Homeport

by Nora Roberts

  lire to cover the tab. “Let’s take that walk, honey.”

  “Okay.” She popped up, then had to brace a hand against the wall. “Oh my, there’s quite a bit of gravity in here.”

  “Maybe there’s not as much outside.” He scooped an arm around her waist and pulled her through the restaurant, laughing himself as she called cheerful goodbyes.

  “You’re a handful, Dr. Jones.”

  “What was the name of that wine? It was lovely wine. I want to buy a case of it.”

  “You were doing a good job of working your way through a case.” He guided her along the uneven sidewalk, across the quiet street, grateful they’d opted to walk rather than take the scooter. He’d have had to tie her on.

  “I’m going to paint my shutters.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Your mother has yellow shutters. So cheerful. Everyone in your family is so cheerful.” Wrapping an arm around his waist in turn, she led him in a wide, drunken circle. “But I think a nice bright blue would suit my house. A nice bright blue, and I’ll put a rocker on the front porch.”

  “Nothing like a porch rocker. Watch your step, up the curb. Atta girl.”

  “I broke into my mother’s house today.”

  “I heard that somewhere.”

  “I’m sharing a hotel suite with a thief and I broke into my mother’s house. Coulda robbed her blind.”

  “You only had to ask. Left turn, that’s the way. Almost there.”

  “It was great.”

  “What was?”

  “The breaking in. I didn’t want to say so at the time, but it was great.” She threw up her arms and caught him neatly on the chin. “Maybe you could teach me how to pick locks. Wouldya do that, Ryan?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s going to happen.” He wiggled his jaw and steered her toward the front entrance of the hotel.

  “I could seduce it out of you.” She turned, plowing into him at the edge of the elegant lobby carpet, and crushed her mouth against his before he could gain his balance. This time his head spun as she sucked the blood right out of it.

  “Miranda—”

  “That’s Abby to you, pal,” she murmured as the desk clerk discreetly averted his eyes. “So how about it?”

  “Let’s talk upstairs.” He dragged her toward the elevator and out of sight.

  “Don’t want to talk.” She plastered herself against him and attacked his earlobe with her teeth. “I want wild, crazy sex. Right now.”

  “Who doesn’t?” said the male half of a formally dressed couple who stepped off the elevator.

  “See?” Miranda pointed out as Ryan yanked her into the car. “He agrees with me. I wanted to jump you ever since I saw you and heard the ping.”

  “Ping.” He was becoming breathless trying to unwind her from around him.

  “I hear pings with you. My head’s just full of pings right now. Kiss me again, Ryan. You know you want to.”

  “Cut it out.” A little desperately, he shoved at her hands before they could unbutton his shirt. “You’re hammered.”

  “What do you care?” She threw back her head and laughed. “You’ve been trying to get me into bed all along. Now’s your chance.”

  “There are rules,” he muttered, lurching like a drunk as she draped herself over him. One of them, he thought, needed a cold shower.

  “Oh, now there’re rules.” Laughing, she tugged his shirt free of his slacks. As her hands streaked over his back, around to his belly, he fought to shoot the key into the lock.

  “God help me. Miranda—Jesus Christ.” Those busy hands had worked their way down. “Look, I said no.” His eyes were crossed when they stumbled inside together. “Get ahold of yourself.”

  “Can’t. Got ahold of you.” She released him only long enough to bounce up, wrap her legs around his waist, fist her hands in his hair, and fuse her mouth to his. “I want you. Oh I want you.” Her breath came fast as her lips raced over his face. “Make love with me. Touch me. I want your hands on me.”

  They already were. He couldn’t stop them from molding that tight lovely bottom. His blood was screaming for her, his tongue tangling with hers. The little beam of sanity that remained in his mind was growing dimmer.

  “You’re going to hate both of us in the morning.”

  “So what?” She laughed again, and her eyes were wildly blue as they looked into his. She shook back her hair, turning his system into one pulsing gland. “This is now. Fall into the moment with me, Ryan. I don’t want to go there alone.”

  Their gazes remained locked as he carried her through the doorway into the bedroom. “Then let’s see how long now can last. And remember, Dr. Jones.” He caught her bottom lip in his teeth, bit, tugged, released. “You asked for it.”

  They fell on the bed together, with the moonlight streaming through the doors and shadows dancing in the corners. The weight of him thrilled her, the hard lines of his body pressing hers onto the mattress. Their mouths met again in a kiss that was near violent with greed, then went on and on with tongues hotly tangled, teeth nipping.

