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denied it. She held out her hand
    politely. “Thank you for driving me home,” she said, her voice hatefully stiff and priggish. She knew she should invite him in for a drink, or
    even some dinner, but Sin MacDonald was a fairly overwhelming man, and at that moment she felt she had to be by herself, back in the safety of her
    apartment, able to hide from the confusing sensations and emotions that had assaulted her during the long, tiring day. And yet a perverse, totally
    irrational part of her wished he’d somehow prolong the evening. Force her to invite him upstairs, or drag her out to dinner. He hadn’t taken no
    for an answer before.
    This time, however, it appeared that he would.
    He stared down at her politely outstretched hand, the sun-lines around his smoky hazel eyes crinkling in amusement. “That’s right. I did
    promise to shake your hand.” Clicking his heels together, he took her hand in his and bowed over it, for all the world like a Prussian officer.
    “Madame,” he uttered in a thick, guttural accent, “the pleasure is all mine.”
    And without a backward glance he strode back to the driver’s seat on his impossibly long legs, got in, and drove away. Cathy stared after him, an
    unaccustomed pricking in her eyes. What was she crying about? she demanded of herself angrily as she strode past the doorman, giving him an automatic
    friendly nod. Greg Danville had given her more than enough to weep about for the next few years; she didn’t need to start crying about Sin MacDonald
    besides!
     
    The apartment was still and silent as she let herself in, and unbearably stuffy after being shut up for the day. Out of habit she strode to the air
    conditioner, then made a detour to the long, Palladian windows that overlooked a mini-balcony. Pulling back the heavy curtains that had stayed shut the
    past three months, she opened the French door onto the cool night air. A fresh breeze ruffled her hair, and there was a scent of fall in the air. Maybe the
    summer of my discontent is over, she thought, wrapping her arms around her slender body. At that moment she realized she was still clad in Sin
    MacDonald’s Irish knit sweater. Damn, she thought. Now she’d be forced to get in touch with him to return it. And for that matter, where were
    her sunglasses? Still in his hand, last time she’d seen them. Double damn. She’d have to call Meg tomorrow and find out how to reach the
    enigmatic Mr. Sinclair MacDonald. What a pain, to be forced to communicate with someone she found quite... bothersome.
    Humming beneath her breath, she moved into her kitchen and began assembling a gigantic sandwich. There was scarcely any food in the house—
    she’d have to remedy that tomorrow. Funny, but she hadn’t felt much like eating since she couldn’t remember when. And now, all of a
    sudden, she was eating like a weight watcher let out on probation. First stuffing herself that afternoon, and now she was wolfing down a sandwich that
    would have put a glutton like Charles to shame. Back to the refrigerator to discover, to her unalloyed joy, a single beer, the same imported brand that
    Sinclair MacDonald favored. I’ll have to get some more, she thought, opening the bottle and pouring it into a heavy pub mug, and taking another bite
    of her sandwich. You never know who might turn up and want a beer.
    The shrill ringing of the telephone interrupted her meal and she reached for the phone, spilling half of her drink in her haste to answer it.
    “Hello?” she said breathlessly around the remains of her sandwich.
    “Cathy? Is that you? It’s Meg.” Her sister’s voice sounded somewhat disgruntled.
    “Hi, Meg. Who else would answer my phone?” she replied, taking a drink from her depleted beer.
    “You’re back so soon?” She sounded disappointed, Cathy thought. But not as disappointed as I was when I answered the phone.
    “Of course I am. It’s only forty miles from the marina,” she said reasonably.
    “But I thought Sin