"So what do you think?"

Sydney glances away from the painting she stands before to see who asked the question. An attractive woman who looks to be in her mid-thirties stands beside her, looking not at Sydney but at the abstract painting in front of them.

"I don't know much about art," Sydney says hesitantly.

"Yeah?" the woman says, still looking at the painting instead of at Sydney. "Well, I have a Master's in Art History. And I think this is the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

Sydney lets out a burst of relieved laughter. Everyone else she's talked to at the gallery has behaved as if they are looking at the works of Pablo Picasso. Sydney can't quite bring herself to take the whole event so seriously. "The most accurate description I've heard all evening," she tells the woman.

"Thanks," the woman says, turning to Sydney with a smile. "I don't think we've met. I'm Cheryl Maguire."

Sydney looks at the woman in surprise. "Maguire? You're not--"

"Trent Maguire's wife?" Cheryl cuts in. "I am. Do you know Trent?"

"My husband mentioned speaking to him," Sydney says delightedly. "I'm Sydney Vaughn. We live just down the road from you."

"Oh, right," Cheryl nods. "Your husband's an attorney, right?"

"He is," Sydney confirms. "It's so nice to meet you. I've been meaning to come by and say hello, I've just--"

"Oh, I know how that goes," Cheryl says dismissively. "Audrey Byrne says you're expecting your fourth child? You must be really busy."

"So busy," Sydney sighs. She feels nervous just thinking of all she has to get done before the baby comes. "But I'm sure you are, too. Michael and I just moved into our house a year ago, there's nothing more hectic than getting settled."

"Tell me about it," Cheryl rolls her eyes. "And my son Joey just started walking, he's getting into everything."

"I have that to look forward to soon," Sydney shudders. "My youngest little girl is six months now."

"Gosh, and you have another one on the way," Cheryl says sympathetically. "I can't imagine having four. Trent's been hinting around about wanting a third, I think he's insane."

"That's what I thought, when Michael mentioned wanting to have three," Sydney confesses with a smile. "Of course I caved in about a day."

"I don't think I know who Michael is," Cheryl says, taking a champagne flute from the tray of a passing waiter as she glances around the gallery.

"Oh, he's-- there he is," Sydney says, nodding to where Michael stands talking to a man who she assumes must be Neil Harrison.

"Oops, don't look now, he's headed this way," Cheryl quips. Sydney smiles as Michael catches her eye and tosses her a little wave before heading over, Neil Harrison in tow.

"Hey, sweetheart," Michael says, dropping a kiss on her cheek. "Here you go." He hands her the glass of water that was his reason for leaving her side. "Sorry I took so long. I got a little sidetracked."

"That's quite all right, dear," Sydney responds, shooting a smile first at him, then at the attractive man next to him, who looks to be in his early fifties. "I've just been chatting with our new neighbor. I don't think you've met Cheryl Maguire?"

"No. Nice to meet you, Cheryl," Michael says with a smile, shaking her hand. "Syd, honey, this is Neil Harrison, the client I was talking about. Neil, my wife, Sydney."

"Nice to meet you," Neil says. He shakes her hand, then Cheryl's. "Cheryl, was it?"

"Yes," she says, returning his smile. "Harrison," she muses. "So the artist is your--"

"Daughter," Neil confirms. "She's very talented, isn't she?"

"I've heard a lot of positive comments," Cheryl says, smiling prettily. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I should probably see where my husband ran off to."

"It was nice meeting you, Cheryl," Neil says.

"You, too," she responds. "I'll see you tomorrow night, Michael and Sydney."

"At the Byrnes'," Michael remembers with a nod. "Right. Nice talking to you, Cheryl."

"You, too. Bye, Sydney."

"I'd actually better excuse myself, too," Neil says with a regretful smile. "Go congratulate my daughter. I'll call your secretary, Michael, set up a meeting for next week."

"Good," Michael says with a nod. "Bye, Neil."

Sydney murmurs a goodbye as well, then turns to Michael. "He can do that?" she muses. "Set up a meeting with you only a few days in advance?"

"Well, he's an important client," Michael shrugs.

Sydney toys with the lapels of his jacket. "And if I wanted to get some time alone with you," she says coyly. "How far in advance would I have to make an appointment?"

"Mmm," he says, frowning as if giving the question serious thought. "I'd say I'd need about five seconds to rearrange my schedule."

"That long, hmm?" Her voice has grown low, sultry, and she wants badly to kiss his neck, to open his shirt and taste his collarbone.

"What do you say we get out of here?" he asks, and she hears that his voice has also grown husky.

"We could," she agrees. She moves close to whisper in his ear. "Or we could just find a storage room or an empty closet and just…you know…"

"You're so naughty," he whispers back.

"Can you blame me?" She lets a hand move to rest on his waist, lightly, barely. With their words acting as foreplay, he looks as if the action is almost too much for him. "We haven't made love in almost a week."

"Poor baby." He's not even touching her, but the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice, is so intense she feels as if he is. "Miss me?"

"Very, very much."

"Let's go home," he urges.

She pulls away, just a bit, glancing around the gallery. "What about Jake and Heather?"

"I thought we'd leave them here."

"No!" Sydney laughs; it eases the tension of the last few moments. "Aren't we supposed to have dinner with them?"

"I'm willing to sneak out and make up an excuse later if you are."

Sydney smiles devilishly. "Or," she says slowly. "We could do my idea and still make it to dinner."

"What idea?"

She gives him a Look.

"The coat closet?" he yelps, a little too loudly. Two or three partygoers glance in his direction.

"Not now that you've said it so loud," she giggles. "Storage room."

"Syd." Michael is actually blushing. "We're married. We have our own house and our own bed. There's no reason for us to sneak into the storage room at some art gallery like we're--"

"Spies taking a secret meeting?" She suggests, thinking of her nightmares. "That's what makes it so sexy, don't you think?"

"You're crazy." But there is something in his eyes that makes her think that he doesn't think she is that crazy at all. Or that if she is, he doesn't mind. And it is that look that encourages her to lean forward and whisper in his ear.

"Meet me there in five minutes."