This story is for my good buddy, Trish, who gets credit for planting the seed that generated the basic plot for “Checkmate.” After reading “Game Playing” she said “ . . . it’s nice to see Hutch and Grant getting along so well, but what if something happened to cause friction in their relationship all over again?” Hmmm . . . WOW! I liked that idea - - a lot! Of course, I couldn’t rest until I figured out what that “something” was. So a huge thanks to Trish for sending me off on a writing binge. I really enjoyed weaving this tale!

And for my Starsky friends - - fear not! - - the dark-haired guy gets his own detailed side plot to mesh with the main one. (After all . . . Theresa would be upset with me if I didn’t take care of her boy J).

I would also like to dedicate this story to the memory of my friend, Jane. I’m sure she’d have a thing or two to say about having a story dedicated to her in which Hutch has a mustache . . . but then she’d likely tell me I redeemed myself with all the Starsky details. I can almost hear her now! J I miss our emails, Jane. Be at peace.

And finally, for my dear friend and exceptional beta reader, Theresa, I would like to dedicate this story in her honor, to the people of Enterprise, Alabama. For those of you not in the U.S., Theresa’s hometown of Enterprise was recently ravaged by twelve strong tornadoes in a single afternoon. Enterprise is a small town where everyone knows everyone and lives are intertwined. Tragically, the high school was devastated and much of the town was destroyed. Eight teenagers and a beloved grandmother lost their lives. And so this story is for those lives lost . . . for the relatives and families . . . for the high school and for the people of Enterprise itself. Please offer your prayers as this town of exceptional spirit continues to heal.

Checkmate is set post Sweet-Revenge and takes place approximately two months before my story “The Jade Club.” As always, I hope you enjoy spending some time with my vision of the S&H world . . .

Checkmate

By Kate (CMT)

“Well?” Starsky glanced up expectantly as Hutch exited Dobey’s office, looking twice as frazzled as when he’d entered. Sometimes it was hard reading his friend, especially when Hutch’s tendency toward moodiness made him annoyingly withdrawn - - like now. It was at times like this that Starsky just wanted to rattle him, forcibly reminding him they were on the same side.

“Well?” he prompted again, irked when his partner didn’t immediately answer. Ain’t like I don’t got a stake in this too.

Agitated, Hutch jerked his jacket free of his desk chair, shooting Starsky a glare. “What do you think?” he spat. “Westlake is bowing to media pressure. Big surprise there. He told Dobey pointblank I’m to back off.”

Starsky’s face fell. “But that ain’t fair!” He wasn’t sure if he felt rage, resentment, disappointment or a grating muddle of all three. It wasn’t even his case to begin with - - it was Hutch’s. And it would stay Hutch’s alone as long as Starsky remained confined to a desk.

His mouth twisted. He had James Gunther and a grisly hail of gunfire to thank for that.

Sniffling, he dragged a hand under his nose. It was bad enough he’d spent a month in the hospital and three more of intense physical therapy . . . bad enough that he’d finally graduated to his second month of restricted desk duty, dependent on therapist visits three times a week. Throw in his own personal pharmacy of pain meds, salves and medicinal ointments, and he was a regular at rehab and the drug store. The last thing he needed was a damn cold on top of it, aggravating the fact that they - - Er. . . Hutch, he mentally corrected - - had been ordered to leave Jorge Delgado alone.

“What the hell is Dobey thinkin’?” he exploded. “Don’t he know what Delgado’s up to? I can’t believe Westlake is buyin’ into all that goodwill bullshit.”

“More like he’s buying into public bias,” Hutch countered. He tugged on his jacket, his mouth tightening in an angry scowl as he flipped up his collar. “It’s worse than you think, Starsk. Westlake told Dobey to give me a week on the street.”

“What?” Stunned, Starsky rose to his feet, his face blanking at the news. He took a step closer, knowing he was mostly at fault for any suspension the department inflicted on Hutch.

The blond-haired man had initially worked the Delgado case alone, picking it up shortly after Starsky’s release from the hospital. In the beginning, Jorge Delgado had seemed just another slick businessman with questionable connections and a thumb on Bay City’s criminal element. In record time he’d turned loan shark, fronting struggling businesses with cash to stay afloat, sending his “collection squad” around when the already impoverished owners failed to pay.

Faced with the threat of crippling body harm, even death, most willingly signed over their shops or storefronts, easily giving Delgado a stranglehold on the north side of town. As clever as he was diabolical, he made sure he did something of a charitable nature for every head he busted or business he acquired - - whether it was buying textbooks for the local school or supplying funding for a decrepit tenement project so it wouldn’t be torn down. As a result, the media saw only his philanthropic face, dubbing him an “urban angel” in the press. A handsome man, who was admittedly well spoken and charming, Delgado used his public prestige to best advantage. With little effort, he’d made himself the unjustly persecuted victim of a police witch-hunt. It didn’t help matters that those storeowners who might have made a case against him were too terrified to press charges or too intimidated by his larger-than-life reputation.

And so he continued strong-arming and gobbling up businesses. Hutch had crossed paths with him on several occasions but had never been able to make anything stick. It was rumored Delgado had ties to a larger syndicate and was fed his endless stream of cash from somewhere out of state. In an effort to make him stumble, Hutch began monitoring his every activity, applying pressure where he could, treading a delicately fine line between surveillance and outright harassment. As a result, Delgado had boisterously complained to the press, singling Hutch out specifically: Sergeant Hutchinson is on a witch hunt. He has a personal vendetta against me, which is totally without merit. It’s simply appalling that a member of the police force can unjustly harass a man of my public standing and not be called on it. Hutchinson’s own Commissioner refuses to do anything about him. If Westlake can’t control one of his own men, maybe he needs to be replaced too.

And so it had progressed - - a battle of words and insinuations carried out in the Bay City Dispatch and a number of other local papers, all eager to paint the police department as corrupt and bias. The matter finally catapulted over the edge when Delgado seized a small bakery on Monroe Street called The Bagel Box. When the owner defaulted on a loan with 80% interest, then defiantly refused to sign over his shop, Delgado sent his goon squad around to teach the man a lesson. He’d ended up in critical condition in the hospital, fighting for his life.

Starsky had known it was coming, even feared it was coming. Joey Eichelman, owner of The Bagel Box, had once been a close high school friend. Over the years, time and circumstance had created distance between them, but they’d still managed to stay in touch, if only infrequently. Other friends had come and gone and, of course, no one - - past, present or future - - would ever match the extraordinary relationship he had with Hutch, but that didn’t mean Starsky cherished his high school memories any less.

