"Vincent? Are you there? If you're there, pick up the phone." Vincent Argeneau forced one eyelid upward and peered around the dark room. His home office, he saw, managing to make out the shape of his desk by the sliver of light coming through the door cracked open to the hallway. He'd fallen asleep on the couch in his office. "Vincent?" "Yeah?" He sat up and glanced around for the owner of that voice, then realized it was coming through his answering machine on the desk. Giving his head a shake, Vincent got to his feet and stumbled across the room. He snatched up the cordless phone, dropped into his desk chair, and growled, "Bastien?" "Vincent? Sorry to wake you, cousin. I waited as late as I could before calling." Vincent grunted and leaned back in the chair, running his free hand over his face. "What time is it?" "Five P.M. here in New York. I guess that makes it about two there in L.A.," Bastien said apologetically. "Two," Vincent muttered. No wonder he was exhausted. He'd been up until 9 a.m. dealing with phone calls, then had drawn the blackout curtains in the room and lain down on the couch here rather than go to his bed. He hadn't wanted to miss Bastien's call. "Are you awake?" "Yeah." Vincent scrubbed