Bumbled cases and other hazards of sex

by The Profane Angel

A slightly different take on the beginning of Jack and Claire's affair. Of course, I do not own, nor profit from, Law & Order, but I do like playing in the sandbox in the corner of Wolf World.

Claire was in the ladies' room. The conference ran too long, Jack was on a roll, tormenting the defense attorney like a cat with a spider, up went the ante,

then down if the hapless defendant had a good face card, until the defense attorney, an old friend of Jack's, threw up her hands rather than throw pencils at him. It was a game, after all, winning mattered, and justice was just a happy by-product. She'd played this game with Jack before, many times, but she'd picked up on Claire's bemused expression, as she watched the back and forth between Jack and Sandy Schuer.

"New at this, honey?" she asked, as the defendant was led away and Jack disappeared out the side door. "Don't worry, you'll either grown into it or run as fast as you can out the nearest door." She closed the briefcase latches and paused, her hand on the briefcase, evaluating the young woman who didn't know whether to continue this odd conversation or go to the bathroom, she had maybe five minutes before Jack would start yelling for her.

She chose the bathroom. A few minutes of privacy would restore her perspective, and she didn't know when another chance would come. She heard the door open, a sharp female laugh, saw feet facing the sinks on the far wall. "Smut Tuesday?" said one, the laughter lingering in her voice. "Can you imagine this office having something called Smut Tuesday?"

"And why not?" The voice was Sandy Schuer's, and Claire hesitated, though her business was done, she didn't think she wanted to walk out into a discussion led by Sandy Schuer on something called Smut Tuesday. "Loosen everyone up." She giggled. "Just try imagining Jack McCoy's face, or Adam Schiff's." The other woman snorted, and, encouraged, Sandy kept on. "What's with Jack's new assistant? She's gorgeous, but my God, she's young. Jack got her in bed yet?"

Claire heard a zipper, then the sound of rummaging through an overloaded purse. She didn't move. "That's the rumor," the other woman said. "You know, the long looks, the hands brushing, the standing too close."

"He'll break her heart." A sigh. "Just like he broke mine. Although I was older than this new one, I had more resources for coping with it. I'd talk to her if I thought she'd listen, but you know how these young things are about older ex's."

"Don't I?" The zipper closed. "So tell me how to get this Smut Tuesday started." Water ran in the sink, paper towels were yanked from the dispenser.

"Nothing to it. Everyone dresses a little less conservatively, cards get sent through interoffice mail - you know the kind, they say exactly what you've got on your mind, unsigned of course - lots of double entendres in conversation."

"Jack McCoy would get the lion's share of the cards." Laughter. Claire's face burned. "If we really wanted to get smutty, we could start a pool, how long before he knocks the Ice Princess up and moves on. Susan, you know, chief of the paralegals, would love to be next in line."

"I think this one is Most Sincerely Serious," Sandy said. "I wouldn't mind picking up her pieces when Jack's done with her."

"Sandy!"

"I'm just saying. I've been there, I know what a McCoy Special feels like."

Claire had enough. She shouldered her purse, flushed the toilet, and stepped out into the overly bright sink area. The two women she faced froze, and Sandy Schuer had the grace to blush ever so slightly. "Claire," she said, striving for casual. Claire had an innate dignity, she never made scenes. She merely looked the two women over like wares at the fishmonger's, then turned away.

"Claire."

She turned, one hand on her purse strap, the other a loose fist at her side.

"OK, this is embarrassing," Sandy began, "But I spoke the truth. Jack McCoy goes through assistants like toilet paper. He's a sexy, powerful man, an aphrodisiac he knows how to use well. You're so young, you probably lack the experience to deal with that combination. If you want to talk sometime, I'm available."

"Thank you but no thank you. You -" her glance took them both in "- don't know what you're talking about. I'm not sleeping with Jack McCoy."

"If you say so," Sandy replied, gathering her purse and briefcase. "But you will, unless you really are the Ice Princess." Sandy looked at her companion. "I'll be in touch about Smut Tuesday."

Claire was left alone in the bathroom, her face burning, her stomach threatening to hurl all the coffee she'd consumed back to the world. She had to get back to work, but she didn't know how she'd face Jack. Her knees trembled. She looked at her watch, oh God he'd be looking for her. She took a deep breath and left the solitude of the bathroom and merged into the flow of lawyers, messengers, defendants, and victim's family members. She exited at the executive corridor, nodded at Graham, the security guard who always had a smile, a cookie baked by his wife, a new picture of his grandson.

Jack's office door was open, blinds pulled against the afternoon sun. He was in shirtsleeves, tie knot loosened, his head bent over a thick file. She walked in, hoping to hide her embarrassed confusion. She dropped her purse on the couch and approached his desk. He looked up with a warm smile, Claire always felt that she was the one person he was truly happy to see.

"Long line in the bathroom?" He pushed away from his desk, stood and stretched. "Want a drink? Four hours with Sandy Schuer leaves me thirsty, I'm going for a Diet Coke."

"Yeah, sure," she said, and watched him saunter out of the office. He was always so confident, the world was his playground and he was king of the hill. She wondered if she'd ever feel that confident in her ability to navigate life, that certainty that everything was as it should be, everyone and everything in place. She picked up objects from his desk, put them back, they were merely things, nothing in this room defined Jack McCoy the man, not even the framed photograph of the little girl on the shelves behind his desk. His daughter, she knew, just as she knew he had very little contact with her. The other woman's voice - a paralegal in sex crimes, Claire recognized her when she saw her - mocking: a pool, how long before McCoy knocked her up and sent her on her way? Claire closed her eyes.

"Claire?" He put a hand on her shoulder, touching her as gently as he spoke, still she jumped. "Claire? What's wrong?" He put a can of Diet Coke on his desk and used his free hand to turn her, holding her loosely by her narrow shoulders.

She looked at him, into those Cocker Spaniel eyes that were focused on her. "I heard some women talking in the bathroom, they didn't know I was there." She let him guide her onto the couch, let him put his arm around her, loosely and comforting. "One of them was Sandy Schuer." She looked into his eyes again, searching for recognition, anticipation, but all she saw was concern. "They were talking about something called Smut Tuesday and then the other one said the - secretaries I guess, but maybe it's an open pool - said they wanted to start a pool to see how long it would be before you got me pregnant and sent me on my way."

"Ah, shit," he whispered, then got up and closed his office door, locking it and closing the Venetian blinds. He came back to her and pulled her close. "It's not like that, never has been." He cradled her head under his chin.

"Everybody thinks we're sleeping together."

"Are you surprised?" He kissed her head. "All the time we spend together. The chemistry." Her head pulled back and she looked at him. "You know we have chemistry. I think you know I'd dearly love to take you to bed." He eased her head back under his chin, stroking her arm. "But I made a promise to myself, that I wouldn't let you feel like another pubic scalp hanging from my war lance. I didn't want you feeling like everyone was pointing and whispering, 'another one bites McCoy.' You are so very special, Claire, like a bottle of fine wine."

She pulled away, turning slightly to face him, taking one of his big hands in her smaller one. "What about how I feel in the matter?"

His eyebrows arched. "You mean about sleeping together?" She nodded. "I guess I thought you'd let me know, but I wasn't going to pressure you."

"It gets to me sometimes, you know? Being so close to you, feeling an electric shock when you touch me, wondering what it would be like if you kissed me. Then I tell myself I've done this before, I know this elephant, it turned out so badly with Joel Thayer, and I couldn't bear it if it happened again." She looked down at his hand cradled in hers and she turned it over, looking at his palm, stroking it absently. "You have no idea how much Joel hurt me."

"I'm not Judge Thayer," he whispered. "I don't want to hurt you, I have no one to hide you from - well, maybe Adam -" he smiled when he said that, taking any sting out of it. "I would like to take you on a real date, to an outrageously expensive restaurant, talk about anything and everything except work. Would I like to end in a bed somewhere? Absolutely, but it's not expected or required." He brushed her hair away from her face. "What do you think?

She smiled, that sweet, vulnerable smile he loved so much. "I think I'd like to get dressed up, be picked up, have a chair held for me, drink good coffee after a great meal." Color seeped up her neck. "And have you slowly take that dress off me, have your way with me six or seven different ways."

He grinned. "I could do that."

"And someone will see us, feed the gossip beast."

"People are going to talk, they already are." He pulled her against his shoulder. "What bothers you more, gossip or-" She surprised him, getting up and pacing around the office.

"Adam. Adam bothers me the most," she said, standing in front of him. "He had a little chat with me before I was assigned to your office." She glanced at the locked office door, the drawn blinds. "He said you were the best, that I would learn more from you in a week than I did in a year with Ben Stone, but."

"Adam and his buts," Jack said, as she sat beside him again.

"He told me that you were 'fond' of your assistants, and that it had come close a time or two to causing a problem" She gathered her hair at the back of her neck, then dropped it. "Could I handle that distraction, as he put it. I told him I could." She looked at her knees, embarrassed. "I honestly didn't think I'd look at an older man again after Joel Thayer. I knew you were attractive, but I didn't realize how attractive until I walked in your office that morning and got a view of your butt." She smiled. Jack was puzzled, and Claire reached over, touching his elbow. "You were squatting in front of a file cabinet, then bent over as you stood."

"Maybe I should bend over more often." That got a smile. "Adam chatted with me, too." He pinched the bridge of his nose, then dropped his hand into hers. "He told me he was sending his best young ADA, and he emphasized young, and he expected, no he demanded, that I treat you professionally at all times, that I had better not end up in your bed or there would be hell to pay." He frowned, staring into space. "Janis Drake," he said, and as the name meant nothing to her, explained, painful as it was. "Janny Drake left the office on less that good terms, Adam fired her. She thought I had a hand in it, because we broke up about two weeks earlier. Two weeks after she left, I was very publicly handed a paternity suit."

"She got pregnant?"

"Yes, but not with my sperm." One side of his mouth curled up. "I think she thought I'd roll over and open my wallet for the next eighteen years. I would have, no problem, if our breakup hadn't occurred over a NY Giants linebacker I found in our bed, with her. So Adam, acting as my attorney, got the judge to order a DNA test. I think that's the source of that nasty betting pool comment you heard. It wasn't my kid, but since when do facts get in the way of a good malicious story?"

"What about Sandy Schuer?"

"What about her? We had a relationship, God, years ago, we stayed friends."

"She said you broke her heart."

"I don't think so." He smiled. "She started dating the leading lady on Guiding Lantern or whatever soap it was. Sandy was probably playing the empathy card." Claire smiled, and he cupped her chin in his hand. The tension grew, arced off them, bounced around the room, and then the side door, Adam's private entrance, opened. He walked in, then stopped short, a frown erasing his smile.

Claire's instinct was to jump across the room, too much too late. Jack stood and approached Adam. "Adam."

"Didn't we have this discussion, Jack?" He closed the private entrance door.

"It's not exactly what you think. Claire overheard some gossip, she was a little upset."

"And closing your blinds, that's one way to stop tongues wagging." He walked to the corridor windows and opened all the blinds, then turned, his hands on his hips. "Ms. Kincaid, relationships with your supervisors are prohibited. Keep that in mind, please. Jack, I need to see you about the Washburn investigation." He left them, anger in his wake. Jack stepped up to Claire, resting his fingers on her shoulders. "Would you like to go out to dinner tonight, Claire?"

