by Nora Roberts
“Shut up, Patrick.” Though Ryan smiled over at Miranda, she caught a glint of discomfort in his eyes. “I don’t think we mentioned what Colleen does.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“She’s a cop.” With a sigh, he rose. “I’ll give them a hand with the coffee.”
“Oh, wonderful.” Blindly, Miranda reached for her wine.
She kept out of the way, obeying the house rules by retiring to the living room after coffee and dessert. Since Giorgio was busy grilling her on what she did, why she wasn’t married, her mind was well engaged. No one seemed bothered by the angry words coming out of the kitchen.
When Colleen stormed out, Patrick only rolled his eyes. “Here she goes again.”
“You promised, Ry. You gave your word.”
“I’m keeping it.” Obviously frustrated, he dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m just finishing what I started, baby. Then it’s done.”
“And what does she have to do with it?” She jabbed a finger at Miranda.
“Colleen, it’s not polite to point,” Giorgio told her.
“Oh hell.” And tossing something uncomplimentary in Italian over her shoulder, Colleen strode out of the house.
“Damn it.” Ryan blew out a breath, offered Miranda an apologetic smile. “Be right back.”
“Um . . .” She sat another moment, nearly squirming as Giorgio and Patrick stared at her. “I’ll go see if Mrs. Boldari needs any help after all.”
She escaped into what she hoped was some area of sanity. The kitchen was big and airy and carried the warm, friendly smells of the meal. With its bright counters and sparkling white floor, it was a picture out of a grocery store checkout magazine.
Dozens of incomprehensible pictures executed with crayon crowded the front of the refrigerator. There was a bowl of fresh fruit on the table, and cafe curtains at the windows.
Normality, Miranda decided.
“I hoped you’d bend your rule and let me give you a hand.”
“Sit.” Maureen gestured to the table. “Have coffee. They’ll finish arguing soon. I should wallop them both for making a scene in front of company. My kids.” She turned to an efficient home cappuccino maker and began to fix a cup. “They got passion, good brains, and wide stubborn streaks. Take after their father.”
“Do you think so? I see a lot of you in Ryan.”
It was exactly the right thing to say. Maureen’s eyes turned warm and loving. “The firstborn. No matter how many you have, there’s only one first. You love them all—so much it’s a wonder your heart doesn’t break from it. But there’s only one first. You’ll know, one day.”
“Hmmm.” Miranda declined to comment as Maureen frothed the milk. “It must be a little worrying, having a child go into law enforcement.”
“Colleen, she knows what she wants. Never goes any way but forward, that girl. One day, she’ll be a captain. You’ll see. She’s mad at Ryan,” she continued conversationally, as she set the cup in front of Miranda. “He’ll charm her out of it.”
“I’m sure he will. He’s very charming.”
“Girls always chased after him. But my Ryan’s very particular. He’s got his eye on you.”
It was time, Miranda decided, to put the record straight. “Mrs. Boldari, I don’t think Ryan was completely clear about this. We’re just business associates.”
“You think so?” Maureen said placidly, and turned back to load the dishwasher. “He doesn’t look good enough to you?”
“He looks very good, but—”
“Maybe because he comes from Brooklyn and not Park Avenue he isn’t classy enough for a Ph.D.?”
“No, not at all. It’s simply. . . It’s simply that we’re business associates.”
“He doesn’t kiss you?”
“He—I . . .” For God’s sake, was all she could think, and filled her mouth with hot foamy coffee to shut it up.
“I thought so. I’d worry about that boy if he didn’t kiss a woman who looks like you. He likes brains too. He’s not shallow. But maybe you don’t like the way he kisses. It matters,” she added while Miranda stared into her coffee. “A man doesn’t get your blood up with his kisses, you aren’t going to have a happy relationship. Sex is important. Anybody who says different never had good sex.”
“Oh my,” was all she could think of.
“What? You don’t think I know my boy has sex? You think I have brain damage?”
