Chantale had been a defence attorney for almost six years and she had seen a few things in her travels, but she had never met anyone like Declan Byrne. His Celtic ancestry had been clear in his looks. Raven black hair and eyes the colour of the sky. His face looked like it had been chiselled from granite, his nose proud and strong. He was a tall man, just an inch or so under six feet, but he would have towered over her had she not been wearing three inch heels.

Heels which had been quickly abandoned when she had returned back to the office. A full four inches shorter than her older sister, Chantale hated feeling vertically challenged. So while Jocelyne often chose what Chantale generously called sensible shoes, she chose to wear ice-pick stilettos. Great for her image and crappy for her feet. Such was the price of vanity.

Pulling out her notepad, she dropped into her chair, lay her head back, and groaned.

"Problem?"

Her head snapped up to see Nick in her door. "Yes, actually, I do. Do you have a minute?"

"Of course." Her ever-genial colleague pointed to a chair opposite and Chantale nodded. "So what's up?"

"Declan Byrne."

Nick's reaction was exactly what she had been expecting. His eyebrows raised and his gaze narrowed. "New client?"

"Would it be a problem if he were?"

There was a sound which might have been a laugh or a snicker, Chantale wasn't sure. "We're defence attorneys, Chantale, it's what we do. Will there be bad publicity and blowback? Of course, but that's to be expected. It will also be very high profile." He appeared to consider. "Your boyfriend isn't going to like it."

"Since he's not my boyfriend anymore, I don't give a flying fig what he thinks."

Nick held up his hands as if to defend himself. "I didn't know you and Colton had called it quits. I'm sorry to hear it...unless it's a good thing?"

"At the time, it didn't feel so good. Now, I'm more philosophical about it. I'm sticking to bad boy one-night stands."

Nick's eyes closed and he rubbed his hands on his face. "Way too much information, Chantale." His eyes opened. "How did Byrne find you?"

Chantale shifted uncomfortably. "He didn't. Jamie Cole was in Ferndale with him and heard he was considering entering a guilty plea. Jamie asked me to intervene."

"If the guy wants to plead guilty then what's the problem? I mean I know everyone's entitled to representation and everything, but you know that most people are actually guilty."

"Still, I did just a little poking and found a whole bunch of inconsistencies. I suspect if I dig deeper I'm going to find something."

Nick considered. "Or you might find something to prove him guilty."

"No harm, no foul. I don't have to turn it over to the prosecution."

"Did you meet with him?"

She nodded.

"And what was your impression on him?"

Now it was she who considered. "He plays a good game of not caring, but I sensed something. His reaction to Jamie's name was...unexpected."

"You mean angry."

"Yes, it could have been called angry. It was directed at me. I might have implied that Jamie was paying me to represent him."

"But he's not."

Chantale shook her head. "No, he didn't pay me anything, nor would I have accepted had he offered. I said it to bait Byrne and he showed me that he is capable of temper."

"You weren't scared, though, were you?"

"No, Nick, I wasn't. Maybe I should have been, but I wasn't. It was a concentrated anger which only came out when he thought I was taking advantage of Jamie." She pushed herself to her feet. "I've defended two rapists and both were guilty. There's no way around it, they gave me the creeps. The misogyny was there, just lurking beneath the surface. Those men had no respect for me and one demanded he get a male attorney because I was biased against men. He told the judge that I was a ball-buster."

There was a sharp bark of laughter from Nick. "I take it the judge disagreed."

Chantale grinned. "Oh, yes, she disagreed. Explained to him that legal aid assigned cases and if he was unhappy with assigned counsel then he could always hire his own lawyer. He didn't utter another complaint and I did my best to defend him, but it was his ex-girlfriend and she had bruises and a concussion from when he had slammed her head against the wall. I wanted to plead out, but he was convinced he could get away with him."

"Let me guess, he got the maximum."

"Yes, and I didn't even worry about it affecting my stats. Sometimes losing isn't a bad thing."

"Well, one of my clients raped while he was my client, but I walked away from him."

She gave him a long, level look. "Is that the man who raped Lacey?"