She looked at him, he was serious. She felt his heat, his desire, met it with her own, but she was confused. Then she nodded. She knew a great little restaurant around the corner from her building. Then she grinned. "Better, I'll cook for you tonight. Then we don't have to worry about prying eyes."

He nodded, then took a file off his desk. "I'll come by around eight."

"I'll be waiting."

She shopped on her way home - chicken breasts, fresh mozzarella, the deli owner's homemade tomato sauce with roasted garlic and sweet onions, some fresh spaghetti, a loaf of French bread from the bakery on the corner, two bottles of wine. She carried her load inside and up the stairs, a lightness in her step despite her bags. She stepped into her small apartment, grateful for the habitual neatness driven into her during her years at boarding school, one less thing to worry about with time at a premium. She unpacked her bags, then went into her bedroom to change.

A shower was required, she wanted to smell good, and her hand closed on her favorite vanilla-scented body wash. She washed her hair, too, shaved her legs while she was at it, then dried and applied a complementary lotion. Naked, she walked into her bedroom and studied her closet. She wanted to look good but she didn't want it complicated - if she needed to get out of her clothes she didn't want much impeding the process. Jack would be coming from work, in jeans and a sweater, so she chose her favorite pair of faded jeans and a large, long-sleeved navy blue tee shirt, black socks to cut the chill of the floor.

She loaded the CD changer with the music Jack liked, the music of the sixties, then began cooking. Chicken parmigian and spaghetti, it almost took care of itself, she thought, easing the baking pan into the oven and adjusting the heat downward on the pot of water on the stove.

That done, she gave the apartment a quick inspection. An orderly mind lived here, accented with touches of femininity. Impulsively, she put tall, thick scented candles around the bathtub, adding a few rose petals around each. She looked at the effect - her bathroom was red, white, and black, the candles looked like a decorating touch and not a design, and she was satisfied. Then she waited on the couch, sipping a glass of wine, her stocking feet curled under her bottom.

What are you getting yourself into, Claire Kincaid, she thought. Defying Adam Schiff was not the smartest thing she could do; Adam had not been pleased when he learned about Joel Thayer, but he'd supported her, rehired her after she resigned, but Claire was not imagining the loss of respect she saw him in his eyes. He'd been very clear when he sent her to work with Jack, it had been a serious question for him, whether or not to put a good looking sexy stud with a young, inexperienced, and entirely too pretty woman. We tried, Adam, she thought, we tried ignoring the attraction, Jack kept his desk between us as much as possible, but it's not working. She sipped wine, hugging a throw pillow against her abdomen, recalling that first day - she'd tried to be so cool, so professional, warning Jack she wasn't interested, and how he'd looked at her, amused and knowing, when he flashed that crooked smile Claire heard the word "liar" echo in her thoughts. Adam, she thought, haven't you felt it, felt the irresistible pull toward another person? Will you really fry me for it? Put my head on the chopping block while Jack skates? She finished her wine and looked at her watch, it was almost eight. She tossed the pillow aside and got up for more wine.

It was a soft rap, like a knuckle tapping the door. She put her wine glass on the counter and went to open it. Jack stood there, leaning against the door frame, motorcycle helmet dangling from one hand, his crooked smile greeting her. "Come in," she said, and he did, putting his helmet on the table that held her briefcase, keys, telephone. He wore jeans - he kept most of his suits hanging in the office, wearing jeans to and from work because of his motorcycle, or so he claimed. A brown leather jacket over a white shirt with its collar points buttoned. He slipped out of the jacket and glanced around; she took it from him and hung it in the small closet behind the doorway. He looked around the apartment as he followed her to the couch.

"Wine?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you."

She poured for both of them and joined Jack on the couch, they sat at opposite ends, neutral corners so to speak. Claire turned and put her feet up, loosely hugging her knees with one arm, while Jack rested one arm on the back of the couch, facing her. She wasn't sure what to do, to say, in her mind Adam Schiff sat squarely between them.

Jack sipped his wine. "Adam's bark is worse than his bite, you know."

"No, I don't know."

Jack's smile went straight to her heart. "He has to make a show of enforcing the code of conduct, but as long as we don't engage in PDA or otherwise flaunt things, he doesn't much care what his attorneys do after hours. He cares about winning cases." He grinned again. "And blueballs tend to reduce an attorney's effectiveness."

Claire flushed. "He sounded serious to me." She looked away. "I should have ignored the gossip, those women are going to talk whether there's a basis in fact or not. Shouldn't have let it get to me, but I know they all know about Joel."

"Claire, that was a couple of years ago, you paid for your mistake, let go of it." The wine swirled in his glass and he studied it, then looked back at her. He wanted her so much, and that desire radiated from him. She looked at him, acknowledging it, meeting it with her own.

"How do I get Adam out of my head?" she whispered. "If I get fired -"

He put his wine glass on the coffee table and slid across the couch, easing her legs to the floor, taking her wine glass away, pulling her into his arms. "Adam doesn't want to live in your head, Claire, he just wants to cover his ass." He kissed her forehead, then held her head against his shoulder. She inhaled his scent, felt the heat of his skin through his cotton shirt, the strength of his muscles. She was getting hornier by the second.

She pulled away, standing. "Dinner?" she asked, too brightly, and Jack grinned, he had such an easy smile, she thought, he's been down this road before. Joel had been so aggressive, barely giving her time to think, Jack was letting her call the shots. She avoided sexual relationships since Joel, kept herself shut down, denying desire in any form, burying herself in work. And now work had put Jack McCoy in front of her, day after day, exuding his confident sexuality, his easy athleticism, his quick mind. They finished getting dinner ready together, on top of everything else, Jack McCoy was skilled in the kitchen, she wondered if the universe was telling her "this is the right man, you idiot, what are you waiting for?"

They ate, they washed up, they sat on the couch again, as Rod Steward sang of a reason to believe. The tension, building slowly since Jack walked into her apartment, grew to unbearable proportions. He slid across the couch, his arms holding her close. Then his right hand held the side of her head, turning her face toward his, she thought she was going to implode from the weight of the tension. His lips found hers, softly, tentatively, his tongue moving with hers. Then he was kissing her face, her throat, her ear, before returning to her sensitized lips. She felt his fingers tugging her tee shirt up, felt air touch her skin as his hand slid around her back, her bra hooks gave way to his touch just as she did. She tugged on his shirt, not as adept as he was at undoing buttons one-handed. He helped her, leaning away and undoing them himself, then stripping the shirt off and dropping it on the floor. Then he pulled her shirt off her shoulders, down her arms, followed by her bra, and he pulled her close again, easing her down on the couch, which was too short for his height.

She held his face in her hands, smiling at him. "I have a perfectly good bed," she whispered. He nodded and got up, holding out his hand. She took it and led him into her bedroom. She pulled the bedspread and top sheet back, then turned to look at him. He was naked, so ready for her, and she peeled her jeans off, stepping out of them and into the bed. He slid in next to her, holding her as if he was afraid she'd disappear. She'd never wanted anyone like she wanted him, thought she would die if he didn't get down to business. He did. She gasped when he entered her, the pleasure was too intense, the culmination of so much desire, fantasy, of forbidden fruit dropping from the tree and into her hand. So unlike Joel, who took, Jack gave, generously, getting pleasure from her responses, her legs tightening around his, refusing to let him go, her hands stroking his chest, his nipples, his throat, digging into his shoulders. He gave and gave, until the waves of her joyous coming brought his.

He'd collapsed onto her, his arms trembling, his breath, ragged and hot, in her ear, their slippery bodies still joined. Then he rolled off, lying on his back next to her, his arm snaking around her shoulders, pulling her against him, his other hand brushing her hair away from her face. They looked at each other, heads propped on pillows, and Claire smiled. "The hell with Adam," she said, and Jack laughed. Mellow with satiation, she turned slightly and began drawing circles on his flat abdomen, tracing the lines of his ribs, his six-pack, his navel. "Do we have a problem now?" she whispered.

"I think I can keep myself from throwing you on the couch," he said, "as long as I know we'll have this later." He raised his head to kiss her. "I've been sublimating all this into winning cases, whatever will I do now?" He grinned, God she loved that crooked smile, that sly expression.

"I'm just wondering how I'll face you tomorrow, in the office." She kissed him. "I don't have a scarlet letter on my forehead, do I?"

He pretended to study her face. "Not yet." He caught her wandering hand with his. "Although Adam has a sixth sense about these things." He looked like a merry gremlin, his eyes dancing with pleasure and mischief. "Hey, I seduced you, relax."

"Oh? You seduced me?" She rose up on one elbow, lightly circling his nipple with her index finger. "And I thought I arranged things so well." She watched his dangling appendage stop dangling and reach for her wandering hand. She traced circles on his inner thighs and he groaned. "Didn't I, Jack? Didn't I play you like a violin?"

"Beat me like a drum," he gasped, as she drew her finger up his throbbing length.

She swung herself over him and lowered herself slowly. "Just so we understand who seduced whom," she whispered, absorbing all of him, ready to ride him into the dawn.

He spent the night. The question hadn't come up, they could not tear themselves away from the magic of that queen sized bed, from exploring each other, wanting more, always more, and then dawn crept into the room, and they were out of time for now.

"Is this why you keep suits at the office?" she teased, turning the shower on.

"It is now," he said, tearing open the toothbrush box she'd given him.

She stepped into the shower, hating washing away the traces of his scent, his touch. Then he slipped in behind her, taking the soap from her, sniffing it, and laughing. She looked up at him with a quizzical half-smile.

"If I walk in smelling like you, game's over, but I don't mind losing this one." He took the lavender scented soap and washed her back, her bottom, ran it over her shoulder blades like a boy with his Hot Wheels car. She turned around, letting him wash other areas.

"I do have some Dial in the cabinet," she purred, "want me to get it?"

He kissed her wet forehead. "I kind of like the idea of smelling like you." He soaped her breasts. "When Adam's boring the shit out of me, I can just discreetly sniff my hand." He soaped his chest. "And then when I walk out with a woody, Adam can have a coronary, thinking I'm getting a hard on because of him."

She playfully slapped his bottom. "You do that. I'd pay good money to see that." She elbowed him out of the way and rinsed thoroughly. She stepped out of the shower, leaving him to finish on his own. She dried, then took a clean towel off the stack in the linen closet, leaving it on the toilet seat. She walked into her bedroom and opened the closet.

No court today. She chose a pants suit, black, man-tailored and very sexy in its way, and a burgundy oxford shirt. She took a lacy pair of underpants and matching bra out of the drawer and put them on.

"Oh geez, just what I need." Jack stood in the doorway, towel around his waist. "Thinking about that under your clothes, it's going to be one long day at the office." He grinned. "Any clue where my underwear landed?"

She buttoned her shirt, looking around. "There," she said, pointing with her foot. His underwear and jeans were half under the bed. He pulled his shorts on, then his jeans. "Living room," she said, zipping her pants, "by the couch."

He walked out, on the trail of his shirt. "My shoes?" he called.

She stepped into the living room, dressed except for her shoes. "Radar doesn't come with a womb, Jack, despite what men and small children think." She went to the kitchen to start coffee. She heard him snort in response. She got a couple of mugs from the cabinet and put them beside the coffee maker, then went to apply her makeup, something she usually did straight from the shower, but with Jack keeping the mirror fogged…She expertly applied it, then came back to a waiting pot of coffee and her lover sprawled on the couch, watching her. She poured coffee, then joined him.

"This is going to be awkward," she said, raising the mug to her lips.

