“No, it wasn’t. A little risky, maybe. If you’d gotten here twenty minutes earlier, I wouldn’t have been home yet.” He drew her a little closer. “Sybill, relax.”

“Okay.” She closed her eyes.

Amusement flickered into his own as he watched her take slow deep breaths.

“Does that breathing stuff really work?” he asked with a chuckle.

The irritation in her voice was barely noticeable, but it was there. “Studies have proven that the flow of oxygen and mental focus relieves stress.”

“I bet. I’ve done studies of my own. Let’s try it my way.” He brought his mouth to hers, rubbed gently, persuasively until hers softened, yielded, warmed. His tongue danced lightly over hers, teasing out a sigh. “Yeah, that works for me,” he murmured, brushing his cheek over her damp hair. “Works just fine for me. How about you?”

“Oral stimulation is also a proven remedy for stress.”

He chuckled. “I’m in danger of becoming crazy about you. How about some wine?”

She didn’t care to analyze his definition of crazy just then. “I wouldn’t mind one glass. I shouldn’t, really. I’m driving.”

Not tonight you’re not, he thought, but only smiled. “Sit down. I’ll be right back.”

She went back to the concentrated breathing as he slipped into another room. After her nerves settled a bit, she studied the apartment.

A conversation pit in deep forest-green dominated the living area. In its center was a square coffee table. Riding over it was a large sailboat in what she recognized as Murano glass. A pair of green iron candlesticks held fat white candles.

At the far side of the room there was a small bar with a pair of black leather stools. Behind it was a vintage poster for Nuits-St.-Georges Burgundy, depicting an eighteenth-century French calvary officer sitting on a cask with a glass, a pipe, and a very satisfied smile.

The walls were white and splashed here and there with art. A framed print of a stylish poster for Tattinger champagne, with a elegant woman, surely that was Grace Kelly, in a sleek black evening gown behind a slim flute of bubbling wine, hung over a round glass table with curved steel legs. There was a Joan Miró print, an elegant reproduction of Alphonse Mucha’s Automne.

Lamps were both sparely modern and elegantly Deco. The carpet was thick and pale gray, the uncurtained window wide and wet with rain.

She thought the room displayed masculine, eclectic, and witty taste. She was admiring a brown leather footstool in the shape of a barnyard pig when he returned with two glasses.

“I like your pig.”

“He caught my eye. Why don’t you tell me about what must have been a very interesting day?”

“I didn’t even ask if you had plans.” She noted he was dressed in a soft black sweatshirt and jeans and wasn’t wearing any shoes. But that didn’t mean—

“I do now.” Taking her hand he led her across to the deep cushioned U-shaped sofa. “You saw the lawyer this afternoon.”