A/N: References here are from Cry Danger, Abbott & Costello in Hollywood, and The Big Sleep, whose racehorse-dialogue is one of the best double entendre exchanges ever.

Perfect gentleman that I am, I did not sleep with Maura that night. I decided to do right by her kidnapped family friend and use the mattress Fairfield had acquired for me, even if it was about as comfortable to sleep on as a sack of potatoes. How's that for noble? If your gut feels pretty cynical right now, I guess there's a reason. When we got back to Maura's room that night, she made it very clear that we weren't going to share her bed.

I lay awake for what could've been hours trying to figure it out. Not to toot my own horn, but I think she's a little unnerved by how heavy her attraction is for me. If her words earlier tonight were to be believed, it's been pulling on her like a pair of custom-made concrete shoes, destination: bottom of the ocean. Everything I've ever seen Maura wear has been custom-made, I'm sure of it, from her dangerously heeled stompers to the tailored ecosystems posing as hats atop her head. I sort of have to feel for her. As brash as Maura acts, this is all still new territory for her. I know how it is to have your attraction for a dame pull the rug out from under you, and you don't like being on bottom.

So long as she can help it, she's not going to get into bed with me until she can figure out how to be on top.

Probably just as well. If Korsak's gut was right, I could be getting down and dirty with the daughter of one of Boston's biggest gangsters. The only custom-made thing I've got is the hole I've dug myself into with this broad, and if I'm not careful, we'll both wind up fox-trotting into it: now not only have I got to find Adam's killer, I've got to find that moron Garrett and try to sniff out any clues I could find about Paddy Doyle's connection to Maura Isles.

When I woke up, Maura was nowhere to be seen. I put on a shirt and slacks, but before leaving the room, picked up a bottle of wine from Maura's cabinet. I went downstairs, where Maura's maid directed me to the back of the house without commenting on the wine. I went outside, expecting to find a yard. Instead what I saw was Maura doing laps in a swimming pool.

Of course.

I can just imagine a frustrated interior decorator trying to explain to me that the color of her suit is not white, but some variation that is the embarrassing step-cousin of the family, like eggshell or angel's kiss or some crap like that. A thick, jagged black line zig-zags down the center of the suit like a bolt of lightning, matching the color of the swim cap hiding all that luscious hair.

She was sleek in the water, like a mermaid; her form was perfect. I sat myself down on a chair by the edge of the pool, opening the bottle of wine as Maura came up for air.

"Bit early for that, isn't it?" she asked.

"Sweetheart, when you drink as much as I do, you've gotta start early," I replied.

Maura pushed herself out of the pool, bypassing the towel on the chair next to me and grabbing the bottle out of my hands. I frowned, but she didn't bend. In fact she just smirked, pushing the cork back into the bottle.

"You didn't bring any glasses," she said. "It's very uncouth for someone to drink wine right out of the bottle."

"True. Although you could argue that someone who was presumptive enough to take the bottle from your room doesn't put much store by what would or would not be considered couth."

Maura appeared to think about it for a moment, then nodded and handed me back the bottle. I kept my eyes on her as I opened it again. Maybe she thought I was bluffing, or maybe she thought I was stupid. Wine is supposed to be enjoyed, not chugged, but I went ahead and just gulped a bunch of it down anyway. To say it was an unpleasant experience would be on par with saying a guy finds it mildly uncomfortable when you kick him in the groin. But the glance I stole at Maura while I was doing it made it all worth it.

She was dripping wet and her lips were parted in quiet surprise. She licked and closed them a moment later when I set the bottle down on the small table next to me. We didn't talk for at least another minute, but I don't think we'd ever had a stage in our relationship where verbal communication was essential for comprehension. Her eyes were flashing like a train's warning lights, as if to say, two can play that game.

And oh, how they could. Maura peeled off her swim cap, throwing it down on the chair next to me along with the gauntlet. Her hair had been held back with several pins, all of which she took out with one hand before letting them clatter to the ground. The tiny but discernible noises almost distracted me from watching Maura shake out her hair. It bounced and waved a little past her shoulders. Everything she did exuded confidence, a trait she was desperate to win back after letting her guard down last night.