"Doesn't have to be. Adam's tossed Washburn in our laps." He lazily rubbed the back of his head. "That ought to keep us absorbed."

"What is it?"

He looked away, he didn't want her to get washed in his anger. "Seems the son of a bitch was raping his step-daughter while Mom was at work. Mom comes home unexpectedly, got sick at work, catches him at it, and buries a kitchen knife in his back. He survived, our bad luck, and now he's screaming that the sex with the kid was consensual and Mom tried to murder him out of jealousy. Mom's already copped to three to six if we'll place her daughter with her aunt."

"This sounds like fun." Claire would never get used to human cruelty. She touched Jack's foot, rubbing his toes through his socks. "Guess it will keep us absorbed, as you put it."

They drove to work separately and Claire used the time to think, to anticipate the awkwardness of being in the same room with Jack, remembering what he looked like naked, what they'd done, she was afraid everyone would know just by looking at them. She was afraid to even look at Jack, to meet his eyes, to see the knowedge in them. And she didn't want to think about Adam.

They walked in together, after parking side by side in the garage. Jack paused once, pulling her into the shadows, his hands cupping her cheeks. "Just walk in like any other day, like you own the place. If you show nerves, then they will know, or at least suspect. It's not a big deal." She flinched and he touched her forehead with his. "I mean, it's not a big deal in the office. What happened between us is a big deal, but it's nobody's business but ours, so act like it's just another day at the office." She nodded, she could do this.

Graham passed them through with a friendly smile after they signed in. Despite Jack's admonitions, she could not look at him without remembering his body over hers, his smile as he brought her so close to climax then backed away, kissing her, touching her, teasing her until she wanted to scream. He wore a black suit and white dress shirt with a striped tie, but all she saw was naked Jack, and she could not look at him, could not stand too close to him.

They had a meeting with Adam at eleven, and she was dry-mouthed, nervous, restless. She walked in Jack's office at a quarter till, closing the door and looking at him, seated at his desk, coat hanging on the rack and tie loosened. He looked up at her and smiled, damn he was seeing her naked, too. She flushed and he got up, standing in front of her, holding her with his eyes.

"Relax," he whispered.

He was too close, she flushed deeper as desire rose uninvited, she felt her nipples harden and she tried to turn away. He caught her elbow. "Focus," he said. "Have you read the file? Can you describe the case to Adam?"

She nodded. She'd read it, she thought she'd committed the pertinent facts to memory, but damn, he was touching her and this was new to her, this lust, she didn't know how to control it. Jack stepped away, adjusting his tie, checking his watch.

"He can't read minds," he whispered, hand on the doorknob, "but he can read body language. Don't think of anything but the case."

"Then don't get close to me," she said, meaning it, she had no idea lust could short-circuit one's brain. He grinned and opened the door, waiting for her to precede him.

Adam was at his desk, he looked grumpier than usual. He closed a book of case law open on his desk and leaned back, taking stock of each of them in turn. "Well." He waited.

"It's a no-brainer, Adam," Jack said, sinking into one of the club chairs in front of Adam's desk. "Washburn is claiming it was consensual, the girl is saying it's not."

"And how old is she?" He reached in a drawer for a paper clip and began bending it, still watching his people.

"Fourteen," Claire said. "She said it's been going on since she was twelve." Her mouth was so dry, and her knees began trembling under Adam's appraising glare.

"And where was her mother during these two years?"

"The girl says she was afraid to tell her mother, Hal Washburn threatened to hurt them both if she said anything, and she believed him."

"What do you think?" His eyes bore into Claire's. "Who's telling the truth? Could this girl have developed a crush on step-daddy and taken it from there?"

"She was twelve when it started, Adam," Jack said. "I hardly think she knew how to lead step-daddy on at that age."

"Think not, huh? Looked at the statistics on teen pregnancy lately? An awful lot of thirteen year olds are giving birth." He tossed the mangled paper clip on his desk. "Have you interviewed her yet?"

Claire wanted out of his cross-hairs. She licked her lips, sinking into the other chair, crossing her legs. "I'll see her at one."

He looked at Jack. "What's your take on Washburn? Is he a dirty old man, or did he just give into lust?"

Jack drummed his fingers on the chair arm. "I think he's a dirty old man. Lust is not some irresistible force, acting on someone against their will."

"You'd know." His head swiveled back to Claire. She felt a flush creeping up her neck as she met his penetrating gaze. "What's your opinion, Ms. Kincaid?"

"I'd rather withhold judgment until I talk to the girl."

"Like she'll admit to having the hots for her mother's husband in front of her mother. Hal Washburn is up for Chief of D's, you better make sure you have all your facts before you move."

Claire had read that in the files. A case against a cop was always fraught with mines and booby-traps - the public would scream cover up if no finding of fact released him, the police department would shout witch-hunt if they charged him with statutory rape at the least. If they charged him with more serious crimes, the police became their enemies. And Hal Washburn was no ordinary cop - handsome, bright, a rising star in the department, married to a social worker who specialized in sex crimes against children. "The Chief has put the investigation in our hands, he doesn't want the public perceiving even a hint of favoritism from New York's finest." He stood and walked to the window. "Forbidden sex, the ultimate snare." He turned away from the window and looked at them. "After you interview the girl, Claire, I want the two of you to interview Hal Washburn. He's out on bail, staying with friends. I'll expect a report in the morning."

"Yes sir," she said, softly, refusing to look at Jack. Adam looked at her, then nodded. "Just don't let empathy cloud your judgment, Ms. Kincaid. You've fallen under the spell of an older man before." His tone was soft, alleviating the sting of his words. "If this girl is trying to skate the consequences of her actions, I want her punished. I always thought Hal Washburn was a decent man, I'm having trouble believing he'd seduce a child, much less one living under his roof."

"It happens, Adam." Jack stood, and Claire scrambled up, avoiding any contact with him. It was an unnatural movement, and Adam noticed. He looked at Jack, his eyes narrowing. "I'm sure it does, but authority figures usually don't give in to temptation. Go, get me some facts, we'll sort them later."

Claire walked out in front of Jack, across the narrow hallway where Adam's secretary guarded the inner sanctum. She opened the door to Jack's office, and when he'd closed it behind them, she made a dash for the water decanter. It was empty. "Damn it," she muttered, and picked it up. "Be right back.'

She filled it at the water fountain outside the general secretarial pool, feeling stares aimed at her back. Speculating, she thought, no power on earth could stop speculation. It was the tasty lubricant that made the work day a little more fun, a little more sordid, who could resist wondering what the sexy EADA and the lithe, cool ADA did when the door was closed? She capped the decanter and walked back to the office. Jack was on the phone, setting up an interview for three o'clock with Hal Washburn.

"What are we in for?" she asked, filling a plastic cup with water, then draining it.

"Lots of he said she said." He leaned back in his chair, she always thought it was going to tip over, but Jack knew exactly how far he could push it. "I'm of two minds - I can easily see some nubile young thing, in some twisted competition with her mother, enticing a forty year old man with an exaggerated sense of his own power into her bed. Conversely, I can see the same man homing in on this sweet young thing living in his house, seeing and taking advantage of all the hormonal upheavals of puberty and pushing the envelope." He smoothed his tie over his flat stomach. "So what do you think? I know Mr. Winkie has a mind of his own, common sense goes out the window when Mr. Winkie's on the rampage. What's it like for girls?"

Claire sat on the couch, a safe distance from Jack and Mr. Winkie. She crossed her legs and looked at him. "When I was fourteen, all I thought about was sex - fantasizing about it, trying to imagine what it was like, developing crushes right and left. But." She shivered. "To imagine hitting the sheets with Mac - oh god. It's repulsive."

Jack knew Claire' stepfather, a law professor at NYU, a dominating man with little patience for angst and doubt. He couldn't imagine the man being a father figure to a teenaged girl, but he had, there Claire sat. "I don't think you can compare Hal Washburn to Mac Gellar," he said, toying with a pen. "Hal is what, forty, and he's good looking, personable. It's not a stretch, seeing this Lolita wannabe making a move on him. He'd been her stepfather for three-four years, it's not like a paternal relationship formed while the girl was young."

"You know Adam was taking pot shots at us."

"I do." He tossed the pen on the desk. "He's just probing, looking for a reaction." He sighed. "I want a drink, you want one?" He stood, reaching into his pocket for change.

"Yes, please."

He brought her a cold Diet Coke, and she took a sip before checking her watch. "Time to go play Inquisitor," she said. "I hate this - if this girl is telling the truth, I'm going to make her feel bad, instead of supporting her. And if she's lying, I'll be exposing her in front of her mother."

"We go where the truth leads us, Claire."

"So why does it feel so lousy?"

"Because you see yourself in her place - being asked why you had wild, incredible sex with your supervisor even though you knew it was not allowed." He smiled. "We're consenting adults. No matter how this plays out, that girl is not old enough to qualify for that term."

"But she's old enough to pay the piper." Like I am, Claire thought, wishing she could think like Jack, that it was no big deal and despite Adam's grumbling, he really didn't give a rat's ass what Jack and Claire did in the privacy of her bedroom.

She used the bathroom, then gathered up her notes and a fresh legal pad, then walked to the conference room. When she stepped inside, she saw Mrs. Washburn and Stacy, sitting with an attorney she recognized, though she'd never faced him in court. Claire closed the door, then sat at the head of the table, arranging her materials, before studying Stacy Luquire.

Stacy was fourteen, but she looked twenty, Claire thought. She was conservatively dressed, in khakis, a white oxford shirt with buttoned collar points, and a brown blazer, a school crest on its pocket. Her mother sat beside her, wearing a gray suit, white shell blouse, a multi-colored scarf around her neck. Whereas Stacy had long flowing hair, Mrs. Washburn's was close-cropped, resembling nothing so much as a helmet. The lawyer sat across from his clients, in a decent suit, exuding earnestness. "Good afternoon," Claire said, "I'm Claire Kincaid, of the District Attorney's office."

"Miles Van de Camp, counsel for Mrs. Washburn and Stacy Luquire."

Claire nodded, looking at the young woman who was either a victim or an adversary. "Stacy, why don't you start from the beginning?" She kept her voice warm, inviting, she made appropriate eye contact.

Stacy picked up some strands of hair and studied the ends. "I've already told that policewoman who talked to me at the hospital," she said, a whining note present and grating on Claire's nerves. "Hal's been forcing me to have sex for almost two years."

"So why didn't you tell your mother?" Claire made a note on her legal pad.

"Cause Hal said he'd throw us out on the streets, that he'd plant drugs in my backpack, get my mom fired."

Claire referred back to the original police report. There Stacy had stated that Hal threatened both women. She made another note. "I don't know, Stacy, I think I'd want to tell my mother, she's supposed to protect you. I think she'd have made mincemeat out of Hal if she knew what he was doing."

Stacy snorted. "Mom's always so busy." She cut a glance at her mother, who looked as if she'd bitten nails. "There were always so many 'at risk' teenagers for her to save, all her important work. Hal said she didn't have time for me, that if I told her he'd take care of it so that she wouldn't believe me, and if she did, he knew how to take care of us, leave us with nothing. He said he was going to be chief of detectives, no one would believe me, and he's right, you don't believe me, do you?"

Claire leaned back at the venom in that young voice. "I didn't say that," she said. Oh, she knew about not being believed, Joel Thayer was a judge, who was going to doubt his word? And if things went south with Jack, people would just point to a pattern, Claire Kincaid had a thing for older, powerful men. She shook her head and focused on Stacy. "I need to know what happened, Stacy, so I can build a case against your stepfather."

