Homeport

by Nora Roberts

  “No, I get seasick.”

  “Too bad.”

  “According to my records,” Miranda said as she came back in, “I was in Washington from November third through the seventh.”

  And the burglary in San Francisco had occurred in the early hours of the fifth, Cook recalled. “I guess you flew down there.”

  “Yes, into National.” She checked her book. “USAir flight four-one-oh-eight, departing Jones Point at ten-fifty, arriving National at twelve fifty-nine. I stayed at The Four Seasons. Is that specific enough for you?”

  “Sure is. Being a scientist, you’d keep good records.”

  “Yes, I do.” She walked over to Andrew’s chair, sat on the arm beside him. They became a unit. “What’s this about?”

  “Just getting things ordered in my head. Would you have where you were in June in that book? Say the third week.”

  “Of course.” Steadied by Andrew’s hand on her knee, she flipped back to June. “I was at the Institute the entire month of June. Lab work, some summer classes. You taught a couple yourself, didn’t you, Andrew, when Jack Gold-bloom’s allergies kicked up and he took a few days off?”

  “Yeah.” He closed his eyes to help him think back. “That was toward the end of June. Oriental Art of the Twelfth Century.” He opened his eyes again and grinned at her. “You wouldn’t touch it, and I had to cram. We can easily get the exact dates for you, Detective,” he continued. “We keep excellent records at the Institute as well.”

  “Fine. Appreciate it.”

  “We’ll cooperate.” Miranda’s voice was brisk and stern. “And we expect you to do the same. It was our property taken, Detective. I think we have the right to know what avenues you’re investigating.”

  “No problem.” He rested his hands on his knees. “I’m checking out a series of burglaries that match the profile of yours. Maybe you heard something, seeing as you’re in the same line, about a theft up in Boston last June.”

  “The Harvard University art museum.” A shudder climbed up Miranda’s spine. “The kuang. Chinese tomb piece, thought to be late thirteenth to early twelfth century B.C. Another bronze.”

  “You’ve got a good memory for detail.”

  “Yes, I do. It was a huge loss. It’s one of the most beautifully preserved pieces of Chinese bronze ever recovered, and worth a great deal more than our David.”

  “November it was San Francisco, a painting that time.”

  Not a bronze, she thought, and for some reason all but trembled with relief. “It was the M. H. de Young Memorial Museum.”

  “That’s right.”

  “American art,” Andrew put in. “Colonial period. Where’s the connection?”

  “I didn’t say there was, but I think there is.” Cook rose. “Could be we’ve got a thief with what you could call an eclectic taste in art. Me, I like that Georgia O’Keeffe stuff. It’s bright, looks like what it is. I appreciate your time.” He turned away, turned back. “I wonder if I could borrow that datebook of yours, Dr. Jones. And if the two of you would have written records of the year before. Just to help me put it all in order.”

  Miranda hesitated, again thought of lawyers. But pride had her standing and holding the slim leather book out to him. “You’re welcome to it, and I have calendars for the last three years stored at my office at the Institute.”

  “Appreciate it. I’ll just give you a receipt for this.” He tucked her book away and took out his own to scrawl the information and his signature.

  Andrew rose as well. “I’ll have mine messengered over to you.”

  “That would be a big help.”

  “It’s difficult not to be insulted by this, Detective.”

  Cook raised his eyebrows at Miranda. “I’m sorry about that, Dr. Jones. I’m just trying to do my job.”

  “I imagine you are, and once you put my brother and me off your list of suspects, you’ll be able to do it with more speed and efficiency. Which is why we’re willing to tolerate this sort of treatment. I’ll show you out.”

  Cook nodded at Andrew and followed her into the foyer. “Didn’t mean to put your back up, Dr. Jones.”

  “Oh yes you did, Detective.” She wrenched open the door. “Good afternoon.”

  “Ma’am.” A quarter-century on the force hadn’t made him immune to the sharp tongue of an angry woman. He ducked his head and grimaced a bit when the door shut loudly at his back.

  “The man thinks we’re thieves.” Fuming, she stalked back into the parlor. It annoyed her, but didn’t surprise her, to see Andrew pouring himself a drink. “He thinks we’re bouncing around the country breaking into museums.”

  “Would be kind of fun, wouldn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Just trying to relieve the tension.” He lifted his glass. “One way or the other.”

  “This isn’t a game, Andrew, and I don’t care to be smeared on a slide under a police microscope.”

  “There’s nothing for him to find but the truth.”

  “It’s not the end that worries me, it’s the means. We’re under investigation. The press is bound to get ahold of some of this.”

  “Miranda.” He spoke softly and added an affectionate smile. “You’re sounding dangerously close to Mother.”

