Homeport

a man on a romantic vacation to Italy would take, filling the case and a garment bag.
    In his office he outfitted his own laptop, chose the disks he wanted. He clicked off his mental list as he packed, adding a few items he’d picked up at Spy 2000 downtown and had beefed up himself.
    Satisfied, he locked his current identification in the safe behind the complete volumes of Edgar Allan Poe—the father of the locked-door mystery—and on impulse took out the plain gold band he kept there.
    It had been his grandfather’s wedding ring. His mother had given it to him at the wake two years ago. Though he’d had occasion to wear a wedding ring as cover before, he’d never used this one.

    Without questioning why he wanted to this time, he slipped it on, locked up, and went back for his suitcases.
    The intercom buzzed, announcing the car, as he carried them downstairs. Miranda had already brought her things down. Her suitcases, laptop, and briefcase were stacked neatly. Ryan lifted his brows.
    “I like a woman who knows how to be ready on time. All set?”
    She drew a deep breath. This, she thought, was it. “Let’s get going. I hate to rush at the airport.”
    He smiled at her. “That’s my girl,” he said, and bent down to pick up one of her cases.
    “I can carry my own things.” She pushed his hand away and picked it up herself. “And I’m not your girl.”
    With a shrug he stepped back, waiting until she’d managed to sling straps over her shoulders, heft the cases. “After you, Dr. Jones.”
     
    It shouldn’t have surprised her that he’d managed to book two first-class seats on ridiculously short notice. Because she jolted every time the flight attendant addressed her as Mrs. O’Connell, Miranda buried herself in the pages of Kafka immediately after takeoff.
    Ryan passed some time with the latest Lawrence Block burglar novel. Then sipped champagne and watched Arnold Schwarzenegger kick big-time ass on his video screen. Miranda drank mineral water and tried to concentrate on a nature documentary.
    Midway over the Atlantic, the restless night caught up with her. Doing her best to ignore her seat companion, she took her seat back down, stretched out, and ordered her brain to sleep.
    She dreamed of Maine, of the cliffs with the sea thrashing below, and a thick gray fog that smothered shapes. The light flicked in a blurry swath, and she used it to guide her toward the lighthouse.
    She was alone, so completely alone.
    And she was afraid, terribly afraid.
    Stumbling, groping, fighting not to let her breath sob out no matter how it burned her lungs. A woman’s laughter, soft and menacing, taunted her so that she ran.
    And running, found herself on the edge of the cliff over a boiling sea.
    When a hand gripped hers, she held on tight. Don’t leave me alone .
    Beside her, Ryan looked down at their joined hands. Hers were white-knuckled even in sleep. What chased her there, he wondered, and what kept her from reaching out?
    He soothed her fingers with his thumb until they relaxed. But he kept her hand in his, finding it curiously comforting as he closed his own eyes and slept.

sixteen
    “T here’s only one bedroom.” Miranda saw nothing of the lovely suite but the single bedroom with its gracious king-sized bed and elegant white coverlet.
    In the parlor, Ryan opened the double doors and stepped out on an enormous terrace where the air was ripe with spring and the Italian sun shone cheerfully on the soft red rooftops.
    “Check this view. This terrace is one of the reasons I wanted to book this room again. You could live out here.”
    “Good.” She pushed open the doors from the bedroom and stepped out. “Why don’t you plan to do just that?” She would not be charmed by the throat-aching view of the city, nor the cheerful geraniums that lined the boxes just under the stone parapet. Nor the man who leaned over them, looking as though he’d been born to stand in precisely that spot.
    “There’s only one bedroom,” she repeated.
    “We’re married. Which reminds me, how about getting me a beer?”
    “I’m sure there’s a certain kind of woman who finds you irresistibly amusing, Boldari. I don’t happen to be that certain kind.” She stepped up to the rail. “There is only one bed in the only one bedroom.”
    “If you’re shy, we can take turns on the parlor sofa. You first.” He draped an arm over her shoulders and added a friendly squeeze. “Relax, Miranda. Getting you in the sack