  She wanted all, then more. Everything, then the impossible. And knew with him she’d find it.

  She molded herself to him, unwilling to take the passive role now. The rough movements made her head spin, her breath come out on moaning laughter. Oh God, she was free. And alive, so alive. In her rush to feel flesh, she tugged at his shirt, popping buttons off the elegant silk.

  “Oh yes,” she whispered when he ripped the sleeve of her blouse. “Hurry.”

  He couldn’t have slowed the pace any more than he could stop time. His quick and clever hands were rough as they yanked off her bra, then filled themselves with her breasts.

  White as marble, soft as water.

  When touch wasn’t enough, he twisted her under him again and devoured.

  She cried out, arching as his lips and teeth and tongue laid siege to her. Her nails dug into his back, scraped along the tensed ridge of muscle as shock waves of pleasure swarmed through her body. Sensations slammed into her in a riotous confusion of glorious aches and dark delights and raw nerves.

  “Now. Now. Right now.”

  But his mouth streaked down her torso. Not yet. Not nearly yet.

  He yanked the neat cotton slacks down her hips and plunged his tongue into the center of that driving heat. She came instantly, violently, all but paralyzing them both with the glory of it. She sobbed out his name, her fingers tangling in his hair as release built back to need, and need ground desperately toward demand.

  Her body was a miracle, a work of art, with long legs and torso, milk-pale skin, quivering muscles. He wanted to savor it, to lick his way up, then down again. He wanted to bury his face in that free fall of hair until he was deaf and blind.

  But the animal inside him clawed frantically for freedom.

  They rolled again, wrestling over the bed and tormenting each other with nips and gropes.

  Vision blurred, lungs burned as another orgasm erupted, raging through her system, spiking it with outrageous energy. Her breath was a series of short screams burning in her chest, her body unbearably awake to every touch, every taste.

  His face seemed to swim over hers, then came into focus, every feature distinct as if etched with a diamond on glass. Their breath mingled, her hips arched up. And he drove into her.

  All movement stopped for one humming and timeless instant. Joined, with him buried deep inside her, they watched each other. Slowly, in one long stroke, she took her hands down his back, then gripped his hips.

  Together, they began to move, the speed building and rising, bodies slick with sweat sliding, pleasure tumbling over pleasure until it battered the system and overpowered the mind.

  All, and then more, she thought dizzily as she climbed toward the peak. Everything, then the impossible. She found it as she clamped herself around him and shattered.

  nineteen

  I t was the brilliant wash of sunlight that woke her. For one horrible moment, she thou
ght her eyes were on fire, and beat on them with her open palms before she was fully coherent.

  She discovered she was not spontaneously combusting. And that she was not alone in bed. The best she could manage was a muffled moan as she squeezed her aching eyes shut again.

  What had she done?

  Well, it was pretty obvious what she’d done—in fact, if memory served, she’d done it twice. In between which, Ryan had made her swallow three aspirin and a small ocean of water. She supposed it was that small consideration that was currently keeping her head in place on her shoulders.

  Cautiously, she slid her glance over. He was flat on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow. She imagined he wasn’t too wild about the brilliance of the sun either, but neither of them had had their mind on pulling the drapes the night before.

  Oh, good God.

  She’d jumped him, groped at him, torn at his clothes like a madwoman.

  And even now, in the full light of day, her mouth watered at the thought of doing it all again.

  Slowly, hoping to preserve her dignity as least long enough to get into the shower, she eased from the bed. He didn’t move a muscle or make a sound, and thankful for this small blessing, she made the dash into the bathroom.

  Fortunately for her state of mind, she didn’t see him pop one eye open and grin at her naked butt.

  She talked to herself through the shower, pitifully grateful for the hot steam of the water. It eased some of the aches away. But the deeper ones, the sweeter ones that she accepted came from good, healthy sex remained.

  She took another three aspirin anyway, hoping.

  He was on the terrace when she came out, chatting casually with the room service waiter. Since it was too late to duck back inside, she managed a small smile for both of them.

  “Buon giorno. The day is beautiful, sì? You enjoy.” The waiter took the signed bill with a small bow. “Grazie. Buon appetito.”

  He left them alone with a table full of food and a pigeon who walked along the ledge of the terrace wall, eyeing the offerings avariciously.

  “Well . . . I . . .” She stuffed her hands in her robe pockets because they wanted to flutter.

  “Have some coffee,” he suggested. He wore soft gray slacks and a black shirt that made him look very at ease and cosmopolitan. And made her remember her hair was damp and tangled.

