Homeport

rereading Homer wasn’t a particularly relaxing occupation. But it worked for her.
    By midnight, her mind was full of Greek battles and betrayals and clear of worries. She marked her place, set the book aside, and turned off her light. In moments she was dreamlessly asleep.
    Deeply enough that she didn’t hear the door open, close again. She didn’t hear the lock click smoothly into place, or the footsteps cross the room toward the bed.
    She awoke with a jolt, a gloved hand hard over her mouth, another clamped firmly at her throat, and a man’s voice softly threatening in her ear.
    “I could strangle you.”

P ART T WO
The Thief
All men love to appropriate the belongings
of others. It is a universal desire; only the
manner of doing it differs.
     
    —A LAIN R ENÉ L ESAGE

eleven
    H er mind simply froze. The knife. For a hideous moment she would have sworn she felt the prick of a blade at her throat rather than the smooth grip of hands, and her body went lax with terror.
    Dreaming, she must be dreaming. But she could smell leather and man, she could feel the pressure on her throat that forced her to dig deep for air, and the hand that covered her mouth to block any sound. She could see a faint outline, the shape of a head, the breadth of shoulders.
    All of that blipped into her stunned brain and was processed in seconds that seemed like hours.
    Not again, she promised herself. Never again.
    In instinctive reaction, her right hand balled into a fist, and came off the mattress in a snap of movement. He was either faster, or a mind reader, as he shifted an instant before the blow landed. Her fist bounced harmlessly off his biceps.
    “Lie still and keep quiet.” He hissed the order and added a convincing little shake. “However much I’d like to hurt you, I won’t. Your brother’s snoring at the other end of the house, so it’s unlikely he’ll hear you if you scream. Besides, you won’t scream, will you?” His fingers gentled on her throat, with a shivering caress of thumb. “It’d bruise your Yankee pride.”
    She muttered something against his gloved hand. He removed it, but kept the other on her throat. “What do you want?”
    “I want to kick your excellent ass from here to Chicago. Damn it, Dr. Jones, you fucked up.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was hard to keep her breathing under control, but she managed it. That too was pride. “Let go of me. I won’t scream.”
    She wouldn’t because Andrew might hear, and might come roaring in. And whoever was currently pinning her to the bed was probably armed.
    Well, she thought, this time so was she. If she could manage to get into her nightstand drawer and grab her gun.
    In response, he sat on the bed beside her, and still holding her in place, reached out for the switch on the bedside lamp. She blinked rapidly against the flash of light, then stared wide-eyed, slack-jawed.
    “Ryan?”
    “How could you make such a stupid, sloppy, unprofessional mistake?”
    He was dressed in black, snug jeans, boots, a turtleneck and bomber jacket. His face was as strikingly handsome as ever, but his eyes weren’t warm and appealing as she remembered. They were hot, impatient, and unmistakably dangerous.
    “Ryan,” she managed again. “What are you doing here?”
    “Trying to clean up the mess you made.”
    “I see.” Perhaps he’d had some sort of . . . breakdown. It was vital to remain calm, she reminded herself, and not to alarm him. Slowly, she put a hand on his wrist and nudged his hand away from her throat. She sat up instinctively, and primly, tugging at the collar of her pajamas.
    “Ryan.” She even worked up what she thought was a soothing smile. “You’re in my bedroom, in the middle of the night. How did you get in?”

    “The way I usually get into houses that aren’t my own. I picked your locks. You really ought to have better.”
    “You picked the locks.” She blinked, blinked again. He simply didn’t look like a man in the middle of a mental crisis, but one who was simmering with barely suppressed temper. “You broke into my house?” And the phrase had a ridiculous notion popping into her head. “You broke in,” she repeated.
    “That’s right.” He toyed with the hair that tumbled over her shoulder. He was absolutely crazy about her hair. “It’s what I do.”
    “But you’re a businessman, you’re an art patron. You’re—why, you’re not Ryan Boldari at all, are you?”
    “I certainly