Homeport

by Nora Roberts

  “Shit.” He yanked the note free and read it through again. “Where are you?”

  fourteen

  “I don’t see why we didn’t just fly to Florence.” Miranda was well past second thoughts and into third thoughts by the time Ryan took the wheel of a natty little BMW and navigated out of La Guardia. “If we’re going to do something this insane, there’s no point in taking a detour.”

  “It isn’t a detour, it’s a scheduled stop. I need my things.”

  “You could have bought clothes in Italy.”

  “I probably will. If the Italians dressed the world, it would be a much more attractive place. However, there are certain things I need that can’t always be easily bought in the retail market.”

  “Your tools,” she muttered. “Burglary tools.”

  “Among others.”

  “Fine, fine.” She shifted in her seat, drummed her fingers on her knee. Somehow, she had to accept the fact that she was now working with a criminal. A thief, who by definition was without integrity.

  Without his help, she saw no way she would ever see the bronze again—or the forgery. And there was a forgery, she assured herself. It was a logical theory, one that required more data and study in order to be proven.

  If she swallowed her pride and took the theory to her mother? The idea nearly made Miranda laugh. Elizabeth would dismiss it, and her daughter, in a snap, putting it down to arrogance, stubbornness, and a bit of desperation.

  And not entirely without cause, Miranda admitted.

  The only one who was willing to listen, to explore the possibility, was a professional thief who was certainly working toward his own ends—and expected her to hand over the Donatello Venus as a consultant fee.

  Well, they would see about that.

  He was a factor in the equation, she reminded herself, nothing more. Finding and authenticating The Dark Lady was more important than the formula she used to gain that end.

  “There’s no reason to go into Brooklyn.”

  “Sure there is.” Ryan thought he had a pretty good idea what was running around in that admirable brain of hers. She had a very expressive face—when she didn’t know anyone was paying attention to her. “I miss my mother’s cooking.”

  He beamed at her and zipped around a poky sedan. It was so easy to read her. She was hating every minute of this, juggling the pros and cons in her mind to try to find full justification for the choice she’d made. “And I have a couple of things to straighten out, familywise, before I go to Italy. My sister’s going to want shoes,” he muttered. “She always wants shoes. She’s addicted to Ferragamo.”

  “You steal shoes for your sister?”

  “Please.” Genuinely insulted, he scowled at traffic. “I’m not a shoplifter.”

  “Excuse me, but stealing is stealing.”

  His scarred eyebrow arched wickedly. “Not by a long shot.”

  “And there’s no reason for me to go to Brooklyn. Why don’t you just drop me off at whatever hotel I’m staying in.”

  “First, you’re not staying in a hotel. You’re staying with me.”

  Her head whipped around, her eyes narrowed. “I certainly am not.”

  “And second, you’re going to Brooklyn because, as you appear to have forgotten, we’re joined at the hip until this is finished. Where I go you go . . . Dr. Jones.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” And inconvenient. She needed time alone, time completely to herself in order to put everything down on paper in an orderly fashion. To weigh and consider. He hadn’t given her time to think. “You said yourself I’m too deeply involved to do anything but cooperate. If you don’t trust me, it’s only going to complicate matters.”

  “Trusting you would complicate matters,” he corrected. “Your problem is you’ve got a conscience. It’s going to kick in from time to time and tempt you to call some cop and confess all.” He reached over to pat her hand. “Just consider me the bad angel on your shoulder, kicking the good angel in the face whenever he starts spouting about honesty and truth.”

  “I’m not staying with you. I have no intention of sleeping with you.”

  “Now you’ve done it. What’s the point of living?”

  The laughter in his voice put her teeth on edge so that she had no choice but to speak through them. “You know very well you want me to sleep with you.”

  “It’s been my lifelong dream, and now it’s crushed. I don’t know how I’m going to go on.”

  “I despise you.” She hissed it out, and when he laughed again, she did her ego and her temper the favor of staring out the side window and ignoring him for the rest of the drive.

  She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t the pretty two-level house with yellow trim in a quiet neighborhood.

  “You grew up here?”

  “Here? No.”

  He smiled at the shock in her voice. He imagined she’d expected him to take her to some nasty little slum where the sound of raised voices was as pervasive as the smell of garlic and garbage.

  “The family moved here about ten years ago. Come on, they’re expecting us, and Mama’s likely got some antipasto ready.”

  “What do you mean expecting?”

  “I called to let her know we were coming.”

  “You called? Who am I supposed to be?”

  “That’s a question everyone has to decide for themselves.”

  “What did you tell her?” Miranda demanded, and clung to the handle as he leaned across to open her door.

