he didn't know why she'd agreed to dinner. Although, when she thought back over the conversation, she hadn't actually agreed. Which didn't explain why she was getting dressed to go out.

He was an associate, she reminded herself. The Boldari Gallery had a glossy reputation for elegance and exclusivity. The single time she'd managed to carve out an hour when in New York to visit it, she'd been impressed with the understated grandeur of the building almost as much as the art itself.

It would hardly hurt the Institute for her to help forge a relationship between one of the most glamorous galleries in the country and the Jones organization.

He wanted to have dinner to discuss business. She'd make sure it stayed in the business arena. Even if that smile of his sent little sparks of undiluted lust straight to her gut.

If he wanted to flirt with her, fine. Ping or no ping, flirting didn't affect her. She wasn't some impressionable mush brain, after all. Men who looked like Ryan Boldari were born with fully developed flirtation skills.

She liked to think she'd been born with an innate immunity to such shallow talents.

He had the most incredible eyes. Eyes that looked at you as if everything but you had simply melted away.

When she realized she'd sighed and closed her own, she muttered under her breath and yanked up the zipper in the back of her dress.

It was only a matter of pride and professional courtesy that she chose to be particular about her appearance this evening. The first time she saw him she'd resembled a scruffy student. Tonight he would see she was a mature, sophisticated woman who'd have no problem handling a man over a meal.

She'd selected a black dress in thin, soft wool scooped low at the bodice, low enough so that the swell of her breasts rose firmly over the straight edge neckline. The sleeves were long and snug, the skirt narrow and fluid to the ankles. She added an excellent, and unquestionably sexy, reproduction of a Byzantine cross. Its ornate vertical stem rested cozily at the hollow of her breasts.

She yanked her hair up, jamming in pins at random. The result was, if she said so herself, carelessly sexy.

It was a good look, she decided, a confident look, and a far cry from the too tall, socially inept nerd she'd been all through college. No one who glanced at this woman would realize she had nerves in her stomach over a simple business dinner, or that she worried she'd run out of intelligent conversation before the appetizers were served.

They would see poise and style, she thought. They—and he—would see exactly what she wanted to be seen.

She grabbed her purse, craned her neck to study her butt in the mirror and assure herself the dress didn't make it look too big, then headed downstairs.

Andrew was in the front parlor, already into his second whiskey. He lowered the glass when she walked in, and raised his eyebrows high.

"Well. Wow."

"Andrew, you're such a poet. Do I look fat in this?"

"There's never a correct answer to that question. Or if there is, no man has ever found it. Therefore…" He raised his glass in toast. "I abstain."

"Coward." And because her stomach was far too jittery, she poured herself half a glass of white wine.

"Aren't you a little slicked up for a business dinner?"

She sipped, let the wine cruise down to dampen some of the butterfly wings. "Aren't you the one who lectured me for twenty minutes this afternoon on how beneficial a relationship with the Boldari Gallery could be to us?"

"Yeah." But he narrowed his eyes. Though Andrew didn't often see his sister as a woman, he was seeing her now. She looked, he thought uncomfortably, staggering. "Did he hit on you?"

"Get a grip on yourself."

"Did he?"

"No. Not exactly," she amended. "And if he did, or does, I'm a grown woman who knows how to block the blow or hit back, as the choice may be."

"Where are you going?"

"I didn't ask."

"The roads are still pretty crappy."

"It's March in Maine—of course the roads are crappy. Don't go big brother on me, Andrew." She patted his cheek when she said it, more relaxed now because he wasn't. "That must be Ryan," she added when the doorbell rang. "Behave."

"For three Vasaris, I'll behave," he muttered, but his brow creased as he watched Miranda walk out. Sometimes he forgot how outrageous she could look if she took a little time on it. The fact that she'd obviously taken the time gave him an itch between the shoulder blades.

The itch might have become a burn if he'd seen the way Ryan's eyes flashed, the way the heat in them simmered, when Miranda opened the door and stood framed in it.

It was a solid punch to the gut, Ryan thought, and one he should have been better prepared for. "You look like something Titian would have painted." He took her hand, but this time stepped in and brushed his lips over her cheeks—one, then the other, European-style.

"Thank you." She closed the door and resisted the urge to lean back against it to catch her balance. There was something powerful and unnerving about the way her heeled boots made them of a height so that their eyes and mouths were lined up. As they would be, she thought, in bed.

