A semi-sequel to “Favored Son,” this story is set late third season. I waffled on this one a long time trying to decide whether or not to keep a particular plot thread (among the many in this story) that may not appeal to all readers. All I can say is stick with it until the end before passing judgment. Thanks to T. as always for the beta and Kass for the fic home. Please send feedback to veniceplace12@verizon.net!

Boneyard

by Kate (CMT)

Starsky tossed a handful of M&M’s into his mouth, chewing contentedly as he sauntered back to the squadroom. He and Hutch had only made it halfway through lunch before getting called on an “all units” for a 211 in progress. A patrol car was already on the scene by the time they arrived at the location - - a Chinese herb emporium tucked between a discount bakery and an all-night laundromat in the waterfront district. Panicked, the perp had bolted out the back door at the first sign of flashing lights, clumsily managing to snag a passing motorist, physically dragging the startled man from his 500cc cycle.

Rounding the corner, Starsky had gunned the Torino in siren-blaring pursuit, nearly sending Hutch through the windshield. His friend retaliated with a blistering string of profanity that still made Starsky’s ears flame red when he thought about it. It never ceased to amaze him that someone as soft-spoken and introspective as Hutch could spew words like raw sewage when he was hot enough. Ten minutes later the perp spilled his bike trying to take a hairpin turn and they had a suspect in custody.

They’d just finished booking him at the station and were readying to go back on the streets when Hutch got a phone call from his mother. Deciding to make the most of the time, Starsky went in search of the nearest vending machine, hoping to stuff his still grumbling stomach. When a Snickers didn’t fill the void, the M&M’s followed, sucking up the last of his pocket change. Once they were back on the streets, he was fairly certain he could coerce Hutch into a quick stop for a hot dog. Assuming his partner had lightened up and moved past his foul-mouthed cussing streak.

“ . . . yeah, okay, I’ll tell him,” Hutch was saying as Starsky wandered back into the squadroom. He flashed an amused glance at his partner, a brilliant white smile sinking a dimple into his cheek. “No, Mom. We don’t have anything planned. What about the bridge?”

Starsky grinned. Apparently his partner was in a better mood, the windshield incident forgotten. Blond, blue-eyed and flaunting a dazzling line of near-perfect teeth, Hutch might have been rehearsing a toothpaste commercial, if it weren’t for the too-long hair splayed over his collar and the Magnum holstered under his arm. Part boy next door, part intimidating street cop, Starsky sometimes wasn’t sure where his friend fit best.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Hutch fit best as Starsky’s partner and friend - - even when he was biting Starsky’s head off for something as silly as taking a turn too fast.

The criminal element had learned the hard way to take Hutch seriously despite his glaringly WASPy appearance. The last few years had given him a grittier edge, complete with longer, shaggier hair, a coldly chilling stare, and a deadly softness of voice that was often worse than anger. Still, when he smiled like that, it was all about Mr. Collegiate-Midwestern-America and his strange mix of farmboy awkwardness and elite sophistication.

“I promise, Mom,” Hutch said with another glance for Starsky. “No, he’s standing right here. I’ll tell him. Okay . . . see you then. Love you too.” He hung up shaking his head, still grinning good-naturedly. “Hey, Starsk, you ever thought about seeing Lake Superior?”

Lounging with his back to a file cabinet, Starsky popped the last of the M&M’s into his mouth. He wadded the wrapper into a ball and lobbed it into the nearest trashcan. “Superior. Is that how you got that Sea Scout badge thing?”

“Something like that.” Hutch stood, snagging his jacket from the back of his chair. “Come on. We gotta roll.”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Starsky trailed him as he pushed through the squadroom doors. “What were you sayin’ to your mom . . . somethin’ about tellin’ me . . . tellin’ me what?”

Hutch grinned over his shoulder. “Got you curious?”

“Stuff it, Hutchinson. What did she want?”

Hutch chuckled, walking faster, his long legs carrying him swiftly down the hall. Starsky scowled, keeping pace, instinctively wondering what it might be like to be partnered with a midget. Or at the very least, someone who didn’t have legs like a giraffe. A few months ago he’d curled up against those long legs when Hutch’s father had cut a bullet out of him on King Island. Right now he wouldn’t have minded if his 6’1” partner had a little less speed in his lean frame.

“Slow up, will ya?”

Ignoring him, Hutch sprinted down a short stairwell and into the garage, making a beeline for Starsky’s red and white Torino. “Come on, Starsk. It’s too nice outside to be cooped up at Metro. I want to get back on the street.”

Now he had something - - bargaining power. “Huh-uh, Blondie.” Starsky stopped by the driver’s door, leaning forward to brace an arm against the roof. He sent Hutch an arch glance across the top. “Not ‘till you tell me what your mom wanted. Spill it or pack it in.” He tossed his keys in the air, snatching them in a jangling fist, clearly making a point of who was in control. Gotcha, pal!

Hutch did his best to look put out, but they both knew it was for show. “Okay,” he rested his hands lightly on the roof of the car. “You know that week off we got coming up? Well . . . it’s been two years since I’ve been home and my parents want me to fly back to spend some time with them.” He shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “My dad’s idea.”

“You mean since you and King Medicine patched things up?” Starsky’s grin grew barbed. “So the high-and-mighty surgeon has dear Adele call and ask you - - play on your sympathy . . . can’t say no to mom and all that?”

Hutch wrenched open the car door. “Starsky, the man’s only just come to terms with the fact I’m a cop. That doesn’t mean he’s gonna ditch his attitude overnight. He wants me to fly home, he’s just too proud to call himself.”

“Because he’s afraid you might get a stick up your tight ass and say no.”

Hutch scowled. “He and I are past that.”

“Yeah, I seem to remember he even got a hug outta you the last time he left.” Relenting, Starsky popped open the door and dropped into the car. He really couldn’t say anything bad about Grant Hutchinson. The man had saved his life, pulling him through an agonizing surgery without proper equipment, facilities, sanitary measures, anesthetic or medication.

