weeney was numb with shock. She wasn't certain what had just happened, but she knew something had. For a moment, just a split second, it had been as if she and Richard Worth were linked. She didn't like the sensation, didn't want that uncomfortable intimacy. She had always enjoyed her sense of being alone, envisioning herself as a ball that rolled through life, bumping into other lives but not stopping. For a moment, just for a moment, the roll had been halted, and she didn't know why. He was only an acquaintance, little more than a stranger. There was no reason for him to look at her as if he knew her. There was no reason for her to feel that funny jolt in her stomach, akin to the pleasure she had gotten from the Diet Coke commercial.

If this was another one of the weird changes that had been going on in her life for the past year, she didn't like this one any more than she did all the others. Damn it, she wanted things back the way they had been!

Before she could gather herself, the front doors opened behind her. Kai's face lit with the smile he reserved for buyers. To her surprise, he didn't seem to have noticed anything unusual. "Senator and Mrs. McMillan," he exclaimed, strolling toward them. "How nice to see you. May I get you anything? Tea, coffee? Something stronger?"

Sweeney swung around as a tall, thin, impossibly stylish woman said, "Tea," in a languid tone that was almost drowned by her husband's stronger voice as he said, "Coffee, black." His tone was as forceful as hers had been die-away.

To her surprise, Sweeney recognized him. She was notoriously oblivious to current events, but even so, this face had been on television often enough that she knew who he was. If Kai had said "Senator McMillan" before, instead of "the McMillans," she would have known. Senator Carson McMillan had a charisma that had carried him from city government to the state house, and from there to Washington, where he was in his second term. He had money, charm, intelligence, and ambition—in short, the qualities expected to eventually carry him to the presidency.

She disliked him on sight.

Maybe it was the career politician's practiced suavity that put her off. It wasn't the ruthlessness she read in him; she understood ruthlessness, having her share of it when it came to clearing out the space and time for her painting. It could have been the hint of disdain that seeped through his charm like the occasional whiff of sewer gas coming from a drainage grate. He was the type of politician who secretly thought his constituents were either dim-witted or hayseeds, or both.

On the other hand, he was undeniably striking in looks: about six feet tall, with a certain beefiness through the chest and shoulders that nevertheless struck her as muscular rather than fat, and gave him the impression of power. His brown hair was still thick, and attractively grayed at the temples. His hair stylist did a good job with that. His eyes were a clear hazel, his facial structure strong and almost classical, though his jaw and chin were too pugnacious for true classic beauty.

She immediately knew she didn't want to paint his portrait. She didn't want to spend another minute in his presence. But still… what a challenge. Could she portray the essential good looks and still catch that expression of condescending superiority, like a transparent overlay? The expression was everything. Senator McMillan had learned, for the most part, to put on a congenial face for the benefit of the public. In this situation, with only Kai and herself as witnesses and with both of them in what he would consider a subservient position, the public face slipped a bit. Sweeney didn't doubt that if she had been dressed in designer clothes and expensive jewelry, rather than a simple skirt and sweater, the reaction she had gotten from him would have been something other than the glance that was both dismissive and insulting, lingering on her breasts as it did.

She almost sniffed her own disdain, but caught herself in time. Candra had put herself out for this, so the least Sweeney could do was be polite. She switched her gaze to Mrs. McMillan, already inclined to feel sorry for the woman.

Her inclination was wasted. Mrs. McMillan obviously considered herself so superior that sympathy from lesser beings was unthinkable. The senator had worked on his public persona; his wife hadn't bothered. She was utterly secure in her position; there wouldn't be any young trophy wife taking her place, unless her husband wanted to risk losing his career. Any divorce proceedings involving this woman, Sweeney thought, would be messy, bitter, and extremely public. Mrs. McMillan would personally see to it.

The senator's wife was fashionably thin, stylish, bored. Her hair was champagne blond, at least this week, and cut in a classic bob that dipped just short of her shoulders and was swept back from her face to reveal ornate gold earrings studded with tiny diamonds. A good New Yorker, she wore a simple black sheath that made her seem thin to the point of emaciation, and which probably cost more than Sweeney's entire wardrobe as well as part of her furniture.

