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noticed the appearance of a dimple that flashed at the corner of her mouth. Confident of his ability to handle her, he didn’t really blame Amanda for her scheme. He’d always appreciated a challenge.
    The lights lowered and the audience applauded the guest conductor’s entrance from the side of the stage. Shortly thereafter the melodious strains of “The Moldau” filled the air.
    As the musical program continued, Amanda was disconcerted to observe that Brady showed no signs of restlessness. He sat relaxed in his seat, not fidgeting, not even toying with his program. His fingers weren’t drumming impatiently onthe armrest and he hadn’t fallen asleep. This was not going according to plan. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy the concert.
    “How do you like it so far?” she asked at the intermission, hoping that he’d voice his boredom.
    “Very evocative,” was his astounding response.
    “You mean you liked it?”
    “Wasn’t I supposed to?” he challenged, notifying her that he knew about her plan.
    “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,” she prevaricated.
    “Don’t you?” he
murmured softly.
    It took a great deal of effort to disentangle herself from the intimate mockery of his ensnaring gaze. Amanda had to consciously jerk her eyes away and direct them toward the program her fingers were nervously dog-earing. Unnerved by her undoubted vulnerability, she launched into speech. “They’ll be playing Tchaikovsky’s
Capriccio
Italien

after the intermission,”
which had better be over soon,
she silently continued.
    “The program here says that it was written in one week. Amazing what can be accomplished in such a short span of time, isn’t it?” Brady was saying one thing while talking about another, no mean accomplishment. It required an expressive voice, something he definitely possessed. He could project a caressing warmth into his pitch, add a dash of light mockery to an inflection, or deepen his timbre to a husky admonition.
    “Have you lived in Deerfield long?” Amanda inquired, fighting the spell he was weaving,
    “I was born here,” he replied, which didn’t really answer her question. “How about you?”
    “Same here.” If he could be evasive, so could she. “It’s strange we never met before.”
    “Not really,” she dismissed. “I haven’t had much contact with the police.”
    “That’s reassuring to hear.” Brady lowered his head to confide, “You’d be amazed how many women want to have a lot of ‘contact’ with the police.”
    Amanda’s startled gaze slid over his face, which was deadpan with the exception of the slightest twinge at the very corner of his surprisingly curvaceous lips. Amanda recognized that telltale sign as an expression of his mocking humor. Goodness knows she’d seen Brady wearing it often enough when dealing with her. That’s what had gotten her ire up in the first place, down in the basement of the library when he’d invited her to frisk him. Amanda wasn’t accustomed to being laughed at, and she still wasn’t sure she liked it.
    “I’m sure your training helps you cope with their attentions,” she mocked in return, her eyes emphasizing the point.
    “Which training might that be?”
    “Combat training, of course.”
    “Of course,” he grinned.
    During the second part of the program Amanda displayed all the signs of restlessness that she’d hoped to inflict on Brady. Instead, here she was, herself the victim.
    The situation did not please her one bit. Bored with the orchestra before her, she let the force of the music carry her thoughts away. But that proved to be a dangerous exercise, for Brady played a major role in those thoughts.
    Sensory impressions of him flashed on the screen of her mind, impressions that she couldn’t block out although she gave it a good try. The cool cotton of his shirt compared to the warm skin it covered, the tempting touch of his hands on herwaist,the devilish promise in his dark eyes; all these