Now Nick looked pained. "Yeah, that was him. I didn't know that he was going to hurt her or I would have intervened. Was I blind to his rage and capacity for violence? You bet. So don't underestimate Byrne," he warned. He cocked his head. "What do you intend to do?"

Chantale closed her eyes and took a moment. A long moment. When she opened them, though, she was very clear. "I'm going to represent him."

"And who, pray tell, is going to pay for this defence?"

"I'm going to do it on my own time and my own dime."

Nick snorted. "You should know better than to wade into this."

"Well, he did say I could bill him for our meeting. I'll just keep invoicing him. Maybe one day he'll pay."

"And one day pigs will fly." He rose. "Still, you're a grown woman and a damn good attorney. If you want to waste your time on this, then that's up to you."

"You flatter me."

He was almost out the door before he turned. "Just don't underestimate the man. If he is the man they claim he is, then he's dangerous."

"I can handle myself."

Now, Nick simply inclined his head. "Yes, I believe you can."

With that, he was gone.

Chantale looked down at her notepad with all the questions she had hoped to ask Declan Byrne. She had a full page of things she wanted answered before she was willing to walk away.

Declan wasn't surprised to see Chantale Baldwin standing next to him at his hearing. If one looked up tenacious pitbull in the dictionary, it would have her picture. Of course she wasn't ugly like a pitbull, but once she had her teeth sunk into something, she wasn't going to let go. He, apparently, was that something, and her teeth had reached the marrow of his bones.

When she requested a continuance, he tried to object. When the judge appointed her co-counsel, he tried to object. When she had sought bail, he had tried to object.

Still, the judge had said two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, turn over passport, agree to wear an ankle monitoring device, and house arrest. Once he had heard the dollar amount, he had tuned out. He didn't have a quarter of a million dollars, he had tuned out the rest.

Right up until he heard that his bail had been posted.

He was sure he had misunderstood, so he turned to his annoying attorney of record.

"Did he just say that someone posted bail?"

"He did. You'll be returned to the jail to pick up your belongings and a parole officer will fit you with an ankle monitor. Then they'll set up the perimeter around your house. Just don't violate it, okay? Otherwise, bond is forfeit."

She wasn't looking at him. He got one of those odd sensations.

"Are you crazy? I mean, are you out of your mind? You don't even know me and you posted my bail?" He shook his head. "Take it back. I don't want your charity."

Now, she gave him a long look. "I didn't say it was me. Someone out there believes that you're innocent." She snagged her briefcase. "I'll be at your house tomorrow at nine. I expect you to be ready to work on your defence." Before he could speak, she was gone.

Without conscious thought, Declan let himself be led back to the sheriff's van which would take him back to the prison. Apparently from there he was a free man. He wasn't fooled for an instant, though. This freedom was going to cost him his peace of mind. He had reconciled himself to serving ten to twenty-five. He had resigned himself to never breathing free air again.

He rubbed damp palms against his pants. His arrest had been so sudden, he'd never had a chance to go home. Now he was being given the gift of time. Time to put his affairs in order. Time to give away his most treasured possessions. Time to prepare the house for sale. Maybe even time to tuck away a few mementos into a storage locker where he could prepay for twenty-five years.

Which books would he keep? So many to choose from. Many had been at his office on campus, but he had long ago consigned himself to the knowledge he would never see those again. He also had the letters his parents had exchanged as well as all the family ancestry going back more than three hundred years. Perhaps he could arrange to send it to cousin Bridget back in County Cork. Funny, he'd always assumed he would have children to whom he would pass down all the genealogy items he had collected over the years.

At thirty-seven he wasn't exactly long in the tooth, but neither was he the strapping young lad he had been when he'd come to Canada ten years ago with his PhD from Cambridge. The ink had barely been dry on his degree when he'd landed the job as a teacher at the University of the Fraser Valley just east of Vancouver. A pretty spot to settle, he'd thought. He'd figured he would get on the tenure track, publish a few papers, find a wife, and have some kids.

Ten years had flown by and now it would never happen. He was never going to get married and he was never going to have children. There was a pang of loss which resonated in him, but he ruthlessly thrust it aside. He deserved what was happening to him. What he didn't deserve was freedom. Chantale Baldwin had picked a loser, he thought, as he was led back into the prison.

