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bleak, as if nobody lived there. No family pictures or little personal mementos cluttered the side or coffee tables, no flowers added gaiety, no cooking smells overrode the scent of furniture polish, no soft throw pillows blurred the sharp lines. Even the leather couch seemed to have an edge.
    Maybe the main, or only, purpose of this room was to entertain. She could easily imagine a glittering crowd of the wealthy and famous gathered here. Not exactly her kind of people, but certainly the type Davis Jamison might invite--those with the money to invest in high finance deals. She vaguely remembered reading about his party-going-and-giving activities in her research. She wondered if he had decorated the room or had a designer do it. What did the decor say about its owner?
    No, not a topic to think about now.
    Thanks to the glass walls, if she ignored the furniture, she could pretend she was outside. Through the glass on the side of the room opposite the front of the house, she saw a patio and pool, across which was another wing of the building. More St. Augustine grass stretched away from the far end of the pool to a low wall, on the other side of which the land appeared to drop away. She assumed Buffalo Bayou or one of its tributaries lay at the bottom of the drop.
    Feeling distinctly out of place in her jeans, she sat gingerly on the edge of one of the Barcelona chairs and gazed out at the pool. The patio was a welcome contrast to the interior. Nothing abstract or hard-edged out there. Riotous red, white, and blue petunias overflowed large terra cotta planters, and pink roses and yellow hibiscus bloomed next to the windows. A jaunty blue-and-green umbrella rose over patio furniture with deep cushions covered in the same colors. This cheery space seemed to be almost inviting her to stretch out on a lounge or take a dip in the sparkling blue water. She definitely preferred the outside to the chilly inside.
    She heard voices and rose to meet her host as he and the other man entered the room.
    “Dr. Browning,” Davis said as he advanced, hand stretched out, a smile on his face. “I’m glad you could make it. Thank you for coming so promptly.”
    “Thank you for inviting me.” Marveling again at the difference a smile made, she shook his hand and immediately felt a rush of heat in her body. Heat that seemed to follow his eyes as he looked her up and down. Oh, why hadn’t she taken the time to change clothes? She released his hand as quickly as possible.
    “Shall I bring coffee or iced tea to your office, sir?” the Hispanic man said.
    “Would you like something to drink, Dr. Browning?” Davis asked.
    “No, thank you. I’ve had so much ice cream and cake I couldn’t hold another thing.” And she was probably on a severe sugar high. Calm down. Don’t make a fool of yourself. And don’t babble.
    “Oh, that’s right, you mentioned a birthday party when I called.” He didn’t take his eyes off her as he said, “Nothing for us, then, thank you, Gonzales.”
    Barrett refused to let herself fidget under his gaze. He appeared pleased to see her, but his eyes had a calculating look--and a glint she couldn’t quite identify. She reminded herself he was known for making multilayered plans and she needed to keep her wits about her. She knew negotiating tactics dictated she wait for him to bring up the subject of their meeting so she wouldn’t be forced into the role of supplicant. Tired of his silence games, however, she decided to come right to the point. “Have you come to a decision about the Windswept collection, Mr. Jamison?”
    “Possibly,” he drawled, then flashed her a smile again. He turned and headed for the foyer. “Come with me.”
    As she followed him out, she shook her head to clear it from the effects of his voice’s velvet rumble and the Edgar-like roguish sparkle in his eyes. What was going on here? What was he up to? She felt a little relieved as she took note of his khaki pants and navy knit