Starsky grew warm, feeling a little awkward when he recalled his partner’s role in that same surgery. He never would have survived without Hutch’s devotion and care, given completely and utterly with love. Blowing out a breath, he gripped the steering wheel. “What’s any of this gotta do with me?”

“You’re invited.” Hutch slid in beside him. “Uh, actually sort of expected, Starsk. My parents thought it would be nice for you to come along too. Air fare and rental car are already paid for if you say yes.”

Startled, Starsky blinked. “What? They don’t want to spend time alone with their son?”

Hutch laughed. “I’m not sure my father and I will get through a whole week intact. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think he wants you there as a diversion.” Hutch shrugged, looking sheepish. “He knows if I cop an attitude, you’ll be there to put me back in line. He figures I’ll listen to you, even if I blow up at him.”

Twisting sideways, Starsky turned to face him. “Since when do you listen to me?”

Hutch scrunched lower, making himself comfortable. He stretched his long legs and tilted his head back on the seat. “Humor me, Starsk. You wanna come home with me to Duluth or not?”

Starsky hesitated, even though he already knew the answer. Seeing where his friend grew up, understanding that part of him would only bring them closer. And he was already closer to Hutch than he thought two people could possibly be. But he wanted to know more, to understand more. To see that half of Hutch he’d never been permitted to glimpse - - the past. His family, his upbringing, all the elements that flowed together to make him who he was. The person who meant more to Starsky than any other in life. “Duluth, huh?”

When he didn’t answer immediately, Hutch rolled his head on the seat to look at him, a worried crease forming between his eyes. “Starsk?”

“I was just thinkin’ . . .” His smile came slow and deliberate. “You’re not gonna make me hike through woods or do anything nature-weird like that, are you? Think I’d rather take my chance with the lake and you know how I feel about water.”

Hutch grinned. “Thanks, buddy. I really didn’t want to do this one alone.”

Starsky turned over the ignition. “Coward.”

“No denial there, pal.” Hutch rolled down his window, letting exhaust-laced air flood the car as they pulled into traffic. “My old man still knows what buttons to push.” He shot Starsky a long, level glance. “You’ve probably already figured it out by now, but he can still intimidate the hell out of me.”

“Yeah?” Starsky’s voice dropped to a murmur as he joined the flow of traffic. “Well, from what I’ve seen, you do the same to him.”

+++++

There were worse times to be in Duluth than mid July, Hutch thought as he contemplated the upcoming trip. The phone call from his mother had caught him by surprise, but now that he thought about it, he was actually looking forward to going home. He hadn’t been back for two full years, even skipping Thanksgivings and Christmases. Most of that missed time he could blame on an erratic work schedule, but there’d also been the cool distance between him and his father. They’d managed to clear a lot of that up after the incident on King Island. Now they were finally, if tentatively, getting to know and respect one another the way they should have years ago.

Still, Hutch was glad Starsky would be going with him, acting as buffer if things got a little too strained. Although he didn’t anticipate any problems, having Starsky along would bolster his confidence and help ease any latent anxiety he had kicking around. They still had a week to plan the trip and finalize the plane ticket and rental car preparations. His father’s secretary had taken care of most of that already. All he had to do was contact her for the details and give the go ahead.

His mother had told him they’d had a lot more rain than normal and White Timber Creek was running high. His father had built the secluded gated estate, isolated from the surrounding town by the path of the meandering creek just six years ago. During that time the bridge had never washed out, but Hutch knew the possibility was there. He’d even argued with his father when Grant wanted to build the lavish estate accessible only by bridge. It seemed excessive when compared to the well appointed home in which Hutch had grown up. But Grant had made a fortune since then. His career as a highly respected surgeon, coupled with the proceeds from the sale of his father’s farm to real estate developers had made him extremely wealthy.

Thus came a private residence, complete with guesthouse, in-home office, swimming pool, tennis courts and acres and acres of secluded grounds. Numerous creeks and rivers crisscrossed Duluth itself, but White Timber on the outskirts ran higher than most. Even the drive to reach his parent’s home could be precarious, navigating roads cut into steep rocky cliffsides. Hopefully the rain would ease up until then.

“Zebra 3.” The radio crackled to life, startling Hutch from his reverie. Suddenly he was back in Bay City amid blaring horns, congested traffic, dilapidated storefronts and hot, smog-choked air. “Zebra 3 respond to reports of a domestic disturbance, 49a Breezeway Apartments. Time in 1:18.”

“Zebra 3 responding,” Hutch said into the microphone. He plopped the mars light onto the roof, looking across at Starsky as something about the address jarred his memory. “49a. Why’s that sound familiar?”

Starsky maneuvered the Torino past a city taxi and a white sedan. “Sweet Alice’s place,” his partner responded without looking. Concentrating solely on driving, he turned sharply sending Hutch careening to the side.

The blond detective grappled quickly for the open window, anchoring himself so he wouldn’t collide with Starsky. Apparently his earlier tirade hadn’t made much of an impression on his speed-demon partner. At least this time, Starsky hadn’t tossed him face-first toward the windshield. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him to slow down but something curled in the pit of Hutch’s stomach. Sweet Alice. Domestic disturbance.

She’d done something stupid, probably picked up the wrong john who was now slapping her around. Hutch hung onto the window, silently willing Starsky to go faster. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a soft spot for Alice. If there was one woman he wanted out of the hustling game it was her. At least she’d gotten away from the pimps, but she was still turning tricks from her middle-of-the road apartment. He’d heard she’d been busted three weeks ago for trying to pick up an undercover cop in a businessmen’s bar.

A gaudy green and turquoise sign proclaiming Breezeway Apartments in flowing yellow letters came into view. From past experience Hutch knew Alice’s apartment was in the end building, tucked behind an inground swimming pool with concrete sundeck. Starsky screeched to a halt just outside her apartment, siren still wailing, and flung open his door. A man burst from the building, running at full clip across the parking lot.

“I got him,” Starsky yelled, immediately giving pursuit.

Hutch pulled his gun and darted inside the building. A few heads peeked from cracked doorways, neighbors who were nosey enough to watch, but not concerned enough to help. At least one of them had phoned in the call. “Police,” he snapped crisply. “Stay inside.”

