Homeport

the timing was already set. Most of all, he couldn’t afford to care for her. Growing attached to a pawn was a certain way to lose the game.
    He never lost.
    He held her away, skimming his gaze over her face. Her cheeks were flushed, from the cold and the heat. Her eyes were clouded still with a passion he imagined had surprised her as much as him. She shivered as he stroked his hands down to her shoulders again. And she said nothing.
    “I should take you home.” However much he cursed himself, his smile was smooth and easy.
    “Yes.” She wanted to sit, to steady herself. To think again. “It’s getting late.”
    “Another minute,” he murmured, “it would have been too late.” Taking her hand, he led her to the waiting limo. “Do you get to New York often?”
    “Now and again.” The heat seemed to be centered in a ball in her gut. The rest of her was cold, viciously cold.
    “You’ll let me know when your plans take you there. And I’ll adjust mine.”
    “All right,” she heard herself say, and didn’t feel foolish at all.
     
    She sang in the shower. It was something she never did. She didn’t have to be told she had a dreadful voice, when she could hear it for herself. But this morning she belted out “Making Whoopee.” She had no idea why that tune was lodged in her head—had no idea she even knew the lyrics—but she gurgled them as water sluiced over her head.
    She was still humming when she dried off.
    Bending from the waist, she wrapped a towel around her mass of hair, swinging her hips as she did so. She was no better at dancing, though she knew all the proper steps. The members of the art council who had guided her through her rigid waltzes would have been shocked to see the cool Dr. Jones bumping and grinding around her efficient bathroom.
    She giggled at the thought of it, a sound so unprecedented she had to stop and catch her breath. She realized with a kind of jolt that she was happy. Really happy. That too was a rare thing. Content she often was, involved, satisfied, or challenged. But she knew simple happiness often eluded her.
    It was marvelous to feel it now.
    And why shouldn’t she? She slipped into a practical terry robe and smoothed her arms and legs with quietly scented body cream. She was interested in a very appealing man, and he was interested in her. He enjoyed her company, appreciated her work, found her attractive on both a physical and an intellectual plane.
    He wasn’t intimidated, as so many were, by her position or her personality. He was charming, successful—to say nothing of gorgeous—and he’d been civilized enough not to press an obvious advantage and attempt to lure her into bed.
    Would she have gone? Miranda wondered as she briskly dried off the foggy mirror. Normally the answer would have been a firm no. She didn’t indulge in reckless affairs with men she barely knew. She didn’t indulge in affairs period for that matter. It had been over two years since she’d had a lover, and that had ended so miserably she’d resolved to avoid even casual relationships.
    But last night . . . Yes, she thought she could have been persuaded. Against her better judgment she could have been swayed. But he had respected her enough not to ask.
    She continued to hum as she dressed for the day, choosing a wool suit with a short skirt and long jacket in a flattering shade of steel blue. She took care with her makeup, then let her hair tumble as it chose. In a last act of female defiance against the elements, she slipped into impractical heels.
    She left for work in the chilly dark, and was still singing.

    • • •
    Andrew awoke with the mother of all hangovers. Not being able to stand his own whimpering, he tried to smother himself with pillows. Survival was stronger than misery, and he burst up, gasping for air and grabbing his head to keep it from falling off his shoulders.
    Then he let go, praying it would.
    He inched out of bed. As a scientist he knew it wasn’t possible for his bones to actually shatter, but he was afraid they might defy the laws of physics and do just that.
    It was Annie’s fault, he decided. She’d gotten just annoyed enough with him the night before to let him drink himself blind. He’d counted on her to cut him off, as she usually did. But no, she kept slapping those drinks in front of him, every time he called for one.
    He dimly remembered her shoving him into a cab and saying something pithy about hoping he was sick as three