LITMIR.BIZ

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any left over?”

      Kathryn shrugged. “Sorry.”

      Zoe eyed her. “You used every drop?”

      “I had a very small amount.”

      “And it’s all gone?”

      Kathryn mumbled under her breath, not letting Zoe pin her down.

      Too modest to give details, Zoe wondered, or the opposite? She took a not-so-wild guess. “So that’s why you’re never around lately. Still keeping extra busy with Coyote, hmm?”

      “Oh, well, you know how we were competing for the Crest of the Wave award,” Kathryn said, intentionally misunderstanding.

      Excuses. She’d won the prestigious editors’ prize weeks ago, although the announcement had been eclipsed by the furor caused when Coyote broke the story of a pro football steroids scandal. Threats and pressure from all sides had resulted in his tendering his resignation to the newspaper.

      Zoe pressed. “You are still together?”

      “Not for publication.” Kath grinned. “But, yes.”

      Before Zoe could ask more, her friend stood and made a quick adjustment of her skirt. Kathryn was clad in the usual dark business suit, though Zoe had caught a glimpse of a lacy bra when the loose neckline of Kathryn’s shell had gaped. Bronze-colored tendrils had escaped from the book editor’s hair clip. Her lips and cheeks were bright pink against the glowy tan.

      All very suspicious.

      I’ve got to find out what was in that bottle. Zoe was rarely so determined, but the humiliation of running into the Aberdeens’ family friends had convinced her to improve her situation in life. While the job at the Times had been a much-needed stopgap, it wasn’t too late to become a person of whom her family would have been proud.

      Put in that light, staking her chances on a bogus lust potion didn’t seem to be the smartest move.

      “‘Lust potion of the gods,’” she quoted. “Gimme a break.”

      Kathryn delayed her departure. “Have you tried a Web search?”

      “Of course. I found a few unsubstantiated reports of the potion’s effects and some references to the Mayan dialect. As we already knew, Balam K’am-bi roughly translates to sex of the jaguar.”

      “Wild animal sex,” Kathryn said faintly, her eyes distant.

      “Hot jungle lovin’,” Zoe teased.

      Kathryn blinked. “You should ask Ethan. He’s the one with all the police connections.”

      The women exchanged knowing smiles. Ethan’s connection to one police detective in particular—an attractive female named Nicole Arroyo—had become obvious despite his attempts at discretion. They’d even begun to speculate that the confirmed bachelor might have finally met his match.

      “I tried,” Zoe said. “He claimed that Detective Arroyo had sent our sample to the crime lab but there were no results yet. I don’t suppose the case is considered urgent enough to warrant a rush job.”

      “Keep me informed. I’d like to hear what that report says.” Kathryn returned the extra chair to the neighboring cubicle. “See you at lunch.” She strode away, clearly making an effort to appear as businesslike as ever but not quite able to restrain the sassy swing of her hips.

      Zoe fingered the native doll. There was no doubt about it. Kathryn Walters was a changed woman.

      Due to the lust potion?

      Although titillated by the idea, Zoe’s primary interest wasn’t the personal benefits of the supposed aphrodisiac. This time, she preferred to be taken seriously.

      If she could get the real story on the lust potion, she might gain a little respect at the newspaper, proving to Barbie the Editrix she could write about more than champagne fountains and oysters on the half shell. Or she might submit a feature article to a national magazine. She could do background research in Mexico, interview scientists, track down unlikely couples such as Kathryn and Coyote, maybe even turn the story into a book. Even gain interest from Hollywood.

      Granted, none of that was likely to win her a Pulitzer, but at least she’d have some proof that she hadn’t completely wasted her potential.

      But where to begin?

      “Go to the source,” Zoe told herself.

      Fortunately the ibuprofen had kicked in. She leaned down and picked up the leather Hermès carryall she’d dropped under her desk and started shoveling necessary items inside. The BlackBerry, her trusty notebook, a spare pair of sneakers in case she had to walk farther than heels allowed. She checked the contents of her wallet. A coupon for a facial, plus two dollars and change. Damn. Last time she’d gone to the cash machine, the printout of her balance had been so alarming she’d survived on tuna, crackers and olives ever since.

      Plus hors d’oeuvres and champagne. No wonder she was feeling dizzy.

      Ignoring her queasy stomach, Zoe counted out enough coins to buy a bag of potato chips from the vending machine. Her paycheck wasn’t due for a few days. After work, she’d hit Zanzibar’s happy-hour buffet for free Buffalo wings and jalapeño poppers.

      In the meantime, making headway on her goal would give her mood a better boost than protein.

      As funding a trip to the Yucatan wasn’t in the credit cards, she had only two immediate options. One was to acquire a copy of the crime-lab analysis of the lust potion. Luckily she had a great contact in that system—a nerdy neighbor across the hall in her apartment building. They didn’t exactly get along, but if necessary, she’d use her feminine wiles to beguile him into helping her out. The other immediate option was to return to Jag’s tourist trap and get the story from the lizard’s mouth, so to speak.

      Zoe being Zoe, she chose to do both ASAP.

      2

      DONOVAN SHANE TENDED TO become overly absorbed by his work. He’d managed to ignore the annoying buzz of the intercom system, but he was forced out of his fog when Guillermo Reyes opened the door to the toxicology lab and cleared his throat.

      “Dr. Shane, Mandy Rae says to tell you there’s a woman here to see you,” the intern announced in a tone of awe, as if he’d never seen such a creature. The kid was a senior in high school; he should have had girls crawling out of his locker.

      Donovan squinted as he pinched the skin at the bridge of his nose. He’d been examining the peaks on the liquid chromatograph done on a sample from a murder case. “Whoever she is, she doesn’t have an appointment.”

      “She’s…” At a loss for words, Guillermo gave an exceptionally gusty exhale. His sinuses tended to whistle when he got overexcited. “Damn, boss, you gotta see her.”

      Boss. Donovan had never been a boss before. After earning his undergraduate degree, he’d been rejected by the police academy because of a preexisting condition—the heart murmur he’d had since childhood—and had taken a part-time lab technician’s job instead while advancing toward his Ph.D. Twelve years later, he was still working in the same facility, now as a toxicologist specializing in the typing and analysis of blood and other fluids. He told himself that he was satisfied to be left alone in the lab, quietly doing his job analyzing the minutiae of crime while others ran about like over-adrenalized superheroes, shooting at perps and risking their lives.

      “Is she a kook?” he asked.

      “I dunno. Maybe.” The intern gripped the doorknob. “She claims she knows you. Says she won’t leave until you see her.”

      Shoulders hunched, Donovan returned to his study of the graph on the computer screen. He wasn’t keen to leave his work and make the trip to the reception desk in the lobby, where all visitors must check in before gaining admittance. He couldn’t imagine who this one-of-a-kind female might be.

      Sadly

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