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suggested as she walked away. “Catch all four Quinns at work.”
    She shot a look over her shoulder that she hoped revealed nothing more than amused interest. “I might just do that.”
    Seth, she thought, careful now to keep her eyes straight ahead. He’d just given her the open door to see Seth the following day.
    Cam gave a quiet and male hum. “I gotta say, there’s a woman who knows how to walk.”
    â€œYes, indeed.” Phillip hooked his hands in his pockets and enjoyed the view. Slim hips and slender legs in breezy maize-colored slacks, a snug little shirt the color of limes tucked into a narrow waist. A sleek and swinging fall of mink-colored hair just skimming strong shoulders.
    And the face had been just as attractive. A classic oval with peaches-and-cream skin, a mobile and shapely mouth tinted with a soft, soft pink. Sexy eyebrows, he mused, dark and well arched. He hadn’t been able to see the eyes under them, not through the trendy wire-framed sunglasses. They might be dark to match the hair, or light for contrast.
    And that smooth contralto voice had set the whole package off nicely.
    â€œYou guys going to stand there watching that woman’s butt all day?” Ethan wanted to know.
    â€œYeah, like you didn’t notice it.” Cam snorted.
    â€œI noticed. I’m just not making a career out of it. Aren’t we going to get anything done around here?”
    â€œIn a minute,” Phillip murmured, smiling to himself when she turned the corner and disappeared. “Sybill. I sure hope you hang around St. Chris for a while.”
    S HE DIDN’T KNOW how long she would stay. Her time was her own. She could work where she chose, and for now she’d chosen this little water town on Maryland’s southern Eastern Shore. Nearly all of her life had been spent in cities, initially because her parents had preferred them and then because she had.
    New York, Boston, Chicago, Paris, London, Milan. She understood the urban landscape and its inhabitants. The fact was, Dr. Sybill Griffin had made a career out of the study of urban life. She’d gathered degrees in anthropology, sociology, and psychology along the way. Four years at Harvard, postgraduate work at Oxford, a doctorate from Columbia.
    She’d thrived in academia, and now, six months before her thirtieth birthday, she could write her own ticket. Which was precisely what she’d chosen to do for a living. Write.
    Her first book, Urban Landscape , had been well received, earned her critical acclaim and a modest income. But her second, Familiar Strangers , had rocketed onto the national lists, had taken her into the whirlwind of book tours, lectures, talk shows. Now that PBS was producing a documentary series based on her observations and theories of city life and customs, she was much more than financially secure. She was independent.
    Her publisher had been open to her idea of a book on the dynamics and traditions of small towns. Initially, she’d considered it merely a cover, an excuse to travel to St.Christopher’s, to spend time there on personal business.
    But then she’d begun to think it through. It would make an interesting study. After all, she was a trained observer and skilled at documenting those observations.
    Work might save her nerves in any case, she considered, pacing her pretty little hotel suite. Certainly it would be easier and more productive to approach this entire trip as a kind of project. She needed time, objectivity, and access to the subjects involved.
    Thanks to convenient circumstance, it appeared she had all three now.
    She stepped out onto the two-foot slab that the hotel loftily called a terrace. It offered a stunning view of the Chesapeake Bay and intriguing glimpses of life on the waterfront. Already she’d watched workboats chug into dock and unload tanks of the blue crabs the area was famous for. She’d watched the crab pickers at work, the