Homeport (31 page)

Suddenly swamped with emotion, she pressed the heel of her hand to her brow and squeezed her eyes shut. “It's there. I wasn't wrong. I didn't make a mistake.”

“I never thought you did.”

She opened her eyes again, smiled. “Liar. You broke into my bedroom and threatened to strangle me.”

“I said I could strangle you.” He circled her throat with his hands again. “And that was before I knew you. Tidy up, honey. We've got enough to keep us busy for a while.”

 

They spent the next several hours in the hotel suite, with Miranda going over the copies of her reports line by line and Ryan huddled at his computer.

“It's all here. Everything I did, stage by stage. Every test, every result. Admittedly, it's light on documentation, but it stands. Why didn't she see that?”

“Take a look at this and see if I've got it right.”

“What?”

“I've done a cross-check.” He motioned her over. “These are the names I come up with. People who had access to both bronzes. There's probably more, but these are the key players.”

She rose and read over his shoulder. She only set her teeth when she noted her name topped the list. Her mother was there, as was her father, Andrew, Giovanni, Elise, Carter, Hawthorne, Vincente.

“Andrew didn't have access to
The Dark Lady.
”

A tendril of the hair she'd pinned up fell and tickled his cheek. The immediate tightening of his loins had him letting out a long quiet breath. If nothing else, he thought, her hair was going to drive him to drink before they were done.

“He's connected to you, your mother, and Elise. Close enough.”

She sniffed and shoved her glasses more securely on her nose. “That's insulting.”

“I want to know how accurate it is. Save the comments.”

“It's fairly complete, and insulting.”

Oh yeah, there was that prissy tone of voice too. It just destroyed him with wanting to turn it into moans. “Was Hawthorne's wife with him in Florence?”

“No.”

“Richard's divorced.” What the hell, he thought, and tortured himself by turning his head just enough to get a good solid sniff of her hair. “Was he a couple when he did his stint in Maine?”

“I don't know. I barely met him. In fact, I didn't remember him until he reminded me we'd met.” Annoyed, she turned her head, found her eyes locked on his—and something in his wasn't focused on work. Her heart did a quick cartwheel and shot little springs of lust into her belly. “Why does it matter?”

“Why does what matter?” He wanted that mouth. Goddamn it, he was entitled to that mouth.

“The, uh . . . Richard being divorced.”

“Because people tell their lovers and spouses all kinds of confidential things. Sex,” he murmured, and wrapped that loose tendril around his finger, “is a great communicator.”

One tug, he thought, one little tug and her mouth would be on his. He'd have all that hair in his hands, all the wild, curling mass of it. He'd have her naked in five minutes. Except for the glasses.

He was starting to have incredible fantasies about Miranda wearing only her glasses.

It was with real regret that he didn't tug, but unwound her hair, turned, and scowled at the screen.

“We need to go through the worker bees too, but we need a break.”

“A break?” There wasn't a single organized thought in
her mind. Her nerves were sizzling along the surface of her skin like little licks of lightning.

If he touched her now, if he kissed her now, she knew she'd go off like a rocket. She straightened, closed her eyes. And yearned.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Let's put this away, and go have a meal.”

Her eyes popped open again. “A what?”

“Food, Dr. Jones.” He tapped keys, concentrating, and didn't see her scrub her hands over her face behind his back.

“Yes, food.” Her voice shook slightly—laughter or despair, she couldn't be sure. “Good idea.”

“What would you like for your last night in Florence?”

“The last night?”

“Things might get sticky here. We're better off working on home ground.”

“But if
The Dark Lady
is here—”

“We'll come back for her.” He shut off his machine, pushed away from the little desk. “Florence isn't a big city, Dr. Jones. Sooner or later, someone you know is going to spot you.” He flicked a finger over her hair. “You just don't blend. Now, fast, fancy, or rowdy?”

Home. She discovered she very much wanted to go home, to see it with these new eyes. “I think I'd like rowdy for a change.”

“Excellent choice. I know just the place.”

