Homeport (32 page)

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 thought 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 called everybody I could think of. Nobody knew where you'd gone.”

Despite the heavy fumes of whiskey that hung around him, she knew his concern was sincere. Though she hugged him back, wanting that connection, her intention of telling him everything wavered. How much could a drunk be trusted?

“I'm on leave,” she reminded him. “I left you a note.”

“Yeah, and it didn't tell me dick.” He drew back, studied her face, then patted her head with one of his big hands. “When the old man came to the Institute, I knew we were hip-deep. I got back here as soon as I could, but you were already gone.”

“They didn't leave me any choice. Did he come down hard on you?”

“No more than expected.” He shrugged that off. Even with the whiskey hampering his instincts he could see something was different. “What's going on, Miranda? What'd you do?”

“I went away for a few days.” She made the decision to keep what she knew to herself, with regret. “I ran into Ryan Boldari in New York.”

She turned away because she was a poor liar under the best of circumstances. And had never lied to Andrew. “He's back in Maine now. He's going to stay here for a few days.”

“Here?”

“Yes, I . . . We're involved.”

“You're— Oh.” He ran his tongue around his teeth and tried to think. “Okay. That was . . . quick.”

“Not really. We have a lot in common.” She didn't want to dwell on that. “Has there been any progress in the investigation?”

“We hit a snag. We can't find the documentation on the
David.
”

Though she'd been expecting this, her stomach jumped. She ran a nervous hand over her hair and prepared to continue the deception. “Can't find it? It should be in the files.”

“I know where it should be, Miranda.” Irritated, he picked up the bottle and poured another drink. “It's not there. It's not anywhere in the Institute. I've looked everywhere.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Insurance company's balking. If we don't come up with it, we're going to take the loss. You did the testing.”

“Yes,” she said carefully. “I did the testing. I authenticated the piece, and the documentation was properly filed. You know that, Andrew. You worked on it too.”

“Yeah, well, it's gone now. The insurance company's rejecting the claim until they have documents, our mother is threatening to come in and see why we're so inept that we lose not only a fine piece of art but its paperwork, and Cook's giving me the fucking fish eye.”

“I'm sorry I left you alone with this.” Sorrier now that she could see how he was handling it. “Andrew, please.” She walked over and took the glass out of his hand. “I can't talk to you when you're drunk.”

He only smiled, dimples popping into his cheeks. “I'm not drunk yet.”

“Yes, you are.” She'd been there herself recently enough to know the signs. “You need to get into a program.”

The dimples faded. Jesus Christ, was all he could think. Just what he needed. “What I need is a little cooperation and support.” Irked, he snatched the glass back and took a long gulp. “Maybe you're sorry you left me alone with this, but that's just what you did. And if I want a few drinks after a miserable day of dealing with the police, running the Institute, and tap dancing for our parents, it's nobody's fucking business.”

As she stared at him her chest tightened, squeezing her heart with the pressure. “I love you.” The words hurt, just a little, because she knew neither of them said them often enough. “I love you, Andrew, and you're killing yourself in front of my eyes. That makes it my business.”

There were tears in her eyes and in her voice that played on his guilt and infuriated. “Fine, I'll kill myself in private. Then it won't be any of your goddamn business.” He grabbed the bottle and strode out.

He hated himself for it, for putting that disappointment and hurt in the eyes of the only person he'd ever been able to fully depend on. But goddamn it to hell and back, it was his life.

He slammed the door of his bedroom, didn't notice the stench of stale whiskey from his binge the night before. He sat in a chair and drank straight from the bottle.

He was entitled to relax, wasn't he? He got his work done, he did his job—for all the good it did him—so why did he have to get grief for having a couple of drinks?

Or a couple dozen, he thought with a snicker. Who was counting?

Maybe the blackouts worried him a little, those weird and empty pockets of time he couldn't seem to account for. That was probably stress, and a good stiff drink was the best solution to stress.

You bet it was.

He told himself he missed his wife, though it was becoming more and more difficult to bring up a clear picture of her face, or to remember the exact pitch of her voice. Occasionally, when he was sober, he had a flash of truth. He didn't love Elise any longer—and maybe had never loved her as much as he liked to think. So he drank to blot out that truth, and allowed himself to enjoy the sense of betrayal and misery.