Far below, streets criss-crossed in a grid. People as small as dust motes followed orderly paths. Cars proceeded in a regular fashion. Forty-three stories up, nothing could touch him. It was the way he liked things. Up until now, he thought, as he stared out the glass. Now one of those tiny little dots held all the power in his life. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Stacia Keating. Or, he hated to admit, feeling for her. Even though she was far away—or perhaps because of it—he had been unable to concentrate on business. She distracted him, presenting a puzzle he wished to solve, and yet, wanted to contemplate all his life. The contradiction of her continued to intrigue him, and it had begun to affect his work. More than anything, he wished to know where she was and what she was doing. Who was bringing her to completion now. Surely after what they'd shared, she wouldn't go to another man. He still felt her hot mouth sucking him with unfeigned enthusiasm—no, that was a lie.
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