Inner Harbor (Chesapeake Bay Saga #3)

  Don't do this, don't do this, don't do this. The order screamed in her head even as she watched her finger depress the buzzer beside his door.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, what have I done? What will I say? How can I explain?

  Please don't be home, was her last desperate thought seconds before the door opened.

  "Sybill?" His eyes widened in surprise, his lips curved.

  Lord help her, she began to babble. "I'm so sorry. I should have called. I don't mean to—I shouldn't have… I had to come into the city, and I was just…"

  "Here, let me have those. You buy out the store?" He was pulling the wet bags out of her icy hands. "You're freezing. Come inside."

  "I should have called. I was—"

  "Don't be silly." He dumped the bags and began to peel her out of her dripping raincoat. "You should have let me know you were coming into Baltimore today. When did you get in?"

  "I—about two-thirty. I had an appointment. I was just—it's raining," she blurted out, hating herself. "I'm not used to driving in traffic. Not really used to driving at all, actually, and I was a little nervous about it."

  She rambled on, while he studied her, his brows lifted. Her cheeks were flushed, but he didn't think it was from the cold. Her voice was skittish, and that was new. And interesting. She couldn't seem to figure out what to do with her hands.

  Though the raincoat had protected her neat slate-gray suit, her shoes were soaked and her hair was dewed with rain.

  "You're wired up, aren't you?" he murmured. He put his hands on her arms, rubbed up and down to warm them. "Relax."

  "I should have called," she said for the third time. "It was rude, presumptuous—"

  "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 Miro 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."

  "You knew about that."

  "He's a friend. He keeps me up to date." And, Phillip admitted to himself, he'd been acutely disappointed when she hadn't called him to let him know she was coming to the city. "How'd it go?"

  "Well, I think. He seems confident that the guardianship will go through. I couldn't persuade my mother to make a statement, though."

  "She's angry with you."

  Sybill took a quick swallow of wine. "Yes, she's angry, and no doubt deeply regrets the momentary lapse that allowed her to tell me what happened between her and your father."

  He took her hand. "It's difficult for you. I'm sorry."

  She looked down at their linked fingers. How easily he touched, she thought absently. As if it was the most natural thing in the world. "I'm a big girl. Since it's doubtful that this little incident, however newsworthy it is in St. Christopher's, will ripple across the Atlantic to Paris, she'll get over it."

  "Will you?"

  "Life moves on. Once the legalities are dealt with, there won't be any motive for Gloria to make trouble for you and your family. For Seth. She will, I imagine, continue to make trouble for herself, but there's nothing I can do about that. Nothing I want to do about it."

  A cold streak, Phillip wondered, or a defense? "Even after the legalities are dealt with, Seth will still be your nephew. None of us would stop you from seeing him, or

being part of his life."

  "I'm not a part of his life," she said flatly. "And as he makes his life, it would only be distracting and unconstructive for him to have reminders of his old life. It's a miracle that what Gloria did to him hasn't scarred him more deeply. Whatever sense of security he has, it's due to your father, to you and your family. He doesn't trust me, Phillip, and he has no reason to."

  "Trust has to be earned. You have to want to earn it."

  She rose, walked to the dark window and looked out on the city lights that wavered behind the rain. "When you came to live with Ray and Stella Quinn, when they were helping you change your life, remake yourself, did you maintain contact with your mother, with your friends in Baltimore?"

  "My mother was a part-time whore who resented every breath I took, and my friends were dealers, junkies, and thieves. I didn't want contact with them any more than they wanted it with me."

  "Regardless." She turned back to face him. "You understand my point."

  "I understand it, but I don't agree with it."

  "I imagine Seth does."

  He set his glass aside as he rose. "He wants you there on his birthday Friday."

  "You want me there," she corrected. "And I very much appreciate you for persuading Seth to allow it."

  "Sybill—"

  "Speaking of which," she said quickly. "I found your art store." She gestured toward the bags he'd set by the door.

  "That?" He stared at the bags. "All of that?"

  Immediately she began to nibble on her thumbnail. "It's too much, isn't it? I knew it. I got caught up. I can take some of it back or just keep it for myself. I don't take enough time to draw anymore."

  He'd walked over to examine the bags, the boxes inside. "All of this?" With a laugh, he straightened, shook his head. "He'll love it. He'll go nuts."

  "I don't want him to think of it as a bribe, like I'm trying to buy his affection. I don't know what got into me. Once I started, I couldn't seem to stop."

  "If I were you, I'd stop questioning my motives for doing something nice, something impulsive, and just a bit over the top." Gently he tugged at her hand. "And stop biting your nails."

  "I'm not biting my nails. I never…" Insulted, she looked down at her hand, saw the ragged thumbnail. "Oh, God, I'm biting my nails. I haven't done that since I was fifteen. Where's my nail file?"

  Phillip edged closer to her as she grabbed her handbag and took out a small manicure set. "Were you a nervous kid?"

  "Hmm?"

  "A nail-biter."

  "It was a bad habit, that's all." Smoothly, efficiently, she began to repair the damage.

  "A nervous habit, wouldn't you say, Dr. Griffin?"

  "Perhaps. But I broke it."

  "Not entirely. Nail biting," he murmured, moving toward her. "Migraines."

  "Only occasionally."

  "Skipping meals," he continued. "Don't bother to tell me you've eaten tonight. I know better. It seems to me that your breathing and concentrating isn't quite doing the job on stress. Let's try my way again."