Something happened in the ball game, Sybill assumed, as the three men began to shout, cheering on someone named Eddie.

Out of habit she took out her notebook and began to record observations. The backslapping and arm punching of male companions. The body language of the females, leaning in for intimacy. The hair flipping, the eye shifting, hand gesturing. And of course, the mating ritual of the contemporary couple through the dance.

That was how Phillip saw her when he came in. She was smiling to herself, her gaze roaming, her hand scribbling. She looked, he thought, very cool, very remote. She might have been behind a thin sheet of one-way glass.

She’d pulled her hair back so that it lay in a sleek tail on her neck and left her face unframed. Gold drops studded with single colored stones swung at her ears. He watched her put her pen down to shrug out of a suede jacket of pale yellow.

He had driven in on impulse, giving in to restlessness. Now he blessed that vaguely dissatisfied mood that had dogged him all evening. She was, he decided, exactly what he’d been looking for.

“Sybill, right?” He saw the quick surprise flicker in her eyes when she glanced up. And he saw that those eyes were as clear and pure as lake water.

“That’s right.” Recovering, she closed her notebook and smiled. “Phillip, of Boats by Quinn.”

“You here alone?”

“Yes . . . unless you’d like to sit down and have a drink.”

“I’d love to.” He pulled out a chair, nodding toward her notebook. “Did I interrupt you?”

“Not really.” She shifted her smile to the waitress when her wine was served.

“Hey, Phil, want a draft?”

“Marsha, you read my mind.”

Marsha, Sybill thought. That eliminated the perky brunette. “It’s unusual music.”

“The music here consistently sucks.” He flashed a smile, quick, charming, and amused. “It’s a tradition.”

“Here’s to tradition, then.” She lifted her glass, sipped, then with a little hmmm began transferring ice into the wine.

“How would you rate the wine?”

“Well, it’s basic, elemental, primitive.” She sipped again, smiled winningly. “It sucks.”

“That’s also a proud Shiney’s tradition. He’s got Sam Adams on draft. It’s a better bet.”

“I’ll remember that.” Lips curved, she tilted her head. “Since you know the local traditions, I take it you’ve lived here for some time.”

“Yeah.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her, as something pushed at the edges of his memory. “I know you.”

Her heart bounded hard into her throat. Taking her time, she picked up her glass again. Her hand remained steady, her voice even and easy. “I don’t think so.”

“No, I do. I know that face. It didn’t click before, when you were wearing sunglasses. Something about. . .” He reached out, put a hand under her chin and angled her head again. “That look right there.”

His fingertips were just a bit rough, his touch very confident and firm. The gesture itself warned her that this was a man used to touching women. And she was a woman unused to being touched.