Hal was there to greet him. "Well, Professor, seems today was your lucky day. Go grab your copy of...whatever it was that you're reading, and come back. The parole officer will be waiting to attach your jewellery. Then I'll drive you home."

Declan's eyes shot up. "I'm sorry?"

"Normally we send guys home in a cab. Since you live on my way home, I figure I'll save the government a few bucks. It's not like I'm scared of you."

Declan heard what had been left unsaid. The rapist only went after petite young students. Hal would have nothing to worry about with him. Not willing to give up a free ride, Declan went to his cell to collect his well-worn copy of Ulysses. He'd been here five miserable weeks and he'd read it nine times. Add that to the half-dozen times before that and he knew he would soon be able to recite it from memory. Next time, he came he was bringing the collected works of William Shakespeare.

Would they let him bring books to the maximum security facility over in Matsqui? He knew Remy Stevens was pushing for him to be given dangerous offender status which would require incarceration in Matsqui or some similar facility. He'd lucked out at being sent to Ferndale while awaiting trial, but that luck would run out once he was sentenced.

Would they let him write? He could stand just about anything as long as he had pen and paper. As long as he had a way to express himself. He supposed he could ask Hal on the short drive home, but he almost didn't want to know.

So he held his tongue when he was fitted with the GPS ankle monitor. His probation officer explained that he was confined to his house except for authorized trips to the court. If he needed anything, he would have to find someone to deliver it.

That might be a problem, Declan thought, but not impossible to overcome. Anything could be obtained for a price, he just had to be willing to pay.

"It was really nice for you to invite me for dinner," Chantale said. She was lounging with Charley the terrier in her lap and Mac the husky at her feet while Jocelyne and Seth were cuddling on the couch. She had felt a pang when she had first arrived at her sister's home because the last time she had been here had been Christmas Day and Colton had been with her. He had dumped her two days later, but she'd held off telling her sister until the first week of January so she wouldn't be ruining anyone's New Year's celebrations. She suspected Jocelyne had known, but her sister had chosen to keep her own counsel, so nothing had been said.

"You'll always be welcome here," Seth said, as he absentmindedly ran his hand over Jocelyne's hair. "Plus, I think Charley's a little sweet on you."

"Well, I'm a little sweet on him. So much so that I'm thinking about getting one of my own."

Seth grinned. "Just say the word and I'll put you in touch with Dr. Zephyra Dixon. She's the local vet and she's always got strays looking for homes."

"I'm just worried that the little mutt will be living in a cramped apartment."

Jocelyne waved off her concern. "Walk them enough and they don't care how small the space where they live. I like the idea of you having a guard dog."

Chantale rolled her eyes. "I wasn't thinking about getting a guard dog, more like a companion."

"No reason why you can't get both," her sister argued. Then, she paused. "What is it? What's going on?"

Trust her sister to see, Chantale thought.

"I need to tell you guys something and I don't want you to be upset."

Jocelyne and Seth exchanged a quick glance.

It was Seth who nodded for her to proceed.

"I've taken on a new client. A high profile client," she clarified. "I'm just worried you might get some blowback."

"Nothing that we can't handle," Seth assured her, but Jocelyne had a disquieted look on her face.

"Who's the client?"

No sense in prolonging the suspense, Chantale thought. "Declan Byrne."

Both Seth and Jocelyne propelled themselves from a relaxed lounging position to upright and concerned. Again, they exchanged glances.

"How did this happen?"

Chantale considered how to answer Seth's question. "I guess you could say it was a referral." She looked at the two people she loved most in the world and felt a twinge of guilt. "Maybe I should have talked to you first-"

"Of course not," Jocelyne assured her. "I think we're just more concerned about you. This had been a high-profile case and I think he's already been found guilty in the court of public opinion." She turned to Seth. "I heard there's a lot of evidence."

Chantale could see Seth was uncomfortable, so she did a quick wave. "Seth can't talk about the case, but I don't think you were primary, right?"

Seth gave out an odd chuckle. "Yeah, you're right, I wasn't the primary. Dorrie and Colton were primaries on that case. Did Colton not talk to you about it?"

