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table next to Claire. “Whatever I can do to help.” He smiled softly, brushing her hair from her cheek, and Claire closed her eyes, trying not to think of all the reasons she had wanted him to come. “In fact”—he lowered his voice—“I think I have something right here that might provide a little diversion.”
    She opened her eyes to see Andrew’s hand resting on his pants pocket. Her initial irritation quickly turned to curiosity as he reached for something from deep inside the pocket. The small glass vial he pulled out caught the light of the chandelier above and glimmered.
    Jesus. Claire did a double take at the powdery contents and heaved herself out of the chaise and away from him. Her mind spun. In her younger, mildly experimental days in New York, she’d tried a little coke, when everyone was doing coke. But it was a vague and distant memory from a lifetime away. What the hell had she been thinking at this stage in her life—the unlikely chemistry with this man she barely knew, her wild thoughts and desires? And now this. This? She had lived eighteen faithful years in the happy confines of her marriage to Michael. He was a good man. She loved her family. This was all a crazy, senseless mistake.
    Andrew hastily shoved the vial back into his pocket and rushed to Claire before she’d pieced words together into a coherent response. “God, I’m sorry.” He took her hands in his again, this time rubbing them as if to erase the memory of what he’d just offered. “I was trying—obviously in the most misguided, idiotic way—to distract you with a little party favor to take the edge off. And it was stupid. Mind-bogglingly stupid.”
    The hair of his forearm felt like tiny sparks along Claire’s skin, and she retracted her hands.
    “An old friend from Aspen, he dropped by and left it. I shouldn’t have even—Forgive me? Please?”
    With her edges frayed and about to unravel, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest and studied the crown molding through a haze of bewildering sensations.
    “Let’s start over—erase the last ten minutes.” Tentatively, he wiped a smear of berry lipstick from just below her lip with his finger and turned her chin in his direction. “Please,” he reiterated solemnly. “I’m an idiot, but you’re extraordinary. Luminous. From the moment I saw you at the restaurant, I was bewitched.”
    Her shoulders descended an inch while her feet prepared to bolt.
    “You’re such a captivating, intelligent woman. And I’m fascinated by this buttoned-up sexiness you have about you. And that inner luster . . . I hope you know how attractive you are, Claire.” He appeared to be replaying the memory of that evening in his mind with a zeal Claire was all too familiar with. “But”—he abruptly broke from his reverie and looked around the room—“you’re living in a cage,” he said. He stared squarely into her puzzled expression.
    “What?” She felt her equilibrium ricochet like a pinball.
    “It’s a beautiful cage, no doubt. But let’s be honest here. It could use a little . . . rattling, wouldn’t you say?” His eyes were suddenly as penetrating and entrancing as the Spaniard’s, his voice magnetic and certain. And Claire felt equal parts panicked and spellbound—panicked that she subconsciously might have been looking for a little disaster and that he could actually see this in her—and no less gripped by the force field that seemed to have enveloped them. She tried to back away, but tripped in the process. Andrew caught her shoulder and helped her regain her balance. He led her back toward the table and handed her the scotch.
    She took a long drink, buying time. Her hand shook, the ice in the glass clattering as she tried to pull herself together. What else had he seen inside of her, she wondered? What did he know that she didn’t? “Tell me . . . um . . . more about the software,” she barely managed between more sips.
    “Why don’t we just relax for a