Homeport

before?”
    “No. Your family’s lived here for generations?”
    “Yes. There have always been Joneses in Jones Point.”
    “Is that why you live here?” His gloved fingers tangled with hers, leather sliding over leather. “Because it’s expected?”
    “No. It’s where I come from, where I am.” It was difficult to explain, even to herself, how deep her roots were sunk in that rocky New England soil. “I enjoy traveling, but this is where I want to be when it’s time to come home.”
    “Then tell me about Jones Point.”
    “It’s quiet and settled. The city itself grew from a fishing village into a community with emphasis on culture and tourism. A number of residents still make their living from the sea. What we call the waterfront is actually along Commercial Street. Lobstering is profitable—the packing plant ships all over the world.”
    “Have you ever done it?”
    “What?”
    “Gone lobstering.”
    “No.” She smiled a little. “I can see the boats and buoys from the cliffs behind the house. I like to watch them.”
    Observe rather than participate, he thought.
    “This area is Old Port,” she continued. “You’ll find a lot of galleries in this part of town. You might be interested in visiting some of them before you leave.”
    “I might.”
    “The city shows best in the spring, when you can make use of the parks and beaches. There are some beautiful stretches of marsh and sand, views of Miracle Bay and the islands. But in dead winter, it can be a postcard. The pond freezes in Atlantic Park, and people come to ice-skate.”
    “Do you?” He slipped an arm around her shoulder to block her from the edge of the wind. Their bodies bumped. “Skate.”
    “Yes.” Her blood simmered; her throat went dry. “It’s excellent exercise.”
    He laughed, and just beyond the circle of light tossed out by a streetlamp, turned her to him. Now his hands were on her shoulders, and the wind at his back streamed through his hair. “So it’s for the exercise, not for the fun.”
    “I enjoy it. It’s too late in the year for skating now.”

    He could feel her nerves, the shimmer of them under his hands. Intrigued by them, he drew her a little closer. “And how do you get your exercise this late in the year?”
    “I walk a lot. Swim when I can.” Her pulse was beginning to jump, a sensation she knew she couldn’t trust. “It’s too cold to stand.”
    “Then why don’t we consider this an exercise in sharing body heat.” He hadn’t intended to kiss her—eventually yes, of course—but not this soon. Still, he hadn’t lied when he told her he was a romantic. And the moment simply called for it.
    He brushed his lips over hers, testing, his eyes open as hers were. The wariness in hers caused his lips to curve as he tasted her a second time. He was a man who believed in practicing until he was skilled in a matter he enjoyed. He was very skilled in the matter of women and patiently warmed her lips with his until hers softened, parted, until her lashes fluttered down and she sighed quietly into his mouth.
    Maybe it was foolish, but what could it hurt? The little war of reason in her head faded to whispers as sensation layered over. His mouth was firm and persuasive, his body long and hard. He tasted faintly of the wine they’d shared and was just as arousingly foreign and rich.
    She found herself leaning into him, her hands clutching at his coat at the waist. And her mind went blank with pleasure.
    Suddenly his hands were cupping her face, the cold, smooth leather of his gloves a shock to her dreaming brain. Her eyes opened to find his narrowed on her face, with an intensity burning in them the easy kiss didn’t warrant.
    “Let’s try that again.”
    This time his mouth was rough and hot, plundering hers until her head roared with sounds like the sea below the cliffs of her home. There was demand here, and the arrogant certainty it would be answered. Even as her mind lurched back, bent on refusing, her mouth answered.
    He knew what it was to want. He’d wanted a great deal in his life, and had made it his business to see his desires were met. Wanting her was acceptable, even expected. But wanting her now, this forcibly, was dangerous. Even a man who gambled by choice knew to avoid unwinnable risks.
    Still, he lingered long enough to be certain he would spend a very uncomfortable night, alone. He couldn’t afford to seduce her, to take her back to his bed. There was work to be done, and