by Nora Roberts
starving Third World army.
Because there was company, they had the meal in the dining room, with its attractive striped walls and handsome mahogany table. There was good china, the glint of crystal, and enough wine to float a battleship.
Conversation never lagged. In fact, if you didn’t heave your words out fast and furiously, there was no room for them. When she noted that the level of her wineglass rose back up to the rim whenever she sipped, Miranda left it alone and concentrated on the food.
Ryan had been right about one thing. She loved his mother’s linguine.
She was brought up-to-date on the family. Michael, the second son, ran Boldari Gallery, San Francisco. He was married to his college sweetheart and had two children. The last tidbit of info was delivered by the proud grandpa with a meaningful look at Ryan and an eyebrow-wiggling grin for Miranda.
“You like children?” Maureen asked her.
“Um, yes.” In a vague and cautious manner, Miranda thought.
“Center your life, children do. Give you real purpose, and celebrate the love that brings a man and woman together.” Maureen passed a basket of irresistible bread to Miranda.
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Take my Mary Jo.”
And Miranda was treated to the virtues of her eldest daughter, who owned a boutique in Manhattan, and had three children.
Then there was Bridgit, who’d taken a sabbatical from a career in publishing in order to stay at home with her baby daughter.
“You must be very proud of them.”
“They’re good kids. Educated.” She beamed at Ryan as she said it. “All my children went to college. Patrick’s a freshman. He knows all about computers.”
“Really.” It seemed a much safer topic, so Miranda smiled at him. “It’s a fascinating field.”
“It’s like playing games for a living. Oh, Ry, I’ve got some of the data you asked me to access.”
“Great.”
“What data?” Colleen stopped eyeing Miranda and narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Ryan.
“Just cleaning up a little business, baby.” He gave her hand a casual squeeze. “Mama, you outdid yourself tonight.”
“Don’t change the subject, Ryan.”
“Colleen.” Maureen’s voice was mild, with honed steel beneath. “We have company. Help me clear the table. I made tiramisu, your favorite, Ry.”
“We’re going to discuss this,” Colleen said between her teeth, but rose obediently to clear plates.
“Let me help.” Miranda started to rise and was waved back by her hostess.
“Guests don’t clear. You sit.”
“Don’t worry about Colleen,” Patrick said the moment she was out of earshot. “We’ll handle her.”
“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
