Inside every good girl is a bad girl waiting to get out. Unfortunately for Olivia Jacobsen, she'd been waiting thirty years.

She studied herself in the mirror of the twenty-fifth- floor executive washroom. There was nothing "bad" about her appearance, in as far as she could tell. She had blue eyes. She had straight dark hair, a gift from her deceased Greek mother. Today Olivia had pushed her shoulder-length hair back with a pink plaid headband that matched her pleated plaid skirt.

The saleslady at the upscale boutique had insisted that head-to-toe plaid was the latest fashion, but now Olivia wasn't so sure.

She scowled at her reflection. Fashion be darned. She came across like a pupil at one of St. Louis's all-girl Catholic high schools. Olivia Jacobsen — thirty-year-old Miss Goody Two-shoes.

Worse, she was a thirty-year-old virgin Goody Two-shoes, the perfectly behaved daughter of Blake and Sara Jacobsen, world-famous evangelicals with an international ministry rivaling that of Billy Graham.

And she'd grown up hearing exactly what being bad got you.

Olivia puckered her lips, making another disgusted face at herself in the mirror. Being good was boring. Being good meant broken engagements because she'd gotten cold feet — well, that and the fact that kissing her two respective fiancés had been like kissing puppies. Cute and sloppy, but hardly satisfying. Being good also meant having a stepmother who watched your every move and a meddling family that constantly tried to marry you off to someone they deemed appropriate — someone bland and boring.

Being good meant never having a man touch your breasts, never once feeling the leg-clenching desire that Olivia read about in those romance novels her minister parents disapproved of but she devoured.

Just once, Olivia Jacobsen wanted to be bad. She wanted to sin. She shook her body to try to loosen it up. It was a pathetic attempt, and at that moment Olivia decided she couldn't continue like this. Something drastic would have to be done.

No longer would she be lackluster Olivia Jacobsen, staid and sedate long before her time. That ended now. She reached for her plaid purse and strolled purposefully out of the washroom.

"Marilyn?"

Upon hearing Olivia's voice, her secretary glanced up. "I'm going to take the rest of the day off," Olivia said. "Please reschedule all my appointments."

If Marilyn seemed surprised that Olivia Jacobsen, vice president of corporate communications for Jacobsen Enterprises and the one with the flawless attendance record for the past five years, was ditching work early, she didn't let on. "Yes, Ms. Jacobsen," she replied with a neutral expression.

"I'll see you tomorrow." Not even bothering to return to her office, Olivia punched the elevator button and headed down.

Once-bitten, twice-shy DWM, blond-blue 6'3" HWP, 36 seeking a 26-34 HWP S/DWF for Ms. Right. Must understand erratic work shifts, must love kids, quiet family life and cats.

"I THINK YOU SHOULD mention that you're Mr. August. Or at least a cop. What about 'hot stuff'? Doesn't that increase your odds?"

Garrett Krause glared up from the almost illegible handwriting he'd scrawled on a torn-out sheet of white notebook paper. Not only was his partner, Cliff, reading over his shoulder, but he was also laughing at him.

"And I think you should butt out before I snuff you out," Garrett snapped, not at all surprised to hear himself growling like an angry bear. "It's your fault I'm in this mess in the first place. As if I want to do this."

Cliff simply laughed harder — a liberty only a good friend could take, especially when the laughter was clearly at his friend's expense.

"You won't snuff me out," Cliff said. "We've been together too long. Besides, I know all the homicide detectives."

That was true, Garrett thought wryly. He and Cliff were both detectives in the Division of Criminal Investigation, specifically the Bureau of Crimes Against Persons. Although Cliff was older, he and Garrett had been best friends since they'd met in Police Academy. After that, they'd been stationed together and they'd even both made detective within months of each other. Later, both had landed positions as investigators on St. Louis's Major Case Squad.

Garrett often wondered if some of his career advancement had been due to Cliff — after all, Cliff's family was rich, and powerful in St. Louis politics. But Garrett didn't really care. He loved his job. He'd been a cop since graduating college, and cops shouldn't be writing personal ads.

"Lucky for you and your occupation that you get to live another day," Garrett snorted, not quite ready to let Cliff off so easily.

"Oh, I'm so worried," Cliff taunted. Cliff knew he could push Garrett's buttons — they had an eleven-year friendship, one that had included Cliff being best man for Garrett's now-failed marriage.