One door shut but the others stayed open, leeringly intent on the action. Hutch ignored them, gun at his side and pointed skyward as he made his way to Alice’s apartment. The door yawned open, busted at the hinges as though someone had kicked it in. “Police,” he called out, pivoting to the side and fanning the Magnum across the open doorway.

The interior was a shambles. A few strands of hanging beads, which had once served as a room divider between the entry and living area, had been ripped from their ceiling restraints. Two silver strands lay curled on the floor, others swayed freely with motion as though only recently disturbed. Hutch pushed past them, brushing glittery plastic aside to step into the ravaged room.

“Alice?”

The couch lay heaved on its back, a wood-veneer coffee table overturned beside it. A few feet away, Alice’s antique-looking phone had been ripped from the wall, split and frayed wires proclaiming its uselessness. Pieces of glass crunched beneath Hutch’s shoes as he strode across the carpet. A tall green lamp had been upended near the sliding doors, its shade bent and deformed from striking the floor. Hutch stooped to pick it up, stepping over the shattered remnants of a once graceful vase. His eyes tracked to the side, registering on a series of dark, quarter-sized splotches strung haphazardly across the olive carpet. “Alice?”

A soft sound came from the direction of the bedroom. Heart pushing into his throat, Hutch dropped the lamp and darted in search of the noise. “Alice?” Blindly, he fumbled for the wall switch, flooding a short hallway with a cone of yellow light. The sudden illumination threw her image back at him in nightmarish detail . . . black silk and cameo-pale flesh; the wet, ruby stain of blood; a flowing cascade of soft corn-gold hair.

“God, no!” Hutch lurched forward. Alice lay crumpled on her side, clad only in a short black shift, one thin spaghetti strap broken and hanging limply from her shoulder. Her right arm was lacerated, leaking blood over her side, hip and leg. A dark stain soaked into the faded carpet beneath her body, growing even as Hutch watched.

“Alice.” Plunging the Magnum into its holster, he leaned into the bathroom, snagging the first towel he spied. “Alice, honey, can you hear me?” Gently raising her arm, he wrapped the soft terry cloth over the wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. She moaned softly, trying to pull away.

“Ssh. Alice. Alice, look at me.” It wasn’t that bad, he realized. She’d need a few stitches and was probably scared out of her mind, but it looked like a surface wound. A lot of blood but no serious damage. “Alice.” Softening his voice, Hutch smoothed a hand over her hair. He felt a bump under his fingers and realized she probably had a concussion too.

“Who . . .?” Her eyelashes fluttered. It took her a moment to put two-and-two together. To sort through the clinging horror of the last few minutes and make sense of the face bending over her, the gentle touch, the melodious voice. The panic withered from her gaze. “Hutch?”

“That’s it, sweetheart.” He palmed her cheek, smiling warmly. “Think you can sit up?”

She nodded slowly, a little foggily. Hutch guided her to a sitting position, then stripped off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her legs were bare, the right one covered with blood, but no wound that he could see. He ran a hand over the soles of her bare feet feeling for glass.

She shivered. “What . . . what are ya doing?”

He placed her hand over the towel on her arm. “Hold that, okay?”

She nodded, still dazed. He left only a minute to duck back into the bathroom, snag another towel and wrap it over the first. She was more focused now, watching warily, that wild mane of golden hair tumbled in riotous waves over her shoulders. Hutch touched her chin. “Wanna tell me what happened here?”

“It’s not what you think.” She drew his jacket closer, covering up in modesty, the plunging neckline of the skimpy shift leaving little to his imagination. “I . . . I’ve got a late night planned. I was goin’ to bed.”

Hutch scowled. “With the guy who went barreling out of here at lightspeed? Alice, when are you going to give this up?”

She looked away. “It wasn’t like that.”

Hutch sighed. At least she was talking coherently. Shaken and bruised, but she was breathing. It could have been a lot worse. Many of the men who frequented hookers were violent by nature. Alice had always played it safe, sticking with the same johns, taking new ones by referral or finding them in the business bars. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Starsky step into the hallway.

“Hey,” Starsky interrupted. “How’s it going in here? I got our man cuffed in the back seat. Pretty much admitted what happened, but said he had the wrong apartment. . . . was lookin’ for some redhead who lifted his wallet last night. Busted down the door tryin’ to get in, then things got outta hand. Said he didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“Shit.” Hutch hung his head.

“I told you it wasn’t like ya thought,” Alice said quietly.

Exhaling noisily, Hutch dragged a hand over his face. Yeah, he’d jumped to the worst conclusion, but it was the most logical too. A man bolting from a hooker’s apartment usually signaled things had gotten kinky and rough.

Hutch looked over his shoulder. “Starsk, she’s got a knife wound and a pretty good sized bump on the head. The phone’s dead. Think you could radio for an ambulance?”

“No!” Alarmed, Alice snatched at his shirt. “No ambulance. I don’t want that.”

“Alice, you’ve got to go to the hospital.”

“No,” she said again, softer this time. Her grip grew less possessive, became coyly submissive. “Please, Handsome Hutch.” She used the tone of voice that got him every time - - that soft southern drawl with a combination of vulnerability and open promise. “I’ll go to the hospital, like ya’ll want, but no ambulance. Couldn’t you and Starsky just take me?”

Trapped. He owed her for thinking the worst. More than that, he wanted to make certain she would be all right. He couldn’t help feeling protective toward her. Couldn’t quite squash the glimmer of attraction that had always simmered between them despite their at-odds professions. Once again he looked over his shoulder at his friend.

Starsky read the question in his eyes and sighed. “Okay, partner. I’ll call a patrol unit to come collect our boy. Wanna see if you can get some clothes on her?”

Hutch nodded his thanks, conveying gratitude with his eyes.

Starsky’s message was just as clear, communicated through a silent rapport eight years of close friendship had built: Just don’t do anything stupid, Blondie.