God forbid sincerity ever win out for longer than an hour.

She walked towards the pool chair I was reclining on, then clambered on top of it, hovering over me. Her knees were on either side of my hips, one hand resting just above my shoulder as she leaned forward and reached for the bottle by my head. For a few tantalizing moments, her breasts hung directly over my face, but before I could do anything about that, Maura was resting her weight on her knees, the bottle of wine at her mouth.

Water was still dripping steadily from her body, now landing on me.

"Maura, you're getting me wet," I said.

The bottle was pulled free of her lips and somewhere, in my head or possibly the other side of the world, a geyser was going off. Maura bit her lip, running her thumb down the neck of the bottle before placing it on the ground next to my chair. Her home plate was hovering just over my navel, and I could practically feel it pulsing. Here I was a on a precipice she had pushed me to yet again: she was waiting for me to either strike out or bat a thousand.

The pitch was expertly prepped and she threw it right to me: "That's exactly my intent," she murmured. That beautiful puss of hers betrayed the cat who ate the canary.

Time to level the field a little. I sat up, just enough so that one of my legs could rise beneath hers, and she let out the sexiest sound I think I've ever heard a woman make. It was a deep, repressed moan, quiet in reality but echoing throughout my entire body.

"You're not worried?" I whispered. "We're out in the open."

"In my yard," she countered, rubbing herself slowly down my leg. She liked to take her time. I like that in a woman.

"You don't think someone will see us in your yard?" I asked.

"Who, photographers? How would they get in?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of your staff."

That stopped her at once, almost comically so. She glanced over at the window, where her maid was assorting some sort of breakfast tray. I could see Maura trying to figure out whether the woman had seen anything before she decided to get off me. I knew not to take it personally. She was still stuck on the way people might perceive her. In fact, I took it as something of a compliment that she had even gotten so invested in trying to start something in broad daylight.

She sashayed over to the other chair, which had a towel draped over the back. Her hips were mesmerizing. A wave on the ocean could never hope to mimic or better that sway.

"I'm going to need some new pants," I said as she started drying herself off. Late last night I'd gone back to my place for clothes, packing an overnight bag to bring back to Maura's. "I want to get started right away."

"But it's only just morning," Maura said. "Wouldn't you like some breakfast?"

"I'll have to take it on the fly. In my business, you've gotta get going right off."

"Or what?"

"Or the bulls beat you at your own game."

Maura tied the towel around her waist. "Got some sort of competition going with the police, detective? If you solve all this first, do you treat yourself to something nice?"

"I'm treating myself to something nice by staying on this case," I responded, nodding at her. She narrowed her eyes at me. I stood up, rolling my shoulders and walking towards her. "You're a funny girl, Maura." Now she cocked her head, giving me an rueful smile, and I found myself reading her eyes again: I've heard that one before. So I elaborated: "You're direct, and then you're not. I think I can see straight through your actions like a plane of glass, but then I get closer and see you've fogged it all up."

An airy laugh came bubbling out of her. "Don't misread me, Jane."

"Am I?"

"I just think we're very different. You like to get things done. You want to be first and foremost in everything."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, but it's a little tiresome. Dull, I mean."

"You calling me dull?"

"No," she said in a tone that was clearly meant to placate me. "I'm just saying, sometimes it's not about who gets there first. It's about…" Her eyes, two hazel orbs of dancing mischief, traveled south of mine. "Enjoying the process."

The maid came out onto the patio, looking hesitant as an explorer about to brave the lip of an active volcano. "Pardonnez-moi, Miss Isles?"

"Oui, Simone?"

"Monsieur Rockmond is on the telephone for you."

I raised my eyebrows and studied Maura's countenance carefully. "Mighty early for a house call, isn't it?"

"We had plans for today."

"Had?"

"Well…"

"Don't change them on my account."

She looked at me, testing me. I was being honest, and that appeared to translate well enough without my needing to say anything else. "Excuse me for a moment then," she said, walking towards the house. "Tell Simone what you'd like to eat, Jane."

