Homeport

Ferragamo’s cathedral to footwear. She bought nothing—including a gorgeous pair of pearl-gray leather pumps that had caught her eye and stirred her desire.
    The credit cards in her wallet, she reminded herself, weren’t stamped with her name. She’d go barefoot before she used one.
    “Most women,” he observed as he walked toward the river, “would have a dozen bags and boxes by now.”
    “I’m not most women.”
    “So I’ve noticed. You’d look damn good in leather, though.”
    “In your pathetic fantasies, Boldari.”
    “There’s nothing pathetic about my fantasies.” He stepped to a storefront and opened a glass door.
    “What now?”
    “Can’t come to Florence without buying some art.”
    “We didn’t come here to buy anything. This is supposed to be business.”
    “Relax.” He took her hand, bringing it up in a sweep to his lips. “Trust me.”

    “Those are two phrases that will never go together when applied to you.”
    The shop was crowded with marble and bronze reproductions. Gods and goddesses danced to lure tourists into plunking down their gold cards and purchasing a copy of a master’s work or an offering by a new artist.
    Patience straining, Miranda prepared to waste another precious hour while Ryan fulfilled his family obligations. But he surprised her by nodding toward a slender statue of Venus within five minutes.
    “What do you think of her?”
    Soberly, she stepped up, circled the polished bronze figure. “It’s adequate, not particularly good, but if one of your legion of relatives is looking for some lawn art, it would do well enough.”
    “Yeah, I think she’ll do well enough.” He aimed a delighted smile toward the clerk, then made Miranda’s brows draw together as he fumbled with guidebook Italian.
    Throughout the shopping spree, he’d spoken the language fluidly, often peppering his speech with casual colloquialisms. Now he slaughtered the most basic of phrases with a miserable accent that had the clerk beaming at him.
    “You’re American. We can speak English.”
    “Yeah? Thank God.” He laughed and tugged Miranda by the hand to bring her closer. “My wife and I want something special to take home. We really like this piece. It’ll look great in the sunroom, won’t it, Abby?”
    Her answer was a “hmmm.”
    He didn’t bargain well this time, either, just winced over the price, then pulled her away as if to hold a private consult.
    “What’s this all about?” She found herself whispering because his head was bent close to hers.
    “I wouldn’t want to buy it without being sure my wife approved.”
    “You’re a jackass.”
    “That’s what I get for being a considerate husband.” He lowered his head, kissed her firmly on the mouth—and only by instinct avoided her teeth. “Promise me you’ll try that again later.”
    Before she could retaliate, he turned back to the clerk. “We’ll take her.”
    When the deal was made, the statue wrapped and boxed, he refused the offer to send it to their hotel.
    “That’s okay. We’re about to head back anyway.” He hefted the bag, then put an arm around Miranda, bumping her with one of the two cameras slung over his shoulders. “Let’s get some of that ice cream on the way, Abby.”
    “I don’t need any ice cream,” she muttered when they stepped outside again.
    “Sure you do. Gotta keep your energy up. We’ve got one more stop to make.”
    “Look, I’m tired, my feet hurt, and I don’t care for shopping. I’ll just meet you back at the hotel.”
    “And miss all the fun? We’re going to the Bargello.”
    “Now?” What chased up her spine was a combination of dread and excitement. “We’re going to do it now?”
    “Now we’re going to play tourist some more.” He stepped off the curb, giving her room on the narrow sidewalk. “We’ll check the place out, get a feel for things, take some pictures.” He winked. “Case the joint, as they say in the movies.”
    “Case the joint,” she murmured.
    “Where are the security cameras? How far from the main entrance is Michelangelo’s Bacchus ?” Though he knew, precisely. It wouldn’t be his first trip, under any guise. “How far is it across the courtyard? How many steps to the first-floor loggia? When do the guards change shift? How many—”
    “All right, all right, I get the point.” She threw up her hands. “I don’t know why we didn’t go there in the first place.”
    “Everything in its time, honey. Abby and Kevin