In general I might agree with you:

women should not contemplate war…

Women should march for peace,

or hand out white feathers to inspire bravery…

These are the functions that inspire general comfort.

That, and the knitting of socks for the troops

and a sort of moral cheerleading…

She didn't quite see it at first. He seemed so nice that time in the squadroom when Elliot was in Prague. Cragen had introduced her to Sam Bishop from Homicide and she originally thought he was pretty innocuous. A bit wiry, greasy despite his suit, which looked like belonged on a defense attorney or a city councillor, not a lowly homicide detective.

"Nice to meet you," she said, standing from her desk to shake his hand.

"My pleasure," he said with a smile, staring right into her eyes. He didn't let go of her hand. Hersmile tightened.

"Well, I have to get back to work." She withdrew her hand and sat down, returning to her computer.

"Of course." He sat across from her at Elliot's desk and took out some files and his notebook. She couldn't help looking up at him from time to time and whenever she did, he was looking back at her.

Sam Bishop came in every day: for a briefing, to provide new information, because he had forgotten some files he had been working on. Olivia suspected these visits were all part of an elaborate ruse to speak to her: he was hardly subtle.

"Hey, Olivia, I think I forgot my keys. I'm just heading out to dinner, do you want to come?" She had nothing better to do, so she agreed. They went down to the parking garage where he had parked his enormous SUV. She raised her eyebrows. He noticed. "I do some off-roading," he explained. She looked him up and down again: his greasy hair, his expensive suit, the whiff of cologne, the polish on his shoes. Somehow she doubted it. The gym? Probably. White-water rafting? Probably not.

Sam drove them to a sidewalk café a few blocks away where Olivia felt slightly under-dressed in her blue long-sleeved t-shirt and green slacks. The server came by, a skinny teenage guy with red hair gelled into spikes and an eyebrow ring. Olivia opened her mouth but Sam interrupted her.

"Could we get a bottle of the house red to start?"

"Of course," replied the server tersely.

"Excuse me," Olivia signalled, but the server had already left.

"Is that okay?" Sam asked, a look of concern on his face. Olivia sighed.

"It's fine. I'm just going to go use the bathroom," she said, excusing herself. On the way, she ran into the server.

"What a prick," said the server, gesturing towards Sam.

"Do you know him?" Olivia asked, surprised.

"I can just tell." He noticed the look on Olivia's face and explained, "There are only two types of men: pricks, and not pricks. Your boy over there is most definitely in the first group." Olivia looked at him questioningly, not knowing quite what to say.

"Sorry?" the guy offered. "Did I offend you?"

"It's okay," Olivia said, "We're just colleagues." She looked back at Sam. He waved. She furrowed her brow, still not sure quite what to make of him.

She returned to the table to find that Sam had already ordered for both of them.

"You have great cheekbones," Sam commented over their starter salads.

"Thanks," Olivia replied, unsure.

"You could bring them out even more. And your hair is great, too. You could cut it shorter at the front, though."

"Aren't you afraid some other men will come and steal me away?" she asked, smiling now.

"Not a chance." Well, she certainly didn't need to stroke his ego.

When Elliot returned from Prague, he noticed the bouquet of roses sitting on his partner's desk and, being the detective he was, he checked the tag.

"To Olivia. From yours truly, Sam." Elliot's gaze narrowed. Not Sam Bishop. But there was Olivia, coming in the door, laughing, arm in arm with Sam Bishop, the homicide detective. Elliot wondered if Olivia knew about how Sam had screamed at the victim's friend, showed her the pictures, created a new victim.

"Hey, Elliot!" Olivia greeted, breaking away from Sam. "How was your trip?" She noticed his tight jaw, his glare in Sam's direction. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine. The trip was fine." If this guy needed to yell to get power over a defenceless teenage girl… "Liv, can I talk to you?" She looked back at Sam.

"Sure," she said.

"See you tonight," Sam said, winking at Elliot behind Olivia's back.

"You seeing that jerk?" Elliot asked, steering Olivia out into the hallway, away from the prying eyes of Munch and Fin. She crossed her arms defensively.

"Yeah. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Yeah, I do. Liv, this guy needs power over women. Don't tell me you can't see that."

"Elliot, it's great to see you again, but you're not my father, so don't act like it. I can take care of myself," she snapped. But part of her wondered if Elliot was right. She had been trying to figure out Bishop's M.O. Maybe Elliot already knew it.

"So what did you do to piss off my partner?" asked Olivia as she rode in the passenger seat of Sam's SUV, on their way to dinner. Sam laughed.

"It's not hard to do," he said. She waited for him to give her a real answer. "I was trying to get information from our victim's best friend. I raised my voice. Look, I'm not used to dealing with live victims," he explained tightly. She could tell he didn't like being on the defensive. His explanation sounded plausible. They'd all had incidents like that when starting in the SVU.

"It's okay."

"I know." She felt suddenly tired.

"Sam, I'm feeling a little tired and I have an early morning tomorrow. Maybe you should just take me home," she suggested. He looked at her, concerned.

"Can I do anything for you?" She shook her head.

"I'm fine, really."

"Why don't we go to my place and order Chinese?" Her first instinct was to refuse, but she remembered the flowers and how he had booked off work tonight especially for this, and she felt guilty. She accepted.

His apartment was immaculate and larger than most cops'. She wondered if he came from money, or if he had had a different job before this. The hallway and the living room were painted several shades of eggshell white and the one splash of colour was a painting of what looked like an abstract red key over his gas fireplace. They sat on the black leather sofa in his living room while waiting for the food they had ordered, or rather, Sam had ordered. He brought her a glass of white wine and she set it down on the glass-topped, chrome-edged side tables.

"How was your day?" he inquired. She sighed.

"I'd rather not think about it anymore. How was yours?"

"Great. I saw you, didn't I?" she rolled her eyes. The buzzer rang and Sam got up with his wallet to pay for the food.

"Where's your bathroom?" Olivia called.

"First door on the left," Sam called back. Olivia turned down the hall and opened the first door on the left. It was not the bathroom; it was his bedroom. Over the black four-poster bed hung a poster of a brown-skinned woman wrapped in a piece of red shiny material that held her arms to her sides but left the rest of her exposed. She had ano expression on her face. It could have been a crime scene photo. There was another painting of a bride with her throat slashed, red running down her white dress. Olivia went across the room to read the painting's label: "The Sacrifice of Iphigenia." Olivia felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped.

"What are you doing?" asked Sam, leading her out of the bedroom and shutting the door behind her. "You shouldn't go in there; it's a mess." It hadn't looked messy to Olivia.

"Sorry," she said, "I got lost."

"Come and eat."

They sat at his forties black formica kitchen table and Sam poured her some more wine while she filled her plate with chicken chow mein and egg rolls. She looked at him, disconcerted, and tried to discern what part of him enjoyed those pictures in his bedroom. He didn't talk much while eating, just kept looking at her. She wondered if he was undressing her with his eyes, putting her in his black bed.

"Put your arms over your head. It lifts the breasts. Move your legs apart, just a little more. Raise your left knee. You look fantastic."

Olivia stood up abruptly.

"I have to go. I'm not feeling very well," she said. Sam furrowed his brow.

"Okay…Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I don't think so," she said, dropping a twenty on the table. "Thanks for the food."

She slammed the door behind her and ran all the way to the curb, where she hailed a cab to take her home.

One more chapter to go...