“I haven’t had sex with Ryan.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” Miranda could only blink as Maureen tidily closed the dishwasher and began to fill the sink to wash the pots. “I barely know him.” She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. “I don’t just have sex with every attractive man I meet.”
“Good. I don’t want my boy going around with easy women.”
“Mrs. Boldari.” She wondered if it would help to bang her head on the table. “We’re not going around. Our relationship is strictly a business one.”
“Ryan doesn’t bring business associates home to eat my linguine.”
Since she had no comment for that, Miranda shut her mouth again. She glanced up with relief as Ryan and his sister came through the archway.
As expected, he’d charmed Colleen out of her snit. The two of them, Miranda noted, were smiling, their arms around each other’s waists. For the first time, Colleen sent Miranda a friendly look.
“Sorry about that. Just a few things we needed to straighten out.”
“No problem.”
“So . . .” Colleen sat at the table, rested her feet on the opposite chair. “Do you have any solid feeling for who might have stolen the original bronze?”
Miranda just blinked at her. “Excuse me?”
“Ryan filled me in. Maybe I can help you sort it out.”
“Six months out of the academy and she’s Sherlock Holmes.” Ryan bent over, kissed her hair. “Want me to dry the pots, Mama?”
“No, it’s Patrick’s turn.” She glanced around. “Somebody steal something from your lady?”
“I did,” he said easily, and joined the women at the table. “It turned out to be a forgery. We’re straightening it out.”
“Good.”
“Wait. Wait just a minute.” Miranda lifted both hands. “Good? Is that what you said? Good? You’re telling me you know your son’s a thief?”
“What, am I a moron?” Maureen neatly wiped her hands before fisting them on her hips. “Of course I know.”
“I told you she knew,” Ryan pointed out.
“Yes, but—” She simply hadn’t believed it. Baffled, she shifted, studied Maureen’s pretty face. “And that’s just dandy with you? That’s just fine? And you—” She pointed at Colleen. “You’re a police officer. Your brother steals. How do you resolve the two?”
“He’s retiring.” Colleen lifted her shoulders. “A little behind schedule.”
“I don’t understand.” She pressed her lifted hands to her head. “You’re his mother. How can you encourage him to break the law?”
“Encourage?” Maureen gave that rich laugh again. “Who had to encourage him?” Deciding to give her guest the courtesy of an explanation, she set down her dishcloth. “Do you believe in God?”
“What? What does that have to do with this?”
“Don’t argue, just answer. Do you believe in God?”
Beside Miranda, Ryan grinned. She couldn’t know it, but when his mother used that tone it meant she’d decided she liked you.
“All right, yes.”
“When God gives you a gift, it’s a sin not to use it.”
Miranda closed her eyes a moment. “You’re saying that God gave Ryan a talent, and that it would be a sin for him not to break into buildings and steal?”
“God could’ve given him a gift for music, like He did my Mary Jo, who plays the piano like an angel. God gave him this gift instead.”
“Mrs. Boldari—”
“Don’t 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 inside her. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t for him in particular. He wouldn’t let it matter. He wanted her, wanted to be the one to crack through the shield and discover the volcano he was sure was inside of her.
Something about her pulled at him with a slow and steady strength that refused to be ignored.
“Let me touch you.” Even as he asked, he took, his hands running up her sides to skim her breasts. “Let me have you.”
Oh, yes. The sigh of it circled around in her cloudy brain as if searching for a place to land. Touch me. Have me. God, please don’t let me think.
“No.” It was a shock to hear herself say it. To realize she was pulling away even as she yearned to strain closer. “This won’t work.”
“It was working just fine for me.” He hooked his hand in the waistband of her trousers and gave her a yank. “And I’d say it was working just fine for you too.”
“I won’t be seduced, Ryan.” She concentrated on the annoyed flash in his eyes and ignored the screams of her own system for the release his mouth had promised. “I won’t be had. If we’re going to finish this arrangement successfully, it has to be on a business level. And only that level.”
“I don’t like that level.”
“That’s the deal, and it’s nonnegotiable.”