The girl met Claire's eyes. "It happened the first time just before Christmas, after I turned twelve…"

Claire returned to Jack's office, wanting a shower. She felt contaminated by the events Stacy described. Jack had a hand in his briefcase, and he looked up as she came in, then closed the briefcase. "Well?" He reached for his suit coat.

"I feel dirty." She put her things on his desk. "Are we heading over to interview Washburn?"

"Yeah. He's staying with a friend of his, a captain in the two nine. He's expecting us." He touched Claire's back, to guide her through the office, and she flinched, then looked at him apologetically. "Are you OK?" Jack asked, closing the office door behind them.

"Can we talk about it in the car?"

"Sure." They walked to the elevators, signing out at Graham's desk. Jack had the keys to an official car, and it took them a moment to find it in the lot, the cars were all the same make, model, and color, but the key tag said Row G, slot 4, and they found it. Jack waited until they'd eased into traffic. "Didn't go well?"

"Adam was on the right track," she said, looking out the window. "That girl just exudes out of control sexuality. She played with fire and got burned."

"It takes two, Claire." He glanced at her. "Washburn is old enough to know better."

"So are you," she whispered.

"Claire." There was pain in his voice. "You're twenty-six, there's no comparison."

She looked at him and put her hand on his thigh, feeling it tense. She shut down the image of that naked thigh, straining against hers. "I meant in terms of consequences, Jack."

He parked half a block away from Captain Tom Franjesevic's building and they got out. Heavy clouds were moving in from the west, it was going to rain, and Jack hoped it held off until they were finished with this interview. The doorman called up, then admitted them, and they took the elevator up to five. Franjesevic's apartment was directly across from the elevator. Jack knocked once and they waited.

Hal Washburn, wearing black sweatpants and a gray police department tee shirt, admitted them with a weary wave. "Counselors," he said. "Have a seat. Can I get you a Coke or something?"

"No, thanks," Jack said, sitting beside Claire on the couch. It was a fairly large apartment, lined with floor to ceiling bookcases, a wide screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the couch. Hal sat in a leather recliner, then smiled deprecatingly.

"I should live so well," he said. "Tom's father-in-law runs a successful brokerage company."

Jack nodded, he wasn't much for small talk when it came to business. "Tell us your side of it," he began.

"What's to tell. I made a huge mistake, and now I'm going to pay dearly for it." He looked down at his hands. "Ever had a sweet young thing come into your bedroom, naked, and slip between the sheets with you? You've been asleep, so you don't know if you're dreaming or not, until she…" he stopped, looking at Claire, who kept her expression blank. "I should have hit the floor, run out, but I didn't. And once it happened, I didn't know how to stop it. I admit to statutory rape, Mr. McCoy, but that's it."

"A twelve year old girl gets in your bed and you just let it happen?" Jack had an outraged note in his voice.

"She wasn't twelve." He hung his head, then looked up. "I don't care what she says. And they aren't children at that age now, Mr. McCoy. It's a different world. If they haven't lost their virginity by thirteen, their friends think something's wrong with them."

"And she wanted you take her virginity?" Claire asked.

"Someone else had that honor," he said, rubbing his face, then the back of his neck. "I did not force the issue, Mr. McCoy. You're a man, you know how it is, when it's waved in front of you, our one-eyed little brother takes over."

Jack frowned. "No, I don't know that."

Suddenly Washburn sneered at him. "Jack 'I can't keep it in my pants' McCoy claims he can turn down sweet young nookie?" His eyes fell on Claire, and she felt a crimson tide rush up her neck, cover her face. Jack was on his feet, pulling the other man up by his tee shirt.

"You are embarrassing my assistant," he said, with deadly calm. "You are implying things that are uncalled for, hurtful to her." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Apologize, or I'm going to rearrange your face."

Hal Washburn took stock of the taller man, his gaze flickering over McCoy's shoulder for a second, to a furiously blushing Claire Kincaid. "Sorry if I hit a sore spot," he said. As McCoy's grip tightened, he said "I apologize, Ms. Kincaid, that was uncalled for, I didn't mean it the way it sounded." Jack's grip eased.

Jack let him go and turned to Claire. "Let's go." He grabbed his briefcase, then turned to Hal Washburn. "Be in my office Monday at nine, with your attorney. We'll continue this then." He took Claire's elbow and escorted her out. They were silent all the way to the city lot on Hogan Place.

"It's four-thirty, let's call it a day," he said. "It's going to rain, I hate riding my bike in the rain." His smile was easy, and she returned it.

"Jack McCoy knocking off early? This I have to see."

"My place or yours?"

She laughed. "Mine, at least I have food. You need to come up with a better line."

They walked into the parking garage, to her car. He put his briefcase in the backseat, then got in the front. "I told you it's going to rain," he said, smiling. She nodded and turned the key. It wasn't until they were in her apartment, locked away from the world, rain beating down on the city, that they really talked.

"I feel so dirty," Claire said, undressing. "I have to take a shower."

He nodded, pulling at his own clothes. "I know how you feel."

She believed he did. Washburn's snide remark hit home, she knew Jack was too aware of their age difference, of his own reputation, of his fear of besmirching hers. He felt like a dirty old man, she knew, and she wanted to wash those feelings away. Clean, he looked at her and wryly smiled. "Do I have to put my suit on again?"

She shook her head. "I like you naked," she said, feeling shy. She led him to the couch, he sat and she cuddled next to him, then slid in his lap, her arms around his neck. "You aren't a dirty old man, Jack," she whispered, "And I'm not a teenaged Lolita. I know exactly what I'm doing, and it's not bringing you down."

He kissed her. She wanted to erase the discomfort, the half-truths, in Hal Washburn's words, wanted to tell him with her body that he was what she wanted, that she was old enough to know her own mind, and her mind, her body, couldn't get enough of him. His hands were light, as if he was afraid of touching her, of possessing her, he held his desire in check, and held his face between her hands, staring into his eyes.

"Do you want me, Jack?"

"Oh God yes." His fingers tangled in her hair.

"Then come with me." She led him into the bedroom and jumped on the bed, opening her arms. He looked at her, desire plain, and then he eased down beside her, suddenly wanting to possess her completely, to feel her surrender willingly, joyfully to this overwhelming urge to simply take her. Finally spent, drained of everything but a languid pleasure, he curled around her, covering her hands with his.

"I," she said, "am going to walk funny for a week."

He laughed, then rolled her onto her back. He looked down at her, at her bright eyes, her lazy smile, and the teasing invitation to put Mr. Winkie back in action. "So will I," he said. "I think you broke him."

"No, dude, don't tell me that." She touched his lips. "Are you hungry?"

"Probably, I don't know yet." He stretched. "It's going to take more than food to get me out of this bed."

"Best thing about New York, the food comes to you. Chinese OK?" When he nodded, she rolled out of bed and went into the living room. He heard her voice, still flushed with pleasure, then she came back with a couple of beers. He sat up and took his. She propped a pillow behind her back, put her feet in Jack's lap, raked her disheveled hair away from her face. "If we're going to be naughty, we might as well make the most of it," she said. "To the day Jack McCoy played hooky from work."

He toasted her, then drank about half the bottle. "Ah, Claire," he said. "I've never felt this way before."

She reached for him, pulled him willingly to her shoulder, caressed his skin. "Right back at you." She stroked his bare arm. "I can't keep my hands off you. How does it feel, being a sex object?"

He laughed, then reached over to put his beer on the night table. "It feels great." His hands caressed her breasts, he caught a nipple in his mouth, teased it with his tongue. She gasped, then put her bottle aside. She flipped him on his back, straddled him, rode him until they were both gasping for air. A loud knock interrupted their afterglow. She moved, feeling him slip out of her, and reached for her robe. She disappeared into the living room, he heard her chatting with the delivery boy, then she was back with a brown paper bag and two plates. "A picnic in bed," she said. "Life doesn't get any better."

"Yeah it does," he said, putting egg rolls on their plates.

"Well, yeah, but you can't eat and do that at the same time."

"Multi-tasking, my dear." He passed chopsticks to her waiting hand.

The alarm blasted its shrill beep-beep until Claire finally smacked it with a mumbled curse. She rose up on her elbow, looking at Jack, who slept on his back, his head turned away from her. They'd made love until they were exhausted, falling asleep sometime in the wee hours, and still desire filled her, looking at him lying in her bed, naked and vulnerable. Still, work waited, work and --

"Oh shit, Adam!" she cried.

Jack's eyes flew open and he looked around, as if he'd find Adam Schiff standing there. Then he looked at Claire, and realization dawned. "Oh shit is right," he said and got out of bed. "I'll handle it, Claire, I'll get that summary written before he gets in." He hurried into the bathroom.

They'd been so lost in each other, there was no room in their minds for anything but exploring, learning each other's bodies, the downpour outside had made the small apartment seem so insulated from the world and all they cared about was each other, they were the only ones who existed in this new world of discovery. She got up, choosing her clothing, joining Jack in the shower, moving fast, they had to get there before Adam.

They succeeded, Graham had barely put out his sign-in/sign out books and started coffee. He was surprised to see them, and to see them together, but he offered them one of his wife's cookies and sent them on their way with a 'good morning.' Jack flicked on his office lights and then his computer, Claire went to the coffee pot shared by Jack's office and the three assistants in their corner of the building. She knew she didn't look as together as she usually did, but it would have to do. She jotted down her memories of the Stacy Luquire interview, her assessment of the girl's veracity, then she heard the coffee pot burp, and she held the legal pad under her arm as she poured two mugs, stuffing a couple of creamers into her jacket pocket, and made a beeline for Jack's office.

He was in shirtsleeves, she saw the twin ribbons of his tie running down his shirt as she gave him his coffee. He smiled, it's going to be OK, he said with that smile, just hang on and run wherever I lead. He took her notes, glanced at them, then turned back to the keyboard. "Type up your recollections in as much detail as you can," he whispered. "And let me do the talking."

She nodded. She sat at her computer, in her cubicle, and typed furiously, remembering Stacy's words, body language, the silence of her mother and attorney. She could remember being twelve, thirteen, fourteen, remember wanting it but the absolute terror of actually doing it, fear of pregnancy overriding everything else there was to be scared of when it came to sex. Claire had never wanted it badly enough to risk that - except for last night. When Jack filled her for the third time with his essence, she'd wondered if the diaphragm would hold it back, and made a mental note to see her gynecologist for a prescription for the pill as soon as possible. Not being in a relationship, and not prone to one night stands, the Pill had been an unnecessary health issue, but now…She kept typing, focusing on her memories; with no idea where her original notes ended up, she had to concentrate. She reached for her mug, sipped strong coffee, it would clear her head, still hung over from multiple orgasms. She heard Tim come in, waved off his cheerful 'good morning,' focused on writing a coherent interview report. Finished, she hit print, then drained her coffee as the papers came out of the printer.

Jack stacked his papers as she walked in. He winked at her, then reached for his tie and whipped it into a Windsor knot, checking his handiwork in the mirror by his clothes rack. "Damn we're good," he said, taking her report and scanning it. "I heard Adam bellowing, he wanted his coffee five minutes ago." A half smile lit his face. "If he's pissed at Marge, he won't be pissed at us."

But he was. He glanced at the interview summaries, then leaned heavily back in his chair, his hands on its arms. He looked first at Claire, searching her eyes, her makeup, her clothes, his bullshit detector in high gear, but then he turned from her to Jack.