"Pillow talk," Chantale asked sarcastically. "No, we were too busy between the sheets to get into anything as deep as that."

Jocelyne cringed and Seth winced.

"I'm sorry," Chantale said with contrition. "That was out of line." She took a deep breath. "To answer the question, no, Colton never discussed his cases with me. I didn't even know he had worked on the rapes, although I'm sure I should have been able to piece that puzzle together. Regardless, there is no conflict of interest."

"Does Byrne know you used to date Colton? Have you told Colton you're going to be representing Byrne?"

Seth's questions were fair, Chantale knew. "I haven't spoken to either of them about the other. I met Declan a couple of days ago and we were in court today." She looked back and forth between her sister and her brother-in-law. "I managed to secure bail for him."

Seth emitted a low whistle. "Wow, that's going to make you persona non grata down at the Detachment."

Chantale smiled. "Seth, I'm a defence attorney. When was I ever welcomed at the cop shop?

There was a quick shrug. "Okay, you'll be even less welcome. You know a lot of people in the community are going to be angry with you."

"Everyone deserves a defence," Chantale argued. "Innocent people get arrested, convicted, and sentenced every day."

"You think he's innocent?" Jocelyne's voice was soft.

Now, Chantale placed Charley on the floor, stood, and began to pace. "I'll be honest and say I don't know. When I met him, though, it was hard to see him doing those horrible things he's been accused of doing. It just doesn't make sense he would wake up one day and start raping students after ten years of being the mild mannered professor. There's been no hint of deviant behaviour-"

"That we know of," Seth pointed out.

"That we know of," Chantale agreed, "but then wouldn't others have come forward after the arrest?"

"But someone did," Seth said. "The original first victim came forward."

Chantale acknowledged that. "Convenient, though."

"Many victims of rape never step forward," Jocelyne said quietly. Instinctively, Seth looped his arm around her, pulling her close and pressing a kiss to her temple.

Cringing, Chantale sank to her chair. "I'm sorry, Jossie, I wasn't thinking..."

Jocelyne linked her hand with Seth's. "I know you didn't mean anything by it and one of my greatest regrets is not saying something. I have to live with the fact that my staying quiet about what Morris did to me enabled him to go and rape two other women. That kind of violence is unspeakable and unbearable. You know I saw a counsellor for a few sessions, more to deal with the guilt of silence rather than the abuse. Kennedy helped me accept what happened to me."

"I wondered how that went. I didn't want to pry." Chantale looked at her sister, searching for signs of distress but finding none. Jocelyne's delicate features bespoke an underlying strength and determination.

Jocelyne did, however, look a bit uncomfortable. "It was Colton who referred me to Dr. Kennedy Dixon."

"Look, guys, you don't have to tiptoe around Colton on my account. I'm glad he helped you out, even if he did arrest you." Both Seth and Jocelyne looked like they wanted to speak when Chantale waved them off. "That was a joke and I suspect not a very good one." She sighed, running her hands through her hair. "I've made this tough for you, I can see that. I should have known better than to get involved with someone like Colton."

There was a silence in the room as Jocelyne and Seth looked at each other. Then they turned back to Chantale.

"He hurt you," Seth asserted, "and that makes us sad. Colton might be our friend, but you're family."

"You shouldn't have to pick sides. I just need to be mature about this." She thought she had been, but now that she was facing the happy couple across from her, she was rethinking that assertion. "Look, I'm meeting with Declan tomorrow and I'll get a feeling for what he knows. I'm also going to set up an appointment with Remy Stevens to see what they have in the way of evidence."

Seth squeezed Jocelyne's hand. "You know you have our full support as a professional, but I don't think either of us is comfortable taking sides on this one. From here on in, maybe we shouldn't talk about this - to you or to Colton."

Jocelyne offered a smile. "What goes without saying is that if you need to talk to either of us about other things, you can always come to us."

Chantale felt that little flicker of warmth she felt whenever Jocelyne made a gesture, whether overt or covert, to show her love. A bond existed between the sisters which had only grown now Chantale was away from the family home. Her father had always said that she wouldn't be able to cope on her own, but she had been doing exactly that for several months now.

"If I need moral support, I know where to get for it."

