that something had gone wrong. The expression on her face was like an echo of the night of the class reunion when she'd withdrawn and become suddenly remote. This evening she had been so absolutely open and passionate and delightful, just as he'd hoped she'd be, and he was confounded by the sudden switch.
That didn't keep him from trying to salvage the situation, however. He was a master of repartee, and he genuinely and lightheartedly tried to make it easy for her to respond to his banter. But Cathryn remained guarded, afraid to let him get too close.
After dinner, when they self-consciously and politely edged around each other as they cleaned up the kitchen at Drew's insistence, she thought he'd go soon.
"Show me where you work," he said suddenly and surprisingly after Cathryn had hung up the dish towel and latched the dishwasher door with a definite and final click.
"Well, I..." She hadn't expected this. She'd been prepared to fend off amorous advances, but not an interest in her work. His genuine curiosity cast a spell. "I do most of my work at the studio," she said.
"The article in Palm Beach Parade painted you as a real workaholic who takes work home every night, slaving until the wee hours of the morning in your home office. Or is that as much of a rumor as the one about the emerald?"
She couldn't help smiling. "Of course not. I do work at home sometimes, but—" Then, her heart escalating at the leisurely way his eyes swept her face, she said, "This way."
She led him down the hall, still in her bare feet and wishing that she'd put her shoes on earlier when she'd had the chance. She could have used the dignity at that point.
Her home office was furnished sparely in contrast to the luxurious furnishings in the other rooms. Drew appraised the room, his eyes resting briefly on the desk crowded with paperwork, the slanted drafting table near the window. "It's not like the rest of your apartment," he said, restlessly exploring the bookshelves, scanning the titles, stopping once to take down a book and flip through it. He studied the framed and matted photos on the wall, professional photos of rooms that Cathryn had designed. Some of the pictures had appeared in glossy magazines like Home Fantasy and Design Weekly.
"I like my office plain, not fancy," she explained with a lift of her shoulders. "It's less distracting." His presence in the room dominated it and seemed almost too much of him in this quiet, simple place. He seemed to shape the room to himself, to electrify it. She wondered if, when he left, he would leave some of himself behind and if she would feel him there when she sat down to work later.
A silly notion, and she shook it off.
He took in her laptop on the desk and design books heaped on the floor. "Do you work here every day?"
"Most days."
"And you work at night?"
"Most nights."
"And after you're through working?"
"I fall into bed, exhausted," she said. And she knew that his next question would be, "Alone?" but he didn't ask it.
Instead, as though afraid that the answer would be too painful, he moved his gaze away.
"What's this?" he asked sharply, inspecting a framed watercolor which hung on the wall.
"Just a picture."
It was a seascape done in delicate pastels. The initials "C.M." were inscribed in the lower right-hand corner.
"Did you paint this?"
"Well, I—yes." She'd given up painting years ago, although she had once entertained the idea of selling her paintings professionally.
"It's very good. Do you still paint?"
She shook her head. "No. I don't enjoy it anymore."
"What do you do for fun?"
"Various things. Friends. Lunches. Keeping fit."
"You date?" A much more discreet question than the one he had wanted to ask.
"Sometimes."
"Anyone special?" His eyes pierced into her, trying to divine her answer before it was given.
"Not at the moment." Her breath seemed to have left her lungs. Drew Sedgwick nodded, and for a moment a quiet elation lighted his eyes. His biggest
That didn't keep him from trying to salvage the situation, however. He was a master of repartee, and he genuinely and lightheartedly tried to make it easy for her to respond to his banter. But Cathryn remained guarded, afraid to let him get too close.
After dinner, when they self-consciously and politely edged around each other as they cleaned up the kitchen at Drew's insistence, she thought he'd go soon.
"Show me where you work," he said suddenly and surprisingly after Cathryn had hung up the dish towel and latched the dishwasher door with a definite and final click.
"Well, I..." She hadn't expected this. She'd been prepared to fend off amorous advances, but not an interest in her work. His genuine curiosity cast a spell. "I do most of my work at the studio," she said.
"The article in Palm Beach Parade painted you as a real workaholic who takes work home every night, slaving until the wee hours of the morning in your home office. Or is that as much of a rumor as the one about the emerald?"
She couldn't help smiling. "Of course not. I do work at home sometimes, but—" Then, her heart escalating at the leisurely way his eyes swept her face, she said, "This way."
She led him down the hall, still in her bare feet and wishing that she'd put her shoes on earlier when she'd had the chance. She could have used the dignity at that point.
Her home office was furnished sparely in contrast to the luxurious furnishings in the other rooms. Drew appraised the room, his eyes resting briefly on the desk crowded with paperwork, the slanted drafting table near the window. "It's not like the rest of your apartment," he said, restlessly exploring the bookshelves, scanning the titles, stopping once to take down a book and flip through it. He studied the framed and matted photos on the wall, professional photos of rooms that Cathryn had designed. Some of the pictures had appeared in glossy magazines like Home Fantasy and Design Weekly.
"I like my office plain, not fancy," she explained with a lift of her shoulders. "It's less distracting." His presence in the room dominated it and seemed almost too much of him in this quiet, simple place. He seemed to shape the room to himself, to electrify it. She wondered if, when he left, he would leave some of himself behind and if she would feel him there when she sat down to work later.
A silly notion, and she shook it off.
He took in her laptop on the desk and design books heaped on the floor. "Do you work here every day?"
"Most days."
"And you work at night?"
"Most nights."
"And after you're through working?"
"I fall into bed, exhausted," she said. And she knew that his next question would be, "Alone?" but he didn't ask it.
Instead, as though afraid that the answer would be too painful, he moved his gaze away.
"What's this?" he asked sharply, inspecting a framed watercolor which hung on the wall.
"Just a picture."
It was a seascape done in delicate pastels. The initials "C.M." were inscribed in the lower right-hand corner.
"Did you paint this?"
"Well, I—yes." She'd given up painting years ago, although she had once entertained the idea of selling her paintings professionally.
"It's very good. Do you still paint?"
She shook her head. "No. I don't enjoy it anymore."
"What do you do for fun?"
"Various things. Friends. Lunches. Keeping fit."
"You date?" A much more discreet question than the one he had wanted to ask.
"Sometimes."
"Anyone special?" His eyes pierced into her, trying to divine her answer before it was given.
"Not at the moment." Her breath seemed to have left her lungs. Drew Sedgwick nodded, and for a moment a quiet elation lighted his eyes. His biggest
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