Homeport

argue,” Ryan murmured. “You’ll just give yourself a headache.”
    She scowled at him. “Mrs. Boldari,” she tried again, “I appreciate your loyalty to your son, but—”
    “Do you know what he does with this gift?”
    “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
    “He buys this house for his family because the old neighborhood isn’t safe anymore.” She opened her arms to encompass the lovely kitchen, then wagged a finger. “He sees that his brothers and sisters get a college education. None of this would be. However hard Giorgio and I worked, you can’t send six kids to college on teachers’ salaries. God gave him a gift,” she said again, and rested her hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “You going to argue with God?”
     
    Ryan was right again. She did have a headache. She nursed it with silence during the drive to Manhattan. She wasn’t sure which baffled her more just then, the stand Maureen had taken to defend her son’s choice of career, or the warm hugs she’d been given by each family member before they left.
    Ryan let her have her quiet. When he pulled up in front of his building, he gave the keys to the doorman. “Hi, Jack. Arrange to have this rental returned to the airport, would you, and send Dr. Jones’s bags—they’re in the trunk—up to my apartment.”
    “Sure thing, Mr. Boldari. Welcome home.” The twenty that slipped discreetly from palm to palm had Jack’s smile widening. “Have a nice evening.”
    “I don’t understand your life,” Miranda began as he escorted her through an elegant lobby decked out with glossy antiques and attractive art.
    “That’s all right. I don’t understand yours either.” He stepped into an elevator and used a key to access the top floor. “You must be worn out. Jack’ll have your things up in a minute. You can get comfortable.”
    “Your mother wanted to know why I wasn’t having sex with you.”
    “I wonder the same thing all the time.” The elevator opened into a spacious living area done in bold blues and greens. Wide terrace windows offered a pricey view of New York.
    He’d obviously indulged himself in his affection for the finer things, she decided with a quick scan. Art Deco lamps, Chippendale tables, Baccarat crystal.
    She wondered how much of it he’d stolen.
    “All purchased legitimately,” he said, reading her perfectly. “Well, that Erté lamp was hot, but I couldn’t resist it. Want a nightcap?”
    “No, no I don’t.”
    The floor was glossy honey-toned wood accented with one of the most beautiful Orientals she’d ever seen. Art on the walls ranged from a misty Corot to a soft, lovely watercolor of what she recognized as the Irish countryside.
    “Your mother’s work.”
    “Yes, she’s good, isn’t she?”
    “Very. Confusing, but very good.”
    “She likes you.”
    With a sigh, Miranda wandered to the window. “I like her too, for some reason.”
    Her own mother had never hugged her that way, with a good, solid squeeze that communicated approval and affection. Her own father had never grinned at her with that lively twinkle in his eyes, as Ryan’s father had.
    She wondered how, despite it all, his family had seemed so much more blissfully normal than her own.
    “That’ll be your bags.” When the buzzer sounded, Ryan moved over to check the intercom, then released the elevator. The delivery was made quickly, with another exchange of bills. When the elevator whispered closed again, Ryan left her bags where they were and crossed to her.
    “You’re tense,” he murmured after he began kneading her shoulders. “I’d hoped an evening with my family would relax you.”
    “How does anyone relax with all that energy around them?” She arched back against his hands before she could stop herself. “You must have had an interesting childhood.”
    “I had a terrific childhood.” Far from the privileged one she’d known, and from all appearances, a great deal more loving. “Long day,” he murmured, and because he knew she was beginning to relax, bent down to nibble at her neck.
    “Yes, very. Don’t.”
    “I was about to work my way around. . . here.” He turned her, covered her mouth with his and stole her breath.
    His mother had said kisses should get the blood up. Hers was up, bubbling close under her skin, swimming in her head, pumping much too hard and fast through her veins.
    “Don’t,” she said again, but it was a weak protest, easily ignored by both of them.
    He could feel the need simmering