  She nearly leaped at the diversion, but shook her head. She was a woman who faced the music squarely. “Ryan, last night . . . I think I should apologize.”

  “Really?” He poured two cups of coffee and made himself comfortable at the table.

  “I had too much to drink. That’s not an excuse, just a fact.”

  “Darling, you were plowed. Cute too,” he added, studying her as he added jam to a croissant. “And amazingly agile.”

  She closed her eyes, gave in, and sat down. “My behavior was inexcusable and regrettable, and I’m sorry. I put you in a very awkward position.”

  “I recall several positions.” He sipped his coffee, charmed at the faint blush that worked its way up her throat. “None of which were the least awkward.”

  She picked up her coffee, sipped fast, and scalded her tongue.

  “Why does it need to be excused?” he wondered, choosing a little cake from the basket and putting it on her plate. “What’s the point in regrets? Did we hurt anyone?”

  “The issue is—”

  “The issue—if there has to be one—is we’re both single, unattached, healthy grown-ups who have a strong attraction for each other. Last night we acted on it.” He took the cover from a glistening golden omelet. “I for one enjoyed myself, very much.” He cut the omelet in two and added a portion to her plate. “How about you?”

  She’d been conscientiously set to humiliate herself, to apologize, to take full responsibility. Why wasn’t he letting her? “You’re missing the point.”

  “No, I’m not. I don’t agree with the point you’re fumbling to make. Ah, there, a little flash of that chilly temper in your eyes. Much better. Now, while I appreciate the fact that you’re sensible enough not to put the blame on me for taking advantage of the situation—as you were tearing off my clothes—it’s just as foolish to blame yourself.”

  “I’m blaming the wine,” she said stiffly.

  “No, you already said that wasn’t an excuse.” He laughed, took her hand and put a fork in it. “I wanted to make love with you the minute I saw you—wanted it more the longer I knew you. You fascinate me, Miranda. Now eat your eggs before they get cold.”

  She stared down at her plate. It wasn’t possible to be annoyed with him. “I don’t have casual sex.”

  “You call that casual?” He blew out a long breath. “God help me when we get serious.”

  She felt her lips twitch and gave up. “It was fabulous.”

  “I’m glad you remember. I wasn’t sure how clear your mind would be. I wish we had more time here.” He toyed with her damp hair. “Florence is good to lovers.”

  She took a long breath, looked directly into his eyes, and made what for her was an unprecedented commitment. “Maine’s beautiful in the spring.”

  He smiled and stroked a finger down her cheek. “I’m going to enjoy experiencing it.”

  The Dark Lady stood under a single beam of light. The one who studied her sat in the dark. The mind was cold, calm, and clear, as it had been when murder was done.

  Murder had not been planned. The driving forces had been power and what was right. If all had gone correctly, if all had gone well, violence would not have been necessary.

  But it had not gone correctly, or well, so adjustments had been made. The blame for the loss of two lives lay with the theft of the David. Who could have anticipated, who could have controlled such an event?

  It would be termed a wild card. Yes, a wild card.

  But murder was not as abhorrent as one would think. That too brought power. Nothing and no one could substantiate the existence of The Dark Lady and be permitted to exist. That was simple fact.

  It would be taken care of, it would be dealt with, cleanly, completely, and finally.

  When the time was right it would end. With Miranda.

  It was a pity such a bright and clever mind had to be destroyed. Reputation alone would have sufficed once. Now, everything had to be taken. There was no room for sentiment in science, or in power.

  An accident perhaps, though suicide would be best.

  Yes, suicide. It would be so . . . satisfying. How odd not to have anticipated how satisfying her death would be.

  It would take some thought, some planning. It would take . . . A smile spread as slyly as that on the glorious face of the bronze. It would take patience.

  When The Dark Lady was left alone under that single beam of light, there was no one to hear the quiet laughter of the damned. Or the mad.

  Spring was drifting over Maine. There was a softness in the air that hadn’t been there even a week before. Or at least Miranda hadn’t felt it.

  On its hill, the old house stood with its back to the sea, its windows going gold in the setting sun. It was good to be home.

  She stepped inside and found Andrew in the den, keeping company with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Her quietly optimistic mood plummeted.

  He got to his feet quickly, swaying a little. She noted that it took his eyes several seconds to focus, that he hadn’t shaved in the last day or two, that his clothes were wrinkled.

  He was, she realized, well drunk, and likely had been for a couple of days.

  “Where’ve you been?” He took a couple of lurching steps, then caught her up in a sloppy hug. “I’ve been worried about you. I