And she did.

She was prompt, he had to give her that.

Where he had expected a repeat of the plum coloured business suit, she was wearing a leather jacket, jeans, and scuffed cowboy boots. Given he was greeting her in jeans, a sweater, and socked feet, they fit.

"Good morning," she said, a broad grin on her face. He wasn't sure it was anything of the kind, but he held back the door to grant her admittance. She entered carrying both a briefcase and a laptop case. She walked right past him.

"Where can I set up?"

Nowhere was his first thought, but he had to admit he was intrigued.

"I have an office," he offered.

She shook her head. "I need more space than that. How about the dining room?"

Was she asking him or was she telling him? He wasn't sure, so he nodded and led her into the spacious room. She lay her case on one of the chairs and shucked off her jacket, draping it over the same chair. She was wearing a tight-fitting long sleeve shirt which only served to emphasize her trim figure.

She started digging in her briefcase, pulling out her laptop. She was looking for an outlet when he finally found his tongue.

"Coffee?"

Chantale's grin was quick and sincere. "I have a tendency to mainline caffeine when working, so I'll say now if you could just keep it coming that would be appreciated."

"Okay." Declan didn't actually drink coffee, he was a tea fan. Earl Grey, of course, black. He suspected Chantale took her coffee the same way - dark and strong. Making his way to the kitchen he again tried to find his balance. Chantale Baldwin was the antithesis of his ideal woman. He liked demur, pretty and simple women. Brash, bold, and sexy wasn't normally a turn-on for him.

Sexy?

She hadn't done anything but be professional and her clothing certainly didn't scream sex appeal, but there was something less tangible. She seemed like a woman who would be adventurous and playful in bed. He could picture her - wild curly hair, flushed cheeks and eyes bright with desire.

He would have to check himself, he realized. She was a lawyer, his lawyer, and he needed to find a way to get rid of her. Yet here he was, getting her coffee and letting her settle into his home as if they were really going to work as a team and mount a defence.

Even as the debate warred, he measured the coffee into the machine and set it to brew. What harm was there in letting her do this? It would buy him time, time he hadn't thought he would have. Time to get things in order before he faced a harsh jail sentence. Although resigned, he was still concerned. He understood there was a pecking order in prison, a hierarchy of sorts, and rapists certainly were near the bottom of the pile.

It was so ironic because Declan loved women. Their heady smell, their soft skin, the little noises they made when they were aroused - all things he had enjoyed and all things he would be deprived of for the rest of his life. He would be in his early sixties by the time he got out, if he ever did, and he had no illusions of the odds of finding someone who would be willing to be around a rapist, let alone intimate with him.

"Declan?" Soft and entreating.

He turned, steeling himself. "Sorry, Ms. Baldwin, I was just waiting for the coffee."

"Of course," she said, looking around. "How long have you lived here?"

"A number of years," he said. "I bought it during the height of the last financial crisis when the owner was on the verge of bankruptcy. I know it seems posh for someone on a professor's salary, but I had saved and invested judiciously from the time I was young. I had a knack for making money and then making more."

She regarded him. "Yet you're a professor of English Literature. There's a contradiction, you know. Why not go into business or finance?"

He shrugged carelessly. "Maybe I just like being around nubile young women."

That had the desired effect as her eyes narrowed. "Say stuff like that and the jury will be lining up to convict you."

"Maybe they should." He turned to pour a steaming mug of coffee, but didn't immediately hand it to her. "Did it ever occur to you that I'm guilty?"

"No."

Her quick denial caught him off-guard. There was vehemence behind the word which was at once heart-warming and stomach-churning. "How do you figure that, Counsellor?"

"The name's Chantale. Think about it for a minute. If you're so in love with co-eds, why the rush to go to jail for twenty-five years? No young pretty women in prison, I promise you."

Her insight startled him and gave him a perspective he hadn't thought about. Since he found he didn't have a single cogent argument to give, he handed her the mug of coffee.

"Where do we start?"

She gave him one of those long penetrative looks. "I don't know much about the case except what I've read in the papers. I have a meeting set up with Remy Stevens to go over the Crown's case."

"I'll warn you now, the woman doesn't like me."

