She shrugged, irritated by the way the wine seemed to be sitting like lead under her breastbone. "Your business, De Witt, not mine."
He would not, he told himself patiently, allow her prickly nature to divert him from his objective. "You know the area, you have contacts and a good eye for quality and value. I thought you could let me know if you hear about any interesting property, particularly in the Seventeen Mile Drive area."
"I'm not a realtor," she muttered.
"Good. That means I don't have to worry about your commission."
Because she appreciated that, she bent. "There is a place—might be a little big for your needs."
"I like big."
"Figures. It's near Pebble Beach. Four or five bedrooms, I can't remember. But it's back off the road, a lot of cypress trees and a nice established yard. Decks," she continued, squinting her eyes as she tried to remember. "Front and back. Wood—cedar, I think. Lots of glass. It's been on the market about six months and hasn't moved. There's probably a reason for that."
"Might be it was waiting for the right buyer. Do you know the realtor?"
"Sure, they're a client. Monterey Bay Real Estate. Ask for Arlene. She shoots straight."
"I appreciate it. If it works out, I'll have to buy you dinner."
"No, thanks. Just consider it a—" She broke off as pain stabbed into her stomach, then, like a sick echo, erupted in her head. The glass slipped out of her hand and shattered on the tile even as he grabbed her.
"Hold on." He picked her up, had a moment to notice she was little more than bones and nerves, before he eased her onto the cushions of a chair. "Jesus Christ, Kate, you're dead white. I'll get someone."
"No." Biting back on the pain, she grabbed at his arm. "It's nothing. Just a twinge. Sometimes alcohol—wine on an empty stomach," she managed, regulating her breathing. "I should know better."
His brow knit, his voice thrummed with impatience. "When did you eat last?"
"I was kind of swamped today."
"Idiot." He straightened. "There's enough food around here for three hundred starving sailors. I'll get you a damn plate."
"No, I—" Ordinarily that vicious look wouldn't have quelled her, but at the moment she was feeling shaky. "Okay, thanks, but don't say anything. It'll only worry them, and they've got all these people here. Just don't say anything," she repeated, then watched him, after one last, smoldering look, stride off.
Her hand trembled a bit as she opened her bag and swigged from a small medicine bottle. All right, she promised herself, she would take better care of herself. She'd start trying those yoga exercises Margo had shown her. She'd stop drinking so much damn coffee.
She would stop thinking.
By the time he came back she was feeling steadier. One look at the plate he carried and she let out a laugh. "How many of those starving sailors do you intend to feed?''
"Just eat," he ordered and popped a small, succulent shrimp into her mouth himself.
After a moment's deliberation, she scooted over on the cushion. A distraction, even in the form of Byron De Witt, was what she needed. "I guess I have to ask you to sit down and share."
"You're always so gracious."
She chose a tiny spinach quiche. "I just don't like you, De Witt."
"Fair enough." He dipped into some crab souffle. "I don't like you either, but I was taught to be polite to a lady."
Yet he thought of her. Odder still, he dreamed of her, a fog-drenched, erotic dream he couldn't quite remember in the morning. Something about the cliffs and the crash of waves, the feel of soft skin and a slim body under his hands, those big, dark, Italian eyes staring into his.
It left him uncomfortably amused with himself.
Byron De Witt was sure of many things. The national debt would never be paid, women in thin cotton dresses were the best reason for summer, rock and roll was here to stay, and Katherine Powell was not his type.
Skinny, abrasive women with more attitude than charm didn't appeal to him. He liked them soft, and smart, and sexy. He admired them simply for being women and delighted in the bonuses of quiet conversation, hardheaded debate, outrageous laughter, and hot, mindless sex.
He considered himself as much of an expert on the female mystique as any man could be. After all, he'd grown up surrounded by them, the lone son in a household with three daughters. Byron knew women, and knew them well. And he knew what he liked.