+++++

Hutch walked down the hall toward the waiting room, wondering what Starsky considered stupid. The patrol unit had come for their suspect as promised ninety minutes ago. Alice had dressed while they waited, slipping a pair of jeans and sandals under the shift, not bothering with a top. Keeping Hutch’s jacket wrapped around her, she’d ridden up front on the way to the hospital, huddled close to Hutch.

He’d wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, inviting the curve of her body against his. That innocent bit of nestling had induced a pointed silence from his partner. Hutch knew Starsky thought he was playing it too close, too personal. Maybe he was. Sometimes the black and white lines of his carefully structured world bled into muddled gray. It was no secret he cared for Alice on a purely compassionate level. Problem was, there was another side too. A side that whispered if she weren’t a hooker, he might have given rein to an attraction he’d long tried to bury.

Starsky saw it. Starsky knew it, just as he intuitively knew almost everything about Hutch. It was useless trying to hide his feelings around his bloodhound-like partner. Which meant that Starsky would sniff out what was sure to be labeled his latest round of glaring stupidity.

She’s hurt, Hutch reminded himself. Starsky will understand.

He found his partner in the hospital waiting room, crisply leafing through a copy of Popular Mechanics, his feet wedged against the edge of a squat coffee table. The room was otherwise deserted but it crackled with Starsky's barely restrained energy. Even his posture screamed impatience. Hutch knew he’d been sitting there a good thirty minutes - - a virtual eternity in Starsky’s high-strung world - - while Hutch conferred with the on-call doctor and Alice.

Spying Hutch, Starsky tossed the magazine aside and bounced quickly to his feet. “Well? You satisfied now? Can we get outta here?”

Hutch hedged. “Not exactly, Starsk.”

“What’dya mean, ‘not exactly?’” Starsky paced nearer, instinctively honing in on what Hutch hadn’t said. “She need a ride back to her apartment or somethin’? What ain’t you tellin’ me, Blondie?”

Hutch scuffed a finger under his nose, abruptly tongue-tied and awkward. He should just spit it out and get it over with: She’s going home with me for the night. Instead he dragged a hand through his long hair and paced to the other side of the room. “She’s got a mild concussion and she’s a little loopy from the pain medication they gave her. Doctor wants someone to stay with her tonight. She’s got no one to call, and she’s petrified of staying in the hospital . . . something about her mother dying after surgery.”

Starsky’s eyes narrowed. “What are you tryin’ to tell me, partner?”

Hutch shrugged. He picked up the magazine Starsky had tossed aside and pretended interest. “I . . . I’m gonna take her home with me tonight.”

Silence. Lots and lots of it.

Not good.

Hutch flipped a page, grimacing when the paper crinkled loudly. Pins dropping had nothing on a good glossy magazine. He cleared his throat. “Starsk, did you hear what I said?”

A footstep, then two. Suddenly Starsky was at his side, breathing down his neck, glaring at him with those dark ocean-blue eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Hutch.” Carefully spoken, neutral, surprisingly level.

Hutch raised his eyes. “Why not?’

Starsky sighed theatrically, letting the pent-up drama punch through. “Because, dummy. You two have always been just a little gone on each other. She’s vulnerable and you’re drippin’ protective hormones all over the place. I’ve been cleaning ‘em up for close to two hours now. You take her back to your apartment, you know where it’s gonna end up.”

Hutch balked. “Starsky, she’s hurt. What do you think I am - - a lecher? Besides, I know what she is.”

“Yeah, right. Got a clear head, do you?”

“Crystal.”

“Know exactly what you’re doin’?”

“Couldn’t be more focused.”

“Then how come you’re readin’ upside down, genius?” Snatching the magazine from his hands, Starsky spun it around, reseating it correctly in Hutch’s suddenly lax grip. Smiling acidly, he leaned closer, looking up into his partner’s startled eyes. “You end up in bed with her, I don’t wanna know about it. In fact . . . once I drop the two of you off, I’m done with the whole thing. I don’t wanna hear a single, freakin’ word about it. Got that, partner?”

Hutch swallowed hard. “Okay,” he agreed quietly, abruptly realizing Starsky was probably right. He was in over his head. But it was only one night. One lousy night.

What could possibly go wrong in the span of twelve hours?

+++++

Hutch was oddly nervous, but couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t as if he’d never had a woman in his apartment before. Under normal circumstances he knew precisely what his intent was - - dinner, music and romance, not necessarily in that order. It was rare for a woman to spend the night who didn’t figure into his bedroom, much less his bed.

As a cop he knew he was being stupid, taking a known prostitute home with him. Starsky’s less-than-enthusiastic remarks at the hospital followed by his stony silence on the drive to Venice Place had been proof of that.

“I’d call you a colossal ass, but that’d be givin’ you too much credit,” his partner had muttered after dropping Hutch and Alice off for the night. Fortunately Alice had been too disoriented by pain medication to overhear. Hutch’s only reply had been a frown, followed by a softly spoken “See you, pal,” as he closed the door.

Now three hours later, he lay on the couch, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. It was still early in the evening, not quite seven o’clock. The leftover chicken stir-fry he’d cooked for dinner was still warming on the stove on the off chance his guest might want some.

Alice had curled up on his bed, falling into a deep sleep shortly after arriving at his apartment. He’d paced back to the bedroom on three separate occasions, feeling the need to make sure she was sleeping comfortably. Ever since finding her half-dressed, lying in a pool of blood, he hadn’t been able to get rid of the tight feeling in his stomach. Prostitution was an ugly trade that often ended in violence. This time the outburst had been unrelated to what she did for a living, but Hutch knew the same couldn’t be said about the past. Her own “boyfriend” had once beaten her half to death in front of a camera.

Agitated by the memory, Hutch pushed from the couch and began to pace. The woman just didn’t have common sense if she couldn’t see she was playing with fire. Sooner or later she was going to get burned for keeps.

Like Gillian.

He hadn’t thought about his ex-lover in a long time. Her death had been hard, ripping him up inside, his grief compounded by the emotional turmoil of learning she’d been a prostitute. What did it say about him that he was repeatedly attracted to women with a less than respectable reputation? A psychologist would have a field day with that one - - upstanding doctor’s son with a hooker fixation. He paused, frowning.

