Page 46 of Homeport

He lifted her hands to his lips. Sad eyes, he thought, were so compelling. “It wouldn’t hurt to miss me. It might help take your mind off all this.”

“I have a feeling I’m going to be busy for the next few days. But I’m sorry you can’t stay longer. This won’t—This problem isn’t going to change your mind about the exchange, is it?”

“Miranda.” He enjoyed the moment, playing the stalwart and supporting hero. “Don’t be foolish. The Vasaris will be in your hands within the month.”

“Thank you. After the morning I’ve had, I appreciate the confidence more than I can tell you.”

“And you’ll miss me.”

Her lips curved. “I think I will.”

“Now say goodbye.”

She began to, but he stopped her mouth with his. Indulged himself by taking it deep, sliding past her initial surprise, her initial resistance, like the thief he was.

It would be, he knew, a considerable amount of time before he saw her again—if he ever did. Their lives separated here, but he wanted to take something with him.

So he took the sweetness he’d just begun to sense under the strength, and the passion he’d just begun to stir under the control.

He eased her back, studied her face, let his hands stroke once up her arms, down again until the touch lingered just on fingertips.

“Goodbye, Miranda,” he said, with more regret than was comfortable. And left her, certain she would deal with the small inconvenience he’d caused in her life.

nine

By the time Andrew got off the phone with his mother, he would have betrayed his country for three fingers of Jack Daniel’s. It hung on him. He accepted that. The day-to-day running of the Institute was his responsibility, and security was first priority.

His mother had pointed that out—in short, declarative sentences.

It would have done no good to counter that since that security had been breached, they should be kicking up their heels that only one item had been lost. To Elizabeth the break-in was a personal insult, and the loss of the small bronze David was as bitter as a wholesale clearing of the galleries.

He could accept that too. He could and would shoulder the responsibility of dealing with the police, the insurance company, the staff, the press. But what he couldn’t accept, what made him wish he had access to a bottle, was her complete lack of support or sympathy.

But he didn’t have access to a bottle. Keeping one in his office was a line he hadn’t crossed, and one that allowed him to shrug off any suggestion that he had a drinking problem.

He drank at home, at bars, at social events. He didn’t drink during business hours. Therefore, he was in control.

Fantasizing about slipping out to the nearest liquor store and getting a little something to help him through a long, hard day wasn’t the same as doing it.

He depressed the intercom button on his phone. “Ms. Purdue.”

“Yes, Dr. Jones?”

Run down to Freedom Liquors, would you, Ms. Purdue darling, and pick me up a fifth of Jack Daniel’s Black. It’s a family tradition.

“Could you come in, please?”

“Right away, sir.”

Andrew pushed away from the desk and turned to the window. His hands were steady, weren’t they? His stomach might have been rolling in greasy waves, his spine might have been damp with clammy sweat, but his hands were still steady. He was in control.

He heard her come in, shut the door quietly.

“The insurance investigator will be here at eleven,” he said without turning. “Make sure my calendar’s clear.”

“I’ve canceled all but essential appointments for the day, Dr. Jones.”

“Good, thank you. Ah . . .” He pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to relieve some pressure. “We’ll need to schedule a staff meeting, department heads only. As early in the afternoon as possible.”

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