  “That I was bringing a woman home to dinner.” He stayed where he was a moment, his body angled and pressed to hers, his face close. “Don’t be shy. They’re very easy people.”

  “I’m not shy.” But there was the faintly sick sensation in her stomach she experienced whenever she had to meet new people on a social level. In this case, she told herself, such things were absurd. “I just want to know how you’ve explained . . . Stop that,” she demanded when his gaze lowered and lingered on her mouth.

  “Hmm.” He really wanted to take a slow, tasty bite of that stubborn bottom lip. “Sorry, I was distracted. You smell . . . interesting, Dr. Jones.”

  The moment called for action and movement—and not the ridiculous fantasy that leaped into her brain of grabbing two handfuls of his hair and yanking his mouth to hers. Instead she slapped one hand on his chest, yanked the door open with the other, and scooted out.

  He chuckled a little—which helped relieve the ball of tension that had gathered low in his gut, and climbed out the opposite side. “Hey, Remo.”

  The big brown dog who’d been sleeping in the yard uncurled himself, let out one bark that echoed like a cannon blast, then jumped lovingly on Ryan. “I thought you were going to learn some manners.” Grinning, he scratched the delighted dog’s ears. “What happened to obedience school? You flunked out again, didn’t you?” Ryan asked as they headed toward the door.

  As if avoiding the question, the dog slid his eyes to the side and gazed at Miranda. His tongue lolled out in a canine grin.

  “Not afraid of dogs, are you?”

  “No, I like them,” she replied as Ryan pushed open the front door. Through it emerged the sound of the evening news, voices, male and female, raised in what appeared to be a bitter and violent argument, delicious aroma of roasted garlic and spices, and a large spotted cat who dashed for freedom and began an immediate war with the dog.

  “Home sweet home,” Ryan murmured, and pulled her into the melee.

  “If you can’t behave like a decent human being, I don’t want you to speak to any of my friends, ever again.”

  “All I did was mention that if she had some really basic plastic surgery, she would improve her looks, her self-esteem, and her sex life.”

  “You’re a pig, Patrick.”

  “Yeah, well, your friend has a nose like a tail fin on a fifty-seven Chevy.”

  “Not only a pig, but a shallow, superficial asshole on top of it.”

  “I’m trying to hear
the news, here. Take it outside until the sports are over, for sweet Christ’s sake.”

  “This,” Miranda said in prim and precise tones, “is obviously a bad time.”

  “No, this is normal,” Ryan assured her, and dragged her into the spacious, cluttered, and noisy living room.

  “Hey, Ry!”

  The man—boy really, Miranda noted as he turned with a grin nearly as lethal as Ryan’s—took a few gangly strides and punched Ryan in the shoulder. A sign, Miranda assumed, of affection.

  His dark hair was curly, his eyes a glinting golden brown in a face that Miranda supposed had caused the girls in his high school to sigh into their pillows at night.

  “Pat.” With equal affection, Ryan caught him in a headlock for the introduction. “My baby brother Patrick, Miranda Jones. Behave,” he warned Patrick.

  “Sure. Hey, Miranda, how’s it going?”

  Before she could answer, the young woman Patrick had been arguing with stepped up. She gave Miranda a long measuring look as she slipped her arms around Ryan and rubbed cheeks. “Missed you. Hello, Miranda, I’m Colleen.” She didn’t offer a hand, but kept her arms proprietarily around her brother.

  She had the onyx and gold good looks of the Boldaris, and a sharp, assessing gleam in her eyes.

  “It’s nice to meet you, both.” Miranda offered Colleen a cool smile, and let it warm a little for Patrick.

  “You gonna leave the girl at the door all day, or you bringing her in so I can get a look at her?” This boomed out of the living room and had all three Boldaris grinning.

  “I’m bringing her in, Papa. Let’s have your coat.”

  She gave it up with some reluctance, heard the door close at her back with the enthusiasm of a woman hearing a cell snap shut.

  Giorgio Boldari rose out of his easy chair and politely muted the television. Ryan hadn’t gotten his build from his father, Miranda decided. The man who studied her was short, stocky, and sported a graying moustache over his unsmiling lips. He wore khakis, a neatly pressed shirt, scuffed Nikes, and a medallion of the Madonna on a chain around his neck.

  No one spoke. Miranda’s ears began to buzz with nerves.

  “You’re not Italian, are you?” he asked at length.

  “No, I’m not.”

  Giorgio pursed his lips, let his gaze skim over her face. “Hair like that, you probably got some Irish in you.”