"Isn't that the same suit you wore yesterday?" He rocked in the chair, then stood, walking around the desk. "I got a phone call yesterday afternoon." He stopped in front of Jack. "Sit." Jack sat, focused on Adam. "How dare you put your hands on anyone, let alone the future of Chief of D's? He's not even a suspect, officially. And you think you can manhandle him?"

"Adam, he insulted Claire."

"Ms Kincaid is a big girl, she should be able to handle innuendo." He glanced back at Claire, who'd gone pale. "You have seriously pissed off the Chief of D's, who pissed off the mayor, who called me, and now I'm pissed off. Where the hell were you yesterday afternoon?"

"Adam -"

"Don't Adam me." He went back to his chair. "Where the hell were you?"

"At Claire's."

"Oh that's just dandy!" He hit Claire with a level, penetrating glare. "We have a high profile sex case, and my two best people are off wiggling under the sheets when they should be working." He fixed Jack with another glare. "All right, we can't change that. What's your opinion on the merits of Miss Luquire's allegation?"

Jack slumped in his chair. "That it's bullshit. She was willingly sleeping with Mr. Washburn, and when her mother caught her, she screamed rape. And mom is willing to accept it because it's easier than admitting her daughter was having sex with her husband under her nose." He rubbed his jaw, he'd had a quick shave with the electric razor he kept his drawer, and it itched. "I think all we can nail him on is statutory rape."

Adam picked up a copy of The Daily News. "What do I pay you for, other than to bang Ms. Kincaid?" He tossed the paper at Jack. "It's playing as rape in the press, people are calling for Washburn's hide nailed to the court house - abuse of power, of a paternal relationship, abuse of trust. The mayor called me at home this morning after seeing that." He crossed his arms. "Get out of Ms. Kincaid's bed and into your job, investigate everything. Talk to the housekeeper, talk to Stacy's friends, get her medical records. And keep your hands off people!" He frowned. "Go, get to work."

"Oh. My. God. That was fun." Claire fought back humiliated tears, fought the urge to turn to Jack. "I didn't know he could act like that."

"He's caught in the cross-hairs. The press has a chance to smear a high police official, so they're running with it."

"But the things he said about us --"

"Shh." He risked a quick hug, even though the door was open. "If he was going to fire you, he would have." He sat at his desk. "Start with Stacy's friends, go by her school and see what they have to say."

Claire sat in the school conference room, waiting for one Elissa Mathews, allegedly Stacy's best friend at St. Josephine's. When the girl came in, she regarded Claire suspiciously. Claire smiled, without warmth. "Have a seat," she said.

Elissa pulled the chair away from the table, then sat, crossing her arms and staring at Claire. "What do you want?"

"My name is Claire Kincaid, I'm an assistant district attorney. We're looking into allegations made by Stacy Luquire -"

"They aren't allegations, if you're talking about her stepfather. He's been nailing her since she was twelve."

"How do you know?"

"Stacy told me. Her mom went to some conference right after Christmas or something, anyway, Stacy was staying with El Creepo, cause her dad was in Rome with his new wife for the holidays. And El Creepo cornered her one night and that was it."

"You didn't encourage Stacy to tell her mother or the police?"

"Are you kidding? Her mother wouldn't believe her, she thinks Stacy's a slut and a liar. She thinks she caught the golden goose with El Creepo. And El Creepo's a cop, wouldn't you know that if you were with the DA's office?" She snickered. "Since when do cops arrest each other?"

"I did know that," Claire said softly. "So when did she tell you about it?"

"When it happened. Stacy was so like traumatized, ya know? She thought the first time she had sex it would be with some guy our age, not some geezer, and that it would be fun. Instead some fifty year old creep makes her do it." Elissa shivered. "I mean, can you imagine having someone that old slobbering all over you? Stacy said she threw up every time she saw the creep for days."

Claire smiled inwardly, there were some fifty year old geezers she'd very much like slobbering on her right about now, but she focused on the girl. "Do you know if there's any evidence, anything Stacy might have to prove it was rape?"

"Look, I know you're a lot older than we are, and you probably think sex is boring, but still - if your stepfather was nailing you every time your mother left the house, what kind of evidence could you have? He lives there, his stuff, his fingerprints, are all over the place. It's not like she had a video camera."

"But she told you when it happened?"

"Yeah, that night. She snuck out of the house and came to mine. She was just a mess."

"And since then?"

"She's tried to stay out of the house when her mother's not home, but then the last time, when her mother walked in on that old geezer huffing and puffing on her, it was the end of it. You know he threatened to have Stacy arrested if she told anyone? To throw her and her mom out on the street? What was she supposed to do?"

Claire kept writing, then she looked up at Elissa, raising her eyebrows.

Elissa ran her finger over the tabletop. "How old are you?" she asked, very softly, trying to look Claire in the eyes.

"Twenty-six, why?"

"Then maybe you can still remember being our age. Nobody believes us, they think it's all teenage drama, that we want the attention or something. I ask you, though, would you want to sleep with some old guy? Think about it from Stacy's side. That man is ugly, he's old, Stacy says he sits in his underwear and farts while they're watching TV or whatever. She thinks he's nasty, why would she want to have sex with him? Would you want to have sex with some fifty year old gross creep?"

Claire couldn't answer the question for a myriad of reasons, so she slid past it. "I want to believe Stacy. I'm going to be talking to her friends, so anything they can tell me might help - anything truthful. It won't help Stacy if her friends don't tell me the truth in an effort to help her."

Elissa nodded. "I understand. Can I go now?"

"Yes, and thank you, Elissa."

All the interviews went like that, teenage girls who'd heard Stacy's side of things from the very beginning, shared her repulsion at what they thought of as an old man, wanting to hurl at the thought of the old geezer mingling his disgusting bodily fluids with theirs. Claire had a terrible headache when, three hours later, she walked out of the private girls' school. She had an appointment at one with her doctor, so she stopped for lunch at a small café near Dr. Avery's office, calling Jack on her cell to let him know where she was. He asked if anything was wrong, if she wanted him to meet her, and part of her did, but she told him she'd see him back at the office.

She was Dorothy Avery's first patient after lunch, she was called in a few minutes early, and she followed the nurse down the narrow corridor into an examining room. The nurse took her vitals, then gave her a gown and told her the doctor would be with her shortly. Claire changed, then sat on the end of the table, her legs covered with a sheet. Within minutes there was a tapping on the door, then it opened.

"Claire. How are you?" Dorothy Avery came up to shake hands. She was a tall woman, with large hands, but her face was pretty, she resembled Vanessa Redgrave in many ways. She scooted a stool closer to the table and sat down, Claire's file in her lap. "What brings you here?" She noted the post-it with 'urgent' scribbled on it.

"Ah, life." She smiled. "I've started a relationship, lots of intense sex, and I'm worried the diaphragm won't do the job. And I've got the headache from hell, second one in two days."

"Hmm." Dorothy smiled. "Define intense sex."

Claire smiled shyly. "Seven times yesterday, from around three in the afternoon until somewhere around midnight."

"Does he have a brother?" Dorothy clicked the top of her pen. "Did you put spermicidal jelly in each time?"

"Uh, no. You never mentioned that."

"You never mentioned you were training for the sexual Olympics." She sighed. "When was your last period?"

"Two weeks ago. This isn't good, is it?"

"It's not necessarily bad, either, Claire." She wrote on the top page of Claire's file. "First time you went to bed with him?"

"No, day before that was."

"And you put the diaphragm in then?"

Claire nodded.

"I've given you the standard lecture about fertility before, I'll spare you a repeat performance. I can give you the morning after pill, you'd need to take it right away. If one of his little fish slipped past the barrier, it's probably still in time." She made another note. "I understand about passion, but when you're using barrier methods of birth control, you have to start over, as if were, each time, with a fresh application of -" she flipped back to Claire's last prescription, "foam." She got up and put the file on the counter, checked Claire over, asked where the headaches were located - top of my head, Claire mumbled. It didn't take long, then Dorothy sat down again. "Your vitals are good, you're young and healthy, the headaches are something we'll watch, I can give you something to kill them. Now, about the morning after pill. Do you want it?"

"What are my options?"

"Wait and see. I presume a pregnancy with a new guy is not on your To Do list." Claire nodded. "If you are pregnant, then you'd have to go through an abortion, and that's more difficult when it's actually happening than it is in the abstract. The morning after pill is not a hundred percent effective, but it generally works."

"What happens if it 'works'?"

"Like a very bad period. Cramps, heavy bleeding, tenderness, perhaps some nausea. You'd have to take a day, maybe two, from work."

Oh great, she thought, I can see Adam now - you want what? You got what? Taking a sick day in the investigative phase of a case was better than during trial. "How soon does it kick in?"

"If you took it now? You'd have a couple of hours before the cramping began." She looked at her watch. "And you would have to take it now, Claire. This is Friday, you should be able to go back to work on Monday. Will your new man be supportive?"

"Yes. He's a good man, Dorothy."

"How'd you meet him?"

"He's my boss."

"Oh." Dorothy took a prescription pad from her lab coat pocket. She scribbled on one sheet, then tore it off and wrote a second. "Get these filled downstairs, then take the MAP right away. Call your boss and tell him you can't make it back to the office, go home and go to bed. I've prescribed Percocet to help with the cramps and the headache. Call me if the bleeding is unusually heavy, if you pass clots. Is there anyone who can stay with you?"

"Jack would. I have some notes I have to drop off at the office, I'll tell him then."

"It's just precautionary, Claire. And come back in two weeks, we'll get you on the Pill."

Claire took the prescriptions and nodded. "And if I'm not pregnant?"

"You'll just have a period."

"But you think -"

"I think I'd rather take the MAP than deal with an unpleasant surprise down the road." She paused by the door. "Two weeks, Claire. Call me if you need me. I make house calls for special people."

She smiled weakly, then dressed quickly. She stopped at reception and scheduled the follow up appointment, then went down to the pharmacy on the first floor. She passed over the prescriptions and her insurance card, then waited in a hard chair with some other people. Her name was called in fifteen minutes, and she left the pharmacy. She stopped in a bodega for a drink and chased the MAP with the Diet Coke, then got her car from the parking garage and headed back to Hogan Place.

She slipped into Jack's office. He was on the phone, his back to her, watching a storm build to the west of the city. He sensed her and turned, flashing that killer smile. She put the legal pad she'd used interviewing the girls on his desk. He ended his conversation and got up.

"Are you OK?"

She smiled, a weak effort, and he noticed. He perched on the corner of his desk and waited. Claire cleared her throat. "I have to take the rest of the day, medical necessity. I know it will piss Adam off, but I have to."

"What's wrong?"

"Can I tell you later? Can you stop by your place on your way home and grab some of your clothes, and then come stay with me? I'm supposed to have someone stay with me."

He rose, as if he would leave with her that very moment. "Of course. Want me to bring dinner?"

"At least for you," she said, "I may not be hungry."

"What is it, Claire?" he whispered.

"I'll tell you at home," she promised. "I'll leave the door unlocked."

He nodded. "I'll be there as soon as I can, I'll shoot for six."