Was he attracted to Alice?

Hutch scuffed a hand through his hair.

No. He was just concerned - - sort of. Maybe. Okay, so he couldn’t help noticing the way her hair tumbled around her shoulders or that her eyes sparkled when she laughed. And that soft lilting drawl got under his skin more than he wanted to admit, but it wasn’t like Starsky said. He hadn’t brought her home to seduce her. He was just concerned. She hadn’t wanted to stay in the hospital and there hadn’t been anyone else she could call for help. So what if he was a cop? The whole scenario was purely platonic.

“Hutch?”

He gave a startled jerk and looked over his shoulder. Alice stood in the doorway to his bedroom, sleep-tousled and groggy. Before bringing her home, he’d had Starsky swing by her apartment so she could pick up a few items for the night, including some comfortable clothes. She’d found something short and clingy to sleep in, then covered it up with a long satin robe the deep hue of a painted western sky. Definitely not practical for a platonic sleepover. She took a halting step forward and Hutch saw a flash of bare leg beneath the shimmery material.

“Do . . . do you have the pain pills from the doctor?”

“What’s the matter?” Concerned, Hutch snatched the plastic pill bottle from the corner of the coffee table as he strode toward her. Her arm had been stitched and wrapped at the hospital, but he knew it had to be uncomfortable, flaring with prickly pain. “Go back to bed, Alice, and I’ll bring you some water for the pills.”

“You’re very sweet, Handsome Hutch. Did anyone ever tell you that?” She smiled slightly, looking pale and fragile like a delicate bird. The pain had taken its toll, bleeding color from her normally tawny skin, turning her eyes darker by contrast.

He stopped just shy of her, gazing down on her upturned face, realizing for the first time just how much he towered over her. He hadn’t noticed it before, but she was tiny and petite, barely reaching his shoulders without the 3 ½ inch heels she normally wore.

Her mouth melted in a smile. “Something smells good. My mama used to cook the most enchantin’ meals. I swear I haven’t smelled anything so heavenly since she passed.”

Hutch cleared his throat, found his voice. “It’s chicken stir-fry. Do you want some?”

“My! But you are a man of many talents, aren’t you? “ Hugging her arms close to her chest, Alice walked toward the kitchen. “Might be just the thing I need to go with those pain pills. I can’t rightly recall the last time I had stir-fry.” She glanced around the apartment, pausing to look back at him. “I guess I was a little groggy when Starsky dropped us off. I didn’t take the time to appreciate your apartment. All these plants . . . the colors . . . they suit you.” She crossed to the piano, stopping to trail a hand over the edge. “And music. Do you play?”

Hutch nodded, his throat suddenly dry. Had he made a mistake in bringing in her here? Suddenly the glimpses she was seeing of his life felt too personal. They were private and protected. Would she now expect favors from him in the future? What would happen the next time he had to bust her?

Disturbed, Hutch strode to the stove, locating a clean plate in the drainboard. “Sit down, Anne. I’ll get you something to eat.”

Anna Sinclair. Her real name. The name printed in neat typewritten letters on the pill bottle, the name he’d used on arrest reports. It sounded strange on his tongue, but he needed them to be something other than cop and hooker tonight. Someone other than Sweet Alice and Hutch.

He felt her presence behind him, quiet and whispery soft, attention-provoking all the same. Hutch concentrated instead on the plate of vegetables - - snow peas, shitaki mushrooms, broccoli, julienned carrots and water chestnuts, ladling the still-warm mixture over strips of chicken, lightly seasoned with ginger and soy.

“No one’s called me Anne in a long, long time,” Alice said into the silence. “My mama used to call me Annie. I always liked that, but she died when I was a little girl.” A humorless laugh caught in her throat. “An ambulance came and got her, but it didn’t do any good. Her heart gave out and she died at the hospital. I just can’t abide those places ever since. You understand, don’tcha, Hutch?”

He nodded, still not able to turn.

“I didn’t mean to impose. Truth is, I didn’t think you’d actually bring me home with you. I was just hopin’ you’d talk that doc into lettin’ me go. It’s plain as day you don’t like me being here.”

“It’s not that.” Now he did turn. How did he explain the knot of emotions in his gut, when he wasn’t sure he understood them himself? “It’s awkward. And not just for me.” He shrugged, sliding her plate onto the table. “There’s a certain element on the street that isn’t going to take kindly to me bringing you home. Your old boyfriend, Martini’s just one. I can’t be there to protect you if someone misconstrues what happened here tonight. If word gets out, someone might think you’re feeding me information and that could put you in danger.”

She smiled brightly. “Are you frettin’ over me, Handsome Hutch? I declare it’s almost worth the trouble, havin’ you behave so chivalrous.”

“Eat your dinner, Annie.” Hutch filled a glass with water and set it beside her plate. He popped the lid on the pill bottle, tumbling one of the white tablets into her palm. “Take that before you eat.”

“My, but you are a worrier. You know what your problem is?”

“What’s my problem?” Sitting down across from her, he watched as she swallowed the pill. Somehow it felt right to call her Annie instead of Alice. Alice walked the streets in short, tight dresses and platform heels, her lips red and sultry with candy-apple gloss. Annie talked fondly of her mother while meticulously weeding broccoli from her dinner like a child who thought green vegetables were poison.

“Your problem,” Alice instructed Hutch, all the while sorting through the food on her plate. “Is that you need to visit the Boneyard.”

He arched a brow. “You’re going to have to explain that one.”

“It’s simple. When I was a little girl in Kentucky, there was an old cemetery a few miles from my daddy’s farm. A lot of the folks - - especially those brought up on superstition - - just called it the Boneyard. My mama used to say the best way to get rid of a problem was to take it to the Boneyard. Anything you put there stayed dead and buried. It couldn’t come back to haunt you, see?” Alice popped a water chestnut in her mouth. She pointed her fork at him. “Tomorrow, I’ll go my way, you’ll go yours and you can dump this whole night in the Boneyard.”