  “There’s no reason to insult me.”

  “I’m sorry—you’re right.”

  “I’m going to make a pot roast,” Miranda announced as she walked toward the kitchen.

  “A pot roast.” His mood lifted dramatically. “With the little potatoes and carrots?”

  “You peel the potatoes. Keep me company, Andrew.” She asked as much for herself as to get him away from the bottle. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Sure.” He set the glass down. It was empty anyway. And slipped an arm over her shoulders.

  The meal helped, as did the preparation of it. She enjoyed cooking, and considered it another science. It was Mrs. Patch who had taught her, pleased that the young girl had shown an interest in kitchen work. It had been the warmth of that kitchen, and the company, that drew Miranda. The rest of the house had been so cold, so regimented. But Mrs. Patch had ruled in the kitchen. Even Elizabeth hadn’t dared to intrude.

  More likely she hadn’t cared to, Miranda thought as she prepared for bed. She’d never known her mother to fix a meal, and that simple fact made learning how herself more appealing.

  She would not be a mirror of Elizabeth.

  The pot roast had done its work, she thought now. Good solid meat and potatoes, drop biscuits she’d made from scratch, conversation with Andrew. Maybe he’d had more wine with dinner than she liked, but at least he hadn’t been alone.

  It had been almost a happy time. They’d tactically agreed not to discuss the Institute, or the trouble in Florence. It was much more relaxing to argue over their diverse views on music and books.

  They’d always argued about them, she remembered as she tugged on her pajamas. They’d always shared views and thoughts and hopes. She doubted she would have survived childhood intact without him. They’d been each other’s anchor in a chilly sea for as long as she could remember.

  She only wished she could do more to steady him now and convince him to seek help. But whenever she touched on the subject of his drinking, he only closed up. And drank more. All she could do was watch, and stand with him until he fell off the edge of the cliff he was so tenuously poised on. Then she would do what she could to help him pick up the pieces.

  She climbed into bed, arranging her pillows to support her back, then picked up her volume of bedtime reading. Some might say rereading Homer wasn’t a particularly relaxing occupation. But it worked for her.

  By midnight, her mind was full of Greek battles and betrayals and clear of worries. She marked her place, set the book aside, and turned off her light. In moments she was dreamlessly asleep.

  Deeply enough that she didn’t hear the door open, close again. She didn’t hear the lock click smoothly into place, or the footsteps cross
the room toward the bed.

  She awoke with a jolt, a gloved hand hard over her mouth, another clamped firmly at her throat, and a man’s voice softly threatening in her ear.

  “I could strangle you.”

  PART TWO

  The Thief

  All men love to appropriate the belongings

  of others. It is a universal desire; only the

  manner of doing it differs.

  —ALAIN RENÉ LESAGE

  eleven

  H er mind simply froze. The knife. For a hideous moment she would have sworn she felt the prick of a blade at her throat rather than the smooth grip of hands, and her body went lax with terror.

  Dreaming, she must be dreaming. But she could smell leather and man, she could feel the pressure on her throat that forced her to dig deep for air, and the hand that covered her mouth to block any sound. She could see a faint outline, the shape of a head, the breadth of shoulders.

  All of that blipped into her stunned brain and was processed in seconds that seemed like hours.

  Not again, she promised herself. Never again.

  In instinctive reaction, her right hand balled into a fist, and came off the mattress in a snap of movement. He was either faster, or a mind reader, as he shifted an instant before the blow landed. Her fist bounced harmlessly off his biceps.

  “Lie still and keep quiet.” He hissed the order and added a convincing little shake. “However much I’d like to hurt you, I won’t. Your brother’s snoring at the other end of the house, so it’s unlikely he’ll hear you if you scream. Besides, you won’t scream, will you?” His fingers gentled on her throat, with a shivering caress of thumb. “It’d bruise your Yankee pride.”

  She muttered something against his gloved hand. He removed it, but kept the other on her throat. “What do you want?”

  “I want to kick your excellent ass from here to Chicago. Damn it, Dr. Jones, you fucked up.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was hard to keep her breathing under control, but she managed it. That too was pride. “Let go of me. I won’t scream.”

  She wouldn’t because Andrew might hear, and might come roaring in. And whoever was currently pinning her to the bed was probably armed.

  Well, she thought, this time so was she. If she could manage to get into her nightstand drawer and grab her gun.

  In response, he sat on the bed beside her, and still holding her in place, reached out for the switch on the bedside lamp. She blinked rapidly against the flash of light, then stared wide-eyed, slack-jawed.

  “Ryan?”

  “How could you make such a stupid, sloppy, unprofessional mistake?”

