The mahogany coat on one drawer was very thick. Erica rubbed at it determinedly, but her own anxiety wasn’t so easy to wipe away. It wasn’t the bit of an argument, but that single instant when Kyle had pulled back from the touch of her. She was afraid…

Was she losing him?

Even the fleeting thought struck such an anguished chord inside her that she promptly blocked it, remembering instead how it had been when she’d first met Kyle. She’d thought herself so very confident around men, such an expert at saying a tactful no, that she was still a virgin; she was even rather amused at the chaotic, passionate involvements her friends took on. Then she’d met Kyle and was in bed with him almost before she’d memorized his last name; his pursuit had been so immediate and so potent and so total… There had been no cooling of his ardor in the past nine years, no time when he had ever been less than a virile and demandingly passionate lover. Only lately, since his father died…

He was tired, she reminded herself. Exhausted.

She stood up. The desk was done, a rich pale gold in the fading sunlight. It was getting too late to see by natural light anyway, and Erica was physically drained. Cramped muscles, tired eyes…and the scent of the stain, usually pleasant, was now strangely foreign, arguing with her empty stomach.

She stretched with a weary sigh, and half listened for Kyle’s return as she moved through the shop to the little washroom beyond. She was cleaning her fingers in a small bowl of paint thinner when she heard the shop’s back door open. “Kyle! I’m here!” she called out, hearing the slight lilt in her voice in spite of herself.

But it was not Kyle who found his way to the door. The man who entered was the diametric opposite of Kyle in appearance.