Both he and Hutch had talked to Eichelman about Delgado, but anything they’d try to pass to the media had been construed as hearsay and slander. Before Eichelman could make his own statement, he’d ended up with two broken legs, internal bleeding and a battered skull. After four days in ICU, his condition had been upgraded from critical to stable.

Infuriated by his inability to pin Delgado with the crime, Hutch had trailed him to a public restaurant and brazenly vowed to bring him down. Unfortunately, one of Delgado’s dinner guests for the evening had been the editor of the Bay City Dispatch who’d witnessed the entire scene. The next morning the whole ugly mess was splashed over the front of the paper, sending Westlake on the warpath for Hutch’s head. The entire squadroom had held a collective breath, waiting to see if he’d be suspended.

Dobey had bought him a day. Realistically, Starsky knew Dobey was the only thing standing between Hutch and suspension, but even Dobey was limited in what he could do without putting his head on the chopping block. Delgado wanted Hutch - - and Westlake seemed determined to surrender his badge.

“This sucks, you know that, don’t you?” Starsky felt the frustration of the last six months catch up to him in a heated rush. It was all blatantly unfair. He was the one who should have been fighting the case, planting himself under Delgado’s nose, challenging the bastard every time he so much as stuck his foot out the door. But Gunther had made that impossible, shattering his everyday reality in a violent hail of gunfire.

So instead, he’d suffered through a grueling recovery, relegated to having his hands tied while he watched his partner take the heat for a case he vehemently wanted to close. Legally, they couldn’t touch Delgado. Even worse, if Hutch were given a week’s suspension as reprimand for his conduct, Starsky would lose his tie to the street. Stuck behind a desk, he’d been banished to research - - attempting to pin down Delgado’s out-of-state connections while Hutch handled face-to-face intimidation and questioning. All of that would go out the window, allowing Delgado five full days to increase his stranglehold and wreak chaos on the northside of town.

“You ain’t just gonna take this lyin’ down, are you?” Lowering his voice so he wouldn’t draw attention, Starsky circled the corner of the joined tables they shared as desk space. He bent his head close to Hutch’s, well aware of several curious glances behind him. He wasn’t the only one who’d been waiting for word on Hutch’s fate. Though the other detectives in the room tried to appear busy, Starsky knew most were likely straining to overhear their discussion. “Dobey can’t suspend you - -”

“He isn’t,” Hutch interrupted, his voice flat. His eyes flashed to Starsky’s face, crystalline blue, edgier than usual. “He’s suggesting I take a week’s vacation - - paid, of course.” Heavy sarcasm bled through on the last three words. “If I decline, he’ll follow through on Westlake’s directive and suspend me for a week - - which we both know goes on my service record.”

“That’s blackmail!” Starsky fumed, his voice cracking higher than he’d intended. Abruptly self-conscious, he shot a quick glance to the other officers in the room. Hunched over a report, Sullivan looked up with a scowl before refocusing on his paperwork. Baker pretended to be engrossed in a phone call, but it was obvious he was hoping to overhear something of interest. Seemingly absorbed in a file, Rocherty had his back turned.

Huffing down an agitated breath, Starsky spoke quietly, seething through his teeth. “You can’t just take this, Hutch. You can’t just - -”

“Starsky, I’m tired,” Hutch inserted irritably. He spoke quickly, leaving little room for argument, an edge to his voice Starsky hadn’t heard earlier that morning.

Caught off guard, the dark-haired man studied his friend speculatively. The last six months had been sheer hell for him, but they hadn’t exactly been paradise for Hutch either. His partner had lost a good deal of weight, thinner than he’d been in a long time. If he had to guess, Starsky would have placed him close to 170, the same weight he’d been after a cruelly debilitating bout with heroin withdrawal. Dangerously gaunt then, Hutch was beginning to adopt the same haggard look all over again. He’d let his hair grow longer in the last year and added a mustache, changes that made his face appear thinner still. His eyes burned vivid blue, contrasting the sun-whitened highlights of his pale hair, bleached ivory and platinum from the California sun.

Starsky knew he was partially to blame for the fatigue his friend felt. He’d been relying on him heavily, almost exclusively, for the last six months. Hutch had been his constant rock through the difficult recovery phase after Gunther’s assassination attempt. Even now, the blond-haired man continued to provide emotional and mental support, helping Starsky through therapy, doing everything from assisting with his strengthening exercises to massaging his muscles when exhaustion made them constrict with painful cramps. In the beginning he’d even taken care of Starsky’s bills, writing out checks, balancing his bank statements, making sure his rent, car payment and other monthly expenses were paid from Starsky’s account. He’d done laundry, cleaned Starsky’s apartment, ran errands for everything from groceries, prescriptions and gas to hunting up the current issues of Starsky’s favorite comic books and car magazines. In short, Hutch had put his life on hold to care for his partner.

Except for Janet Morrisey, Starsky thought distractedly. Part of him was envious his friend had found someone to love, the other part rejoiced that Hutch had finally connected with a woman who just might end up being his future wife. And she’s my doctor of all people, he thought with a tight smirk, immediately shoving the thought aside. Hutch was still watching him with that same weary, guarded expression.

He sniffled again, wishing the head cold would just do its thing or skip town altogether. “What about Vivian Clarke?” he suggested, knowing even as he made the statement it would probably go nowhere. “She might be Westlake’s wife now, but you know she’s always gonna carry a torch for you. All you’d have to do is call her. I bet she’s already houndin’ the dip-shit to back off from this suspension thing. If you asked her to - -”

“No.”

Starsky frowned. He knew finality when he heard it. “So what’re you sayin’?” He felt an irrational spike of anger, prompted no doubt, from the pounding in his head. He could already feel a faint scratchiness in his throat and knew in a day or two he’d be wallowing in the misery of a full-blown head cold. Everything was so much worse now, his stamina and immune system depleted after the damage Gunther had done. In the ‘old days,’ he would have whined his way through a cold, but fought it off easily. Now it was equivalent to a fourteen-day setback.

“So you’re just gonna take a week off?” he snapped, allowing his frustration to bleed through. It wasn’t Hutch’s fault he couldn’t manage a simple cold, yet he let that irrational anger tumble over onto his friend. “Tail between your legs, huh? You’re just gonna back down and let Delgado do his thing?”