Hutch sighed, rubbing his temple. “Annie, I didn’t mean to imply - - ”

“I like when you call me Annie.”

The simple statement caught him off guard. Startled he raised his head, meeting her eyes across the table.

“Tomorrow we’ll be back to Alice and Hutch,” she said somewhat sadly. “But I’d like tonight to be different. I’d like to be Annie again for just one night.” She hesitated, lowering her eyes and looking at him through her lashes. “Can I call you Ken?”

Confused, he found himself momentarily speechless. The signals were all wrong . . . his and hers, getting crossed in some strange emotional time warp. He’d brought her home to heal, to rest. Not to fantasize about some impossible if-only-you-weren’t-what-you-are-and-I-wasn’t-what-I-am scenario. Maybe Starsky was right. Maybe he was just a little too gone on her.

She’s a hooker, he reminded himself. A hooker.

“Hutch?” She reached across the table and touched his hand. “Did you hear what I said? Can I call you Ken?”

The contact of her flesh sent a spark racing up his arm. He nodded, his throat tight. “Sure.” What would it hurt - - one night pretending they were something other than they really were? It was only one night. Without conscious thought, he twined his fingers with hers. “You should go back to bed. Lie down.”

Her smile turned playful. “Will you tuck me in?”

Definitely in over my head. Way over my head.

Panicky, he stood and paced to the kitchen sink, enforcing distance between them. What he needed was a distraction - - drink, TV, maybe his guitar. Something to make him remember what he was . . . who he was.

A cop.

“Ken?”

With an inward groan, he laced a hand through his long hair. Hearing her use his first name was dramatically more intimate than the sensual drawl and playful banter she normally reserved for teasing him. Maybe what he needed to do was call Starsky. Ask his friend to come over . . . sit and talk, play cards, drink beer. You were right, buddy. I screwed up. What I’m feeling right now has absolutely nothing to do with wanting to be a big brother. I know it’s wrong, Starsk. God help me I do, but I can’t help being attracted to her.

He kept his back toward her. “Annie . . .Alice,” he corrected firmly. Needing something to do, he distracted himself by filling the sink with water and dishliquid. The stovetop wok he’d used to make the stir-fry clunked against the sides of the basin as it sank beneath the soapy water. “Before things get out of hand maybe we should set some boundaries.”

“Like north and south?” She chuckled softly. “You’re just feelin’ all kinds of heat that’s got nothing to do with the outside air.” He heard her chair scrape against the floorboards. A second later he felt her presence behind him. “Don’t worry, Hutch.” There was clear emphasis on his name, putting them back into safe territory. “I didn’t mean to tempt you, though it’s awfully nice to know you’re not completely immune.” A hand crept onto his back, her touch dangerously stimulating through the light linen of his shirt. “You brought me home and I’m grateful for that. I just thought that maybe tonight we could forget who we are . . .pretend we just met.”

Hutch looked straight ahead, ignoring the water in the sink, desperately trying to discount the betraying feelings in his body. Lots of cops slept with hookers.

I’m not lots of cops, and she means more than that. “I don’t go to bed with somebody I just met,” he said, unable to mask the hoarse strain in his voice.

She rested her cheek against his back. “Then maybe we could pretend we’ve known each other a few months. Ken and Annie don’t have to play by the same rules as Hutch and Sweet Alice.” Her arms encircled his waist. He stiffened, but made no move to pull away.

“I’ve never made a secret of my attraction for you,” she whispered. “Maybe you could forget what I am for the next twelve hours. I sure wouldn’t mind spendin’ the rest of the night cuddled up against you. I promise come mornin’, we can leave the whole mess in the Boneyard.”

He turned around, pulled by the sincerity in her voice. She was hurt - - a mild bump on the head and a stitched arm. The pain medication had probably eased both, but to take advantage of her now would in some ways be worse than what Martini had done. It was Hutch’s role to protect, to help her heal, not to elicit a good-time freebie for his own personal pleasure.

Yet as he stared down into her eyes, he realized it wasn’t like that. He cared for her, had even entertained the thought of caring more if only their situations were different. What was a single night out of their lives to experience what they’d both privately fantasized about? Once and done.

Raising his hands, still wet and dripping with dishwater, he cupped her face. “Are you sure about this?” Starsky would kill him. Hell, Starsky would probably castrate him, but his partner didn’t have to know.

The corners of her lips tipped upward in an enticing smile. “I could convince you better if you kissed me.”

It was all the invitation he needed. Ignoring the condemning voice of his conscience, Hutch leaned forward and slanted his mouth over hers.

+++++

It was 2:06 a.m., six minutes past the last time Starsky had looked at the bedside clock. Frustrated, he flopped onto his back, staring at the mirrored canopy of his waterbed. He could just distinguish semi-shapes in the diffused darkness - - a wad of bunched black-and-white sheets, the lumpy bulk of two fist-plumped pillows, both reflected in the moon-streaked glass suspended overhead.

Exhaling loudly, he thrust the checkered sheets aside and swung his legs over the bed, annoyed that he couldn’t sleep. He’d been tossing and turning for hours now, his mind on overdrive. The slice of pizza and glass of rootbeer he’d had around midnight, halfway through Horror Showcase probably had something to do with it.

A better guess would be his suddenly grousing fixation on a certain fair-haired partner. Starsky just knew Hutch was in the middle of doing something insanely stupid. Typical air-headed blond. His friend might be a gentleman when he chose, but he was also a healthy single male with an active sex life. He might not have a mirror hanging over his bed, but he had plenty of moves and lots of practice.

He wouldn’t be that stupid, Starsky tried to convince himself. His head’s on straighter than that.

Thirsty from the pepperoni and sausage that had decorated his pizza, Starsky pushed to his feet, the water-filled mattress waffling beneath him. Clad only in a pair of black briefs, he padded barefoot to the bathroom and ran the cold water. It tasted tepid, a little like the green plastic cup he used to catch it in. No denying tap water had a unique taste at 2:07 in the morning. Sort of like an upper shelf cocktail - - partly satisfying, mostly overrated.

