1

She sat watching the clock, counting the minutes until she could put her plan into action. The anticipation made these last 30 minutes almost unbearable.

Capt. Jack McClaren popped his head around his office door. "What're you still doing here, Trish? No big date tonight?" he joked, with that teasing smile she'd come to love. Snapped from her daydream of what was to come, or at least what she HOPED was to come, she felt herself blush and stammered, "oh, just finishing up some last-minute stuff – that way I'll come in to a clean desk on Monday."

Jack retreated to his office. "I'm a terrible liar" she thought. She'd worked for Jack for 9 years. "He's a cop, for God's sake...the head of IA, no less...surely, he could tell I was lying."

Trish had never let on to Capt. McClaren, or anyone else for that matter, as to just how boring her love life was. "Geez," she thought, correcting herself – " 'Boring' isn't the word – –

'non-existent' is more like it." She hadn't had a serious, long-term boyfriend OR even a brief lover since her divorce 6 years earlier, but Trish was happy to let people believe what they wanted to. She kept her ears open in the ladies' room and around the water cooler, picking up the latest office gossip. She was well aware of the list the Officers and Detectives who were, supposedly, among her admirers. None of them had ever actually asked her out and she dismissed their little flirtations as just that: innocent, friendly flirtations that meant nothing.

All of her friends always told her how pretty she was. None of them could understand how she'd been without a man in her life for so long. She was pretty: 5'4", a thick, beautiful mane of shiny auburn hair, crystal clear green eyes, and a perfect smile – not to mention the 36-24-36 figure – Trish considered herself a "throwback" to the '40's style woman with the legendary hourglass body —not like the emaciated super-models that are so popular today — but the type of woman that a man could definitely sink his hands, lips, teeth (and whatever else) into and appreciate.

Trish had just the man in mind.

Gathering up her pocketbook and a stack of files from her desk, she peeked in Jack's doorway,

"G'night Jack; I'm just running these files up to Capt. Deakins, then I'm outta' here. Have a good weekend!"

Jack flashed her that charming smile again. "You too, Trish. See ya' Monday."

Trish checked her watch while impatiently waiting for the elevator. The butterflies in her stomach had been a constant reminder all day that THIS was the day. The elevator doors opened at the 7th floor and she was relieved to see no one else inside. Taking advantage of the polished chrome interior, she checked her reflection –one last "once over" to be sure her hair and outfit looked perfect.

She pressed the button for the 11th floor.

Bobby Goren sat hunched over his desk; head tilted to one side, leaning on his fist. Bobby was always the last to leave, not that it bothered him. There was no one waiting at home and he actually enjoyed the peace and quiet of the empty squad room during the night hours. He stared at the file before him: sometimes Bobby got a "blank" look when he was thinking, but make no mistake: that brain was always in high gear– then the moment a clue popped out at him or a revelation struck, he had the most lively, bright eyes and expressive face you'd ever see. He could instantly get you caught up in his enthusiasm.

Bobby became aware of the sound approaching him. A sound that compelled him to turn around and take notice. He loved the sound of a woman's high heels clicking on the tile floor.

"Damn," he internalized. "Trying to look at the approaching vision without getting caught looking is gonna' be hard." But there she was: the woman he'd had his eye on for months, the one who made his heart race with every glimpse, the one he'd fantasized about ever since the day early last spring when he saw her– and that luscious, ample bosom– in a soft pink angora sweater.

(He hadn't been on a shopping trip since where he didn't pretend he was just cutting through the women's department so he could find a similar sweater to run his fingers over while imagining her).

Bobby felt his pulse quicken. Those butterflies were back. He took mental notes: "Yup, here she is, in a black skirt–just above the knee, with sheer black stockings and black high heels, hips swaying just enough, hair bouncing –she's in a blue cashmere sweater this time– clinging in ALL the right places– so ladylike but sexy with that long pearl necklace– yeah, I'd like to give her a pearl necklace, all right."