Hutch closed his eyes, visibly striving for patience. Starsky knew the look. He’d pushed his friend close to the limit on several occasions over the last six months. More than once, Hutch had come close to exploding but in the end he’d always managed to collar his anger. ‘Cuz he thinks I’m too damn fragile. Like I’m gonna shatter into a thousand pieces if he so much as raises his voice at me.

He hated being treated like an invalid. Before Gunther, if he’d pissed his partner off, Hutch would have told him pointblank he was acting like a jerk. Their friendship had endured a rocky patch or two over the years, even outright shouting matches. Hutch had never pulled punches with him, letting his temper flare when Starsky annoyed him. Now everything was different. Lately, no matter what Starsky said or did - - no matter how rude or inconsiderate - - Hutch let him get away with it. Sometimes that endless patience galled Starsky to the point of belligerence. Irked by Hutch’s excessively tolerant behavior, he’d thrown several temper tantrums in an attempt to make his partner react. Each time all Hutch had done was walk away and give him breathing room to cool down. Even now, he wouldn’t be baited into hostility.

“What do you want me to do, Starsk?” he asked wearily. “A week on the street isn’t going to do any good. And I don’t need another suspension in my file.”

Another. Starsky immediately thought of Vanessa and how she’d turned up dead in Hutch’s apartment. His friend had been cleared of that charge, but it obviously still haunted him over a year later. Feeling abruptly like a heel, he frowned. “I’ll talk to Dobey,” he volunteered.

“And do what?” Hutch shook his head. “The directive came from Westlake.” He started to turn away, clearly intending to call it a day. “Dobey’s hands are tied. Just let it go.”

“No can do, buddy.” Starsky snagged his sleeve and held fast. “I’ve got a friend in the hospital. I can’t walk away from this one.”

“It’s not your case,” Hutch said sharply. “It’s mine - - and I’m giving it a week. Maybe you should do the same.” Before Starsky could say another word, he yanked his arm free and strode briskly from the squadroom, sending the door swinging shut behind him.

Only then did Starsky realize Joey Eichelman wasn’t the only one who was hurting.

+++++

Hutch stood under the spray of a hot shower and closed his eyes, letting the lazy heat and penetrating moisture soak into his stiff muscles. It felt like sheer heaven, chasing away a host of punishing aches and unnatural fatigue. He knew he’d been pushing himself too hard lately, amplifying his exhaustion. The last six months had been taxing, emotionally and physically. That strain was now starting to show in everything from his declining weight to the disturbing spatter of blood he’d tasted in his mouth earlier that afternoon.

Once and done. It was no big deal. He’d finished up in the john, washed his hands, then stepped into the precinct hallway. Almost immediately, he’d been seized by a fit of coughing, the short, wet spasms polluted by the coppery tang of blood. True, he’d experienced the same thing in the past, but that critical illness was over a year behind him. He’d been cured, the toxic plague-germ long driven from his body. Today’s episode was a fluke, nothing more. Almost everyone at Metro had some minor affliction they were dealing with. Even Starsky was coming down with a head cold.

Hutch frowned, distracted by the thought of his friend contending with illness. Despite the rampant heat of the shower, he felt suddenly cold. Groping for the knob, he shut off the water, then reached for the nearest towel, burying his face in the plush terry fibers. He stood dripping in the tub, chilled as trickles of water ran down his back, and he considered all the things that could go wrong.

Starsky’s stamina was still far below par. The slightest germ could easily wend its way from minor congestion into something more severe like bronchitis or pneumonia. He knew his partner was sick of taking pills, had even tried to wean down the dosage. Would his friend neglect seeing a doctor simply because he was sick of the endless therapy and constant scrutiny in the wake of Gunther’s attack? More than once Hutch had found Starsky hunched over the toilet, heaving into the bowl from the combination of so many drugs. At such times he’d lent his support, talking softly, rubbing Starsky’s back, encouraging him to get it out of his system. Or - - on those occasions when Starsky stubbornly insisted he wanted to be alone - - Hutch had paced outside the bathroom, anxiously waiting for the seizure to pass.

Daily, Starsky pushed himself to recover, irked when his body didn’t respond as quickly as he wanted. Lately, that disappointment had been channeled into explosive bursts of anger, even rudeness. Repeatedly, Hutch had been forced to bite his tongue rather than snap back and insist Starsky make the best of the situation.

Realistically that was difficult to do with Starsky stuck behind a desk, his close friend recuperating in the hospital. Even with Eichelman’s condition updated to stable, he could easily experience a setback at any given time. Worse, the man responsible for putting him there in the first place, continued to thumb his nose at the police department, free to intimidate through strong-arm tactics.

Hutch knew Starsky wanted Delgado. Hutch wanted him too, but he was growing tired of constantly bucking the system. Maybe a week off would help him focus and enable him to concentrate on a legitimate angle instead of sloppily trying to pin any available misstep on the loan shark. The problem was Starsky wanted Delgado now.

Enough to tell me I’m slinking off with my tail between my legs while his friend is stuck in the hospital.

He grimaced, disturbed by the thought more than he wanted to admit. He knew Starsky didn’t really blame him for failing to nail Delgado, but underneath his friend’s perturbed griping, it still felt that way. If he’d wrapped the case before Joey Eichelman had been stupid enough to take a loan from the bastard, Starsky’s friend wouldn’t have wound up with two broken legs and internal injuries. From the day Eichelman had been found beaten and bloody, Starsky had relentlessly pushed Hutch to pin the crime on Delgado. Eichelman himself could remember little. Barely able to speak, his memory spotty at best, his testimony was of limited value. When it came right down to it, Hutch couldn’t help feeling Starsky didn’t care how exhausted he was as long as Eichelman was vindicated.

He doesn’t give a shit if I run myself into the ground, as long as I nail the bastard who hurt his friend.

Troubled by the bleak thought, Hutch stepped from the shower and finished drying off. He winced when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. Even Janet was concerned by the weight he’d dropped, 170 pounds far too meager for his tall 6’1” frame. He’d been eating on the fly a lot lately, the Delgado case consuming the majority of his free time. Most of what he got from lunch carts and hamburger stands ended up being lukewarm or greasy and he dumped it after a few bites. At least tonight, he had a healthy dinner planned with Janet.

The tempting aroma of pot roast and vegetables wafted from the kitchen as if on cue. Starsky’s favorite, he thought with a minor twinge of guilt. His friend would be disappointed he hadn’t been invited to dinner, but Hutch would make it up to him another time. Tonight he planned to spend a leisurely evening with the woman he loved.