"Thanks, Jack." She turned and walked out, acknowledging the greetings of co-workers as she walked to the elevators. She drove home, wondering if every twinge she felt was the pill kicking in. She got inside her apartment, grateful to be there, feeling safer there, and hung her coat in the closet. She undressed, hanging her clothes, putting her shoes away, then pulled on cotton drawstring pants, a long-sleeved green tee shirt, and thick green socks. She went in the bathroom and stripped her makeup, moisturized her face, and then leaned on the sink, staring at her reflection. She looked tired, she felt tired. She sighed and straightened up. She got a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator, then found her purse and grabbed the bottle of Percocet. Her head was pounding, as if someone had driven a nail in the top of her head. She sat on the couch, looked at the label, Dorothy had given her forty. She shook one into her palm, popped it in her mouth, then chased it with soda. She capped the bottle and left it on the end table. Sighing, she stretched out on the couch, pulling a light lap blanket over her shoulders. It came to her knees, but it was enough.

She heard thunder. She sat up on an elbow, reached for her drink, chased the cotton in her mouth with it. Then the first wave of cramps hit, and she almost dropped the bottle. She felt chilled, and got up for a heavier blanket and another pillow from the linen closet. She made a nest, folding the lap blanket into a support for her knees and stretched out on her back. Had the Percocet had time to kick in? She looked at her watch, she'd taken it less than half an hour before, she didn't know much about pharmacology. She had a couple of hours at least until Jack got there, if he was able to get past Adam.

More cramps, terrible twisting cramps, sweat broke out on her forehead. She needed something for the blood, she knew she shouldn't use Tampax - had the doctor or the pharmacist told her that? She got up and stumbled into her bathroom. All she had were Tampax. Could she ask Jack to pick up pads for her? No. She burned just thinking about it. She picked up a hand towel off a stack on the shelf in her linen closet and folded it, then arranged it in her underwear. Another wave of cramps nearly knocked her off her feet. She staggered back to the couch and picked up the pill bottle. 1-2 every four to six hours as needed for pain. She took another one, then slid back under her covers. Within a few minutes, she felt high, and smiled. Might as well get some bennie out of the deal.

She slept, waking every now and then as pain twisted her womb. Then she heard Jack's voice and she forced her eyes open. He held the pill bottle, confusion and concern on his face. "Hi," she said, and struggled up, resting against the arm of the couch.

He put his hand against her face. "Hi yourself. What's going on?" He'd changed, he wore sweatpants and a Bears sweatshirt, he looked warm and comfortable, kneeling on her floor. "What's up with these?" He shook the Percocet bottle.

"Oh. Ah." She reached for her Diet Coke. It was lukewarm but she drank it anyway. "I went to see my gynecologist this afternoon, after - did you read my interview notes? I'm not so sure it was consensual now - and told her about us. I'd been using a diaphragm for birth control - I mean, I haven't had sex in a long time, it seemed stupid to be on the pill when I wasn't getting any." She drained the bottle and he took it from her, getting up, his knees cracked, she noticed, and then he was back with a fresh one. She thanked him and drank deeply from the cold bottle. "I didn't think about re-applying the foam, Jack, and so she, my doctor, said it was prudent to take the Morning After Pill. So I did." Cramps twisted her again, and she grabbed his hand. "She said if I'd conceived, I'd have what amounted to a really bad period. Which I am. I'm sorry, Jack."

"Sorry for what?" He stroked her head. "What can I do?"

"Sit with me?" She felt sticky between her legs. "Oh man." She struggled to get up, using his shoulder for leverage. "I think I need a new towel." He walked her to the bathroom, blanched when he saw the bloody towel. "Don't have pads," she mumbled. "Could you hand me a towel from the closet?"

When she was back on the couch, she saw Jack pick up his rain slicker and helmet. "Where are you going? Are you mad at me?"

He smiled. "No, not at all. I'm just going to get some pads for you. I'll be right back."

She slept while he was gone, seduced by the drugs into the darkness of oblivion. She came back when he knelt beside her again. She let him handle her, there were no secrets between them, then she slept again, until the medication wore off and twisting pain nearly threw her off the couch. Jack was there, he tipped two pills into her mouth and held the bottle while she drank. "How did you get away from the office so early?" she asked, her head falling back on the pillow.

"I just left. It's nobody's business." He sat on the floor. She reached out and toyed with his hair.

"Did you read my notes? I think we can make a case against Hal Washburn."

He nodded. "The housekeeper came in this afternoon. She said she thought Hal was stalking Stacy, but in the end, it's still he said she said."

"What does Adam say?"

"He said it's my call."

"So he's not pissed anymore?"

"No."

"So you can come back to my bed?" She smiled. "Did you know you're a geezer? I have it on very good authority, a fourteen year old friend of Stacy Luquire's. You're old, man, she asked me - after asking my age - how I'd feel if some really old guy, at least fifty, wanted to drool all over me."

He laughed. "And what did you say?"

"I told her there was one geezer who could drool all over me anytime he wanted." She eased up on her elbow, reaching for her drink. Jack got it for her. "Actually, I didn't say anything. She thinks I'm old, too."

They talked quietly, they both knew she was high off the medication and it was amusing in its way. He put her to bed around ten, arranging a glass of water and the medicine within easy reach on her nightstand. "Do you want me to sleep with you, or take the couch?"

"With me," she mumbled, patting the mattress. He eased down, trying not to jostle her. He settled close, his right arm going around her waist. He hoped for a peaceful night, it was his night to catch major cases and he'd set up call forwarding to her number. He felt her drift into sleep. He wanted to stay awake a little longer, just holding her, quietly loving her, keeping her safe, but he was tired and he was gone within minutes.

Saturday morning sunlight woke them both. He heard her say "Ick," then she got up, walking a little unsteadily out of the bedroom. He heard the bathroom door close, and then he heard water running, then the shower. He got up to start coffee, feeling comfortable in her home. It was so "her" - the mixture of feminine and practical, of artsy and substantive. His was a jumble of books, magazines, clothes back from the cleaners or clothes scheduled to go, his desk looked like a postal truck had backed into it and dumped its contents. He would have to clean it if she was going to spend any time in it.

He sensed rather than heard her, and turned. She wore red sweatpants, a gray long-sleeved tee shirt with Harvard in red letters across her chest, and gray socks. Her hair was wet and combed back, water dripped from the ends. He held out a mug, steam rose from it and she smiled. "A man who makes coffee, I did hit the jackpot." She took it and appreciatively sipped. "Man, you make good coffee."

He poured his own and smiled shyly, ducking his head. She came up to him, put her arm around his waist, and stood with him for a few seconds. Then he kissed her forehead and they walked to the couch.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what."

"Being here, not asking questions."

He shrugged. "It didn't seem the time to ask."

She blew on the surface of her coffee, then sipped. "Obviously, I did conceive, and I'm sorry about that, I should have thought, but you had me focused on other things. Sorry, that's not fair, it's not something to joke about. I should have realized. I didn't, and now it's taken care of. Should I have asked you?"

He shook his head. "You had a small window of opportunity, you did what you had to. I don't want to be a parent again." He looked at her. "Will you be able to go back to work Monday?"

"Yeah. The worst will be over by then. I see my doctor in two weeks, I'm going on the pill - but we still have to wait a month for them to be effective."

He nodded. "Babies and other hazards of sex." He smiled. "Dave Barry."

She leaned into him and curled her knees and feet behind her. "I guess Mr. Barry knew of whence he spoke."

Monday. They'd been together all weekend, staying in. She had some bad moments with pain, but the drugs helped. They watched TV, old movies, ate whatever came to mind. They spent Sunday evening reviewing the files on Hal Washburn - Jack still wasn't convinced they could convict him on anything more than statutory rape, but he was willing to try, willing to try and get a plea deal for a higher crime, but he knew Hal Washburn was no idiot. They came in together, he drove her car, neither felt it safe for her to drive considering she still had random waves of cramping. He kept his hand on her back through the parking garage, into the elevator, up to the controlled chaos of the tenth floor. He dropped it as they stepped off.

They signed in. Graham had picked up something on the wind, he was especially solicitous, and Claire smiled fondly at him, returning his pen. Then Jack ushered her into his office, got them both coffee, and spread the files out on his desk. Adam came in, unannounced as always, taking in the scene of work in progress, even if Claire was on the couch instead of sitting next to Jack.

"How's it going?" he asked. "Find anything we can use to push this prosecution forward?" Jack shook his head, and Adam snapped, "Did you even look or were you too busy playing hide the cannoli?"

"Adam." Claire's voice was too soft, pained, and he looked at her, then at Jack.

Jack stepped over to Adam. "You're my boss, and I respect you, but you just crossed a line. Claire lost a pregnancy this weekend."

Adam had the decency to look thoroughly ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry, Claire, and I'm sorry I'm such an ass. Please forgive me." He looked at Jack. "I'm sorry, son. I don't know what gets into me sometimes. Should she be back at work?"

"I'm OK, Adam. I can work."

"Well, if you need to go home, just go." He walked out, still embarrassed.

Claire sighed. "Where's the housekeeper's statement?"

It was impossible, she thought, she simply couldn't keep her hands off Jack, and he felt like he walked around with a perpetual hard-on. The grand jury returned an indictment three weeks after Claire ended the pregnancy, but the evidence was shaky at best. It would come down to credibility, Hal Washburn v Stacy Luquire, a future of Chief of D's v a teenaged drama queen.

"We're going to lose," Claire said, turning on the bar stool to face Jack. He picked up his glass and held it up, she lifted hers to clink against his. "Toasting to losing? That's a new one, even for Jack McCoy."

He sipped, then put the glass down and began turning it on its base, back and forth, the circle never complete. He hated losing, and his brain spun its wheels, seeking purchase in the muddy waters of the CPL's footnotes. "Did she do anything after it happened the first time? See the family doctor, talk to a teacher, anything?"

Claire sighed. "I've been over it, Jack. One of her friends claimed she went to a free clinic a couple of days later, but she couldn't remember which one, and I haven't been able to find a record."

He stared into the mirror lining the bar's back wall. He saw the middle-aged man with a full head of dark hair, wearing an expensive burgundy cable knit sweater over a white oxford, leaning on the bar and listening to a beautiful young woman with silky black hair, wearing a white shirt under a black leather jacket, her hand resting on the older man's forearm as she spoke. He knew important details could be found hidden in mundane images, and he watched Claire talking to him, not hearing her, he sought that one detail that would somehow unlock his case. Claire glanced back at the mirror, framed by brightly colored bottles and shelves of glasses, why was he staring at their reflection, off in his own world? It nagged at him, this vision of a young woman pleading with an older man, her hand on his arm as if to keep him with her.

"Jack!" Claire put her glass on the bar and took his free hand in both of hers. Her skin, warm and supple, drew his attention away from their mirror image. "Where are you?"

He cleared his throat, then drained the dregs of his scotch. He put his empty glass where the bartender could see it, then looked at Claire, his intensity was a little alarming. "What if we flip this for a moment?" he asked. "Explore it through our relationship."

"That's silly, Jack. I'm not a kid, you're not a dirty old man. We love each other. How can we relate to Hal Washburn and Stacy Luquire?"

"Just think for a minute." He acknowledged the bartender as a fresh scotch was put on a dry cocktail napkin by his hand. He ran his index finger around the rim, then looked back at the mirror, Claire was looking at him with a mixture of irritation and puzzlement. "You're very young, the youngest attorney promoted out of the pool of new attorneys starting with the office. You go to work for Ben Stone, who views you as a student, and a slightly troublesome one at that, in your youth you've made a mistake or two that comes back to bite Ben Stone and his integrity on the ass. Thoroughly whipped, your tail between your legs, you move to my office. You know I know about Judge Thayer and the disaster that came from that. You view me as an authority figure just like Ben, you set boundaries you hope will keep you safe, keep you from making similar errors. Think of it as Claire's got a new step-daddy, and she walks on egg shells around him, he has a reputation for bedding his assistants and when he gets bored with them, they find themselves looking for work elsewhere." He sipped from his drink. "You with me so far?"

