"Oops, excuse me," a soft voice said behind her. Grace turned to respond, then realized the apology was not meant for her.

An indignant gasp escaped the mouth of a sharply dressed matron on the arm of an equally well-dressed gentleman, making their way into the prestigious restaurant in La Jolla. Two tourists – sisters, Grace thought as she studied them - had been perusing the menu displayed outside the main entrance when the cute one with long, blond hair stepped back and accidentally brushed against the matron.

In an exaggerated gesture of protection, the man in his fancy suit put his arm around his wife and murmured something about tourists as they entered the building. The blond, already shamed by the reaction of the lady in question, heard him and lowered her head in embarrassment.

"Let’s go," she whispered to her sister, a plump red head sporting a contagious I-don’t-care-about-rich-people look.

"No," the red head said emphatically as she opened the restaurant door for her sister. "The food is good in here, and I’m not about to let some rich hag spoil my appetite."

Intrigued, Grace followed them into the posh eatery. As she settled down at a table near the window, a man in his mid-thirties with sandy blond hair joined her.

"Sorry I’m late," he said, accepting a menu from the waiter. "I had to throw one last stone before I could leave."

She snickered at her friend’s love for the beach. "Ty, if you’d stop skipping stones and do some surfing, you’d actually be acting like someone closer to your age."

His left eyebrow spiked upward as he glanced at her in good humor. "It takes an entirely different surf to skip stones than to balance one’s body on a gyrating board. Today is a skipping day; yesterday was a surfing day. Besides, death does not come as quickly to skippers as it does to surfers."

She rolled her eyes at him, took a breath to retort, but was interrupted by a high pitched voice several tables away.

"I asked for a fuzzy naval, not a daiquiri. Have you no sense whatsoever?"

Their gaze followed the sound of the irritating voice. Grace nodded knowingly when she spotted the couple who had offended the tourists a few minutes earlier. Ty took a breath to continue teasing her, but she raised a finger to silence him and glanced pointedly at the irate woman.

As the waiter removed the drink, his hand brushed against the woman’s sleeve, sending her into another tizzy. "Don’t touch me. Are you not able to pick up a glass without getting your hands all over me? Do I need to speak to the manager?" She waved him off with an arrogant flick of her hand and said, "Please, hurry with that drink before I ask for another server."

Ty’s attention was now fully on the woman, his well trained eyes taking in her expensive dress, shoes and handbag. He then studied her husband’s attire, the arrogant lift of his chin, and knew what was on Grace’s mind. With a quizzical frown, he gazed at his friend and waited for her to speak.

Grace’s pretty face was a study of contemplation as she began to formulate a plan. Her dark blue eyes glinted, and she began twisting a lock of her auburn hair, a definite sign that she was deep in the throes of speculation.

"This is the one," she said, smiling her thanks at the waiter setting a glass of wine next to her hand.

He sighed, knowing it was inevitable that they find one, but he was enjoying his freedom in one of the prettiest parts of California and was reluctant to get back to work. "Are you sure? We’ve only seen a tiny temper tantrum. It doesn’t necessarily mean she’s the one."

Grace leaned forward and in a whisper told him about the episode outside the restaurant. She nodded her head toward the two sisters dining on the other side of the restaurant and said, "Those two; she was really rude to them."

He held up his hands, vying for more free time. "That’s only two incidents. Maybe she’s just in a foul mood today. We need more evidence before we do this."

She leaned back in her chair, took a sip of Zinfandel, and grinned at him. "You’re not ready to get back to work, are you? You like this vacation, all this free food, the lazy days, no worries."

"Yes," he said emphatically, his hand tightening into a fist. "Don’t you? We’ve only had three weeks off after nearly a year with the last one. Let’s wait another week. Give me one more week. Okay?"

"All right, one more week, but in the meantime we collect a little information about Mrs. Rich Pants, and make sure she’s the right one. We’ll have Cleve do the research on her while we set up the scenarios. Then, in a week, she’s ours." She looked at him questioningly. "How’s that sound?"

Ty grinned at her. "Sounds good to me. I may actually get up nerve enough to try surfing before we leave."

"Right, you do that," she sneered good-naturedly at him. Then, noticing the couple standing up to leave, she said hurriedly, "You want to get it, or shall I?"

"I’ll do it this time since you bumbled it the last time," he teased her and stood up.

While she walked toward the table the couple had just vacated, she began fumbling with her jacket. Just as she reached the table, she spread her arms out, allowing the sleeves to slide slowly over them to create a shield while Ty slipped in front of her and snatched the couple’s credit card receipt. As she nonchalantly lowered her arms, he slipped the paper into his pocket. At the door they thanked the hostess for a nice drink and left.

"I’m starved," Ty complained as they followed the couple walking to a silver limousine parked at the curb.

Grace whistled softly in awe. "Oh my. I think we’ve got a winner here. Look at that stretch. Get the license number."

"Got it," Ty said, his photographic memory storing the data. "But I’m starved."

"Okay, okay. Let’s eat."

"But I wanted to eat in that restaurant. They had lobster and crab."

"You’ll have a hotdog and be happy about it."

"Tyrant," he muttered as he followed her toward the beach.