Momentarily taken aback by the thought, he paused. Love was such a strong word, but remarkably appropriate - - scary too. He hadn’t allowed his heart to become involved with a woman in a long time. For too many years, he’d contentedly engaged in fair-weather girlfriends and one-night stands. After Gillian’s death, he’d told himself he wouldn’t grow emotionally attached again, thus he’d become the king of meaningless affairs. He hadn’t realized how truly callous he’d become until he’d committed the ultimate faux pas by sleeping with Kira - - a woman Starsky once thought he’d loved. Thankfully, that ugly mess was behind them. Hutch wasn't quite ready to admit Janet was ‘the one,’ but he grew alarmingly close to surrendering his heart daily.

His passionate relationship with the critical care doctor was even more ironic, given the first words they’d ever exchanged were blatantly antagonistic. He could still recall standing in Starsky’s hospital room three weeks after his partner had nearly died in a hail of gunfire. There were so many physicians and surgeons consulting on Starsky’s case it was impossible to keep track of them, new specialists assigned and reassigned daily. On the day Hutch had first encountered Dr. Janet Morrisey, he’d entered his partner’s hospital room to find Starsky limp with pain, being helped into bed by an attending nurse. Furious at his condition, Hutch had exploded, demanding to know what had caused his excessive fatigue.

“His physical therapy session was increased, starting today,” the nurse patiently explained, attentively fussing over Starsky, smoothing the blankets across his chest. “It’s difficult for him.”

Hutch thought her name was Betsy, but couldn’t be sure. He’d come to realize most of the nursing staff considered him an obstacle - - always in the way, refusing to leave, stubbornly insisting he be kept abreast of any changes in Starsky’s routine or condition.

“Increased therapy?” He repeated hotly. “What yahoo ordered that? I’m sick of these quacks playing guinea pig with him. Starsky was barely getting through his sessions the way they were.”

“Hutch, don’t - -” Starsky tried to intervene.

He waved his friend off. “Forget it, Starsk.” Still glaring at Betsy, Hutch braced his hands on his hips, staring her down as if facing a perp. “I want the name of the idiot who changed his schedule - -”

Behind him he heard the sound of someone pointedly clearing her throat. Annoyed by the interruption, he turned to find a competent looking woman with red gold hair and piercing green eyes watching him coolly. “I’m the idiot, Sergeant Hutchinson. And unless you have a medical degree you’d like to show me, I suggest you stick to what you know and let me do my job. I’m sure you have better things to do than interrogate my nurse.”

The woman’s arrogance struck him like a slap in the face. For a minute he was speechless, unprepared for her cutting response and confident poise. Uncomfortable, Betsy dipped her head demurely and slipped from the room. By that time Hutch had recovered enough to grow angrier. He stalked to the foot of the bed, but the red-haired woman had already dismissed him and was in the process of scanning Starsky’s chart.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “You’re not one of the doctors on his case.”

“I am now.” She didn’t bother looking up. “Dr. Janet Morrisey. Don’t worry about introducing yourself. I’ve already been forewarned about Detective Starsky’s partner - - a blond Viking with a short fuse.” She gave him a dismissive look from the corner of her eye, clearly unimpressed by his growing agitation. “I need to talk to my patient now. Feel free to wait in the hallway, Sergeant.”

A hot flush of color washed over Hutch’s face. He heard his partner chuckle.

“Hey, Hutch,” Starsky called. “I like this one.”

If it weren’t for the pain he saw behind Starsky’s drooping eyelids, Hutch would have told his partner exactly where he could stuff the giddy observation. Still ignoring him, Dr. Morrisey moved to Starsky’s bedside and began speaking softly, asking questions about his therapy session. Carefully, she folded back the blankets to check his bandages.

Unaccustomed to being deliberately slighted, Hutch waffled between a burning desire to put her in her place and a greater need to know Starsky’s condition. He kept his mouth shut, his face tight with anger as he approached the opposite side of the bed. The moment he saw the exhaustion in Starsky’s eyes, he immediately softened, reaching out to lightly trace his fingertips over his partner’s inner arm.

“Hey, buddy,” he said gently. “Rough one today, huh?”

Janet Morrisey shot him a startled glance, caught off guard by the benevolence in his voice, the flagrant tenderness of his touch. It didn’t take her long, however, to recover. “What are you still doing here? I thought I told you to wait in the hall, Sergeant.”

Hutch scowled openly. Names like ‘harpie,’ ‘shrew’ and ‘witch’ popped into his head. Smiling tightly, he adopted a façade of geniality, the heavy taint of saccharin dripping from his voice. “I’m not used to taking orders from women with dictatorial complexes - - doctor.”

Her lips thinned, but she gave no other indication the remark had fazed her. “I’m surprised you take orders at all.” Neatly, she arranged the blankets over Starsky’s chest, her examination complete. “Then again, I can understand where a long-haired Neanderthal would have problems following simple instructions.” Her eyes flashed to his face, cutting and challenging. “In the future, keep your nose out of my diagnosis and treatment, Detective, and we’ll get along just fine.”

As miserable as he was feeling, Starsky burst into laughter, actually applauding when she left the room.

A grin tugged Hutch’s lips at the memory. Naked, he padded to the bedroom and rummaged for clothes, settling on a pair of overly bleached jeans and a snug maroon turtleneck. He sometimes found it amazing that his relationship with Janet had progressed from sheer antagonism to heated passion. He’d been the one to break the ice first, inviting her to dinner on the pretext of discussing Starsky’s progress. He’d felt bad using his friend as an excuse, but the longer he was around her, the more he found himself attracted to her. It got to the point he couldn’t think straight when she walked into a room. After a time he began to suspect she felt the same about him, though she did everything humanly possible to give the opposite impression. Neither was prepared when their evening out ended on her couch, both succumbing to the simmering passion that had underscored their interaction from almost the start. Now, four months later, he wasn’t ashamed to admit he was smitten.

In love.

Hutch ran a comb through his damp hair and headed for the living room. Janet would be arriving in a little under an hour, the roast done shortly afterward. By the time they finally sat down to eat, it would be going on nine o’clock, but he didn’t mind the late evening. Her schedule at the hospital was often as scattershot as his at the precinct. Despite the complexity of their erratic shifts, they somehow managed to make it all work. Maybe because they’d both been through so much, a string of broken and failed relationships littered behind each of them. At forty, Janet was six years older than he was, one failed engagement and several short-lived romances in her past. Hutch got the impression she was as committed to their relationship as he was.