“Your tongue ever get frostbite when you use that tone?” He jammed his hands in his pocket as she studied him balefully. “Okay, Dr. Jones, it’s all business. I’ll show you your room.”
He walked back to pick up her suitcases and carried them up a fluid curve of metal stairs with a soft green patina. Then, setting her bags down just inside the door, he nodded. “You should find this comfortable enough, and private. We’re booked out tomorrow evening. That’ll give me time to tie up a few loose ends here. Sleep well,” he added, and shut the door in her face before she had the chance to shut it in his.
She started to shrug, then her eyes widened when she heard the click of a lock. In one leap she was at the door rattling the knob.
“You son of a bitch. You can’t lock me in here.”
“An ounce of prevention, Dr. Jones.” His voice was soft as silk through the door. “Just to make sure you stay where I put you until tomorrow.”
He walked away whistling while she pounded and promised vengeance.
fifteen
T hough she knew it was a useless gesture, Miranda locked the door to the bathroom in the morning. She showered quickly, struggling to keep one eye on the door in case Ryan decided he wanted to play games.
She wouldn’t have put it past him.
Once she was safely bundled into her robe, she took her time. She wanted to be completely dressed, with a confident shield of makeup and tidily groomed hair, before she saw him. There would be, she determined, no cozy little breakfast chat in pajamas.
Of course, he had to let her out first. The bastard.
“Let me out of here, Boldari,” she called as she rapped smartly on the door.
Her answer was silence. Incensed, she knocked harder, shouted louder, and began to add inventive threats.
Kidnapping, she decided; she’d add kidnapping to the list of charges against him. She hoped the other inmates at whatever federal facility he spent the rest of his life in rejoiced in torturing him.
Frustrated, she started to rattle the knob. It turned smoothly under her hand and caused her angry flush to deepen into embarrassment.
She stepped out, glanced cautiously down the hallway. Doors were open, so she walked to the first one, determin
ed to confront him.
She found herself in a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with books, cozy leather chairs, a small marble fireplace with an ornate pendulum clock gracing the mantel. A hexagon-shaped glass cabinet held an impressive collection of Oriental snuff bottles. She sniffed once. He might be slick on taste and culture, but he was still a thief.
She tried the next doorway and found his bedroom. The big half-tester with rococo head and footboards was impressive enough, but the fact that it was tidily made, with the pearl-gray duvet cover nicely fluffed, had her brow lifting. Either he hadn’t slept in it, or his mother had trained him very well.
After meeting Maureen, she voted for the latter.
A very masculine room, she decided, yet subtly sensual with jade-green walls and creamy trim. Sinuous women in the Art Deco style he seemed fond of held frosted-glass shades that would soften the light. An oversized chair in that same moonlight gray was tilted invitingly toward a full-sized fireplace fashioned of rose-veined marble. Ornamental lemon trees in huge urns flanked the wide window where the curtain had been drawn open to let in the sunlight and the view.
The chest of drawers was Duncan Phyfe, and along with the bronze of the Persian god Mithras was a scatter of loose change, a ticket stub, a book of matches, and other ordinary contents of a man’s pocket.
She was tempted to poke into his closet, open drawers, but resisted. It wouldn’t do for him to pop in while she was at it and get the impression she was at all interested.
There was a third room, obviously an office of a man who could afford the best for his at-home work. Two computers, both with laser printers, the expected fax and desktop copier, a two-line phone, oak filing cabinets. Sturdy oak shelves held books and trinkets and dozens of framed photographs of his family.
The young children would be his nieces and nephews, she thought. Pretty faces mugging for the camera. The serene Madonna-like woman holding an infant was likely his sister Bridgit, the sleekly handsome man with the Boldari eyes would be Michael, and the woman his arm was draped around his wife. They lived in California, she remembered.
There was a shot of Ryan with Colleen, grinning identical grins, and a group picture of the entire family obviously taken near Christmas. The lights from the tree were prettily blurred behind the crowd of faces.
