Yup, still "Betty and Veronica." It may be at least another full part after this one before we get past it.

Disclaimer: 'tain't mine. Still wish it were, though.

X X X X X

"Logan," Dad said.

"Mr. Mars," Logan said, shaking his hand.

"Won't you come into my office?" Dad asked.

"Am I going to come back out again?"

"Well, see," Dad said, grinning that predatory grin of his, "That all depends on how you answer my questions. Veronica, you did put in for that extra case of body bags, right?"

I glared at him to know his joke was not in the least funny. His eyes told me he was convinced otherwise.

"And Veronica," Dad said as he closed the door. "No listening at the door with a glass. That never really works anyway."

It was one of the longer seven-and-a-half minutes of my life. I was half-tempted to fake a phone call and tell Dad that a $25,000 reward bail jumper had been spotted entering the San Diego Zoo, but on the off chance he fell for it he'd be really miffed with me when he got back.

And no, I don't think the chance to see the koalas would make him feel any better.

This got me wondering: Why was I as nervous as I was? It was just my father meeting my date, it wasn't like I was in love with Logan or anything. After all, we've only been in a relationship for a week or so.

No, no, nothing like that.

So my nervousness must have been something else entirely.

Logan left the office, looked at me, and smiled. As we started to walk out, he said, "Goodbye, Mr. Mars."

"Have fun, kids. And remember. I know everything."

If only that were true.

When we got to the XTerra, Logan said, "Hold on a second," and pulled out. When we were well down the block, he said, "Okay, go ahead and ask."

"Ask what?" I asked innocently.

"What your father said to me."

"Oh, I'm assuming it was some variant on what he's said to anyone else I've dated," I said casually. "Strict curfew, keep her safe, and if you try to get past second base before she's 18 I'll have you killed."

"Actually, he said he'd be handling all killing-related activities himself. Otherwise, you nailed it. He also pressed me on what was going on in school with Dick and all of that."

"And what did you tell him?"

"The truth." At the look of horror growing on my face, he said, "Cool down, Machiavelli. You will notice I left the office by walking out the door, not by being thrown through it. He didn't even ask about the flagpole incident."

I relaxed. I should know better. "He also got into our year and a half of hostility and wanted to make damn sure I wasn't just toying with you."

Dad can pack a lot into seven and a half minutes. I'm surprised he didn't ask Logan what he thought of the last episode of House. (C'mon, it's not like there's anything else to watch at 9 o'clock on a Tuesday night.) "Did you manage to convince him you weren't?"

"I think so," he said. "I can't be entirely sure he's not running my name through some of your secret private eye software as we speak."

"Oh, he's not," I said. "He took care of that this afternoon."

"Damn. Then he knows about the five years I did for that bank job in Santa Carolita."

"Five years?" I said. "You're quite the boy wonder, Mr. Echolls."

I knew it was a straight line as soon as I said it. Logan wiggled his eyebrows and said, "You have no idea," in a voice that somehow parodied and oozed sexiness at the same time.

I decided to match it, just this once. "I'd just love to find out," I said, doing the best sultry voice I could pull off. Alright, so I'm not Marlene Dietrich. But Logan got the point.

"I see," he said. "This is all part of a plot to get me killed."

"Darn," I said, speaking into my blouse. "He's caught us, Moneypenny. Go to plan B."

"I told you: No secret spy stuff tonight."

"No, you said no Sydney Bristow. That was James Bond."

I did slip in one serious thing: How Beaver had tried to rat him out. Beyond that, it went like that all the way to Ocean Pride.

X X X X X

Dinner, as expected, was absolutely fabulous. Logan had specified nice, long, and relaxing, and we got all three, in addition to the best shrimp cocktail I've ever had. We talked about TV, movies, books, politics – it's kind of sad when the Iraq War qualifies as a light conversation topic -- and engaged in general and heated flirtation and innuendo for the better part of two hours.

Nowhere did the names Dick Casablancas, Aaron Echolls, or Clarence Weidman enter the discussion.

And then we left for the walk on the beach.

"You know, Echolls," I said playfully, "I never would've pegged you as a 'loves moonlight, puppies, and long walks on the beach' type."

"I'm not," he said. "But the chicks go crazy for it."

We stopped and I turned to look at him. "Oh, DO they now?" I asked.

"Hmm-hmm. They turn to jelly in my hands." He stepped closer until our bodies were touching. Somehow, I didn't think it was the beach or the moonlight turning me to jelly at that particular moment.