Bobby pretended to straighten some papers on his desk, as Trish approached.

"Good evening, Detective. Don't tell me you're the only one left here AGAIN" she cooed.

Her voice was sweet and teasing. It was music to his ears. He hoped she couldn't tell how flustered he felt on the inside. Bobby returned her smile. "I'm just finishing up some paperwork before I head out...start Monday off with a clean desk, ya' know?"

"Was he lying, too? No, he probably meant it," Trish thought to herself. Coming from HIS lips (those beautiful lips that she'd imagined kissing thousands of times) the explanation sounded reasonable; nowhere near as transparent as when she had lied to Capt. McClaren just moments ago.

Trish continued past Bobby's desk towards Capt. Deakins' office. With her back to him now, Bobby could unabashedly enjoy the rear-view without risk of being caught. "Damn." He allowed himself to get lost in the fantasy– his imagination skipped over the part where he'd ask her out, have a friendly conversation over an Italian dinner and walk her home to her front door. Nooooo, Bobby's brain was on "fast forward" – he was holding her, kissing her, running his massive hands through that mane of hair, pressing himself against her so she'd be sure to feel his urgency, his hands were all over that pink angora sweater and kneading the full, round, soft breasts beneath it.

All of those lusty thoughts had swirled inside Bobby's head in a mere matter of seconds. While wrapped up in his fantasy, it seemed as though much more time had passed, but when he snapped back to reality, Trish was just reaching Capt. Deakins' doorway.

Trish had purposely walked a little slower towards Deakins' office, making every step in those high heels count – – they showed off her legs perfectly – – every subtle sway of her hips; she slightly tilted her head back and gave her hair a shake, so it would cascade perfectly down her back, ending at her tiny waist.

She felt Bobby's gaze upon her. She almost felt guilty for teasing him but reminded herself that she wasn't teasing him – she was enticing him – and if her plan went as she hoped, she had every intention of delivering to Bobby Goren whatever he wanted; there'd be no teasing or denying this man.

Trish disappeared into Deakins' office.

Bobby realized how hot he was for her. He turned back towards his desk, resting his forehead on his fists. "Maybe I should ask her out – take a shot at it." He sighed. He contemplated, "what does it take? what does it take for a guy like me to get a woman like that?" Memories of the way he had taunted Dr. Webb with that very question came flooding back – it unnerved Bobby.

He tried to clear his head and return to the work in front of him. Should he stall long enough so he's still at his desk when Trish reappears? Should he take that opportunity to at least strike up a better conversation with her? Should he just leave BEFORE she comes out of Deakins' office, to save himself any potential humiliation?

Bobby didn't yet realize he didn't have to worry about any of it.

Tonight, Trish was in the driver's seat.

Trish emerged from Deakins' office; it had only taken half a minute to drop the armload of files into his "IN" box. She paused in the doorway, watching Bobby as he rolled his shoulders and massaged the tension from the back of his neck. A golden opportunity.

"Here, let me do that for you."

Bobby had been so deep in thought– lost in his indecisiveness about whether to ask her out, he hadn't even noticed the clicking heels approaching this time. Before he even realized that her words were real and not a part of his continuing fantasy, he felt her hands on his shoulders. In removing his own hand from the back of his neck, he accidently brushed against her breast, causing her pearl necklace to make little clicking noises as it swung across the buttons of her sweater. He hadn't realized just how close she was standing.

"Great, Goren – that was smooth," he admonished himself; grateful that Trish was behind him and not able to see the blush of his embarrassment.

Trish went about the business at hand, as if nothing happened – it was an accident, after all, and she wanted Bobby to relax –not get more uptight.

Trish was thoroughly enjoying this, despite the butterflies that were now thrashing in her stomach. She knew the air of assertive confidence she was putting on was a total act; her insides were jello.