"I'm sure I could commit the perfect crime if I wanted to," Garrett threatened as he waved the paper.

"Don't tempt me."

"Yeah, whatever. Besides, I'm always lucky," Cliff said, cuffing his white shirtsleeves. He ignored Garrett's scowl and reached for his mug. "I'd probably end up killing you in self-defense."

"Don't you have somewhere to be? An appointment?" Garrett asked, eyeing Cliff's Cops Do It shootin'expression mug. At least Cliff's sip of java had ended his annoying laughter.

"Aw, come on, Garrett, lighten up," Cliff said before taking another sip. "None of us means you any harm. We just agree that you should get back into dating. It's been three years since that ugly mess with your ex."

"Don't even mention her." Garrett's scowl deepened. Although three years had passed since his divorce, he still hated dealing with his ex-wife, especially where their four-year-old son was concerned.

Cliff tilted his head to the side and studied his friend. "Garrett, really. What's wrong with you? Every- one's more than a little concerned about your hermit status."

"I am not a hermit. I'm busy," Garrett insisted. Cliff shook his head. "No, you aren't. You work hard, granted, but that's not what's bugging you."

Cliff contemplated that assertion for a moment and then his expression changed. "I got it. You're still smarting over that charity calendar. Come on, let it go. It's been almost a year since it debuted, and all the hubbub has died down. In a few months people will throw the thing away and replace it with next year's version."

"Whatever," Garrett said. As with his ex, he tried to avoid dwelling on that mistake, as well.

"Though I still think you're crazy," Cliff continued.

"If I'd gotten one of those prime spots, can you imagine what I would have done?"

That was the last straw. "What — you'd have dated the woman from Potosi who sent me her underwear?" Garrett arched his eyebrow skeptically and studied his friend. It was now almost two p.m., and already Cliff needed to shave. Because Garrett was blond, his face wouldn't show a beard until well after five.

Cliff shrugged, conceding slightly. "Well, maybe not that," he said, retreating before going back for round two. "But some of those babes who dropped by the police station were hot. I would have taken the normal ones up on their offers. Wasn't one a Rams cheerleader? Get real, Garrett. Just hop back in the saddle again. Being celibate this long just doesn't suit a man. Makes him crack. God knows we see the results of that enough in our line of work."

Garrett glared. His self-chosen celibacy had so far suited him just fine. Being celibate meant he'd make no more mistakes such as thinking he was in love and the time was perfect for him to settle down. That was how he'd come to marry Brenda. The only good thing to emerge from that tempestuous relationship had been their son. And that adorable four-year-old deserved his daddy's full attention.

"Don't knock celibacy. It's the best alternative to marriage, that's for sure," Garrett said. "Who said anything about marriage? Saddles are for riding in, buddy boy." Cliff grinned, but his smile vanished when he saw the sour expression on Garrett's face. "Oh, loosen up. At least none of us is trying to drag you out to strip clubs anymore under the guise of doing a stakeout."

Thank God for small favors, Garrett thought. Exploring East Saint Louis's "nightlife" was not anywhere on his to- do list, nor would it ever be. The Illinois city directly over the Mississippi River from the Gateway Arch was known for strip clubs and seedy bars — something he'd outgrown long ago. And since Garrett wasn't a gambler, even Casino Queen river-boat, decent as that was, held little appeal. He shook his head, sending blond hair into his face. Loosen up indeed. As if he could.

He shuddered, revulsion shivering down his spine as he remembered some of the women's letters and photos he'd received in the months following the appearance of the Hometown Heroes charity calendar.

Reading the letters and seeing the lengths women would go to to entice him, including those naked full-body shots, had not been pleasant. He'd felt like a pervert, so much so that he'd finally stopped opening the letters at all, or letting his cop buddies and Cliff raid his mail. Crime scenes were easier to deal with.

He winced. Hindsight was twenty/twenty. When the department asked for his cooperation last summer, Garrett had followed orders, not caring about the "honor" attached to being selected.

His mistake was that he hadn't thought through the calendar's aftereffects. Oh, he'd considered that he might get some recognition and second glances, but this was St. Louis and not Hollywood. St. Louisans were, for the most part, discreet — not rude autograph-seekers. Even professional sports stars were usually granted their privacy in public places like restaurants or movie theaters. The crazy attention paid to him and his fellow police, fire and rescue workers from across the metropolitan region had surprised Garrett, not to mention vexed him.