She gestured with the bottle, then drank again. “You’re not the small-change sort. More the beluga and Dom Perignon type. I suppose you get your jollies by going into trances around crime scenes and spouting out clues. Maybe you even hit a few from time to time, so good for you. But you’re not going to get your jollies out of Rose and Stan’s unhappiness. You’re not going to use their little boy as an ego boost.”

He was only mildly annoyed. Sebastian assured himself that he didn’t give a tinker’s dam what this smart-mouthed green-eyed bimbo thought of him. The bottom line was David Merrick.

But his fingers had tightened on the bottle, and his voice, when he spoke, was entirely too soft.

“Have me all figured out, do you, Sutherland?”

“You bet your buns I do.” Arrogance came off her in waves as she sat on the corner of the desk. “So let’s not waste each other’s time. If you feel you’re owed something for hearing Rose out yesterday, bill me. I’ll see you get what’s coming to you.”

He said nothing for a moment. It occurred to him that he’d never had the urge to throttle a woman before. Excepting his cousin Morgana. But now he imagined closing his hands around Mel’s long, tanned throat. And he imagined very well.

“It’s a wonder you don’t stagger with that chip on your shoulder.” He set the half-empty bottle down. Then, pushing impatiently through the chaos on her desk, he unearthed a pencil and a sheet of paper.

“What’re you doing?” she asked when he cleared a small space and began to sketch.

“Drawing you a picture. You seem like the kind who needs visuals.”

She frowned. Watching the careless way his hand streaked over the paper, she frowned deeper. She’d always envied and resented people who could draw so effortlessly. She continued to drink, telling herself she wasn’t interested. But her gaze continued to be pulled back to the face emerging from the lines and curves he made.

Despite herself, she leaned closer. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that he smelled like horses and leather. Sleek, groomed horses, and oiled leather. The deep purple of his amethyst caught her eye. She stared at it, half-hypnotized by the way it glinted in that twist of gold on his little finger.

Artist’s hands, she thought dimly. Strong and capable and elegant. She reminded herself they would probably be soft, as well—accustomed to opening champagne or undoing a lady’s fancy buttons.

“I often do both at the same time.”

“What?” More than a little dazed, she looked up and saw that he had stopped drawing. He was simply standing, closer than she’d realized. And watching.