"It's not her job to like you," Chantale pointed out, "all the more so if she believes that you're guilty. Her single goal in this case, in her work in general, is to put away criminals and keep them in jail for as long as she can. The thing is, I don't have to like you either, to put up a good defence. I've had clients I've adored and clients who've made me physically ill. I've had clients I've chosen and clients who've been thrust upon my by virtue of my work in legal aid."

He arched his brow. "Have you ever defended someone you knew was guilty?"

"Of course," Chantale said. "I'm able to see and interpret evidence as well as any prosecutor and sometimes I've had clients who were just really incompetent criminals. Understand that much of my work involves plea negotiations. Trials are actually fairly rare. If every criminal wanted a trial then the whole system would grind to a halt."

"Do you see this case going to trial?"

She shrugged. "I need to see what they've got. Regardless, you need an advocate. If you decide after all this that you still want to plead guilty then I have to accept and respect that, but it doesn't mean I won't fight for the least amount of time in prison possible."

"What if you look over the evidence and find I'm guilty? What then?"

"I still fight," Chantale said doggedly. "I would also seek treatment for you, despite the scarcity of that resource."

"You think a rapist can be rehabilitated?"

Those deep blue eyes were still evaluating him, taking his measure. "I think that some people will never be reformed and their need to hurt others is part of their DNA. I know the recidivism rate for pedophiles, rapists and others who prey upon the weak and vulnerable, but I've also seen examples of people who have turned their lives around. What someone does with a second chance is up to them. What therapy and restorative justice can do is help the perpetrator see their victim as a person instead of an object."

"Restorative justice. That's what you did with Jamie, right? Where he met the woman he believed he had victimized, even though he hadn't really?"

Chantale nodded. "That was an unusual case because a man who was innocent went to jail. The fact he wanted to make amends anyway spoke to his innate strength. The guilt he felt over failing to prevent a crime was so strong he felt he deserved to be punished. Only by meeting the 'victim' was he able to get over that guilt. She was a victim by the nature of what had been done to her, to be sure, but it had not been at Jamie's hand, nor had it happened because of his inaction."

"I hear he's doing well."

"Why haven't you spoken to him yourself? He told me he's tried to see you, but that you're stubborn."

Declan looked at her. "I'm not sure how stubborn I am, really. You're here, aren't you?"

She took a sip of coffee. "You would prefer I not be here, that I know. The question is now that I'm here, what are you going to do with me?"

He knew she hadn't meant it as an invitation to ravish her, but damn if that wasn't the first thing that went through his mind.

"This is good coffee." She motioned towards the dining room. "Shall we get started?"

He shrugged and followed her into a room which was seldom used. Although the table, chairs and sideboard were all sturdy and well-made, there was nothing remarkable about them. As with most of his furnishings, they were utilitarian. His office was the one exception. He had brought his mother's Queen Victoria-era writing desk and chair. He couldn't use them, of course, as he was far too large for something so delicate, but it had a prominent place in the room. His own desk was a sturdy mahogany with a polished surface. It was a good thing it was large because it was covered in papers, books, his laptop, and other assorted professorial accoutrements.

He took the seat opposite Chantale, trying to remember the last time he'd used this room. Probably when he had hosted the English Faculty soirée to celebrate the anthology of Native Canadian literature edited by Chloe Sanders. He'd been seeing her at the time, although they'd kept quiet about their relationship. Chloe had made it clear she was interested in more than their casual relationship so Declan had ended it has nicely as he could. Chloe was a good woman, but his heart hadn't been involve and, for all his feigned pragmatism, he was a romantic at heart. His parents had been in love and married for almost forty years. That had been what Declan had aspired to and he hadn't been willing to compromise.

Now it all seemed so pointless.

"Tell me about yourself."

He looked at Chantale in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"I need to get to know you. I need more than a few news clippings, that's for sure. I'm glad we met here because it gives me a sense of who you are."

"Don't," he warned, "judge me on where I live. This property was an investment, and a good one at that. It has more than tripled in value since I bought it."

He watched as she took in that tidbit. "So what would be your ideal home?"

"I don't think-"

"Don't think. Answer honestly without second guessing."