"Andrew's in the parlor," she told him. "Would you like to come in for a moment?"

"Yes, I would. You have a fabulous home." He scanned the foyer, flicked a glance at the staircase as he followed her toward the parlor. "Dramatic and comfortable at the same time. You should commission someone to paint it."

"My grandfather did an oil of it. It's not very good, but we're fond of it. Can I get you a drink?"

"No, nothing. Hello, Andrew." He offered his hand. "I'm stealing your sister away for the evening, unless you'd like to join us."

Ryan had played the odds all of his life, but he cursed himself now as he saw Andrew consider the invitation. Though he was unaware that Miranda was making narrow-eyed, threatening faces behind his back, Ryan was relieved when Andrew shook his head.

"I appreciate it, but I've got some plans. You two enjoy yourselves."

"I'll just get my coat."

Andrew saw them off, then dragged his own coat out of the closet. His plans had changed. He no longer felt like drinking alone. He preferred getting drunk in company.

Miranda pursed her lips as she slid into the back of the limo. "Do you always travel this way?"

"No." Ryan slipped in beside her, took a single white rose out of a bud vase and offered it. "But I had a yen for champagne I couldn't indulge if I was driving." To prove it, he lifted an already opened bottle of Cristal from an ice bucket and poured her a flute.

"Business dinners rarely start with roses and champagne."

"They should." He poured his own glass, tapped it to hers. "When they include women with arresting looks. To the beginning of an entertaining relationship."

"Association," she corrected, and sipped. "I've been in your New York gallery."

"Really? And what did you think of it?"

"Intimate. Glamorous. A small polished jewel with art as the facets."

"I'm flattered. Our gallery in San Francisco is airier, more light and space. We focus on contemporary and modern art there. My brother Michael has an eye and an affection for it. I prefer the classic… and the intimate."

His voice rippled softly over her skin. A telling sign and, Miranda thought, a dangerous one. "So Boldari is a family enterprise."

"Yes, like yours."

"I doubt it," she muttered, then moved her shoulders. Make conversation, she reminded herself. She was a confident woman. She could make conversation. "How did you become involved with art?"

"My parents are artists. For the most part they teach, but my mother's watercolors are glorious. My father sculpts, complicated metal structures no one but Michael seems to understand. But it feeds his soul."

He kept his eyes on hers as he spoke, directly on hers with a quiet intensity that had insistent sexual jolts dancing over her skin. "And do you paint or sculpt?" she asked.

"No, I haven't the hands for it, or the soul. It was a huge disappointment to my parents that none of their six children had a talent for creating art."

"Six." Miranda blinked as he topped off her glass. "Six children."

"My mother's Irish, my father Italian." He grinned, quick and charming. "What else could they do? I have two brothers, three sisters, and I'm the oldest of the lot. You have the most fascinating hair," he murmured, twirling a loose lock around his finger. He was right. She jumped. "How do you keep your hands off it?"

"It's red and unmanageable and if I wouldn't look like a six-foot azalea, I'd chop it off short."

"It was the first thing I noticed about you." His gaze slid down, locked on hers again. "Then it was your eyes. You're made up of bold colors and shapes."

She struggled to repress the fascinating image of grabbing his lapels and simply yanking their bodies together until they were a tangle of limbs on the backseat. And despite her fight for control, she fidgeted. "Like modern art?"

He chuckled. "No, too much classic practicality for that. I like your looks," he said when the limo pulled to the curb and stopped. When the door opened, he took her hand to help her out. His mouth nearly grazed her ear. "Let's see if we like each other's company."

She couldn't say when she started to relax. Perhaps it was sometime during her third glass of champagne. She had to admit he was smooth—maybe just a tad too smooth—but it worked. It was a long time since she'd sat across a candlelit table from a man, and when the man had a face that belonged on a Renaissance portrait, it was impossible not to appreciate the moment.

And he listened. He might claim to have been a poor student of science, but he certainly asked questions and appeared interested in the answers. Perhaps he was simply putting her at ease by steering the conversation onto professional ground, but she was grateful for the results.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd spent an evening talking about her work, and talking of it, she remembered why she loved it.

"It's the discovery," she told him. "The study of a piece of art, and finding its history, its individuality, its personality, I suppose."

"Dissecting it?"

