It was something about love-he remembered that much. Well, he didn’t love her, and he wasn’t going to, wasn’t going to get anywhere near it, or her, damn it.

Johnny Morgan, elbows on the railing, watched from the deck. It was pitiful, was what it was. Here was this tiny little woman, couldn’t weigh 120 pounds wringing wet, facing down this big, strong, good-looking guy, an Alaska state trooper no less, a man accustomed to command, a man who hunted down criminals and brought them to justice, a man to whom Park rats of every age, culture, and occupation looked to lay down the law of the land. He had to be at least six two, although the Mountie hat he used to wear had made him look even taller than that, and he had to weigh two hundred pounds easy, although the bristling arsenal of badges and guns and epaulets and handcuffs and nightsticks added heft. He was good-looking, too, with heavy dark blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and strong features-jaw, cheekbones, nose. He didn’t look like a wimp, and if half of the Park gossip Johnny had heard was true, he’d had a ton of girlfriends. He just wasn’t a needy kind of guy.

Kate glided another step forward, moving in a way that reminded Johnny irresistibly of a large, powerful cat. Jim looked like cat food, inches away from leaping into his vehicle and roaring off.

Wimp, definitely.

An object lesson was what his teacher, Ms. Doogan, would have called it. No way was he ever going to fall into that honey trap, which was what Old Sam Dementieff called it. The irresistible force meeting the not-quite-immovable object was what Bobby Clark called it.

He shook his head, half in pity for a fellow man, half in shame, and went back inside. It was just too painful to watch.

Just for the hell of it, just because she could, just because her mere presence affected Jim Chopin in a manner that she had to admit she found deeply satisfying, Kate took another step forward, bringing her into physical contact. She could feel his badge, his belt, what she thought might-or might not-be his gun pressing against her. She smiled up at him and purposely dropped her voice to a whisper. “How can I… help you, Sergeant Chopin?”