Retrieving a beer from the refrigerator, he stopped at the oven to check on the roast. The smell was enticing, a flavorful blend of spices, savory beef and seasoned vegetables. He hadn’t bothered eating since that morning - - a bad habit he’d been falling into lately - - and realized he was starved. He rummaged in the cupboard until he found a few pretzels to go with the beer, just enough to satisfy his grumbling stomach temporarily.

He lit the candles on the coffee table, selected several mellow albums for the stereo, then folded into the couch with an appreciative sigh. It was peaceful in the apartment. The rich harmonies of the Eagles wafted from dual speakers, singing about Lyin’ Eyes and how city girls “just seem to find out early.”

Settling into the cushions, Hutch took a swallow of his beer but was immediately sidelined by an unexpected fit of coughing. Startled, he rolled his hand into a fist, hacking against his bunched fingers. Pain shot through his chest, forking into his throat with the violence of lightning. In a heartbeat, it was over, the metallic tang of copper heavy in his mouth. Frowning, he lowered his hand, shaken to find it flecked with blood.

Oh shit, not again.

He’d be lying if he said the blood didn’t scare him. But Judith had assured him the cure was finite . . . that it simply wasn’t possible for the plague-germ to incubate in his system, returning to affect him later. So why am I coughing up blood? He could ask Janet about it, but knew she’d overreact and subject him to a battery of tests. He’d told her about the plague, even confessed to his ordeal with heroin one moon-drenched night when they’d made love on the beach, sharing everything from childhood memories to their careers. He had a week’s forced vacation coming, but he wasn’t going to spend it in a hospital, especially not in Bay City where Delgado would surely get wind of the news. He could always ask his father, but Grant would probably react just as badly as Janet.

The sudden shrill ringing of the phone jarred him from his reverie. He knew without answering, it was likely Janet, stuck at the hospital and running late. Hastily wiping his bloody hand against his jeans, he leaned forward and snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Ken?” His mother’s voice caught him off guard.

“Mom?” Surprised, Hutch blinked. He immediately broke into a grin, pleased by the unexpected call. “You actually caught me at home for a change.” It suddenly dawned on him that she didn’t normally call him in the middle of the week. A faint whisper of unease stirred sluggishly awake in the back of his mind. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Her voice wavered over the phone, threatening to crack. He could almost imagine her smiling, but the levity was strained and watery. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

He might have bought it if it weren’t for the rampant anxiety coloring her tone.

“Don’t lie to me. Something’s wrong, I can sense it.” She sounded so unlike herself it left him unnerved, cold dread settling into the pit of his stomach. Even on her worse days, Adele Hutchinson wasn’t a woman given to emotional drama. “Is everyone all right - - Kelly? Dad? - -”

“Oh, Ken.” She made a muffled sound, suspiciously like a sob. He heard a rustling over the receiver and knew she had balled a Kleenex into her hand. “I don’t know why I’m calling you about this. I just don’t know where to turn . . . what to do.”

“Mom?” Truly worried, Hutch felt his heartbeat spike higher in alarm. He immediately thought the worse - - there’d been an accident . . . a family member had been injured or hurt . . . his father had suffered something devastating like a heart attack or stroke. He parted with a weak cough, absently pressing his fist to his mouth, trapping a faint mist of blood. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he insisted. “Is it Kelly?”

“No.” The word was almost a moan, forced with reluctance.

Hutch swallowed audibly. “Is it Dad?”

“No,” she said again, then faltered. “Oh, Ken . . . he’s . . . I . . .” She drew a shaky breath. “I’m afraid your father is having an affair.”

Hutch balked, sure he’d heard wrong. “Mom?” he sputtered incredulously.

“I know it sounds impossible,” she rushed to explain, her voice growing wobbly. “You just can’t imagine how he’s been lately - - so secretive, telling me he’s working late when he really isn’t at his office . . . making phone calls at all hours of the night then growing evasive and angry when I ask him about them. Last weekend he told me he had to go out of town on business and I - -” Her voice broke and she sniffled into the phone, fighting back a sob. He could easily imagine her muffling her mouth with her hand as she fought to compose herself. “ - - I found out he did nothing of the sort. He went to some hotel in Sevensport. I found the credit card receipt in his coat pocket - -”

Frazzled, Hutch impatiently wiped aside a faint smattering of blood clinging to his lips. Barely conscious of what he did, he struggled to wrap his mind around the implausibility of what he was hearing. His mother was a practical woman, not given to hysterics or flights of fancy. The fact she actually thought her husband was having an affair left Hutch reeling mentally off-balance. His relationship with his father had been tumultuous over the years, but even as a child, he’d never doubted the foundation of his parents’ marriage or Grant’s fidelity. Even when he and Grant had been at odds, he’d always known his father was loyal and ethical. Now that they’d grown inordinately close, he couldn’t conceive of anything so heinous and hurtful as an extramarital affair.

“Mom . . . maybe Dad had a legitimate reason for being there.”

“At some roadside motel?” she demanded shrilly. “I checked with the manager, and he registered under a fake name - - Ethan Cross - - explain that to me!”

“I - -” Hutch wet his lips, abruptly nauseous. A cold fist clutched his stomach in a murderous grip. The more he heard, the worse it sounded. His carefully honed cop-instincts kicked up a series of red flags, all worrisome possibilities he dreaded examining too closely. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew the name Ethan Cross should mean something to him, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. “Did . . . did you ask Dad about it?”

“No, I can’t talk to him about this. I tried to ask him about the phone calls and he just got angry. We had a terrible fight and he stormed out of the house. Oh, Kenny, if he really is having an affair, I’m not sure I want to know.” Her voice cracked and she began to cry, weeping softly into the phone.

Hutch felt his heart break. “Mom, please don’t. I’m sure it’s not what you think.”

“Of course it is. He’s successful, distinguished and handsome, still relatively young . . .” She sniffled, losing what little composure she had left as she recited a list of Grant’s qualities. “Your father has never lacked for female attention, Ken. Only last month at the Autumn Charity Gala--”

“Mom,” Hutch interrupted flatly, knowing she was likely to make reference to some woman who had attempted to flirt with Grant. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened and probably wouldn’t be the last. Aside from being wealthy and successful, Grant was renowned among his peers, a combination that routinely invited attention. Factor in his above-average looks, commanding presence and 6’3” frame, and it was understandable why he often turned heads. “Dad has never encouraged or even responded to that kind of attention. He loves you.”