"In a way, yes." It was so pleasant to sit like this, in the cozy warmth of the restaurant with a fire blazing nearby and the cold dark sea just outside the window. "The paint itself, then the brushstrokes, the subject, the purpose. All the parts of it that can be studied and analyzed to give the answers."

"And you don't feel, in the end, the answer is simply the art itself?"

"Without the history, and the analysis, it's just a painting."

"When something's beautiful, it's enough. If I was to analyze your face, I'd take your eyes, the bold summer blue of them, the intelligence in them, the hint of sadness. And the suspicion," he added with a smile. "Your mouth, soft, wide, reluctant to smile. Your cheekbones, sharp, aristocratic. Your nose, slim, elegant. Separate the features, study, analyze, I'd still come to the conclusion that you're a stunning woman. And I can do that by just sitting back and appreciating the whole."

She toyed with her scrod, struggling not to be overly flattered or charmed. "That was clever."

"I'm a clever man, and you don't trust me."

Her gaze lifted to his again. "I don't know you."

"What else can I tell you? I come from a big, loud, ethnic family, grew up in New York, studied, without a great deal of enthusiasm, at Columbia. Then because I'm not artistic, shifted into the business of art. I've never married, which displeases my mother—enough that I once considered it seriously, and briefly."

She arched a brow. "And rejected it?"

"At that particular time, with that particular woman. We lacked a spark." He leaned closer, for the pleasure of her, and because he enjoyed the cautious awareness that came into her eyes when he did. "Do you believe in sparks, Miranda?"

Sparks, she imagined, were cousins to pings. "I believe they fuel initial attraction, but sparks die out and aren't enough for the long haul."

"You're cynical," he decided. "I'm a romantic. You analyze and I appreciate. That's an interesting combination, don't you think?"

She moved her shoulder, discovering she wasn't quite so relaxed any longer. He had her hand again, just playing with her fingers on the table. He had a habit of touching she wasn't used to, and one that made her all too aware of sparks.

Sparks, she reminded herself, made a pretty light. But they could also burn.

Being this quickly, and outrageously, attracted to him was dangerous, and it was illogical. It had everything to do with glands and nothing to do with intellect.

Therefore, she concluded, it could and would be controlled.

"I don't understand romantics. They make decisions based on feelings rather than fact." Andrew was a romantic, she thought, and hurt for him. "Then they're surprised when those decisions turn out to be mistakes."

"But we have so much more fun than cynics." And he, he realized, was much more attracted to her than he'd anticipated. Not just her looks, he decided as their plates were cleared. It was that leading edge of practicality, of pragmatism. One he found it hard to resist buffing away.

And yes, the big sad eyes.

"Dessert?" he asked her.

"No, I couldn't. It was a lovely meal."

"Coffee?"

"It's too late for coffee."

He grinned, absolutely charmed. "You're an orderly woman, Miranda. I like that about you." Still watching her, he signaled for the bill. "Why don't we take a walk? You can show me the waterfront."

"Jones Point's a safe city," she began when they strolled in the icy wind that whipped off the water. The limo followed them at a crawl, a fact that both amused and staggered her. However much wealth she'd come from, no Jones would ever hire a limo to pace them as they walked. "It's very walkable. There are several parks. They're gorgeous in the spring and summer. Shade trees, banks of flowers. You've never been here before?"

"No. Your family's lived here for generations?"

"Yes. There have always been Joneses in Jones Point."

"Is that why you live here?" His gloved fingers tangled with hers, leather sliding over leather. "Because it's expected?"

"No. It's where I come from, where I am." It was difficult to explain, even to herself, how deep her roots were sunk in that rocky New England soil. "I enjoy traveling, but this is where I want to be when it's time to come home."

"Then tell me about Jones Point."

"It's quiet and settled. The city itself grew from a fishing village into a community with emphasis on culture and tourism. A number of residents still make their living from the sea. What we call the waterfront is actually along Commercial Street. Lobstering is profitable—the packing plant ships all over the world."

"Have you ever done it?"

"What?"

"Gone lobstering."

"No." She smiled a little. "I can see the boats and buoys from the cliffs behind the house. I like to watch them."

Observe rather than participate, he thought.

"This area is Old Port," she continued. "You'll find a lot of galleries in this part of town. You might be interested in visiting some of them before you leave."

"I might."

"The city shows best in the spring, when you can make use of the parks and beaches. There are some beautiful stretches of marsh and sand, views of Miracle Bay and the islands. But in dead winter, it can be a postcard. The pond freezes in Atlantic Park, and people come to ice-skate."