"Adam and Eve on a raft, and wreck 'em," I told Simone. Probably a rude trick to pull on a foreigner, as evidenced by the blank look on her face. I told her to forget it and just started walking towards the house, using the same path Maura had. Simone caught up, desperate to understand what I'd just said. "It's just some Americano—scrambled eggs on toast. But you know what, dollface, don't worry about it."

"Doll face?"

"Yeah, you're real cute. Anybody ever tell you that?"

If I wasn't mistaken, I'd just caused Maura's French maid to blush. "Merci, detective."

"Uh…you're welcome." I stepped into the house and nodded at a telephone by the door. "Is this charming little instrument an extension?" She nodded and I put a finger to my lips before picking the phone up off its cradle.

Ever want to punch someone in the vocal chords because you hate their voice so much? I never would've even thought of it, but this Rockmond guy had to have the smuggest one I've ever heard. It's like if you stepped in some dog crap, then wiped it off on a grimy subway step rail, then it picked up an old cigar and tried to smooth-talk its way onto a lady's high heel. If that thing had a voice, it would be Dennis Rockmond's.

"Aw, c'mon, Maura. You promised! Don't back out on me now."

"Well I've… I'll have to bring my friend along."

"Hell, if she doesn't mind, I won't! I mean—she isn't a dog, is she?"

"Dennis!"

"Kidding, Maura, just kidding! Look, does she like the race track?"

"I'm not sure."

"Bring her around for brunch at the Dixie Cup! I'll be waiting."

I hung up the phone and turned to Simone. "Do you know where the Dixie Cup is?"

She rattled off the address and looked concernedly at me. "Is something the matter?"

"Au contairio, my dear. Just don't you breath a word to Maura about where I'm going or what I've done, all right?" Damn, I sounded chipper. I patted Simone on the cheek and then lit right out the front door.

My cab driver was kind enough not to make any smart remarks about my clothes, and we stopped at my apartment so I could change. Nothing I'd taken to Maura's would have done right now, and besides, I didn't want her to see me again yet. I figured she'd realize where I'd gone, but I also figured she wasn't about to leave the house without showering and putting her face on.

I was a lot simpler. I threw on a crimson skirt and a draped black top, brushed my hair out a bit and put on some eyeliner. When I got back to the hack, my driver thought I was somebody else for a second. Perfect.

Once he dropped me at the Dixie Cup, I picked out Dennis Rockmond right away. His face matched that voice, all right. I remembered pictures I'd seen of him, and he looked even more slimy in person somehow. He was sitting at the bar, and every woman who passed by got the up-and-down. Maura had said she thought he was innocent, but at the moment I didn't want to just take her word. His face looked guilty of something, even if that something was just excessive lewdness.

Somebody had left a paper a couple stools away from him, and I went to sit by it. I ordered myself a cup of joe and pulled the newspaper over. Garrett Fairfield's picture was plastered all over it. Now there was a toss-up between his mug and Rockmond's when it came to which one I think my fist would most like to rearrange.

"Hey sugar, are you rationed?" Rockmond asked.

I looked over at him, offering up my best faked smile. "I beg your pardon?"

"Why don't you come on over here?" he asked, nodding towards the empty stool between us. "And bring that paper. I'll help you with the big words."

"Oh, thank goodness," I laughed, moving over. "This is all just gobbledygook to me! Now unless I'm much mistaken, it has something to do with Garrett Fairfield."

Dennis' smile faltered for a moment as he glanced at the photo. "Ah. Yeah, he'll turn up."

"You sound fairly certain of that, Mr…?"

"Rockmond," he said, extending a paw for me to shake. "Dennis Rockmond. Maybe you've seen my work—I'm a commercial artist."

"How nice. What makes you so certain that Fairfield will show up?"

"Ah, you know guys like that. They've got dough. And anyone with enough dough can pull himself out of any scrape. Say, how d'you like your coffee?"

"In a cup," I replied, promptly when it arrived.