 

It was loud, it was crowded, and the harsh lights bounced off the unapologetically garish paintings that crowded the wall. They suited the hanks of hanging sausages and whole smoked hams that were the restaurant's primary decor. Tables were pushed together so that diners—friends and strangers alike—ate the hearty portions of meat and pasta elbow to elbow.

They were wedged in a corner by a round man with a stained apron who took Ryan's order for a bottle of local red with a nod. At Miranda's left was one half of a gay American couple who were touring Europe. They shared a
basket of bread while Ryan engaged them in conversation with an ease and openness Miranda admired.

She would never have talked to strangers in a restaurant except in the most limited fashion. But by the time the wine was set on the table and poured, she knew they were from New York, ran a restaurant in the Village, and had been together for ten years. It was, they said, their anniversary trip.

“It's our second honeymoon.” Enjoying himself, Ryan picked up Miranda's hand and kissed it. “Right, Abby darling?”

At sea, she stared at him, then responded to his light kick under the table. “Oh, yes. Um . . . we couldn't afford a honeymoon when we were first married. Kevin was just getting started and I was . . . only a junior exec at the agency. Now we're treating ourselves before kids come along.”

Stunned at herself, she gulped down wine while Ryan beamed at her. “It was worth the wait. You breathe romance with every inhale in Florence.”

Defying every law of physics, the waiter pushed his way through the excuse for space between the tables and demanded what they wanted.

Less than an hour later, Miranda wanted more wine. “It's wonderful. It's a wonderful place.” She shifted in her chair to smile affectionately at a table of Brits who chatted in polite voices while a table of Germans beside them downed local beer and sang. “I never go to places like this.” It all spun in her head, scents, voices, wine. “I wonder why.”

“Want some dessert?”

“Sure I do. Eat, drink, and be merry.” She poured another glass of wine and grinned tipsily at him. “I love it here.”

“Yes, I can see that.” He nudged the bottle farther out of her reach and signaled the waiter.

“Weren't they a nice couple?” She smiled sentimentally at the space their table companions had recently vacated. “They were really in love. We're going to look 'em up, right, when we get home? No, when
they
get home.
We're
going home tomorrow.”

“We'll try the zabaglione,” Ryan told the waiter, eyeing Miranda under lifted brows as she began to hum along with the drunk Germans. “And cappuccino.”

“I'd rather have more wine.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Why not?” Filled with love for her fellowman, she picked up her glass and drained it. “I like it.”

“It's your head,” he said with a shrug when she snagged the bottle again. “Keep it up, and you're not going to have a pleasant flight home.”

“I'm a very good flier.” Eyes narrowed, she poured until the wine was precisely a half-inch from the rim of the glass. “See that, steady as a rock. Dr. Jones is always steady.” She giggled and leaned forward conspiratorially. “But Abby's a lush.”

“Kevin is more than a little concerned that she's going to pass out at the table so that he has to carry her home.”

“Nah.” She rubbed the back of her hand over her nose. “Dr. Jones wouldn't permit that. Too embarrassing. Let's walk down by the river. I want to walk by the river in the moonlight. Abby'll let you kiss her.”

“That's an interesting offer, but I think we'd better get you home.”

“I love Maine.” She leaned back, swinging the glass in her hand. “I love the cliffs and the fog and the waves crashing and the lobster boats. I'm going to plant a garden. This year I'm really going to do it. Mmmm.” This was her opinion of the creamy dessert set in front of her. “I like indulging.” She set the glass down long enough to dive a spoon in. “I never knew that about me,” she said with her mouth full.

“Try the coffee,” he suggested.

“I want the wine.” But when she grabbed for it, he snatched it up.

“Can I interest you in something else?”

She studied him thoughtfully, then grinned. “Bring me the head of the Baptist,” she ordered, then collapsed into giggles. “Did you really steal his bones? I just can't
understand a man who'd steal the bones of a saint. But it's fascinating.”

Time to go, Ryan decided, and quickly dug out more than enough lire to cover the tab. “Let's take that walk, honey.”