"Do you?" He slipped an arm around her shoulder to block her from the edge of the wind. Their bodies bumped. "Skate."

"Yes." Her blood simmered; her throat went dry. "It's excellent exercise."

He laughed, and just beyond the circle of light tossed out by a streetlamp, turned her to him. Now his hands were on her shoulders, and the wind at his back streamed through his hair. "So it's for the exercise, not for the fun."

"I enjoy it. It's too late in the year for skating now."

He could feel her nerves, the shimmer of them under his hands. Intrigued by them, he drew her a little closer. "And how do you get your exercise this late in the year?"

"I walk a lot. Swim when I can." Her pulse was beginning to jump, a sensation she knew she couldn't trust. "It's too cold to stand."

"Then why don't we consider this an exercise in sharing body heat." He hadn't intended to kiss her—eventually yes, of course—but not this soon. Still, he hadn't lied when he told her he was a romantic. And the moment simply called for it.

He brushed his lips over hers, testing, his eyes open as hers were. The wariness in hers caused his lips to curve as he tasted her a second time. He was a man who believed in practicing until he was skilled in a matter he enjoyed. He was very skilled in the matter of women and patiently warmed her lips with his until hers softened, parted, until her lashes fluttered down and she sighed quietly into his mouth.

Maybe it was foolish, but what could it hurt? The little war of reason in her head faded to whispers as sensation layered over. His mouth was firm and persuasive, his body long and hard. He tasted faintly of the wine they'd shared and was just as amusingly foreign and rich.

She found herself leaning into him, her hands clutching at his coat at the waist. And her mind went blank with pleasure.

Suddenly his hands were cupping her face, the cold, smooth leather of his gloves a shock to her dreaming brain. Her eyes opened to find his narrowed on her face, with an intensity burning in them the easy kiss didn't warrant.

"Let's try that again."

This time his mouth was rough and hot, plundering hers until her head roared with sounds like the sea below the cliffs of her home. There was demand here, and the arrogant certainty it would be answered. Even as her mind lurched back, bent on refusing, her mouth answered.

He knew what it was to want. He'd wanted a great deal in his life, and had made it his business to see his desires were met. Wanting her was acceptable, even expected. But wanting her now, this forcibly, was dangerous. Even a man who gambled by choice knew to avoid unwinnable risks.

Still, he lingered long enough to be certain he would spend a very uncomfortable night, alone. He couldn't afford to seduce her, to take her back to his bed. There was work to be done, and the timing was already set. Most of all, he couldn't afford to care for her. Growing attached to a pawn was a certain way to lose the game.

He never lost.

He held her away, skimming his gaze over her face. Her cheeks were flushed, from the cold and the heat. Her eyes were clouded still with a passion he imagined had surprised her as much as him. She shivered as he stroked his hands down to her shoulders again. And she said nothing.

"I should take you home." However much he cursed himself, his smile was smooth and easy.

"Yes." She wanted to sit, to steady herself. To think again. "It's getting late."

"Another minute," he murmured, "it would have been too late." Taking her hand, he led her to the waiting limo. "Do you get to New York often?"

"Now and again." The heat seemed to be centered in a ball in her gut. The rest of her was cold, viciously cold.

"You'll let me know when your plans take you there. And I'll adjust mine."

"All right," she heard herself say, and didn't feel foolish at all.

She sang in the shower. It was something she never did. She didn't have to be told she had a dreadful voice, when she could hear it for herself. But this morning she belted out "Making Whoopee." She had no idea why that tune was lodged in her head—had no idea she even knew the lyrics—but she gurgled them as water sluiced over her head.

She was still humming when she dried off.

Bending from the waist, she wrapped a towel around her mass of hair, swinging her hips as she did so. She was no better at dancing, though she knew all the proper steps. The members of the art council who had guided her through her rigid waltzes would have been shocked to see the cool Dr. Jones bumping and grinding around her efficient bathroom.

She giggled at the thought of it, a sound so unprecedented she had to stop and catch her breath. She realized with a kind of jolt that she was happy. Really happy. That too was a rare thing. Content she often was, involved, satisfied, or challenged. But she knew simple happiness often eluded her.

It was marvelous to feel it now.