"I think so, maybe not. Where is this going?"

"Just go with it." He swirled the ice in his drink with his finger, popped it into his mouth. "Unlike Ben Stone, your new step- daddy breaks rules, takes chances, takes your opinion into account. You like this new character, he wields his power as naturally as he breathes." He drained the scotch, pushed the glass forward across the varnished bar. "You've felt powerless. You felt exposed, embarrassed, knew the secretarial pool gossiped about you, but this new man, this energetic, outgoing man never makes you feel your mistakes are anything to dwell on. He invites you out for drinks after work, sees you safely home, but nothing else. You feel safe with him, after all the men who've used you for sex, or to present your briefs and summaries as theirs. This new guy treats you like an equal, not a kid, and it's seductive. Then he sends subtle signals that he's attracted to you, but again, it's not threatening, two attractive people who spend a great deal of time together."

Fresh drink were put in front of them, and Claire lifted hers, sipping, the imagery was beginning to fall into place. He shifted perspective to the third person, to Stacy's point of view. "She trusts him. He's seen her at her most vulnerable, seen her in a bikini playing in the family pool, he's older and he can show her the way. He's in control but never makes her feel controlled. He gives her a lot of freedom in his capacity as stepfather, tells her he trusts her, and her guard comes down. One day, she's home because the schools are closed, it's snowing heavily, and her mother is off somewhere. He comes into the den, adds a split log to the hearth, flames shoot up, he steps back and bumps into her. She catches his arm. He takes her into his arms, kisses her." Jack hesitated, thinking, trying to spin the most likely scenario, then plunged on.

"And she's confused, a little frightened, she tries to pull away. He's played this game before, he knows all the moves. His practiced fingers open her jeans, open her shirt, before she knows what's happened. His hands are everywhere, touching her, stripping clothing and inadequate defenses, and then they're on the couch, he's taking her, and she's crying, beating helplessly on his shoulders, she's been betrayed and she's crushed. When it's over, he tells her she was asking for it, she wanted it as much as he did, but if she has any idea about telling anyone they made love -" Jack's voice sneers those last two words - "he will punish her, punish her mother, and no one can touch him, he's a high ranking law enforcement official. He has the power, he always has, and she has nothing, nothing he didn't give and thus could take away."

Claire drew the parallels in bold black strokes. Jack had been kind, supportive, dismissive of the disgrace she brought on herself by sleeping with Joel. He'd made her feel like she mattered. He'd touched her, casually, nothing to draw attention to it, letting the attraction feed off itself, grow strong with every accidental brushing in a crowded elevator, with walks through the spooky parking garage, his smiles, his winks, when Adam's back was turned. The way she learned that it was OK to put her hand on his arm, to trust him to listen to her ideas and take them seriously, it was heady stuff, no wonder she fell in love with him, this young, idealistic woman who wanted nothing more than this older, experienced man to take her seriously, just as Stacy Luquire would, given her too busy mother, the father who cast her off, the confusion and the angst of teenage years leading her right where Hal Washburn wanted her to be - trusting, dependent, almost worshiping him.

"And she's so young - everything she learned about sex no doubt came from her friends, reliable sources if ever there was one." Her hand brushed Jack's as she reached for her glass, the jolt suddenly made her uncomfortable. "She would have worried about getting pregnant. Which means she would have gone to a clinic, and they would have documentation."

He nodded. "Now all we have to do is find that clinic."

"Jack." He looked at her, his Cocker Spaniel eyes deep pools that drew her in. "Is that how it was with you, with us? You just waited for me to let my guard down and then you moved in for the kill?"

His smile was easy, open. "No. I'd made my own rules, after Diana, that there wouldn't be another office romance. I thought I was immune, and then there you were." He caressed her cheek, stroked her ear, pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "But I can see how a man my age, feeling he's no longer attractive to young, beautiful women, could set a trap for a very pretty, vulnerable girl who lacked the resources, the self-confidence, to slap him down." He put his hand, lightly, on her knee. "Talk to her friends again, see if they know what clinic she would have used."

Claire found herself standing outside a store-front clinic four blocks from Stacy's private school. She was dressed casually, in black, hoping to blend in with the clientele. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the glass door open and stepped inside. Six girls, all in their teens, were scattered around the waiting room. They looked as one at Claire, then went back to their magazines, cell phones, one read "Crime and Punishment" while she waited. Claire checked in with the receptionist, a heavy woman with the world-weary look lifted right from the movies. "Claire Kincaid to see Dr. Provost," she said.

The receptionist passed a clipboard over the desk. "Fill that out and the doctor will be with you soon."

Claire carried the clipboard, with its pages of paperwork and a pen chained to the metal clip, to a chair in the corner. She didn't think this was necessary, but Jack told her to play the game until she had the doctor alone. She entered her name, birth date, social security number with two digits transposed, and the date of her last period in the first block. The second wanted a reason for her visit today, no matter what she said, the doctor would want her pants off, and she wasn't going to let it get that far. She scribbled wanting an AIDS test in the block. She left her insurance information blank, this was a free clinic after all. She gave the clipboard back to the receptionist and waited.

Forty-five minutes later she was called back. A nurse led her into an examining room and gave her a gown. "Get undressed," she said, "and the doctor will be right in.

Claire sat, fully dressed, on the foot of the examining table, imagining scared teenagers climbing up here, wondering what all the equipment was for. Claire touched the stirrups, then ran her fingers over the crackly paper covering the inadequate padding on the table. There was a single rap on the door, and a skinny man in black frame glasses came in, Claire's paperwork in hand. He looked at her, irritated. "Why aren't you undressed?"

"Because I don't need that kind of exam," she said. "I want to talk to you about a girl who may have been your patient over the last couple of years."

"I can't discuss my patients," he said, tossing her chart aside. "Now, what do you want? I don't have the time for this."

Claire pressed forward. "Her name is Stacy Luquire. She may have come to you because she was raped by her stepfather, and she was probably terrified she was pregnant."

He frowned. "I cannot discuss my patients."

Claire opened her purse and pulled out her badge. He froze when he saw it. "You're a cop?" he said. "Everything I do is legal, I keep excellent records. I do not prescribe narcotic pain medication. And you should understand about privilege."

"I'm with the district attorney's office, actually, and I have a signed waiver from Stacy Luquire, authorizing you to release her records to me. I need to know if you think she was raped."

"Do you know many girls I see in a week? You can't expect me to remember one."

"Send for her file."

He frowned, then picked up the wall phone and pressed a button. "See if you can locate a file on a Luquire, Stacy." He leaned on the wall and glared at Claire. "I don't appreciate deception."

"We didn't want the file to 'disappear' one night during a break in."

The receptionist came in, carrying a file with several different colored stickers on it. She looked at Claire, then gave the file to the doctor. He opened it and began paging backward. Claire waited. The doctor closed the file and looked at her, hard. "Privilege," he said.

"Subpoena," Claire counted. "Right here in my purse."

He sighed. "She came in a few days after Christmas, claimed she'd been raped. My examination confirmed vaginal tearing consistent with forced intercourse. She was distraught, I prescribed a mild tranquilizer and the morning after pill, just to be on the safe side. She was sixteen."

"She was twelve," Claire said, and the doctor's eyes widened. "You didn't encourage her to call the cops, take it upon yourself to report it?" She slid off the table, taking the file from his unresisting hands. "I'll be in touch, Doctor."

She and Jack ambled down the empty corridor, toward the elevator. It was eight, early for them to knock off, but they had other things on their minds. It was an easy case, Jack thought they could phone it in, once they had the doctor on the stand, complemented by Stacy's friends, it should be a slam dunk, have fun in jail, Hal. His mind was on Claire's naked body, spread across white satin sheets, sheets she had given him that morning with a wink and a promise. He'd caught a glimpse of a lacy red bra when she leaned over him to mark a spot on the timeline.

The elevator doors opened, and he pulled her into a kiss they closed, pushing her against the wall, his tongue finding hers, his briefcase and the Macy's bag falling from his hands. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her skirt bunching around her hips, her silk panties and his denim jeans the barriers to a passion that had yet to burn out. The elevator slowed, and he pulled away, grabbing the Macy's bag to hide his arousal. Claire grinned, and they walked out of the building into the parking garage. Once in her car, she turned to him, her fingers dancing over the pronounced bulge in his jeans. He groaned.

"Let's go home," he said, strangling on the words. Claire started the car and backed out of the space, then followed the arrows to the street. She drove to Jack's building, into the underground garage, and into his assigned space. They behaved walking inside, people were around, but once inside his apartment, he reached for her.

"No," she said, "first we make the bed. Anticipation is a good thing, Jack."

Together they stripped the old sheets and put the new ones on, then Claire made him put the old sheets in the hamper, made him pick up his clothes and either hang them or toss them in with the rest of the dirty clothes. He expected her to make him dust and vacuum as well, but no. She began slowly, torturously, undressing, folding each article and stacking it on the dresser. "A little music?" she murmured, and he obliged. The Allman Brothers flowed through his speakers, and he waited, his hands clenched in the new sheets. She took her time - she peeled her jeans down her hips, to her knees, and then stepped out of them. She indeed wore red underwear, Victoria's Secret, lacy abbreviated sexy attire. She reached behind her back with one hand and her bra flew at him, landing on his head, covering his face, and he whipped it away, breathless as she toyed with her waistband, pulling it away, letting it snap back. He knew he was in danger of imploding, of crushing Mr. Winkie to death if nothing else, and he stood, unbuttoning his jeans and carefully pulling the zipper over from his swollen penis. He eased his jeans over his hips, stepping out of them and kicking them away from his foot. She lowered her panties enough to show him her pubic hair, then he was tearing off his shirt, freeing his arms. He was going to pull that red torture thong from her glistening body if it was the last thing he did.

He sent his shorts flying the in the direction of the hamper and advanced on Claire, a wicked grin promising payback to be a bitch. He pulled her into his arms, then slipped one hand down the back of her panties. He squeezed her cheeks in turn, gently, then his other hand slipped in, too, and he massaged, he teased, her moved his hands to her hips and pulled the panties off, dropping them.

He fell on the bed with her, letting her feel his full weight. His penis had scented its target, he worked it in just a little, kissing her, his fingers tangled in her hair. Then he rose up on his elbows and smiled. "Prepare to pay," he warned, with another kiss, his tongue filling her mouth as his penis wanted to fill her vagina. He'd filled her halfway, using soft, tantalizing strokes, when her legs wrapped around his waist and met his forward movement with a powerful, all encompassing thrust of her hips.

It was nearly four a.m. when they drifted into sleep, his arms around her waist, his face against her neck. Her hands rested on his. They slept through the alarm. When the phone rang, Jack stirred enough to reach over Claire and grab the receiver, his voice thick with sleep. "McCoy." He eased back on his pillow, holding the cord away from Claire's bare shoulder.

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Adam?" Jack sat up, looked at his clock, felt his stomach take the express elevator to the basement. "Oh shit. I'm on my way."