Kai returned with a tray bearing tea and coffee, and noticed Sweeney standing there, joining the McMillans in silence. "I'm sorry, I didn't introduce you," he exclaimed. "Senator, Mrs. McMillan, this is Sweeney, the portrait artist Candra wanted you to meet. Sweeney, Senator Carson McMillan and his wife, Margo."

Sweeney held out her hand to Mrs. McMillan, feeling like a dog offering its paw, and from the look the senator's wife gave her, she might as well have been. Mrs. McMillan offered only her fingertips, probably to lessen the risk of contagion. If the senator ever did run for the presidency, his handlers would have to do some heavy-duty work with his wife to make her constituentfriendly and keep her from being a hindrance to the campaign.

The senator's handshake, on the other hand, was both brisk and firm without being crushing. He had a very nice handshake. It was probably one of the first things a career politician worked to achieve. She had a sudden vision of a classroom full of deadly earnest young politicians, with a sign on the door saying "Handshakes 101. " He ruined the effect, however, by eyeing her breasts again. She was beginning to think the scarlet sweater was more than just dangerous; the damn thing was cursed. Maybe she shouldn't have combed her hair or put on lipstick, either, though the lipstick probably hadn't survived the hot dog.

Candra's office door opened once more, and Sweeney turned, glad of the interruption. Candra swept out, her face tight with fury, but the expression in her eyes, oddly, was almost frightened. The expression was fleeting; as soon as she saw the McMillans, her face changed into its usual warm, friendly lines.

Richard loomed in the doorway behind her. Sweeney didn't want to look at him, in case that odd thing happened again, but curiosity and compulsion switched her gaze to him. To her relief, this time he didn't return her gaze. His face was much more controlled, as if Candra's upset in no way touched him. His eyes were hooded as he took in the small group with one glance, then leisurely walked toward them. He was a tall man, but he didn't shamble; like an athlete, he was in control of his height and his body. Remembering the Diet Coke commercial, Sweeney wondered how Richard would look without his shirt.

That funny little jolt tightened her stomach again. She wasn't in the least hungry, but her mouth began watering as if she hadn't eaten at all that day and had just caught the scent of freshbaked bread. A woman could feast all day on Richard. Don't go there, she silently warned herself, both alarmed and embarrassed, but she had taken too many art classes not to be able to accurately picture him without his clothes. From the way his clothes fit, she could tell he was a muscular man who hadn't let himself get soft. In her mind's eye she saw him naked and flat on his back, and it was a fine sight indeed. The disturbing part was seeing herself crawling over him, intent on kissing him from head to toe and not missing an inch in between. He would have several very interesting inches that would require a lot of attention—

"Carson, Margo, how good of you to come." Candra's voice jerked Sweeney out of her lascivious little daydream. Hastily she looked away from Richard, aware that she had been staring at him. She felt her cheeks heat and hoped her entire face wasn't red, to match the accursed sweater.

Candra came toward them, her lovely legs showcased by the short skirt of a tailored suit in a beautiful shade of coppery beige that made her complexion glow. Distracting herself, Sweeney studied the color, noting the richness of the material. She couldn't tell one designer's clothes from another's, but she never forgot a color.

Candra and Margo exchanged air kisses, then Candra turned her megawatt charm on the senator. He took both her hands and leaned forward to kiss her cheek, and there was nothing airish about it. Standing where she was, Sweeney saw the senator's hands tighten on Candra's before she subtly freed herself and turned to Sweeney.

"I see Kai has already offered refreshments—"

"Richard," the senator said heartily, his rounded, speech-therapist moderated tones completely overpowering Candra's lighter voice, just as they had hiswife's. Sweeney wondered if he made a habit of interrupting women. He held out his hand; she saw the flicker of Richard's eyes that said he was reluctant to stop and chat, but good manners compelled him to accept the senator's hand.

Senator McMillan put everything he had into the handshake, even covering their clasped hands with his free one in a gesture his handlers had no doubt told him imparted a sense of empathy. It didn't work with Richard. If anything, his face became even more impassive. "You're looking great."