  “My father’s mother was a Riley.” Miranda fought back the urge to shift her feet and lifted a brow instead.

  He smiled then, fast and bright as lightning. “This one’s got a classy look to her, Ry. Get the girl some wine, for God’s sake, Colleen. You gonna leave her standing here thirsty? Yankees blew it today. You follow baseball?”

  “No, I—”

  “Ought to. It’s good for you.” Then he turned to his son and enveloped Ryan in a fierce bear hug. “You should stay home more.”

  “I’m working on it. Mama in the kitchen?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Maureen!” The shout could have cracked concrete. “Ryan’s here with his girl. She’s a looker too.” He sent Miranda a wink. “How come you don’t like baseball?”

  “I don’t dislike it, in particular. I just—”

  “Ryan played third base—hot corner. He tell you that?”

  “No, I—”

  “Carried a four twenty-five batting average his senior year. Nobody stole more bases than my Ryan.”

  Miranda shifted her eyes to Ryan. “I bet.”

  “We got trophies. Ry, you show your girl your trophies.”

  “Later, Papa.”

  Colleen and Patrick went back to arguing, in hissy undertones, as she brought in a tray of glasses. The dog was barking incessantly at the front door, and Giorgio shouted again for his wife to come the hell out and meet Ryan’s girl.

  At least, Miranda thought, she wasn’t going to be required to make a great deal of conversation. These people simply took over, carrying on as if there was no stranger in the house.

  The house itself was cluttered, full of light and art. She saw Ryan had been right about his mother’s watercolors. The three dreamy New York street scenes on the wall were lovely.

  There was an odd and intriguing tall tangle of black metal—most likely his father’s work—behind a couch with thick blue cushions peppered with dog hair.

  There were trinkets and framed snapshots everywhere, a ratty knotted rope on the floor that showed evidence of Remo’s teeth, and a scatter of newspapers and magazines on the coffee table.

  No one scurried to pick them up, to make excuses for the clutter.

  “Welcome to the Boldaris’.” With a twinkle in his eye, Ryan took two glasses off the tray, handed her one, and toasted. “Your life may never be the same.”

  She was beginning to believe him.

  Even as she took the first sip, a woman hurried into the room wiping her hands on an apron splattered with sauce. Maureen Boldari was a good three inches taller than her husband, slim as a willow, and possessed of striking black-Irish looks. Her glossy hair waved attractively around her strong face, and vivid blue eyes sparkled with pleasure as she opened her arms.

  “There’s my boy. Come kiss your mama.”

  Ryan obeyed, lifting her off her feet as he did so and making her let loose a rich, hearty laugh. “Patrick, Colleen, stop that bickering before I give the pair of you the back of my hand. We’ve got company. Giorgio, where are your manners? Turn that television off. Remo, stop that barking.”

  And as it was all done, quickly and without comment, Miranda got a solid clue as to who ran the household.

  “Ryan, introduce me to your young lady.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Maureen Boldari, the love of my life, meet Dr. Miranda Jones. Pretty, isn’t she, Mama?”

  “Yes, she is. Welcome to our home, Miranda.”

  “It’s very kind of you to have me, Mrs. Boldari.”

  “Good manners,” Maureen said with a brisk nod. “Patrick, bring out the antipasto, and we’ll get acquainted. Ryan, show Miranda where she can freshen up.”

  Ryan led her out of the living room, down a short hall, and into a small pink and white powder room. She grabbed his shirt in her fist.

  “You told them we were involved.”

  “We are involved.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said in the same furious whisper. “Your girl? That’s ridiculous.”

  “I didn’t tell them you were my girl.” Because it amused him, he lowered his voice to a whisper as well. “I’m thirty-two, they want me married and making babies. They assume.”

  “Why didn’t you make it clear we were business associates?”

  “You’re beautiful, you’re single, you’re female. They wouldn’t have believed we were just business associates. What’s the big deal?”

  “For one, your sister looked at me as if she’d pop me in the nose if I didn’t adore you enough—for another, it’s just deceitful. Not that such niceties as honesty matter to you.”

  “I’m always honest with my family.”

  “Sure you are. Undoubtedly your mother is very proud of her son the thief.”

  “Of course she is.”

  She stuttered, losing whatever it was she’d planned to say. “Are you trying to convince me that she knows you steal?”

  “Sure she does. Does she look stupid?” He shook his head. “I don’t lie to my mother. Now, hurry up in there, will you?” He gave her a nudge into the powder room when she only gaped at him. “I’m hungry.”

  He wasn’t hungry for long. No one could have been. There was, in short order, enough food being offered to feed a small and