And why shouldn't she? She slipped into a practical terry robe and smoothed her arms and legs with quietly scented body cream. She was interested in a very appealing man, and he was interested in her. He enjoyed her company, appreciated her work, found her attractive on both a physical and an intellectual plane.

He wasn't intimidated, as so many were, by her position or her personality. He was charming, successful—to say nothing of gorgeous—and he'd been civilized enough not to press an obvious advantage and attempt to lure her into bed.

Would she have gone? Miranda wondered as she briskly dried off the foggy mirror. Normally the answer would have been a firm no. She didn't indulge in reckless affairs with men she barely knew. She didn't indulge in affairs period for that matter. It had been over two years since she'd had a lover, and that had ended so miserably she'd resolved to avoid even casual relationships.

But last night… Yes, she thought she could have been persuaded. Against her better judgment she could have been swayed. But he had respected her enough not to ask.

She continued to hum as she dressed for the day, choosing a wool suit with a short skirt and long jacket in a flattering shade of steel blue. She took care with her makeup, then let her hair tumble as it chose. In a last act of female defiance against the elements, she slipped into impractical heels.

She left for work in the chilly dark, and was still singing.

Andrew awoke with the mother of all hangovers. Not being able to stand his own whimpering, he tried to smother himself with pillows. Survival was stronger than misery, and he burst up, gasping for air and grabbing his head to keep it from falling off his shoulders.

Then he let go, praying it would.

He inched out of bed. As a scientist he knew it wasn't possible for his bones to actually shatter, but he was afraid they might defy the laws of physics and do just that.

It was Annie's fault, he decided. She'd gotten just annoyed enough with him the night before to let him drink himself blind. He'd counted on her to cut him off, as she usually did. But no, she kept slapping those drinks in front of him, every time he called for one.

He dimly remembered her shoving him into a cab and saying something pithy about hoping he was sick as three dogs.

She'd gotten her wish, he thought as he stumbled downstairs. If he felt any worse, he'd be dead.

When he saw there was already coffee, brewed and waiting, he nearly wept with love and gratitude for his sister. With hands that fumbled and trembled, he shook out four extra-strength Excedrin and washed them down with coffee that scalded his mouth.

Never again, he promised himself, pressing his fingers to his throbbing, bloodshot eyes. He would never drink to excess again. Even as he vowed, the slick longing for just one glass shuddered through him. Just one glass to steady his hands, to settle his stomach.

He refused it, telling himself there was a difference between overindulging and alcoholism. If he took a drink at seven a.m., he'd be an alcoholic. At seven p.m. now, it was fine. He could wait. He would wait. Twelve hours.

The ringing of the doorbell split through his skull like a keen-edged blade. He very nearly screamed. Instead of answering, he sat at the long trestle table there in the kitchen, laid his head down, and prayed for oblivion.

He'd nearly dozed off when the back door opened, letting in a frigid blast of air and an angry woman.

"I thought you'd be curled up somewhere feeling sorry for yourself." Annie set a grocery bag on the counter, slapped her hands on her hips, and scowled at him. "Look at you, Andrew. A pitiful mess. Half naked, unshaven, bloodshot, and smelly. Go take a shower."

He lifted his head to blink at her. "I don't wanna."

"Go take a shower while I fix your breakfast." When he tried to lower his head again, she simply took a handful of his hair and dragged it up again. "You're getting just what you deserve."

"Jesus, Annie, you're going to yank my head off."

"And you'd feel considerably better if I could. You get your skinny butt out of that chair and go clean up—and use some industrial-strength mouthwash. You need it."

"Christ Almighty. What the hell are you doing here?" He hadn't thought there was room for embarrassment in the rage of the hangover, but he'd been wrong. He could feel the flush—a curse of his coloring—work up his bare chest toward his face. "Go away."

"I sold you the liquor." She let his hair go, and his head fell back onto the table with a thunk that made him howl. "You made me mad, so I let you keep drinking. So I'm going to fix you a decent breakfast, see that you get yourself cleaned up and go to work. Now go take a shower, or I'll take you up and toss you in the tub myself."

"Okay, okay." Anything was better than having her nag at him. With what dignity he could muster in his boxer shorts, he rose. "I don't want anything to eat."

"You'll eat what I fix you." She turned to the counter and began unloading the bag. "Now get out of here. You smell like the floor of a second-class bar."

She waited until she heard him shuffle away, then closed her eyes and leaned on the counter.