"Senator." The one-word greeting, if it could be called that, was terse. No great friendship there, Sweeney surmised. Watching them as closely as she was, she saw the senator's knuckles whiten, and an instant later Richard's knuckles did the same.

A pissing contest, she thought, fascinated. For whatever reason, dislike or competition or simple male aggression, the senator had tried to crush Richard's hand. It wasn't a smart move. He quickly became the crushee when Richard turned the tables.

"How's business?" the senator asked, trying to keep his expression neutral as he continued to grip Richard's hand, or maybe he simply couldn't let go now even if he wanted. "It has to be good, with this economy. Amazing, isn't it?"

"I don't have any complaints."

A bead of sweat appeared on the senator's forehead. Tiring of the game, Richard abruptly ended the handshake. Senator McMillan gamely managed not to massage his aching hand, though the impulse must have been strong.

Well, Sweeney thought. She wouldn't have been surprised if the senator had challenged Richard to an arm-wrestling contest. She wondered if the animosity existed because of what she had seen in the senator's eyes when he kissed Candra, or if he just didn't like it because Richard could piss farther than he could. Richard, she thought, didn't much give a damn one way or the other, which was very adult of him. In any contest between him and the senator, she was on his side; she might not like Richard, exactly—she didn't know him well enough one way or the other—but she had detested the senator on sight.

"I hear you're off to Rome." Candra turned to Margo, her voice as easy as if it didn't bother her at all that they had witnessed the discord between her and Richard, but Sweeney knew better. Her habit of studying faces made her alert to the most fleeting expression, and the tension around Candra's eyes was as telling as a neon sign.

"No, that's been delayed. Carson has an emergency meeting in the morning, with the president." Top that, said the smugness of her tone. "We've postponed the trip—"

The senator began speaking to Richard again, his voice overriding his wife's, so that Candra had to lean closer to Margo to hear her. Maybe the senator deliberately interrupted women as a way of showing his dominance, or perhaps he simply didn't notice when they were talking, which was even more insulting.

Sweeney tuned out, hearing the four clashing voices but not the individual words. She wasn't interested in the McMillans' trip to Rome, or in stock options, whatever they were. She shifted restlessly, bored, ready to dispense with the business at hand and get back to her apartment and her painting. Why was Richard hanging around, anyway? He couldn't give two hoots in hell about the senator's opinions on the stock market. Surely he knew Candra would feel more relaxed if he left. And so would she, Sweeney admitted. She deliberately kept her gaze away from him, afraid of triggering that weird connection again.

"I'm so glad you had this chance to meet Sweeney," Candra said. The mention of her name brought Sweeney's attention back with a rush, and she found Candra smiling warmly at her. "I have an example of her work here if you'd like to see it, but unfortunately not any of her portrait work, as that's done only on commission."

Sweeney kept her mouth shut, and the portfolio firn-dy under her arm. She had no intention of showing any of her work now.

"It isn't important," Margo said, bored. "I'm sure she'll do, if you recommend her. What I'm really interested in is the new VanDern you mentioned. I'm sure the colors will go marvelously in the living room."

Sweeney refrained from rolling her eyes, but it was difficult. She couldn't fault the woman for wanting her wall decor to complement the room, because color was vital to Sweeney's own sense of well-being, but… a VanDern? He was a hot commodity right now, but he was a sly, talentless clod who daubed huge clumps of color on a canvas and called it art.

"I'm sure they will," Candra agreed, indicating with a graceful wave of her hand the direction of the VanDern.

Sweeney had no intention of trailing along, behind them. "I have to go," she said, gripping her portfolio. She needed the job, she really, really needed the job, and she steeled herself to say something polite and make arrangements to begin after the couple returned from Rome. She opened her mouth and heard, "I'm sorry, but I can't do your portraits, Mrs. McMillan. I'm booked."

The words surprised even herself. So much for good intentions, but at least she had given a polite lie instead of saying she had despised the couple on sight and the only way she would paint them would be if she could add horns, goatees, and pitchforks. She was a little proud of herself; a Tibetan goatherd couldn't have come up with such a good lie.

