“Well, I should go.”

“The art stuff you gave me, it’s really great.”

“I’m glad you like it. You have talent.”

“I fooled around some with the charcoal last night.”

She hesitated again. “Oh?”

“I’m not getting it right.” He twisted his head to look up at her. “It’s a lot different than a pencil. Maybe you could show me how to do it.”

She stared hard over the water because she knew he wasn’t asking. He was offering. Now, it seemed, she was being given a chance, and a choice. “Yes, I could show you.”

“Now?”

“Yes.” She concentrated on keeping her voice even. “I could show you now.”

“Cool.”

NINETEEN

SO, HE’D BEEN a little hard on her, Phillip told himself. Maybe he felt that she should have told him immediately that Gloria had contacted her. Party or no party, she could have taken him aside and filled him in. But he shouldn’t have jumped all over her and then walked out.

Still, in his own defense, he’d felt raw and annoyed and unsettled. He’d spent the first part of the night worried about her, and the second part worried about himself. Was he supposed to be happy that she’d wormed her way through his defenses? Was he supposed to jump for joy that in a matter of weeks she’d managed to drill a hole in the highly polished shield he’d maintained so expertly for over thirty years?

He didn’t think so.

But he was willing to admit that he hadn’t behaved well. He was even willing to offer a peace token in the form of vintage champagne and long-stemmed roses.

He’d packed the basket himself. Two bottles of Dom, well chilled, two crystal flutes—he wasn’t about to insult that brilliant French monk with hotel glasses—the beluga he’d craftily hidden, for just such an occasion, inside an empty carton of plain low-fat yogurt, knowing that no one in his family would touch it.

He’d made the toast points himself and had selected both the blush-pink roses and the vase with care.

He thought she might be a tad resistant to the visit. It never hurt to pave the way with champagne and flowers. And since he intended to do a little worming himself, they couldn’t hurt. He was going to loosen her up, he decided, talk to her, and more, get her talking. He wasn’t leaving until he had a much clearer view on just who Sybill Griffin was.

He rapped cheerfully on her door. That was going to be his approach—casual cheer. He shot a quick, charming smile at the peephole when he heard footsteps, saw the vague, telltale shadow.

And he stood as those footsteps receded.

Okay. Maybe more than a tad resistant, he concluded, and knocked again. “Come on, Sybill. I know you’re there. I want to talk to you.”

Silence, he discovered, didn’t have to be empty. It could be crowded with ice.

Okay, fine, he thought, scowling at the door. She wanted to do it the hard way.