Oh, he'd looked so pathetic. So sad and sick and silly. She'd wanted to cuddle him, to soothe, to stroke all those poisons out of him. Poisons, she thought guiltily, she'd sold him because she was angry.

It wasn't the liquor, not really, she thought. It was his heart, and she just didn't know how to reach it.

She wondered if she could if she only cared about him a little less.

She heard the pipes clunk as he ran the shower, and it made her smile. He was so much like this house, she thought. A little threadbare, a little damaged, but surprisingly sturdy under it all.

He just couldn't see that Elise, for all her brains and beauty, hadn't been right for him. They'd made a stunning couple, bright and brilliant, but that was all surface. She hadn't understood his foundation, his need for sweetness, and the ache in his heart that came from not believing himself worthy of love.

He needed tending.

That she could do, Annie decided, pushing up her sleeves. If nothing else, she could bully him into finding his feet again.

Friends, she told herself, stood by friends.

The kitchen was full of homey scents when he came back. If it had been anyone but Annie, he might have locked himself in his room. The shower had helped, and the pills had shoved the worst of the hangover away. The edges of it were still churning in his stomach and rolling in his head, but he thought he could manage now.

He cleared his throat, worked up a smile. "Smells great."

"Sit down," she told him without turning.

"Okay. I'm sorry, Annie."

"No need to apologize to me. You should apologize to yourself. That's who's being hurt here."

"I'm sorry anyway." He looked down at the bowl she put in front of him. "Oatmeal?"

"It'll stick to you, coat your stomach."

"Mrs. Patch used to make me eat oatmeal," he said, thinking of the sharp stick of a woman who'd cooked for them when he was a boy. "Every day before school, fall, winter, and spring."

"Mrs. Patch knew what was good for you."

"She used to put a little maple syrup in it."

Feeling her lips twitch, Annie reached into a cupboard. She knew his kitchen as well as her own. She set the bottle of syrup in front of him, and added a plate of hot toasted bread. "Eat."

"Yes, ma'am." He took the first bite cautiously, uncertain anything would stay down. "It's good. Thanks."

When she saw he was making headway, and his color was no longer sickly gray, she sat across from him. Friends stood by friends, she thought again. And they were honest with each other.

"Andrew, you've got to stop doing this to yourself."

"I know. I shouldn't have had so much to drink."

She reached out, touched his hand. "If you take one drink, you're going to take the next, and the next."

Annoyed, he jerked his shoulders. "Nothing wrong with a drink now and then. Nothing wrong with getting drunk now and then."

"There is when you're an alcoholic."

"I'm not."

She sat back. "I run a bar and I was married to a drunk. I know the signs. There's a difference between someone who has a couple too many and someone who can't stop."

"I can stop." He picked up the coffee she'd poured him. "I'm not drinking now, am I? I don't drink at work—and I don't let it affect my work. I don't get drunk every night."

"But you drink every night."

"So does half the goddamn world. What's the difference between a couple glasses of wine with dinner and a shot or two in the evening?"

"You'll have to figure that out for yourself. The way I did. We were both half drunk the night we…" It hurt to say it. She thought she'd been ready, but it hurt and she couldn't say it after all.

"Christ, Annie." Remembering had him raking a hand through his hair, wishing the ball of shame and guilt hadn't just dropped into his gut. "We were just kids."

"We were old enough to make a baby between us. Temporarily." She pressed her lips together. No matter what it cost she would get at least part of it out. "We were stupid, and we were innocent, and we were irresponsible. I've accepted that." Oh God, she tried to accept that. "But it taught me what you can lose, what it can do if you don't stay in control. You're not in control, Andrew."

"One night fifteen years ago doesn't have anything to do with now." The minute the words were out, the minute he saw the way her body jerked back, he regretted it. "I didn't mean it like that, Annie. Not that it didn't matter. I just—"

"Don't." Her voice was cool now and distant. "Just don't. We're better off when we pretend it never happened. I only brought it up because you can't seem to see the difference. You were only seventeen, but you already had a drinking problem. I didn't. I don't. You've managed to get through most of your life without letting it take over. Now you've crossed the line. It's starting to rule you, Andrew, and you have to take back the controls. I'm telling you this as a friend." She rose, cupped his face in her hands. "Don't come in my place anymore. I won't serve you."

"Come on, Annie—"

"You can come for conversation, but don't come for a drink because I won't give it to you."

She turned, picked up her coat, and hurried out.