Baffled, he said the first thing which came to his mind. "A cottage. I grew up in a cottage in a small town outside of Belfast. It was just me and my parents, but it had been cozy. Full of love."

"You have good memories."

He nodded. "Now, what does this have to do with my guilt or innocence?"

"Are your parents still alive?"

"My father died after a brief bout of cancer and my mother died of an aneurism three years later."

' "How old were you when she died?" The questions were coming rapid-fire, with no breath between them.

"Twenty-three. I had just finished by Master's Degree. Now-"

"Where did you go to school?"

"Undergraduate at Queen's University in Belfast, Master's Degree at Trinity College in Dublin, Doctoral degree at Cambridge in England." He felt his frustration mount. He was about to speak when she barrelled on.

"How old were you when you lost your virginity?"

Incensed, he sputtered, "I hardly think-"

"Don't think," she shot back. "Answer the question."

Oh what the hell.

"I was twenty and it was my second year of university. Her name was Marjorie." His eyes narrowed. "When did you lose your virginity?"

"Fourteen."

He hadn't actually expected her to answer, so he was surprised. Then her answer penetrated his mind. "You were fourteen?"

There was no change in her expression, he thought. It was the same look, that of a hard-nosed interrogator. She reminded him of the police officers who had questioned him.

"Yes, fourteen. His name was Jean Paul. Have you had many lovers?"

"A few..."

"Where they all adults? I mean did you ever look at a girl and thing 'I have to have that'?"

His eyes widened. "I never-:

"Never looked at a teenager in a tight blouse a short skirt and thought 'she's just asking for it'?" She didn't even stop for breath. "Did you think, 'there's a girl who is flaunting it? A girl who would be wasted on a teenage boy? A girl who needed a man to show her'?"

Bile rose in his throat. "That's vile."

"Did you ever look at one of your students and think 'I've got to get me some of that'?"

Now he leapt to his feet, anger coursing through his veins. "How dare you," he demanded. "How dare you come into my house and make such an accusation? How dare you suggest," he sought the right words, "that I might be capable of molesting a young woman? What kind of game are you playing," he raged.

She leaned back in her chair, casually crossing her legs. "No game, Professor, just testing you."

Bewilderment had him running his hands through his hair. "Testing me?" He pounded his fists on the table. "You accuse me of being a rapist, a pedophile, and it was all just a test?" Blue eyes glittered with rage. "Did I pass?"

"Yes."

That one word took a bit of wind out of his sails. "What do you mean 'yes'?"

Chantale pointed to the chair opposite. "Sit."

Still stunned, he sat.

As if the past few minutes hadn't happened, she took a sip of coffee. Distractedly, Declan wondered if it was still hot.

"I needed to see how you would react to the accusations. The first few questions were a sample to see when you were telling the truth. The next few were to see when you would get flustered. The last ones were to see how you would react to the accusations."

"You sound like a police officer. I felt like I was being interrogated."

She offered up a smile. "That was nothing. Wait until you're up against Remy Stevens. She's tenacious, Professor, and she'll rip you apart."

"You think I should take the stand?"

"Do you have anything to hide," she countered quickly.

"Of course not," he said, all the while knowing he wasn't being truthful. "I have to get something to drink."

Now she was really looking at him. "Prevarication is pointless, as is lying to me. If you hold back on me, it's to your own detriment."

"I'm not-"

"You are," she countered, "but I'll let it go for now. You need to learn to trust me. The sooner you realize I'm your new best friend, the better off you'll be. Since you're going to the kitchen, Professor, can you get me a glass of water?"

Sure, why not? Just because the woman had a screw loose...

"No problem with that water." He rose then paused. "Since you've asked me to call you Chantale, perhaps you should call me Declan."

"Okay, that's fair." She took up a notepad and pen, scribbling furiously, effectively dismissing him. After a couple of minutes, she looked up. "What?" Not defensive, he thought, more curious.

He cleared his throat. "Do you do that questioning with all your clients?"

She shrugged. "Not usually. Your circumstances are...unique."

Another thought occurred. "Chantale, weren't you afraid of me?"

Her face broke into a broad grin. "Of course not. Now, didn't you say something about water?"