"What?" Margo looked startled. Candra's lovely face looked first amazed, then alarmed, as if she had begun imagining all the responses Sweeney could make to Margo's incredulous question. Sweeney didn't give herself time to think of any. She had to get out of there before her thin layer of tolerance for fools and jerks was worn through and she said something that would really embarrass Candra. She swung around and headed for the door, going as fast as she could without actually running.

She switched the portfolio to her left hand and reached out with her right to grab the door handle, but a tall body was suddenly right next to her and a dark-clad arm shot out in front of her, blocking her way. Over her head a deep voice said, "Allow me. I was just leaving, too. Good-bye, Senator, Mrs. McMillan. Kai."

Startled by the novelty of having a door opened for her, Sweeney didn't think to call her own good-byes. To be honest, it wasn't just Richard's courtesy that had startled her, but his closeness. Her stomach jittered again. It was unsettling to have him right next to her when only moments before she had been mentally stripping him.

Richard let the door close behind them and for a moment they were enclosed in the silence of the small vestibule, the smoked glass of the outer door dimming the sunshine outside. Then he stepped past her and opened that door, too, his movement bringing him so close that his suit jacket brushed her arm and the quiet scent of expensive cologne drifted to her nose. Another jolt hit her, accompanied by a sudden wave of physical awareness.

This wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all. Bemused, she stepped out onto the sidewalk. First the Diet Coke commercial this morning and now Richard, of all people. Maybe there was a full moon or something, though lunar cycles had never before affected her hormones. Not much of anything had. Maybe she should make a doctor's appointment, make sure her ovaries hadn't suddenly gone into overdrive, flooding her with an overdose of unruly hormones. If they were going to do that, they should have done it when she was a teenager and didn't know any better. She was thirty-one now and didn't have either the time or the inclination to indulge in any hormonal frivolity.

"Sweeney?" Richard waved his hand in front of her face, and she snapped back to the present, flushing as she realized she had been staring at him while she pondered the state of her ovaries.

" Sorry, " she muttered. " What did you say?

The corners of his mouth curled a little, as if he was suppressing a smile. "I asked if you wanted a lift home. It's starting to rain."

So it was. It hadn't been just the smoked glass of the doors making the day look dreary; the bright sunshine was gone and the sky had turned cloudy while she was in the gallery She looked up as raindrops began to spatter on the sidewalk.

Instantly she hugged the portfolio closer to her, as if she could protect it with her body. There was no decision to it, not when the choice was between keeping her drawings dry or letting the rain ruin them. "Thanks, I would. Where's your car?" she asked, looking around.

"Right here." He raised his hand, and a dark gray Mercedes rolled forward to stop at the curb in front of him. That struck her as a lot handier than standing on the curb waving frantically at passing cabs, as she knew hundreds of people had started doing as soon as the first raindrop fell.

He put his hand on her back as he leaned forward to open the car door. The contact was so unexpected, and so unexpectedly pleasurable, that she almost stumbled. Recovering, she juggled the portfolio out of the way as she bent down to slide into the car, continuing across the buttery leather seats to give him room to get in. Her insides were doing the rumba: heart pounding, lungs heaving, stomach clenching. It was the most amazing thing she'd ever felt. Too bad it undoubtedly meant she was losing her mind.

Richard folded his tall body into the seat beside her. "We're giving Sweeney a lift home, Edward," he said to his driver.

"Very good, sir." The accent was faintly British, the word choice even more so. "What is Miss Sweeney's address?" Richard gave it, and Sweeney stared at him in surprise for a moment before remembering that he owned the building where she lived. She was surprised he had remembered, but probably stock-market geniuses had to be able to remember the tiniest detail. Forcing herself to relax, she settled back into the ultracomfortable embrace of dead cows' hides. She stroked the seat, delighted in the smooth, soft texture of the leather, and the delicious smell. Nothing rivaled good-quality leather in its richness, its utter luxury.

Then temptation got the better of her, and she glanced at Richard, to find him watching her and smiling slightly. Funny, she had never associated him with smiles; he was too controlled, even remote, but this smile looked as natural as if he'd had a lot of practice. She felt a moment of kinship, and her lips curved upward, too. "I guess your tolerance for bullshit is as low as mine," she said, her smile widening into a grin, and he laughed. It was an honest-to-God, throw-your-head-back laugh, and damn it, even that made her insides start jumping around again.