  He was dressed in black, snug jeans, boots, a turtleneck and bomber jacket. His face was as strikingly handsome as ever, but his eyes weren’t warm and appealing as she remembered. They were hot, impatient, and unmistakably dangerous.

  “Ryan,” she managed again. “What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to clean up the mess you made.”

  “I see.” Perhaps he’d had some sort of . . . breakdown. It was vital to remain calm, she reminded herself, and not to alarm him. Slowly, she put a hand on his wrist and nudged his hand away from her throat. She sat up instinctively, and primly, tugging at the collar of her pajamas.

  “Ryan.” She even worked up what she thought was a soothing smile. “You’re in my bedroom, in the middle of the night. How did you get in?”

  “The way I usually get into houses that aren’t my own. I picked your locks. You really ought to have better.”

  “You picked the locks.” She blinked, blinked again. He simply didn’t look like a man in the middle of a mental crisis, but one who was simmering with barely suppressed temper. “You broke into my house?” And the phrase had a ridiculous notion popping into her head. “You broke in,” she repeated.

  “That’s right.” He toyed with the hair that tumbled over her shoulder. He was absolutely crazy about her hair. “It’s what I do.”

  “But you’re a businessman, you’re an art patron. You’re—why, you’re not Ryan Boldari at all, are you?”

  “I certainly am.” For the first time that wicked smile flashed, reaching his eyes, turning them gold and amused. “And have been since my sainted mother named me thirty-two years ago in Brooklyn. And up to my association with you, that name has stood for something.” The smile vanished into a snarl. “Reliability, perfection. The goddamn bronze was a fake.”

  “The bronze?” The blood simply drained out of her face. She felt it go, drop by drop. “How do you know about the bronze?”

  “I know about it because I stole the worthless piece of shit.” And cocked his head. “Or maybe you’re thinking of the bronze in Florence, the other one you screwed up. I got wind of that yesterday—after my client reamed me out for passing him a forgery. A forgery, for sweet Christ’s sake.”

  Too incensed to sit, he sprang off the bed and began to pace the room. “Over twenty years without a blemish, and now this. And all because I trusted you.”

  “Trusted me.” She shoved up to her knees, teeth clenched. There was no room for fear or anxiety when temper percolated so hard and fast through the bloodstream. “You stole from me, you son of a bitch.”

  “So what? What I took’s worth maybe a hundred bucks as a paperweight.” He stepped closer again, annoyed that he found the hot gleam in her eyes and the angry color in her cheeks so appealing. “How many other pieces are you passing off in that museum of yours?”

  She didn’t think, she acted. She was off the bed like a bullet, launching herself at him. At five-eleven, she was no flyweight, and Ryan got the full impact of her well-toned body and well-oiled temper. It was an innate affection for women that had him shifting his body to break her fall—a gesture he instantly regretted as they hit the floor. To spare both of them, he rolled over and pinned her flat.

  “You stole from me.” She bucked, wriggled, and didn’t budge him an inch. “You used me. You son of a bitch, you came on to me.” Oh, and that was the worst of it. He’d flattered, romanced, and had her on the edge of slipping into temptation.

  “The last was a side benefit.” He clamped her wrists with his hands to keep her from pounding his face. “You’re very attractive. It was no trouble at all.”

  “You’re a thief. You’re nothing but a common thief.”

  “If you think that insults me, you’re off target. I’m a really good thief. Now we can sit down and work this out, or we can lie here and keep wrestling. But I’m going to warn you that even in those incredibly ugly pajamas, you’re an appealing handful. Up to you, Miranda.”

  She went very still, and he watched with reluctant admiration as her eyes went from fire to frost. “Get off me. Get the hell off me.”

  “Okay.” He eased off, then nimbly rocked up to his feet. Though he offered her a hand, she slapped it away, and pushed herself up.

  “If you’ve hurt Andrew—”

  “Why the hell should I hurt Andrew? You’re the one who documented the bronze.”

  “And you’re the one who stole it.” She snatched her robe from the foot of the bed. “What are you going to do now? Shoot me, then clean out the house?”

  “I don’t shoot people. I’m a thief, not a thug.”

  “Then you’re remarkably stupid. What do you think I’m going to do the moment you’re gone?” She tossed that over her shoulder as she tugged on the robe. “I’m going to pick up that phone, call Detective Cook, and tell him just who broke into the Institute.”

  He merely hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. The robe, he decided, was as amazingly unattractive as the pajamas. There was absolutely no reason why he should have to block an urge to start nibbling his way through all that flannel.

  “If you call the cops, you’ll look like a fool. First, because no one would believe you. I’m not even here, Miranda. I’m in New York.” His smile spread, cocky and sure. “And there are several