"Will you be bringing Ms. Kincaid? She's not answering her phone." The anger in Adam's voice was new to Jack, he'd never been the target of Adam's controlled rage, though he'd seen it directed as junior ADA's on occasion.

"I'll be there in forty-five minutes, Adam, I'm sorry, I slept through the alarm."

"Just get here," he snarled, "and come straight to my office." The phone went dead on his end.

"We are so fucked," Jack said, and Claire rolled over, shielding her eyes from the sun streaming through his window. "Get up, Claire, it's ten-thirty, and Adam is seriously pissed."

She shot out of bed. "Oh God. What happened to the alarm?"

"I guess we slept through it. We'll have to share the shower."

They showered, brushed their teeth, pulled on clothes - Claire had a spare suit hanging in Jack's closet - and dashed around, trying to pull files and notes together, into their briefcases, panic close to the surface. This was so not cool, Jack thought. They rushed to the car, suffered through traffic, then pulled into the parking garage.

"Adam wants me to go straight to his office. You go to yours, like nothing's happened, like you've been out on an interview."

She struggled to keep up with Jack's long stride. "Does he know we were together?"

"Yep." He looked at her as they took the private elevator to the tenth floor. "Just walk in like you own the place. I'll take the heat from Adam."

They got off on ten, and were immediately met by curious stares. Even Graham looked at them oddly, he pushed the sign in book toward them without small talk, and Claire couldn't help looking at Jack with an 'oh shit' expression. She went straight to her office while Jack went to Adam's, knocking softly before opening the door.

Adam was in shirtsleeves, going over papers on his desk, pen in hand. He looked up when Jack came in. "Close the door," he snapped, and Jack did. He walked to Adam's desk and sat without invitation, waiting. Adam tossed his pen on the desk and leaned back in his chair, staring at his star EADA. "When did showing up on time become optional?" he said.

"Adam, I was up late, I slept through the alarm. It hasn't happened before, it won't happen again."

Adam reached for his phone and pressed a button. "Has Ms. Kincaid come in? Send her in." He replaced the receiver and looked at Jack.

"Adam, what does she have to do with me being late?"

"Everything, I'd think, as you arrived at the same time. It's time we set things straight." His fingers drummed on his chair. "You're acting like it's the first time either of you got laid."

A soft knock interrupted him, and he bellowed "Come in!" Claire stepped in, clearly nervous. She walked slowly to Jack's side, sitting in the chair next to his. She crossed her legs and clasped her hands in her lap, trying and failing to meet Adam's penetrating stairs. Adam let them stew for a very long minute, then he got up and faced his window, staring out at the city.

"I know what I'm supposed to say," he began, "but I find it hard to fire my best ADAs, especially with a somewhat sensitive case on the line." He turned around, then perched on the edge of his desk. "You," he said to Jack, "are old enough to know recreational sex does not life make. To know that discretion is everything. That work comes before getting laid. Everybody in this office knows now, Jack. Everyone else gets in by eight, no matter what they did the night before, and you saunter in at eleven-fifteen, both of you, looking like hell. They're all waiting to see how Adam 'Solomon' Schiff handles this blatant violation of the rules. So what do I do, Jack?"

"I overslept, Adam, it happens."

"And I suppose Ms. Kincaid coincidentally overslept the same morning?" He frowned at Claire, who blushed. "Is sleeping with your boss going to grant you special privileges? Do I need to turn a hose on the two of you?"

"Adam, we're not the only ones sleeping together in this office." Jack pulled his tie knot away from his neck. "I don't see what the big deal is. We overslept. We're here now, ready to get to work."

"With a motion calendared for two o'clock, to suppress the doctor's report on the basis of privilege, as Ms. Luquire is a minor and cannot waive privilege. Jack." He sighed. "You've never lost your head before." He glanced at Claire. "Maybe I can understand why. Just know that it's going to be sticky around here now, you'd better focus on your work and less on Ms. Kincaid, at least for the time you're in this building. The talk will die down, as long as you don't keep feeding it. Consider yourself on probation, both of you. Your conduct better be professional, you better show up early, stay late, focus on your cases. Cross the line again and one of you will be seeking employment elsewhere." He looked at Claire as he said it. "Go. Prepare to counter Washburn's motion."

Jack stood and waited for Claire. She was trembling, and he wanted to put his arm around her, but he merely held the side door leading to his office open for her. They walked into his office, and Claire sank into the nearest chair, his desk chair. Tears flowed, and Jack got the box of Kleenex on the end table beside his couch. He sat on the corner of his desk, lightly touching her shoulder. "It's going to be fine, Claire," he said. "He had to chew us out, he has an image to protect, but he's not going to fire us. He was just a little pissed, that's all."

"It's Joel Thayer all over again," she whispered.

"No," he said. "It's nothing like that."

She wiped her face and dropped her tissue in the metal trash can behind his chair. "I must look like hell. I'll be back, I have to go to the ladies room, fix my face."

He nodded, picking up the blueback waiting on his desk. "I'll read this. Just be calm, Claire, it's fine. Bed hopping is this office's favorite pastime, no one can point fingers at us."

Claire nodded, clutching her purse and slipping out of his office through Adam's entrance. She kept her head down, walking around the corner to the ladies room, pushing the door open with her shoulder. She repaired her makeup, then ducked into a stall to empty her bladder, stress always sent her bladder into overdrive. Then she heard the door open, heard a giggle.

"Did you see her face when she got called to Schiff's office?"

"No."

Vindictive laughter, Claire tried to identify the voice, resting her head against the cold stall wall. "She must have thought sleeping with the boss would put her above the rules. Coming in at eleven! My ass was here at seven-thirty, not that Mr. Schiff noticed me, no, they all have eyes for Claire Kincaid. Maybe I ought to sleep with Jack McCoy, maybe I'd get promoted out of internal investigations." Ah, she thought, Candace Cawley. Bitch.

"So maybe you'll get to investigate McCoy and Kincaid." More laughter.

"I'd like to investigate McCoy all right. Ten to one he dumps her now that he's in trouble with Mr. Schiff."

"You think? Sandy said she thought they were serious about each other."

"McCoy serious about anyone? Honey, all he cares about is carving notches on his bedpost. She'll be history by the end of the week, next week tops. He's not going to risk that EADA title over her ass."

Claire couldn't take it anymore. She flushed the toilet and stepped out to face the two women at the sinks, touching up their makeup. They smiled evilly at Claire. "Well hello, Ms. Kincaid," Candace said. "Glad to see you could make it to work."

Claire washed her hands, ignoring the older woman.

"Tell me, Claire, is sleeping with the boss the recommended way to climb the career ladder?" Candace closed her purse and slid the strap up her arm to her shoulder.

Don't get into it with her, Claire told herself. She dried her hands and threw the rough paper towels into the trash, then grabbed her purse.

"Is he any good? Word is he is, lots of practice and all." Candace cackled. "Just like the word is he never sticks around for long, especially if it could complicate his career progression." As Claire walked out Candace called "Was he better than Judge Thayer, Claire?"

They were in Judge Halliwell's chambers at two, having marshaled their arguments against suppressing the medical report and the physician's subsequent testimony in a hurry.

The two lawyers representing Hal Washburn were smooth, accomplished, and they presented a compelling argument that a minor could not waive privilege, not having the legal standing to make legal decisions, and that her mother, her guardian, had not agreed to waive said privilege, that the subpoena issued to force the physician's hand was invalid on its surface. Mr. Finlinson, lead counsel, was persuasive as he depicted a vindictive child using whatever suggestions the DA's office offered to bring down a good man who'd made a mistake in judgment, succumbing to the seductive wiles of a sixteen year old girl. Finlinson was insistent that the sexual encounters began when Stacy was sixteen, that nothing in the medical record would contradict that, and that all introducing the record would do was embarrass all parties concerned.

Jack tried to stay focused on the arguments, but he was all too aware of Claire, sitting next to him, of her youth, how her young, responsive body transformed him, made him young again. When it was his turn to speak, he argued that the medical records proved the sexual abuse began when Stacy was twelve, that it had been forced, that while there was other evidence, this report, the doctor's testimony, was the linchpin of the people's case. He knew he was off his game, a half-step behind, but he pressed forward, certain he was imagining the knowing contempt in the judge's eyes, the sly awareness in the defense attorneys when they looked at Claire; Adam's stinging tongue lashing still fresh in his memory.

"Perhaps," Mr. Finlinson said, leaning forward, "Mr. McCoy is projecting his own feelings onto the defendant." He shrugged is as if it was a big mystery to him. "Zealous prosecution is one thing, but Your Honor, he's carrying this to extremes. Yes, Mr. Washburn made a serious error in judgment, having sex with a sixteen year old girl, but to accuse him of rape, of then using his position of authority to force the girl into silence? And to suggest that this relationship began when the girl was twelve? Please, Your Honor. Let's get real here. Mr. Washburn stipulates to having intercourse with Stacy Luquire, but not until she'd reached the age of consent. It was a mistake, but it's not criminal. Mr. McCoy seems to think a middle-aged man having sex with a much younger woman is a privilege reserved for a select few and those outside that privileged circle should be prosecuted far beyond what the law allows for their presumption."

"Your Honor!" Jack stood.

"Sit down, Mr. McCoy." Judge Halliwell looked at each attorney in turn as he scratched his cheek. "Mr. Finlinson is correct, a minor does not have the legal standing to waive privilege. Stacy Luquire's medical records are excluded. And since I find it difficult to believe that a young girl would keep quiet about a rape by her stepfather, that her mother would not bring the matter to the police, I find no basis in law for the charge. I'm dismissing the charges against Mr. Washburn." He eyed Jack with clear contempt. "One cannot use the law to wash the stains from one's own hands. Be more certain of your facts next time, Mr. McCoy. Mr. Washburn, you have the apologies of the court."

Jack and Claire walked back to Hogan Place. "Oh, God, Adam is going to have my head," he said, putting his hand on her back as they crossed the street.

Claire shook her head. "How can a judge make such insinuations?" Her face flushed.

"Jealousy?" Jack offered. He smiled down at her. "OK, we lost one, not the end of the world, it was a weak case anyway."

"Think Adam will see it that way?"

He nodded. "He knew it was weak going into it. We just distracted him."

Adam waited in Jack's office, on the couch, a book in hand when they walked in. He looked up, frowning.

"You heard," Jack said, closing the door.

"I did. Judge Halliwell was out of line." He closed the book and put it aside. "I'm the only one who gets to rip my ADAs for extracurricular activities." He got up. "This won't happen again."

"No," Jack said, and tried a smile in the face of Adam's mild disapproval. "We'll just chalk it up to bumbled cases and other hazards of sex."

Adam snorted. "Just keep it out of my offices, I don't want to hear about it. Now, one of you get over to the two-seven, Briscoe and Curtis are interviewing some psycho who says he chopped up his mother and wants to confess. Make sure they don't screw it up. In fact, maybe both of you should go, between the two of you we might get one working brain." He put his hand on the doorknob. "And keep your hands off each other, those cops in the two-seven love gossip more than the bar association. No more bumbling, got it?"

Jack looked at Claire. "Guess you're driving."

"You can ride in the back, I don't like the way your list of the hazards of sex is growing."

He grinned. "Have I mentioned bad backs and other hazards -" She playfully slapped him in the tummy and then they went to face another of New York's sickos and their keepers, knowing despite today's setback, the score was still heavily in their favor, and as long as it was, Adam would tolerate their occasional bumbling. Jack squeezed her hand as they stepped into the parking garage. "And then there's --"

END