Aching for her, the woman and the child, he set his glass aside and framed her face gently with his hands. “You’re wrong.”

“No, I’m not.” Her smile was soaked in wine. “I’m a professional. I know these things. My parents never loved me, certainly Gloria didn’t. The husband, who didn’t count, didn’t love me. There wasn’t even one of those kindly, good-hearted servants you read about in books, who held me against her soft, generous bosom and loved me. No one even bothered to pretend enough to use the words. You, on the other hand, are very lovable.” She ran her free hand up his chest. “I’ve never had sex when I’ve been drunk. What do you suppose it’s like?”

“Sybill.” He caught her hand before she could distract him. “They underestimated and undervalued you. You shouldn’t do the same to yourself.”

“Phillip.” She leaned forward, managed to nip his bottom lip between her teeth. “My life’s been a predictable bore. Until you. The first time you kissed me, my mind just clicked off. No one ever did that to me before. And when you touch me . . .” Slowly she brought their joined hand to her breast. “My skin gets hot and my heart pounds, and my insides get loose and liquid. You climbed up the building.” Her mouth roamed over his jaw. “You brought me roses. You wanted me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I wanted you, but not just—”

“Take me.” She let her head fall back so she could look into those wonderful eyes. “I’ve never said that to a man before. Imagine that. Take me, Phillip.” And the words were part plea, part promise. “Just take me.”

The empty glass slipped out of her fingers as she wrapped her arms around him. Helpless to resist, he lowered her to the sofa. And took.

• • •

THE DULL ACHE behind her eyes, the more lively one dancing inside her temples, was no more than she deserved, Sybill decided as she tried to drown both of them under the hot spray of the shower.

She would never, as God was her witness, overindulge in any form of alcohol again.

She only wished the aftermath of drink had resulted in memory loss as well, as a hangover. But she remembered, much too clearly, the way she’d prattled on about herself. The things she’d told Phillip. Humiliating, private things, things she rarely even told herself.

Now she had to face him. She had to face him and the fact that in one short weekend she had wept in his arms, then had given him both her body and her most carefully guarded secrets.

And she had to face the fact that she was hopelessly, and dangerously, in love with him.

Which was totally irrational, of course. The very fact that she believed she could have developed such strong feelings for him in such a short amount of time and association was precisely why those emotions were hopeless. And dangerous.