He let out a whooping laugh, and I saw some people look up as if expecting to see a dying bird somewhere on the premises. "Boy, sister, you're a gas! What's your name?"

"Jane."

"Beautiful."

"Mm. Thank you."

"Say, what's it take for a fella to get in good with you, Jane?"

"Interested?"

"I like what I see."

Well, there was nothing opaque about this guy. "Ooh, see that?" I asked, pointing to a column on the front page of the paper. It was about Doyle's break-out. "I'm surprised that isn't getting a little more coverage."

Dennis played along, reading a bit of the column. "Patrick Doyle. Oh, yeah. Didn't he used to be a big-shot?"

"Used to be." The bell above the diner's door rang, and I turned to see Maura walking in. "Hey! What's buzzin', cousin?"

I had to pat myself on the back for being able to speak at all when Maura was around. She was wearing an ornate, dark blue dress that clung to her perfectly. I had never understood the appeal of fashion until I saw Maura Isles walking around in what could only be described as works of art. But then, she was a work of art in herself. Her parents should've been awarded a medal.

"Hey, you two know each other?" Dennis asked, looking from me to Maura and back again. "Grab a seat there, Maura! We were just talking about Patrick Doyle."

"Who?"

Maura got up onto the seat on the other side of Dennis, and he shifted the paper towards her so she could see. "Doyle, remember ever hearing about him? That big-shot back in the day?"

I watched her carefully as she scanned the column. Her face was passive to the point where I almost wondered if she even knew the name Doyle at all. But she had to. And there had to be a connection between her and him—why else would he have had photographs of her on his person?

"Broke out, huh?" she asked. "I suppose the police aren't as tough as I thought."

"Maybe Doyle's got someone on the inside," I suggested. "Could be in cahoots with a cop or somethin'."

She caught my gaze for a moment, but then dropped it along with the subject. "Dennis, I'm not hungry. Let's go to the track."

"Oh hey, was this your pal you were talking about?" Dennis asked. He gave me his best Errol Flynn grin and asked, "You like playing the horses?"

"You're above my pay grade, I'm sure."

"Nah, come on! It's great fun. You know, Maura never used to be into the bangtails either, until I got her tuned on to 'em."

"That so?" I asked her, smirking. "Yeah, I have to say it seems like a fairly pedestrian activity for you to stoop to, Miss Isles."

"It's not all dumb luck; there's skill involved," she countered. "I like to play the horses, but I like to see them work out a little first—see if they're front runners or come from behind. You know, find out what their whole card is, what makes them run."

"Find out mine?" I asked.

"I think so."

"Go ahead."

Dennis might as well have been a post sitting between us. Maura surveyed me and said, "I'd wager you don't like to be rated. You like to get out in front, open up a little lead, take a breather in the backstretch, and then come home free."

"You don't like to be rated yourself."

"I haven't met anyone yet that can do it," she said, getting out a cigarette. "Any suggestions?"

I struck a match for her before Dennis could so much as get a hand in his pocket. "Well, I can't tell until I've seen you over a distance of ground." She leaned closer, cigarette poised between her lips. "You've got a touch of class, but I dunno how far you can go."

She reached for my hand, bringing it close enough to light her cigarette. When we both pulled back, she puffed a bit of smoke in my direction, passing over Dennis. "A lot depends on who's in the saddle."

"Well then!" Dennis said, slapping his hand down on the bar. "Looks like we'd better go inspect us some jockeys, then! Let me bring my car around, and we can blow this place." He grabbed his hat and headed jauntily out the door.

After a long and very loaded silence, Maura said, "Nice volley."

"That was fun, let's play again some time," I said, paying for my coffee and standing up. "Geez, Maura. That guy's a real dumb jackass!"

"Oh, don't I know it," she sighed, walking towards the door. "But I think I'm the bigger one for allowing him to keep spending time with me."

"Very kind of you."

"Incidentally, Jane." She paused at the door, holding it open. "Ever ride a jackass?"

"Can't say I have."

She smirked and stepped onto the less-crowded street. "You better jump on my back sometime then and let me take you for a ride."

As if she hasn't already.