"I thought you were going to run right through the glass, you were in such a hurry to get out of there."

"I don't know who is worse, the senator or his wife. They both gave me the creeps."

"That was pretty obvious, to everyone but them. Kai was trying to make himself invisible, but at the same time he didn't want to leave in case he missed some fireworks." Richard's tone turned neutral when he mentioned Kai, and Sweeney wondered if he knew about Candra's affair with her assistant. That could certainly be the reason for the divorce; Richard didn't look like a man who would tolerate infidelity or try to "work through it" with marriage counseling sessions.

The first warning sprinkles of rain abruptly turned into a downpour, sending pedestrians scurrying for doorways or taxis; umbrellas bloomed like mushrooms. Sweeney loved the sound of rain anyway, but today it was particularly evocative, making her heart pound the way it did whenever she heard cello music or taps. A delicious chill suddenly prickled her skin, and she hugged herself.

"Edward, turn on the heat, please. Sweeney is cold."

"Of course, sir."

"I'm not really cold," Sweeney denied, without knowing why. Her constant coldness was somehow embarrassing, a weakness she didn't want to acknowledge. "Listening to the rain gave me goose bumps."

"You were shivering. Do you want to put my coat around you?"

There it was again, shaking her insides as if the San Andreas Fault ran right through her. He had been watching her closely enough to notice a small shiver. She didn't know which was more disturbing, that realization or the flood of warmth she felt at the thought of being draped in his coat, his body heat being transferred to her, his scent surrounding her. The warmth was welcome, but the reason behind it wasn't. At least her fascination with the commercial had ended when the ad was over. This strange awareness would end, surely, as soon as she got out of the car and away from Richard, but until then she had to guard against doing something stupid, like throwing herself into his arms. Wouldn't that raise Edward's eyebrows! It would probably raise her own, because if anything was out of character for her, throwing herself at a man ranked at the top of the list.

"Sweeney?" Richard prompted, waving his hand in front of her again. He was smiling again, too. She wished he would stop doing both. One was annoying, and the other was downright disturbing.

"What?"

"Do you want my coat?" He was already shrugging out of it. "Oh-no, thank you. I'm sorry, my thoughts wandered."

"I noticed." He smiled again, his dark eyes slightly heavylidded. Despite her refusal, he draped the coat over her.

She almost moaned in delight. it was just as she had imagined, so toasty warm she thought she might melt. She snuggled into the coat, pulling the fabric high around her face and unconsciously inhaling, drawing his scent into her lungs like a smoker taking the morning's first drag.

"I had to do something to cover up that sweater," he said by way of explanation, his tone amused.

"It's cursed. I'm going to burn it when I get home."

"Don't bother. it's what's underneath that's doing the damage."

Oh, God. He felt it, too.

The realization was like a punch in the stomach. She froze, unable to look at him, afraid of what she would see in his eyes. This wasn't just an aberration inspired by the red sweater. This wasn't a strange moon cycle. She couldn't say how she knew; it certainly couldn't be experience telling her, because she had made it a point through the years to avoid letting messy relationships clutter her life. Richard was the third man in an hour to look at her with appreciation-well, the fourth, if she counted the senator, but his look had been more insulting than appreciative-but in Richard's case, it was something more. Not even Kai's knee-jerk attempt at casual seduction had been like this, but then Kai was a lightweight, and Richard… Richard was not.

Still, she would have been tempted, if he hadn't been embroiled in a divorce; a divorce, moreover, from a woman very much involved in Sweeney's career. No, be honest. She was tempted, beyond a doubt, and against every grain of common sense in her body. But being tempted didn't mean she had to act on that temptation; a woman who could see ghosts and make traffic lights change when she approached sure didn't need a man in her life to complicate things. She could handle the ghosts; she couldn't handle a man, especially not Richard. Just why she thought he was more trouble than any other man was an issue she didn't want to explore.

