wadded it into a ball, and shoved it under the car seat.

Quinn laughed as he turned north onto Lake Shore Drive. "I hope you got a secret way to get wrinkles out of linen."

"As a matter of fact, I do. It's called the dry cleaner." Autumn leaned her head back and turned her face to the evening sun. "God, I love Chicago in the summer. Don't you?" She was in the middle of a long sigh when she suddenly shot him a suspicious glance. "Hey, how did you know it was linen?"

"I notice things."

She'd noticed a few things herself-like how Detective Quinn didn't talk much or fidget at all. She got the feeling he was saving up for later-for what, she had no idea.

Autumn ran her fingers through her hair and let her arms rise above her in the wind, her sleeveless white blouse rippling around her ribs. She always seemed to be rushing somewhere. There was never enough time just to be-like this-the sun on her face and the air on her skin.

She sighed deeply and pulled the blouse up over her head.

It was safe to say that when he woke up that morning, Stacey Quinn never imagined he'd be behind the wheel of a Porsche convertible while a gorgeous, rich, and famous woman stripped to a sports bra in the seat next to him. That's what he liked about this job, Quinn thought-something different every day.

He risked a quick glance at her. "I could arrest you for indecent exposure."

Her face opened up in laughter just as she pulled a soccer jersey down over her head, and her chuckle was muffled by the red mesh fabric.

"Please, Detective. More of me is on display every time I go to Oak Street Beach." She abruptly thrust out her hips to tuck in the shirt, then reached down to adjust her shin guards. "Go ahead and ask your questions, Mister Stacey. I've only got a couple minutes."