Flipping the toilet seat shut, Starsky sat on the closed lid. The touch of ceramic tile against the soles of his bare feet felt cool and welcome. At least it distracted him from his rambling thoughts.

It wasn’t just that Hutch had taken Sweet Alice home with him and was probably in the process of making an enormous mistake. Now that he’d had time to quietly mull over their upcoming visit to Duluth, Starsky found himself uneasy. He hadn’t seen Grant Hutchinson since the incident on King Island a few months ago. Encountering Hutch’s father was likely to bring back all the horror of that torturous surgery.

Sometimes he still woke disoriented at night, memories clinging to his sleep-fogged thoughts like stray particles of a grisly dream. He remembered feeling helpless, handcuffed to a tree while Hutch held him down, his screams suffocated by the pressure of his partner’s broad hand. God, Hutch, you’re hurting me! Please let me go. Please make it stop!

He could still hear his own tormented thoughts . . . taste the remembered tang of blood in his mouth, released when the brutal press of Hutch’s hand had ground his teeth into his lips. He’d put all of that behind him. They’d put it behind them, but seeing Grant would likely stir it up all over again. He didn’t want to remember. And he especially didn’t want his overly sensitive partner nose-driving into a guilt-trip like he had on the island. It had taken Starsky repeated efforts to pull Hutch from a quagmire of self-imposed loathing, none of which he was ready to repeat.

Still, it would be interesting to see the Hutchinson Estate, to have Hutch and his stringently correct father interacting again. And then there was Adele - - warm, giving, not greatly enamored of her son’s career, but supportive of his right to choose it all the same. Hutch also had a younger sister Kelly, and a brother-in-law Vince, neither of whom Starsky had met.

He had hoped he and Hutch might enjoy some time alone on this vacation - - they needed it after the island - - but he also understood his partner’s desire to go home. It had been too long since Starsky had seen his own mother in Brooklyn. Although he talked to her by phone at least once a week, long-distance conversations couldn’t replace seeing her in person.

Starsky had always been about physical touch. Those he were closest to required that extra measure of contact. It was why the phone couldn’t replace a hug from his mother, why his relationship with Hutch went beyond the standard rules of friendship. His Midwestern partner had been cool in the beginning, proper and reserved, a clear-cut product of his precise upbringing. There was even a time initially when Starsky had thought him stiff and conceited.

Hard to imagine now. Also hard to believe that Hutch had been the one who first crossed the boundary of touch. Hutch who had sensed a need in him when he’d been hurting and vulnerable and had responded to that need with physical compassion.

No question the overture had surprised Starsky. They’d been good friends by then, having gone through the Academy together, doing their rookie stints separately, then partnering up at the first opportunity. They’d only been together a few months, the partnership new and tentative, their casual friendship already branching into something deeper. It had been a bad case of the flu that initially turned Hutch into a hovering mother hen. He’d basically moved into Starsky’s apartment, camping out on his couch for three full days. It was the first time Starsky realized Ken Hutchinson would have made a good doctor after all. He had an attentive and calming bedside manner. And his voice, whispery soft when he chose, was as soothing as the lap of low tide against a shoreline.

The memory of that first comfort-encounter came back with little prompting:

“Starsky? Come on, buddy. I want you to drink some water for me. It’ll help with the fever.”

Starsky groaned, too miserable to unfurl from the ball he’d made of his sweat-soaked body. He’d never known anyone personally who’d died from the flu but he felt like he was a step away from hanging it up himself. Every muscle in his body hurt. Even his fingernails ached. The hairs on his arms felt like exposed nerve-endings, turning every slight current of air into the cold cut of a knife. “G’way,” he managed through a raw, puffy throat.

The bed creaked behind him, the ancient boxspring and mattress giving way under new weight. One of these days he was going to have to invest in a new bed. Maybe one of those sleek water-filled thingies with a mirrored canopy.

“Come on, Starsk,” his partner said behind him. “Just a little water. And I’ve got some pills. They’ll make you feel better.”

Dr. Hutchinson.

Starsky snorted. His partner, the cop, had apparently decided to channel his aborted med school background. The truth of the matter was, Starsky was just plain muck-and-grime miserable and nothing - - pills, water, not even a comfortable new mattress was going to make him feel any better. He groped for the blankets, pulling them up around his chin. Despite the sticky sweat soaking his body he was freezing. Water was the last thing he wanted.

“G’way,” he croaked again.

There was a muted clink, telling Starsky that Hutch set the glass aside on the nightstand. He scrunched his eyes closed, hoping his friend would take the hint and leave. Hutch had arrived three hours ago after a short trip to the pharmacy, but it didn’t look like he had any intention of leaving. It would be the last time Starsky asked his new partner to pick up a prescription for him. Most people were smart enough to realize when the errand was over, it was time to bail. But not soft-spoken Blondie. He’d come armed with cans of soup, fruit juices, a brand new thermometer, half a dozen boxes of Kleenex and the single prescription bag that was really all Starsky wanted.

His last partner would have known when to back off. He’d only been with Stoner three months before finally getting assigned with Hutch, but Jim had known where to draw the line. Hell could have frozen over before Stoner carted an armload of bags from the drug store, followed immediately by doing his partner’s laundry and cleaning up his neglected apartment. Just who did Blondie think he was anyway?

Starsky curled tighter, shivering. His body felt like it wanted to shake apart. If only - -

He gave a startled jerk when a hand settled lightly on his shoulder. “Starsk? Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

The hand moved soothingly up and down his arm, rubbing aching flesh until the pain slithered into quiet submission. He felt warmth and sun-soaked heat, found himself relaxing under the comforting stroke of long fingers. He gave a short shake of his head, too startled to speak, too afraid to move for fear the calming touch might stop.

Instead it moved to his back, rubbed circles over his bunched and aching muscles. The bed gave again. He felt more than saw Hutch sit behind him, back to the headboard, legs stretched over the mattress. The infusion of warmth was immensely gratifying. Emboldened by its touch, Starsky inched a little closer. Still he stayed hunched and curled, afraid to turn, trapped in a pocket of phlegmy misery. He coughed and hacked into his hand. Maybe the pills weren’t such a bad idea after all.