Still, the urge to look at him, watch him, study him, was almost overpowering. To keep her gaze away from those intense, knowing dark eyes, she looked down, and found herself staring at his hands. They were rather elegant hands, she thought in surprise, in a rough way. She had always thought of him as an expensively dressed dockworker, but she had never before noticed his hands, and now she wondered why. Their shape was beautiful, with the beauty of strength, like Michelangelo's David, longfingered and sinewy. She saw the roughness of calluses, a few scars, manicured nails. Senator McMillan had been a fool to pit his strength against this man's.

She chuckled at the memory. "I'll bet the senator won't try to squeeze your hand again," she said with relish.

Bold dark eyebrows slanted upward. "You saw that juvenile stunt?"

"Um. It was fun. His knuckles turned white, then yours did, and he broke out in a sweat. I almost cheered."

He laughed. "You wear your civilization very lightly, don't you? I never noticed before."

"I wasn't the one in the pissing contest," she pointed out, a little irritated that he obviously thought she was a savage. She considered herself a very civilized person. She'd never squeezed anyone's hand, because she was afraid of hurting her own hands. Maybe that wasn't the same as not wanting to hurt someone else, but the outcome was the same, so surely she got points for that.

"No, you weren't." He was smiling again, very faintly. Glancing up, he saw that they were almost at her apartment building. "The trip didn't take very long," he noted, and didn't sound pleased.

She didn't tell him why all the traffic lights had turned green or traffic mysteriously detoured out of their way.

"Will you have dinner with me tonight?" He turned back to her, and somehow he was closer than he had been before, his shoulder touching hers, his left leg against her right one. She felt his body heat like a lodestone all down her right side, triggering an insane impulse to get closer and see just how warm he could get her. Plenty warm, she bet. On fire. Melting.

"Good God, no!"

He laughed. "Please, don't spare my feelings."

Sweeney blushed like a teenager. One day, maybe when she was ninety years old, she might learn the art of the polite lie. She had done well enough with the McMillans, but obviously that was her quota for about a year.

"I didn't mean… It's just that you'd be a big complication, demanding time and sex and things like that, and I have all I can handle right now." Great. He was laughing again, and when she realized what she had just said, she wanted to bury her face in her hands. Instead she doggedly plowed on. 'And then there's Candra. She's been good to me, promoting me when a lot of other gallery owners wouldn't. Even though you've been separated for almost a year… Anyway, I don't think it would be a good idea."

He didn't say anything for a long time, just watched her with a completely unreadable expression on his face. "I'll ask again," he finally said.

She wasn't sure how those three words could sound almost like a threat, but they did. Richard Worth wasn't a man who was used to being turned down "You do that," she said, as the Mercedes slid to a stop in front of her apartment building. "And I'll turn you down again." She removed his coat and gave it back to him, and reached for the door handle.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, staying her hand. "There's no point in getting wet. I have an umbrella, and I'll walk you to the door."

"I can manage, thanks." "What about your portfolio?"

There was that, damn it. The rain was really coming down. She scowled at him. "You don't have to look so satisfied," she growled, knowing he had her.

His mouth quirked as he reached for the umbrella. "Honey, you don't have any idea how I look when I'm satisfied."

No, but she could imagine, and her mental image knotted her stomach. He bent his head and kissed her sulky mouth, the contact light and warm and devastating. "Think about it," he whispered, then opened the door and extended the umbrella out, opening it so it provided a circle of protection. He climbed out and held it for her as she slid from the car.

"Think about it," she mimicked savagely, making him laugh. "Damn you. " She was so annoyed she didn't care that sliding across the seat made her skirt ride high on her thighs. Let him look; that was all he was going to do.

Together they dashed across the sidewalk to the sheltered doorway. He took care that her portfolio didn't get splashed, and she appreciated his concern, even though she wanted to give him a good swift kick. He left her there and strode quickly back to the waiting car. She didn't wait until he left, but went inside immediately. He didn't need any ego stroking, and she definitely needed to get back to her safe, isolated world, away from temptation.

She needed order, not disorder; peace, not excitement. Most of all, she needed to paint. With a brush in her hand, she could shut out the world.