Homeport

“That’ll do. By the way, I appreciate what you did for me last night, and for not rubbing my nose in it today.”
    “How’s the eye?”
    “Hurts like a bastard.”
    “Well then, that’s punishment enough, I’d say.”
    “Maybe.” He turned and started up the path. “We’re having meat loaf,” he called back. “Go make her put her jacket on, will you?”
    “Yeah,” Ryan murmured. “I think I’ll do that.” He started down, picking his way over rocks, skidding a bit on pebbles. She started up, steady as a mountain goat.
    “Those aren’t the right kind of shoes for this.”
    “You’re telling me.” Then he caught her against him. “Your arms are cold. Why don’t you have your jacket on?”
    “The sun’s warm enough. Andrew’s going to an AA meeting tonight.”
    “That’s great.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “It’s a good start.”
    “He can do it.” The breeze tugged hair out of the elastic band she’d pulled on, and forced her to shake it out of her face. “I know he can. He’s going to be staying with a friend for a couple of days, just to give himself time to steady a bit. And I think he’s not quite comfortable with sleeping under the same room while we’re . . . sleeping.”
    “Yankee conservatism.”
    “Don’t knock a cornerstone.” She drew in a breath. “There’s something else. I told him about Giovanni. He’s made the connection.”
    “What do you mean he’s made the connection?”
    “I mean for the past year or so he’s been killing his brain cells, and I’d nearly forgotten how smart he is. He put it together in minutes. A connection between the break-in here, and the one there. He’s going to talk to Detective Cook about it.”
    “Great, bring in the cops.”
    “It’s the reasonable thing to do. It’s too coincidental for Andrew.” Speaking quickly, she ran back over what her brother had said. “He’ll explore this. I didn’t tell him what I know or suspect. I can’t risk his state of mind right now when he should be concentrating on recovery, but I can’t go on lying to him either. Not for much longer.”
    “Then we’ll have to work faster.” He had no intention of playing team ball, or sharing the bronzes. Once he had them, he was keeping them. “The wind’s picking up,” he commented, and draped an arm around her as they walked up the path. “I heard a rumor about meat loaf.”
    “You’ll get fed, Boldari. And I can promise my meat loaf is very passionate.”

    “In some cultures meat loaf is considered an aphrodisiac.”
    “Really? Odd that was never covered in any of my anthropology courses.”
    “It only works if you serve it with mashed potatoes.”
    “Well then, I guess we’ll have to test that theory.”
    “They can’t be instant.”
    “Please. Don’t insult me.”
    “I think I’m crazy about you, Dr. Jones.”
    She laughed, but the soft center her brother had spoken of was laid bare.

P ART T HREE
The Price
Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous; but
who is able to stand before envy?
     
    —P ROVERBS

twenty-two
    T he country quiet kept Ryan awake, and made him think of New York. Of the comforting and continual buzz of traffic, of the pace that got into your blood so that you lengthened your stride to get to the next corner, beat the light, keep the clip steady.
    Places this close to the ocean made you slow down. Once you slowed down, you could get settled in and rooted before you realized it was happening.
    He needed to get back to New York, to his gallery, which he’d already left too long in other hands. Of course, he often did, but that was when he was traveling, moving from place to place. Not when he was . . . planted this way.
    He needed to pull up stakes, and soon.
    She was sleeping beside him, her breathing echoing the slow, steady ebb and flow of the sea outside. She didn’t curl up against him, but maintained her own space and gave him his. He told himself he appreciated that. But he didn’t. It irked him that she didn’t cuddle and cling and at least pretend that she was trying to hold him down.
    It would have been so much easier to resist staying if she did.

    He couldn’t concentrate this way. She was a constant distraction from the work at hand, just by being close enough to touch. She was an infinitely touchable woman if only because she was always vaguely surprised by little strokes and pats.
    And because he wanted to do so, to nudge her awake and into arousal with little