Of course, not arriving at Chateau Fontaine until the middle of the freakin' night was his own fault. What stroke of insanity had possessed him to attempt to drive out to the winery? He'd known there'd be traffic-hell, the Long Island Expressway wasn't called the World's Largest Parking Lot for nothing-but he'd figured that by not leaving the city until almost 8:00 p.m. he'd miss most of the congestion. Unfortunately he hadn't factored in the holiday shoppers on the road. Nor had he predicted the overturned tractor-trailer that had closed all eastbound lanes, clogging the roadway for miles. Or the snow that had started falling several hours ago.

After accepting a claim check from the valet and removing his black leather overnight bag from the trunk, Matt circled through the revolving glass door then crossed the cream marble floor, heading toward the registration desk as if it were an oasis in the desert. Damn, but he was tired. His eyes felt gritty, he was thirsty, and the energy provided by the Snickers bar he'd eaten at his desk for dinner was long gone. But at this point he was even too tired to eat.

"Hell, I'm even too tired for sex," he muttered. Now there was a sentence he didn't think he'd ever hear himself say.

All he wanted was to crawl into bed and pass out until his wake-up call. After pulling an all-nighter last night working up ideas for ARC Software, then suffering through a long, frustrating, headache-inducing day, topped off with the drive from hell, he was finished.

He'd wanted to check in early, to give himself a chance to relax and look over his notes before his breakfast meeting with Jack Witherspoon, but his crazy day had sunk those plans like a bowling ball tossed in a lake. He'd spoken to Jack this morning and since neither knew exactly what time they'd be arriving at the resort, they'd agreed it was best to meet first thing in the morning instead of tonight. Good thing, as Matt would have had to cancel.