She sobbed.

“Please, Mom,” he tried again.

“I’m sorry, Kenny - - I shouldn’t bother you with this. It’s just that he listens to you now. Your opinion matters to him. I don’t want you to ask him directly, but I thought - -”

“I’ll talk to him,” Hutch assured, understanding her need for an ally. It worried him to think of her so far away, struggling with the possible failure of a thirty-five year marriage. He had no doubt Grant was as head-over-heels in love with her as the day they’d gotten married, but there was clearly something out of whack with his father’s behavior. He was about to tell her he’d call him tomorrow when he realized he could do one better. “Um . . . as it turns out, I suddenly find myself with a week’s vacation. I bet I could get a flight home tomorrow.”

Her sniffling abated slightly. “You . . . you’d do that?”

“Sure.” Hutch smiled softly. “I’ll just tell Dad I felt like a visit. I won’t let him know you talked to me. I’ll just say I wanted to surprise you both.”

Adele hesitated. “I don’t know, Ken. You and he have such a good relationship now. I’d hate to do anything to jeopardize it after all the years the two of you spent at odds. If he thought I’d talked to you about this, he’d be furious with both of us.”

“He’s not going to find out. But if there is something going on - - and it’s not an affair,” he reaffirmed emphatically, “ - - maybe he’ll tell me. You don’t have to worry about Dad and me, we’ll be fine. The bottom line is he loves you. You need to get this affair nonsense out of your head. I don’t care what the damn receipt said.”

She started crying again. “Oh, Kenny, I miss you. If you were here I could almost believe - -”

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” he promised, then halted abruptly as his mind wrapped around the domino effect of an impromptu trip.

It was one thing for him to pack up and fly to Duluth, but jetting out of Bay City meant he’d be leaving Starsky to his own devices. Normally that wouldn’t be an issue, but his friend had developed an irritating pit-bull mentality where Jorge Delgado was concerned. Even restricted to a desk, Starsky would likely find a way to immerse himself neck deep in trouble if left on his own. Throw in the fact he was fighting a cold on top of his recent recovery, and Hutch’s instinctive worry-meter veered into the danger zone.

“Uh, maybe I’ll bring Starsky with me,” he suggested as neutrally as he could. He really didn’t want to go into the reasons behind his “forced” vacation or his need to have Starsky along. Both of his parents were aware of what had happened to his partner six months ago in the police parking garage. Grant had flown in shortly after the incident when Starsky was still critical, offering what emotional and medical support he could. Later, when Starsky was stable, Adele had visited as well. “With Starsky along, everything will seem less confrontational to Dad,” Hutch continued. “I always bring him when I visit. It’ll seem just like another trip.”

“All right,” Adele agreed. He could hear the emotional exhaustion in her voice . . . knew that she’d probably struggled with the decision to call him for days before she’d actually followed through. “I shouldn’t put you in this position,” she said miserably.

“It’s okay, Mom . . . I’m glad you called.” He spoke quietly, allowing a smile to warm his tone. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning and let you know what time my flight’s going to get in. You can tell Dad it was a spur of the moment decision on my part.”

“Okay.” He heard the return smile in her voice, sensed that it was tremulous and emotional. “I feel just terrible, burdening you with my problems. I didn’t even ask you about David . . . or Janet.”

Hutch chuckled. “One’s beautiful and the other’s a pain in the butt. I’ll leave it up to you to figure out which is which.”

After that they spoke for a short time about simple things - - the collie/sheperd mix Kelly and her husband Vincent had brought home from the pound, Hutch’s newly purchased Olds Cutlass - - used and slightly dented, but reliable - - and Duluth’s Annual Halloween parade, held only a few weeks past. By the time he hung up with his mother, Adele had stopped crying and even managed a weak laugh or two. He promised to check in with her in the morning once he had everything finalized for his flight, then set about looking up the phone number for the airport.

He was about to call when he realized he needed to touch base with someone else first.

“H’ullo?” Starsky answered on the fourth ring, sounding groggy and congested.

Hutch felt a reactionary stab of worry. “Hey, partner - - did I wake you?”

“Nah . . .” Starsky’s voice was slightly slurred. “Jus’ sittin’ here on the couch watchin’ TV. Guess I dozed off.” He yawned loudly into the phone, not bothering to muffle the sound. “So what’re you doin’ - - playin’ doctor with your girl, or feelin’ shitty ‘cuza the way you left Metro today?”

Hutch’s brow launched into his hair. “I left Metro?” he repeated skeptically. “Look, buddy, all I did was point out the obvious. However you slice it, I’ve still got a week on the street.” He paused . . . just enough to let Starsky catch his mental breath. “Which is kind of why I’m calling. Turns out I’m flying home to see my folks tomorrow and I thought you might want to tag along.”

“Why would I wanna do that?” Hutch could almost hear the frown in his friend’s voice. “And ain’t that kinda sudden? I was hopin’ you’d hang around and we’d work the Delgado thing on the sly.”

Hutch knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but Starsky’s relentless tenacity still made him uncomfortable. In some distantly remote corner of his mind it left him feeling slighted too, as if Joey Eichelman was the only one who mattered to Starsky. I’m not jealous, he told himself. It would be stupid and reprehensible to feel resentment for a man who had suffered such a violent attack, yet he couldn’t help feeling his opinion no longer meant anything to Starsky - - at least not when measured against Eichelman’s welfare.

“Look, Starsk - - if Westlake pulled me off Delgado, he’s gonna order Dobey to do the same with you. I’m starting to think a week away isn’t such a bad idea. With some breathing room, Delgado might get careless. I’m not suggesting we give up - - just that we back off for awhile. We can start fresh later. We both need the space.”

“You mean you need the space,” Starsky countered, sniffling loudly. He broke into a short coughing spell. An impatient rustling followed as he blew his nose.

Hutch heard the sound from a distance, guessing his friend had temporarily muffled the receiver against his chest. “You don’t sound so good,” he observed. He knew he was pushing it, but couldn’t turn off his ingrained tendency to worry. There were just too many things that could go wrong, even with something as mundane as a common head cold. “You are taking your pills, right, buddy?” He waited through a heavy pause, mentally visualizing Starsky with an annoyed scowl.

“Yes, damn it, Dr. Hutchinson,” came his friend’s irritated reply. “Look - - everybody’s got something at Metro right now. Baker just got over that flu thing and Polaski’s fightin’ a sinus infection. So I picked up a germ - - big deal. I ain’t gonna end up in ICU no matter what your overactive blond brain is tellin’ you.”

