Homeport

would want to see some of the city on their first day, wouldn’t they?”
    She imagined they looked exactly like American tourists—cameras, shopping bags, and guidebooks. He bought her an ice-cream cone as they walked. Because she decided it might help cool the hot ball of tension in her stomach, she licked at the tart, frothy lemon ice as he strolled along, pointing out buildings, statues, loitering at shop windows or over menus posted outside trattorias.
    Perhaps there was a point to it all, she decided. No one would look twice at them, and if she concentrated, she could almost believe she was meandering through the city for the first time. It was a bit like being in a play, she thought. Abby and Kevin’s Italian Vacation .
    If only she weren’t such a lousy actress.
    “Fabulous, isn’t it?” He paused, his fingers twining with hers as he studied the magnificent cathedral that dominated the city.
    “Yes. Brunelleschi’s dome was a revolutionary achievement. He didn’t use scaffolding. Giotto designed the campanile, but didn’t live to see it completed.” She adjusted her sunglasses. “The neo-Gothic marble facade echoes his style, but was added in the nineteenth century.”
    She brushed at her hair and saw him smiling at her. “What?”
    “You have a nice way with a history lesson, Dr. Jones.” When her face went carefully blank, he framed it with his hands. “No, don’t. That wasn’t a dig, it was a compliment.” His fingers brushed her cheekbones lightly. So many sensitive spots, he mused. “Tell me something else.”
    If he was laughing at her, he was doing a good job of disguising it. So she took a chance. “Michelangelo carved his David in the courtyard of the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo.”
    “Really?”
    He said it so seriously her lips twitched. “Yes. He also copied Donatello’s Saint John for his own Moses . It would have been a compliment. But the pride of the museum, I think, is his Pieta`  . The figure of Nicodemus is believed to be a self-portrait and is brilliantly done. But the figure of Mary Magdalene in the same sculpture is inferior, and obviously the work of one of his students. Don’t kiss me, Ryan,” she said it quickly, closing her eyes as his mouth hovered a breath from hers. “It complicates things.”
    “Do they have to be simple?”
    “Yes.” She opened her eyes again, looked into his. “In this case, yes.”
    “Normally I’d agree with you.” Thoughtfully, he skimmed the pad of his thumb over her lips. “We’re attracted to each other, and that should be simple. But it doesn’t seem to be.” He dropped his hands from her face to her shoulders, skimmed them down her arms to her wrists. Her pulse was rapid and thick, and should have pleased him.
    But he stepped back. “Okay, let’s keep it as simple as possible. Go stand over there.”
    “Why?”
    “So I can take your picture, honey.” He tipped his sunglasses down and winked at her. “We want to show all our friends back home, don’t we, Abby?”
    Though she considered it overkill, she posed in front of the grand Duomo with hundreds of other visitors and let him snap pictures of her with the magnificent white, green, and rose marble at her back.
    “Now you take one of me.” He walked over holding out his snazzy Nikon. “It’s basically point-and-shoot. You just—”
    “I know how to work a camera.” She snatched it from him. “Kevin.”
    She moved back, blocked and focused. Maybe her heart tripped a little. He was such a staggering sight, tall and dark and grinning cockily at the camera.
    “There. Satisfied now?”
    “Almost.” He snagged a couple of tourists who happily agreed to take a picture of the young Americans.
    “This is ridiculous,” Miranda muttered as she found herself posing once again, this time with Ryan’s arm around her waist.
    “It’s for my mother,” he said, then followed impulse and kissed her.
    A flock of pigeons swarmed up with a rush of wings and a flutter of air. She had no time to resist, less to defend. His mouth was warm, firm, sliding over hers as the arm around her waist angled her closer. The quiet sound she made had nothing to do with protest. The hand she lifted to his face had everything to do with holding him there.
    The sun was white, the air full of sound. And her heart trembled on the edge of something extraordinary.
    It was either pull away or sink, Ryan thought. He turned his lips into the palm of her hand. “Sorry,” he said, and