“Starsk, turn around. Try to get comfortable. I’ll sit here for awhile if you want me to.”

Why would he want that? And who in their right mind would sit so close to a germ-infested, hacking, sniffling, wheezing, sweating, shivering, flu-stricken lump? “ ‘M gonna make ya sick.”

“I already had the flu this year.” Hutch tugged on his shoulder, pulling him around.

Half reluctantly, half hopefully, Starsky rolled onto his side and immediately found his head nestled in a clean pillow. It took him a moment to realize the cushion rested in Hutch’s lap and that he was now huddled up against his partner’s legs.

An arm draped over his shoulder, chasing away the perpetual chill. Fingers stroked his flesh making him feel safe, protected and cared for. It was a strange feeling. One he’d not felt in a very long time. Who would have thought his perfectionist-driven partner could be so compassionately . . . human?

Starsky coughed lightly and sniffled.

“Here.” Hutch passed him a Kleenex. “You gonna swallow these pills for me now?”

“Throat hurts.”

“I’ll make you some chicken soup. It’ll help your throat and warm you up at the same time.”

“No.” Starsky shook his head, nestling closer. The infusion of warmth was delicious, the stroke of long fingers over his arm and back, blessedly soothing. “Just stay here.” A pause as he heard Hutch sigh. “Ok, partner. I’ll take the pills. Just don’t move for awhile. I think I can finally get some sleep.”

He had slept. A good five hours, Hutch beside him the entire time. He’d woken later to find his partner still there, slumped uncomfortably against the headboard. It was odd, Starsky thought as he padded back into the bedroom, how two random people could connect in such an intense way. Instant rapport. That’s what it had been like from his first encounter with Hutch. Even when he’d thought the blond-haired man too precise for his taste, they’d clicked. Hutch had mellowed a lot since then, gradually loosening up on his perfectionist-driven nature. The Ken Hutchinson Starsky met at the Academy never would have taken a hooker home with him.

“Idiot.” With a loud groan, Starsky plopped face down on the waterbed, sending the mattress bouncing crazily beneath him. At least they’d be leaving for Duluth in a week. If Hutch did do something stupid tonight, Starsky could still hustle him out of town before he compounded it by making it worse.

Hi, Dr. Hutchinson. What’s that - - your son’s latest girl? Oh, you’d like her. She’s in customer relations. Lots of clients, probably even a few doctors in the bunch.

Starsky pulled the pillow over his head, exhaling loudly. 2:26 a.m. I’m not your conscience, Hutch. I’m going to bed now. I mean it this time. Really. You screw this one up, you’re on your own, pal.

He was still awake when the clock clicked 3:00.

+++++

Hutch stirred, drowsy from lovemaking, tugging Alice closer. She lay nestled against his chest, the shared heat of their bodies a lazy toxin seeping into his blood. Haloed by the glow of moonlight, her hair gleamed with the kiss of treasure-ship gold, her flesh like milk and cream. He kissed her forehead, dipped his lips to brush the soft bow of her mouth. He still had three hours before he had to be up for work . . . three hours of pretending the night was magic, that the woman in his arms was part of his make-believe fairytale.

“How’s your arm, sweetheart?” Gently he stroked the hourglass dip and swell of her side. He felt her shiver, pleased that her flesh became so pliant and responsive beneath his touch.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she whispered against his lips. Her teeth nipped the corner of his mouth and she smiled seductively. “But I could use some distraction.”

He grinned, rolling her onto her back. She was everything he’d imagined - - soft pleasure, the spice and heat of earthy sensuality, the cool satin of champagne-dusted flesh. Maybe it was simply the knowledge he’d done something forbidden . . . that he’d crossed a line clearly marked taboo, but every minute in her arms crackled with storm-charged electricity.

Dipping his head, he moved his mouth over hers, tasting, giving, growing immediately aroused when she whimpered softly. She was fire and heat, the gold of summer, the wind-laced smoke of autumn. Her hair smelled of aloe and cucumber, a fresh herbal concoction that sent his senses reeling. Deepening his kiss, he cupped his hand around her waist, tugging her against him. Her fingers slid into his long hair, holding fast, urging him to greater intimacy. His arousal became almost painful and he groaned aloud, turning his head to nuzzle her ear. Her hands were on his hips, guiding him, wanting him, her need as desperate as his own.

One night. One night only.

He wanted the memory to be as pleasurable for her as it was for him. He found her lips again, her mouth already puffy and moist from his kisses. She tasted of ginger and soy, her overly sensitized body yielding and eager. Naked flesh to naked flesh, he carried them to a lightning-streaked summit, her release simultaneous with his own shocking discharge. Groaning, Hutch buried his face in her hair, his body shuddering with the aftereffect.

Alice’s arms tightened around his neck. “I always knew you’d make a good lover, Ken,” she breathed into his ear.

She wasn’t one of his dates, she wasn’t even someone he intended to see again. Still he kissed her softly, tenderly, enjoying the moment despite its star-crossed impossibility. In a few hours he’d have to face reality. Starlight would be stripped away, leaving grim truth like chipped and peeling paint beneath. She wasn’t a fairy queen and he wasn’t a knight in shining armor. She was a common prostitute and he was a cop.

Hutch bowed his brow to hers. “I won’t forget tonight,” he vowed.

+++++

Hutch stood gazing out his kitchen window, nursing a cup of coffee. Despite the scant amount of sleep he’d had last night, he wasn’t tired. He’d skipped his morning run but showered and shaved, feeling refreshed afterward. Dressed for work, he wore an olive green shirt with a pair of black jeans, the Magnum holstered and strapped under his left arm.

Alice was still in the bedroom, getting dressed. A part of him was tempted to join her and entice her back into bed, better yet the shower. There was something erotically satisfying about making love beneath a spray of heated water. But they’d made a pact, an agreement - - a single night to satisfy them both. He wasn’t going to try to change her, and she wasn’t going to ply him for favors. It w