Without even realizing it, Trish had established a rhythm and pattern to her massage – working her hands from the broadest width of Bobby's shoulders inwards, to the nape of his neck. "Mmmm" she thought to herself – "I'd love to bend down and plant little kisses all over that sexy, warm, soft neck and inhale Bobby's delicious man-scent mixed with his cologne."

An involuntary moan of relaxation escaped from Bobby's throat, rousing Trish from her daydream. He exhaled deeply. A small smile of satisfaction crossed Trish's lips as she felt Bobby truly acquiesce to her touch.

Knowing that Bobby had reached a level of comfort with her touch, Trish decided to take it a step further. "Why not?" she asked herself; "I've planned this and waited for this opportunity for months."

Her eyes gazed appreciatively at the beautiful mixture of his brown/salt & pepper waves and curls. "Adorable;" then, further down –back to that kissable neck. She was grateful that the Detective had a habit of removing his tie and opening his collar button when the work day ended. With one hand steadying herself on his shoulder, her other hand softly touched the curls at the back of head, traveling down until she felt the soft, warm skin of his neck beneath her fingertips. Ever more brazen, she expanded her fingers' exploration down to the nape of his neck, beneath his shirt and was startled to realize the both hands were now gently massaging his bare skin –moving from back to front, she felt the little whiskers (that she so loved) at his jaw line tickle her fingertips and, as tempting as it was, she successfully fought the urge to caress his cheek. "There'll be time for that later," she silently assured herself. "Everything's going according to plan."

From the instant Trish's hands touched Bobby's shoulders ten minutes earlier (save for those few first seconds where he embarrassed himself), he'd been totally wrapped up in the experience. The physical sensations caused by her touch, coupled with the mental pictures he manufactured, made this one hell of an enjoyable experience. He imagined her dainty, perfectly manicured hands working the tension from his tired muscles. The strength of her kneading surprised him at first. She was petite, but strong.

The analytical/detective side of Bobby spoke to him: "Hmmm, she's approximately 36 years old, has been Capt. McClaren's secretary for over 9 years, was a legal secretary in the private sector before that; most likely had typing classes in high school, then secretarial school – that's approximately 17 years worth of typing – no wonder she has strong hands and fingers." His detective's brain continued: "no evidence of hand or wrist problems like carpel tunnel syndrome; both hands are strong – she's an 'old school' secretary – obviously uses proper typing form, good posture, hands suspended above the keyboard, fingers curved, lightly resting on the home row as they're supposed to be. Yes, definitely, she was a professional secretary and typist, not like the kids of today who take 'keyboarding" class and lazily rest their hands on wrist pads while slouching in front of their computers. No, she's an old-fashioned girl..."

"STOP IT, BOBBY!" His inner voice startled him. "Stop being a cop and just enjoy this – let yourself feel this ...RELAX for chrissakes! His inner voice was right. This felt so good. This old-fashioned girl taking care of him– what he always hoped for – wanted – NEEDED. He fought no longer and succumbed to her touch, and with that surrender, a soft moan of relaxation involuntarily escaped Bobby's throat. He hoped that Trish hadn't noticed it.

Bobby and Trish were startled back to reality by the crashing of a waste can against the tile floor.

"Shit!" Trish thought to herself. The cleaning crew is here. She blushed at the thought of being caught by the night janitors – not that she and Bobby were doing anything risque – it was a simple neck massage, for heaven's sake – but she still had the feeling of being caught during a private moment.

"Well, Detective," she sighed, "I guess that puts an unceremonious end to your massage therapy."

"Y-yes, it, it was great though...th-thank you" Bobby stammered, hoping she didn't see the dreamy-glaze still over his eyes. "Um– c-call me Bobby" he said with a shy smile.

"Okay – 'Bobby' –– my name's Trish, by the way. I mean, I know you've probably seen me around – I'm always running around here doing errands for Capt. McClaren, but I didn't...