The next hour or so was spent standing there, sitting there, and lying there, doing all sorts of fun things with our hands, lips, and other parts -- and more, this time, than just kissing. I still wasn't quite ready for actual sex, but my willpower was sorely, sorely tempted.

Of course, so was Logan's. How we managed to keep our clothes on -- er, mostly -- is something of a minor miracle. But we did.

When we pulled clear for the night -- at least, long enough that we could make it home by my weekday curfew -- I said, "Wow."

"I rate a wow," Logan said, quirking a smile. "I was hoping for a 'hip hip hooray' or a couple of invocations of the deity of your choice, but I'll settle for a wow."

"Hey, bucko," I said. "Considering that a week or so ago you were only dreaming of a moment like this --"

"Repeatedly," he murmured.

I blushed, then went on, "Then I think a 'wow' is a pretty damn good rating."

"Oh, I wasn't complaining," he said.

"Better not have been," I said.

Then we spent some time brushing sand off each other and making sure our clothing was adjusted properly before we actually got into the XTerra.

Along the way, I thanked him. This really had been exactly what I'd needed: No business at all, no worries.

Of course, it was a temporary reprieve and we both knew it. But I no longer felt we were inevitably spiraling down towards disaster.

X X X X X

The next morning, it was back to normal. Logan and I discussed Beaver's actions of the previous day. While he was concerned about it, Logan wasn't quite as determined as I was to keep an eye on the little rodent. "After all, this is Beaver Casablancas. Not exactly the criminal mastermind of Neptune High."

"I'm not saying he's Professor Moriarty – just that it might not be a bad idea to check up on him. It's going to be fairly obvious when we show up arm in arm that I didn't buy his story – either that or that I'm actually covering up for you. He might try something else."

"Astounding, Mars!" he said in an atrocious British accent. "So tell me, how do you come up with such brilliant deductions?"

"You think I'm overreacting?"

"Yeah," he said, "But I'm not the master detective here. You think he's up to something, check it out. Put that super-secret PI software to good use."

When we got to school, we kissed our goodbyes and went our separate ways. It was time for me to get back to the Polly hunt.

Which meant, today, the Billy hunt. Assuming that the Pan High student who'd claimed to have kidnapped Polly was telling the truth, my best bet right now was to engineer a trade.

So if one of theirs kidnapped ours, one of ours kidnapped theirs.

I didn't get the chance to do more than surf the rumor mill until lunchtime. A basketball player had taken it. All the basketball players had taken it. Barbecued goat meat was surprisingly tasty. .) A group called SAAC – Neptune's animal rights organization, apparently – had taken both Polly and Billy and "set them free." Sometimes that was followed up with "and then Billy was hit by a car and Polly was eaten by a coyote." Ah, dramatic irony. And my personal favorite, Dick Casablancas had done it because even a goat was preferable to Madison Sinclair.

True. But it didn't help me much.

At lunch I got an unexpected break. While sitting with Wallace and a couple of other jocks, Wallace stole my raisins, two apples, and a bag of potato chips and took off briskly for the parking lot.

For the second time in two days? Once is weird. Twice is "something's up." And I doubted he was sneaking off for a rendezvous with his secret lover. I mean, a half empty box of raisins doesn't exactly scream "Be mine forever." So I followed him out there, and, long story short, he was feeding the Pan High Mascot in the back of Jack's van.

"I don't know what to do with it," Wallace said. "It's driving me crazy."

"Oh," I said. "I know exactly what to do with it. We're going to engineer a little prisoner exchange." Wallace seemed dubious. "Look. We're happy; Pan High's happy – I know, not your top priority – and I'll be happy. And you can stop dealing with the bearded crap machine." I looked at him with my best puppy-dog eyes. "You do want me to be happy, don't you?" He still seemed dubious. "You don't want me to flip my hair, Wallace."

"Okay," Wallace said. "But we better be able to pull this off." He closed the van door.

"Trust me," I said.

"I hate it when you say that."

"And yet you do it anyway."

"I need my head examined."

I called Richie on the way back into the school and we set up the trade. Wallace, Jack and I would go to Rest Stop 15 after school; Richie, Curtis and the guy with the bird would do the same.

I got in touch with Weevil and asked him to show up there too, "Just in case."

"'course, blondie," he said. "I was headin' up there anyway to do a little business. Anything nasty goes down, give me a holler."

Well: We had a goat. They had a parrot. We had Weevil. Everything seemed to be set.

Note that word, "seemed."