“That’s only natural, Phillip.”

“Doesn’t make me feel any better about it.” He shrugged his shoulders in dismissal, then poured two glasses. “But most of the time, I look at him and think he’s a pretty good deal for a kid brother.”

Anna grated cheese over the casserole. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Phillip lift his glass, appreciate the bouquet. He was beautiful to look at, she mused. Physically, he was as close to male perfection as she could imagine. Bronze hair, thick and full, eyes more gold than brown. His face was long, narrow, thoughtful. Both sensual and angelic. His tall, trim build seemed to have been fashioned for Italian suits. But since she’d seen him stripped to the waist in faded Levi’s she knew there was nothing soft about him.

Sophisticated, tough, erudite, shrewd. An interesting man, she mused.

She slipped the casserole into the oven, then turned to pick up her wine. Smiling at him, she tapped her glass on his. “You’re a pretty good deal too, Phillip, for a big brother.”

She leaned in to kiss him lightly as Cam walked in.

“Get your mouth off my wife.”

Phillip merely smiled and slid an arm around Anna’s waist. “She put hers on me. She likes me.”

“She likes me better.” To prove it, Cam hooked a hand in the tie of Anna’s apron, spun her around, and pulled her into his arms to kiss her brainless. He grinned, nipped her bottom lip and patted her butt companionably. “Don’cha, sugar?”

Her head was still spinning. “Probably.” She blew out a breath. “All things considered.” But she wiggled free. “You’re filthy.”

“Just came in to grab a beer to take into the shower.” Long and lean, dark and dangerous, he prowled over to the fridge. “And kiss my wife,” he added with a smug look at Phillip. “Go get your own woman.”

“Who has time?” Phillip said mournfully.

• • •

AFTER DINNER, AND an hour spent slaving over long division, battles of the Revolutionary War, and sixth-grade vocabulary, Phillip settled down in his room with his laptop and his files.

It was the same room he’d been given when Ray and Stella Quinn had brought him home. The walls had been a pale green then. Sometime during his sixteenth year he’d gotten a wild hair and painted them magenta. God knew why. He remembered that his mother—for Stella had become his mother by then—had taken one look and warned him he’d have terminal indigestion.

He thought it was sexy. For about three months. Then he’d gone with a stark white for a while, accented with moody black-framed, black-and-white photographs.

Always looking for ambience, Phillip thought now, amused at himself. He’d circled back to that soft green right before he moved to Baltimore.

They’d been right all along, he supposed. His parents had usually been right.

They’d given him this room, in this house, in this place. He hadn’t made it easy for them. The first three months were a battle of wills. He smuggled in drugs, picked fights, stole liquor, and stumbled in drunk at dawn.