Bobby interrupted: "Yes, I know who you are – I mean, we dealt with Capt. McClaren a lot during that shake-up of the 1-5 a couple of years ago, so I've seen you a-a-around...the office."

There was a brief silence while Bobby and Trish looked at each other – it wasn't an uncomfortable silence– just a brief pause where they exchanged smiles and looked at each other's eyes.

Bobby loved her eyes – big, beautiful, green Irish eyes, with long lashes. This was the first time he was ever close enough to really appreciate them. There was a sparkle to them; they were friendly, warm, honest —he felt as if he could gaze into her eyes for hours, without tiring. His imagination was, again, off and running during these brief seconds: He envisioned how her eyes would look in the moonlight, in candlelight, in bedroom light —yes, in the dimness of HIS bedroom, while laying on his pillow, with her face surrounded by that gorgeous mane of hair– the look that would be in her eyes for him and him alone as he lowered his body onto hers— INTO hers...

Trish had to muster up all the courage she could: "Well, Bob-eee," Trish cheerfully teased–dragging out the pronunciation of his name...

Bobby snapped back to reality. He was amazed at how quickly his mind conjured up these images– it had only been 10 seconds since their eyes had met – he hoped there was no physical evidence to betray where his overactive, lusty thoughts had just taken him.

"I guess I'm gonna' head home now, but, uhh, since we've been formally introduced and we're on a first-name basis and all, maybe some night when you're not gonna' work late we can get together for a drink, or dinner or something — I know a great little place in the West Village..."

Bobby tried not to look too excited, but his stomach was in knots, his heart pounding: "Sounds great...th-that'd be nice."

Trish smiled back at him: "yeah, I think it would be. The food's decent, nice music, candlelight. I have a card here somewhere" – she dug inside her purse, glad for the opportunity to avert her face from Bobby and try to regain some composure.

Bobby had a strange pang in his stomach–or was it his heart. Did he just get jealous at the thought of all the other dates that had brought Trish to that place? "Sounds like you go there a lot," —Bobby's voice softly trailed off; he hoped she couldn't detect the unjustified pang of disappointment he'd just felt.

Trish produced the business card from her wallet and offered it to Bobby – their fingers slightly brushing during the exchange. Giving Bobby's shoulder one last little squeeze and pat, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled back at him while heading for the elevator; "see ya' around, then Bobby."

"Yes, g'night Trish."

As the elevator doors closed, Trish let out a sigh of relief. She couldn't BELIEVE she'd actually had the nerve to do it. She pondered: "Well, now it's up to Bobby – I've either just taken the first step in attaining at least ONE date with the man of my dreams, or have made a total fool of myself and will never set foot on the 11th floor again." Ever the optimist, she immediately dispatched that notion: "even if nothing comes of it, at least I got to talk to him and touch him." She couldn't stop the girlish giddiness that welled up inside – she brought her hands to her face and breathed in deeply, devouring every scent of Bobby— the smell of his skin, his hair, his cologne, his warmth –she squealed with the delight of her accomplishment.

Bobby didn't know whether to curse himself for not seizing the opportunity or be content at having even gotten that far. He looked at the card that Trish had handed him; maybe he already knew the place – Lord knows he's dined out often enough. As his eyes focused, he didn't know whether to groan in disappointment or laugh at the thought that maybe HE had flustered her after all, causing her to mess up. He read the card, anyway:

Capt. John M. McClaren

Police Department - City of New York

Internal Affairs Bureau

One Police Plaza - 7th Floor

New York, NY

(212) 555-9200

"Damn...just my luck...well, at least it'll give me an excuse to drop by the 7th floor on Monday morning and tease her," Bobby mused as he flipped the card in the air, watching it tumble and land on the file in front of him. His eyes widened with realization: she wasn't flustered at all – she knew exactly what she was doing.

"Trish O'Connor, 130 Barrow St., Unit 9D – Dinner's at 8."

Bobby smiled. He had himself a date.