Hutch pressed his lips together, biting his tongue. Starsky’s tone was entirely too surly, an ugly habit of late. True, Hutch hovered too close on occasion, but he didn’t know how to shut off that impulse. Not after Gunther . . . not after having his soulmate and partner flatline in a hospital bed. Eternity had stopped in that moment, held suspended in time while life itself came crashing down around him. It was a moment he never wanted to experience again, one that still gave him nightmares, often jarring him from a sound sleep. Bottom line - - he’d earned the right to be overprotective of Starsky, however annoying that inclination might be. Get used to it, pal, because I’m going to do everything I can to keep you safe and well.

“As it happens,” Hutch retaliated a little too tightly, “My overactive blond brain says you need to take a week off and fly with me to Duluth.”

“That so?” Starsky gave one long sniffle. Hutch imagined him mopping his hand beneath his nose. “And where exactly is that vacation time gonna come from? In case you forgot, genius, I don’t got any left. Gunther sucked it all up - - along with sick time, disability, and anything else you can think of.”

Hutch waited a beat, sensing growing agitation from his friend. “Dobey would give you the time. It’d save him the hassle of pulling you off Delgado. He’d do cartwheels to have you out of his hair for a week.”

“Maybe.” The agreement was given grudgingly. Starsky sniffled again, blowing his nose a second time. “But it’d be without pay, and I ain’t in any position to do that. Not now.”

Hutch sighed. He cupped his forehead in his free hand, deliberately massaging his temples. It irked him having to be in this position - - wanting to help, needing to help, yet knowing his offer would be refused. “I could cover it for you . . . that’s not a problem.”

Starsky bristled through the phone. “Like you covered my rent and car payment and - -”

“Buddy, don’t.”

“I told you I was gonna pay you back.”

“I know you did.” Hutch was reaching his limit, felt it teeter precariously on edge. You’re such a frigging ass, thinking any of that matters when all I care about is you. Irked, he tangled his hand in the phone cord. “Cut the crap, huh? After everything we’ve been through over the years, you think I give a shit about a few bucks? I’m glad my grandfather’s trust account was finally good for something.”

Starsky remained defiant. “I don’t take charity.”

“It’s not charity!” Hutch exploded, shooting to his feet. “Damn it, Starsky, if I were some yahoo off the street, I could understand your attitude, but I thought our friendship meant more than that.” He waited a beat, his own frustration mounting as he began to pace. Rather than concede to anger, he channeled his agitation into quiet sincerity. “Do I have to spell it out for you, babe?” I care about you, always have. And no matter how pissed off you get, I’m gonna do my damnedest to take care of you.

“All right.” Miserable, contrite, Starsky lowered his voice. Hutch could easily imagine him hanging his head. “I’ll go to Duluth with you. I’ll give Delgado a week. But when we get back - -”

“We go after him,” Hutch promised. “ - - with both barrels.”

+++++

He didn’t remember falling asleep. Hutch shifted slightly at the soft pressure against his lips. Only half awake, he cracked his eyes, becoming aware of a number of things simultaneously - - one, that he’d fallen asleep slouched into the corner of the couch; two, that his back vehemently protested the scrunched position; and three, that being kissed awake was definitely something he could get used to. “You’re late,” he chided lazily, making no attempt to hide his pleasure at being so intimately awakened.

Janet Morrisey smiled against his lips. “If I’m bothering you, I can leave.”

“Not a chance.” Hutch wrapped his arms around her, pulling her down next to him on the couch. He gave a soft grunt, half indulgence, half pain. Ignoring the tight discomfort in his back, he tucked his face against her hair, savoring the aromatic florals of her perfume. Even after all this time, he couldn’t place the combination . . . just knew it contained a whisper of violet blended with something exotic and sweet like jasmine or gardenia. In the early stages of their relationship he’d tried to buy her cologne, thinking it would earn him points. She’d fawned appropriately over the gesture, but after sampling his choice of fragrance had told him to stick with what he knew best - - soft serenades, wine and candlelight.

Firmly cupping her chin, he tilted her face up and kissed her - - slowly, deeply, taking his time, savoring her closeness. She moaned softly, melting against him, as eager for the contact as he was. He loved how pliable she became in his arms, how incredibly sensual and willing to surrender. He’d had lovers in the past who were uncommunicative and rigid, but Janet had surprised him from the start. Her professional poise had shattered in a heartbeat the first time he’d ever kissed her. Even now, he wanted that pleasure to go on indefinitely, both of them drunk with the intimacy of the moment. Yet he knew if he didn’t stop soon, they’d end up in the bedroom prematurely. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, given the betraying tightness of his jeans, but he cherished her company as much as their passionate lovemaking.

“What kept you?” he murmured against her mouth.

“Surgery. You know . . . that thing I get paid for, Ken.” She smiled under his lips, lightly skimming her hand up his thigh. The barely there graze of her fingertips sent a heated streak of desire pulsing to his groin. She’d always known how to get to him. From the very start, it had taken all of his control to patiently court her rather than seduce her. Over the last two years, he’d grown notorious for no-strings-attached relationships, but from the moment she’d first cuttingly put him into place, he’d known Janet Morrisey was different. Special.

He was still afraid to admit how special despite surrendering his heart daily.

Straightening up a little, she drew back to study him. “I tried to call, but the phone was busy - - constantly.” She emphasized the word almost as dramatically as Starsky could. A flicker of amusement danced through her eyes, her lips curling playfully. “I don’t know, Kenny. Maybe I should worry you’re busy being rude and insulting to some other doctor who wants to end up on your couch.”

“You mean like that witch Atkinson?” He groaned. “God, Jan, that’s enough to make any man celibate.”

She giggled. “Fat chance of that. You don’t know the meaning of the word. And you shouldn’t talk about my boss that way. Besides . . . she’d probably melt if you were nice to her for a change. Your attitude goes right out the window when you smile. Did you know that?” Grinning, she rested her head on his arm, staring up at him. “I think that’s what did it for me. You were so demanding and opinionated, then I saw you smile at David.” Her own smile thinned, her eyes dropping to his mouth. Attentive, she drew her hand over his cheek. “You have such a beautiful smile, Ken.”

His lips stretched in a dazzling grin, exactly as she’d intended. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Mmm.” Intrigued, she thought about it. “Maybe,” she conceded. “But I was hoping you’d feed me first. I haven’t eaten all day.”