“Okay.” She popped up, then had to brace a hand against the wall. “Oh my, there's quite a bit of gravity in here.”

“Maybe there's not as much outside.” He scooped an arm around her waist and pulled her through the restaurant, laughing himself as she called cheerful goodbyes.

“You're a handful, Dr. Jones.”

“What was the name of that wine? It was lovely wine. I want to buy a case of it.”

“You were doing a good job of working your way through a case.” He guided her along the uneven sidewalk, across the quiet street, grateful they'd opted to walk rather than take the scooter. He'd have had to tie her on.

“I'm going to paint my shutters.”

“Good idea.”

“Your mother has yellow shutters. So cheerful. Everyone in your family is so cheerful.” Wrapping an arm around his waist in turn, she led him in a wide, drunken circle. “But I think a nice bright blue would suit my house. A nice bright blue, and I'll put a rocker on the front porch.”

“Nothing like a porch rocker. Watch your step, up the curb. Atta girl.”

“I broke into my mother's house today.”

“I heard that somewhere.”

“I'm sharing a hotel suite with a thief and I broke into my mother's house. Coulda robbed her blind.”

“You only had to ask. Left turn, that's the way. Almost there.”

“It was great.”

“What was?”

“The breaking in. I didn't want to say so at the time, but it was great.” She threw up her arms and caught him neatly on the chin. “Maybe you could teach me how to pick locks. Wouldya do that, Ryan?”

“Oh yeah, that's going to happen.” He wiggled his jaw and steered her toward the front entrance of the hotel.

“I could seduce it out of you.” She turned, plowing into him at the edge of the elegant lobby carpet, and crushed her mouth against his before he could gain his balance. This time his head spun as she sucked the blood right out of it.

“Miranda—”

“That's Abby to you, pal,” she murmured as the desk clerk discreetly averted his eyes. “So how about it?”

“Let's talk upstairs.” He dragged her toward the elevator and out of sight.

“Don't want to talk.” She plastered herself against him and attacked his earlobe with her teeth. “I want wild, crazy sex. Right now.”

“Who doesn't?” said the male half of a formally dressed couple who stepped off the elevator.

“See?” Miranda pointed out as Ryan yanked her into the car. “He agrees with me. I wanted to jump you ever since I saw you and heard the ping.”

“Ping.” He was becoming breathless trying to unwind her from around him.

“I hear pings with you. My head's just full of pings right now. Kiss me again, Ryan. You know you want to.”

“Cut it out.” A little desperately, he shoved at her hands before they could unbutton his shirt. “You're hammered.”

“What do you care?” She threw back her head and laughed. “You've been trying to get me into bed all along. Now's your chance.”

“There are rules,” he muttered, lurching like a drunk as she draped herself over him. One of them, he thought, needed a cold shower.

“Oh, now there're rules.” Laughing, she tugged his shirt free of his slacks. As her hands streaked over his back, around to his belly, he fought to shoot the key into the lock.

“God help me. Miranda—Jesus Christ.” Those busy hands had worked their way down. “Look, I said no.” His eyes were crossed when they stumbled inside together. “Get ahold of yourself.”

“Can't. Got ahold of you.” She released him only long
enough to bounce up, wrap her legs around his waist, fist her hands in his hair, and fuse her mouth to his. “I want you. Oh I want you.” Her breath came fast as her lips raced over his face. “Make love with me. Touch me. I want your hands on me.”

They already were. He couldn't stop them from molding that tight lovely bottom. His blood was screaming for her, his tongue tangling with hers. The little beam of sanity that remained in his mind was growing dimmer.

“You're going to hate both of us in the morning.”

“So what?” She laughed again, and her eyes were wildly blue as they looked into his. She shook back her hair, turning his system into one pulsing gland. “This is now. Fall into the moment with me, Ryan. I don't want to go there alone.”

Their gazes remained locked as he carried her through the doorway into the bedroom. “Then let's see how long now can last. And remember, Dr. Jones.” He caught her bottom lip in his teeth, bit, tugged, released. “You asked for it.”