Homeport

while.
    “Patrick? It’s Ryan.” He eased back in the chair and watched Miranda sleep. “I’ve got several things on my plate here, and a little hacker job I don’t have time to deal with. Interested?” He laughed. “Yeah, it pays.”
     
    Church bells were ringing. The music of them echoed over the red-tiled roofs and out to the distant hills. The air was warm, the sky as blue as the inside of a wish.
    But in the dank basement of the villa, the shadows were thick. She shivered once as she pried off the stair tread. It was there, she knew it was there.
    Waiting for her.
    Wood splintered as she hacked at it. Hurry. Hurry. Her breath began to wheeze in her lungs, sweat dripped nastily down her back. And her hands trembled as she reached for it, drew it out of the dark and played her flashlight over the features.
    Uplifted arms, generous breasts, a seductive tumble of hair. The bronze was glossy, without the blue-green patina of age. She could trace her fingers over it and feel the chill of the metal.
    Then there was harpsong and the light laughter of a woman. The eyes of the statue took on life and luster, the bronze mouth smiled and said her name.
    Miranda.
    She awoke with a jolt, her heart galloping. For a moment she would have sworn she smelled perfume—floral and strong. And could hear the faint echo of harp strings.
    But it was the buzzer on the front door that sounded, repeatedly and with some impatience. Shaken, Miranda tossed back the throw and hurried out of the room.
    It was surprising enough to see Ryan at the open front door. But it was a shock to the heart to see her father standing on the doorstep.
    “Father.” She cleared the sleep out of her voice and tried again. “Hello. I didn’t know you were coming to Maine.”
    “Just got in.” He was a tall man, trim, browned by the sun. His hair was full and thick and shiny as polished steel. It matched his trim beard and moustache and suited his narrow face.

    His eyes—the same deep blue as his daughter’s—peered out of the lenses of wire-rim glasses and studied Ryan.
    “I see you have company. I hope I’m not intruding.”
    Sizing up the situation quickly, Ryan offered a hand. “Dr. Jones, what a pleasure. Rodney J. Pettebone. I’m an associate of your daughter’s—and a friend, I hope. Just in from London,” he continued, stepping back and drawing Charles neatly inside. He glanced toward the stairs where Miranda continued to stand, staring at him as if he’d grown two heads.
    “Miranda’s been kind enough to give me a bit of her time while I’m here. Miranda dear.” He held out a hand and a ridiculously adoring smile.
    She wasn’t sure which baffled her more, the puppy dog smile or the upper-crust British accent that was rolling off his tongue as if he’d been born a royal.
    “Pettebone?” Charles frowned as Miranda stood stiff and still as one of her bronzes. “Roger’s boy.”
    “No, he’s my uncle.”
    “Uncle? I didn’t realize Roger had siblings.”
    “Half brother, Clarence. My father. Can I take your coat, Dr. Jones?”
    “Yes, thank you. Miranda, I was just at the Institute. I was told you weren’t feeling well today.”
    “I was— A headache. Nothing . . .”
    “We’ve been caught, darling.” Ryan moved up the stairs to take her hand, squeezing it hard enough to rub bone. “I’m sure your father will understand.”
    “No,” Miranda said, definitely, “he won’t.”
    “It’s completely my fault, Dr. Jones. I only have a few days in the country.” He accented this by kissing Miranda’s fingers lovingly. “I’m afraid I persuaded your daughter to take the day off. She’s helping me with my research on Flemish art of the seventeenth century. I’d be nowhere without her.”
    “I see.” Obvious disapproval flickered in Charles’s eyes. “I’m afraid—”
    “I was about to make some tea.” Miranda interrupted neatly. She needed a moment to realign her thoughts. “If you’ll excuse us, Father. Why don’t you wait in the parlor? It won’t take long. Rodney, you’ll give me a hand, won’t you?”
    “Love to.” He beamed a smile when she returned the vise squeeze on his hand.
    “Have you lost your mind?” she hissed as she slammed through the kitchen door. “Rodney J. Pettebone? Who the hell is that?”
    “At the moment, I am. I’m not here, remember?” He pinched her chin.
    “You gave my father the impression we were playing hooky, for God’s sake.” She grabbed the