“So basically I rate second to a piece of roast beef?” He cocked a brow, feigning mild offense. “I knew there was a reason I thought you were insolent the first time I met you.”

“Did you?” she tilted her head back, sending a ripple of light dancing through her cinnamon-gold hair. Her eyes sparkled mischievously, lit with the engaging warmth of laughter and love. “You were besotted, Hutchinson, and you know it!” She saw him about to object and pressed a finger to his lips to stop the protest. “If you even think about denying that, we might have to re-evaluate your worth versus that pot roast in the oven.”

“You mean the one that’s shriveled and dried up by now?” He trapped her hand, bending his head to nibble on her fingertips. “Face it, Jan - - the first time I met you, the kindest name I could come up with was ‘harpie shrew.’”

She made a tsking sound, a little too throaty and indulgent. He knew he was getting to her, the heat of his tongue streaking from her fingertips to the soles of her feet. Turning her hand over, he pressed his lips to her palm, holding her fingers cupped in his.

“You are such a liar, Kenny,” she said breathlessly. “All you could think about was getting me into bed.”

He chucked softly. “Guilty,” he relented with a grin. “Actually . . .I’m thinking about it right now.”

It was amazing the power words had, especially when wrapped in the melodious velvet of a sensual whisper. Aroused, he nuzzled her ear, enjoying the betraying tremor that raced through her body. He thought about taking her back to his bed . . . of the delicious hours they would spend twined in each other’s arms as obsidian night ebbed into silver-dusted dawn.

“Admit it - -” He kissed her hair, then bent his head to lightly graze his lips over her mouth. “You wanted me too. You couldn’t stop thinking about me . . .” He teased the corner of her mouth with his tongue, tugged her bottom lip softly between his. “ . . . fantasizing about me.”

“A long-haired Neanderthal?” she scoffed. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she snuggled closer. “You’re just lucky you’re so damn good-looking. I could have settled for a brilliant doctor instead of a sexy cop. There’s always Brenner over in Cardiology.”

“Brenner’s a fossil,” Hutch retorted. “He’s almost sixty.”

“Really?” She acted surprised. “Maybe I like distinguished men.”

“You like younger men,” he countered. “Six years younger.” Deciding to up the ammunition, he splayed his hand over her side, tracking his fingers upward until he encountered the soft swell of her breast. “You like the fact I’m a cop,” he whispered, lightly stroking her flesh. His touch was boldly possessive, the rough pad of his thumb intimately rubbing her nipple.

She drew in a shocky breath, arching her back to better feel his caress. “You’re not playing fair, Kenny.”

He forgot about the pain in his back, the dried-up roast in the oven. He didn’t even know what time it was. All that mattered to him was the willingly sensual woman in his arms and the fact he yearned to make slow, passionate love to her. Tangling his hand in her hair, he drew her head back. His attention dropped to her mouth, grown moist and puffy from his kisses. Aroused, he traced a tantalizingly unhurried finger over her lips. “You can always stop me if I do something you don’t like.”

Her eyelashes dipped in a sultry veil, her gaze falling to rest on his mouth. “I think it would be better if you just kissed me,” she murmured.

Before he could say anything, she wrapped her arms around his neck and decided the matter for both of them.

+++++

Somewhere around 1:00 in the morning - - after several leisurely hours of lovemaking and an impromptu dinner of reheated pot roast in bed - - Hutch got around to telling Janet about his day.

He explained the mess with Delgado, his subsequent suspension and the phone call he’d gotten from his mother. He avoided mentioning anything about the blood-laced coughing spasms he’d had, but did share his concern over Starsky’s health.

“He sounded worse when I talked to him on the phone tonight.” Sitting straighter, he plumped a pillow at his back. The pot roast had been passable despite the fact he’d overcooked it the first time then reheated it for a late night snack. Coupled with a bottle of red wine and some crackers (the vegetables had turned to mush) it filled the void considering they were both hungry.

Hutch set his plate aside on the nightstand and dragged a hand through his hair, smoothing it into place. Janet might have made less than flattering remarks about the length before they were dating, but the truth was she couldn’t keep her hands off it - - especially when they were making love. He finger-combed it into place, settling back with his wine. The anxiety he’d felt earlier crept over him like a fog. “It seems like everyone’s sick with something at Metro right now, but Starsky - -”

“ - - will be fine as long as he sticks to his medication,” Janet interrupted. Balancing her plate on her bare legs, she sat cross-legged facing him, wearing only her panties and a black-and-white plaid shirt she’d confiscated from his closet. The garment did little for her modesty. Bunched high on her thighs, it also gaped at the throat, baring the crescent curve of one shapely breast. Unaware of how provocative she looked, she shrugged her hair back from her shoulders. As mussed as Hutch’s, it hung in loose, disheveled waves, the faint glow of a bedside lamp highlighting it with threads of apricot and strawberry. “David isn’t going to be careless, Kenny. He knows how critical it is to look after himself. I’m sure if he’s feeling worse, he’ll see his regular doctor.”

“How can he, with me dragging him off to Duluth?” He frowned, having second thoughts about taking Starsky along. He didn’t know which was worse - - leaving his friend in Bay City where Starsky could end up doing something stupid or dangerous in his efforts to bring down Delgado, or dragging him halfway across the country. Normally, the answer would be obvious, but a simple cold was no longer so simple in the wake of Gunther.

“Your father is far superior to any doctor David’s going to see in Bay City,” Janet reminded him. Setting her plate aside at the foot of the bed, she laid a hand on his arm. “I’m more worried about what your mother told you than I am about David having a relapse.” She looked at him levelly. “He’s too smart for that, Ken. I know you have a hard time backing off, but you need to give him some breathing room. I don’t like what Westlake and Dobey did to you or how they went about it, but I can’t say I’m sorry you’ll be away from Delgado for a week. Maybe you and David can relax for a change.” She tilted her head, a small crease forming on her brow. “I think you could use a break too. You’ve lost too much weight and you look run down, Kenny.”

Hutch shrugged, taking a sudden interest in his wine. “I’m just tired,” he mumbled. There was no question he wasn’t at his peak, but at least it hadn’t shown in his lovemaking. He’d made sure he’d satisfied both of them, no hint of lethargy affecting his performance.

Janet’s eyes flicked to the clock. “What time is your flight?”

“Early. I already called Starsk back. He complained about having to drag his butt out of bed before dawn.”

“Then you need to get some sleep.”