Page 80 of Homeport

Oh, yes. The sigh of it circled around in her cloudy brain as if searching for a place to land. Touch me. Have me. God, please don’t let me think.

“No.” It was a shock to hear herself say it. To realize she was pulling away even as she yearned to strain closer. “This won’t work.”

“It was working just fine for me.” He hooked his hand in the waistband of her trousers and gave her a yank. “And I’d say it was working just fine for you too.”

“I won’t be seduced, Ryan.” She concentrated on the annoyed flash in his eyes and ignored the screams of her own system for the release his mouth had promised. “I won’t be had. If we’re going to finish this arrangement successfully, it has to be on a business level. And only that level.”

“I don’t like that level.”

“That’s the deal, and it’s nonnegotiable.”

“Your tongue ever get frostbite when you use that tone?” He jammed his hands in his pocket as she studied him balefully. “Okay, Dr. Jones, it’s all business. I’ll show you your room.”

He walked back to pick up her suitcases and carried them up a fluid curve of metal stairs with a soft green patina. Then, setting her bags down just inside the door, he nodded. “You should find this comfortable enough, and private. We’re booked out tomorrow evening. That’ll give me time to tie up a few loose ends here. Sleep well,” he added, and shut the door in her face before she had the chance to shut it in his.

She started to shrug, then her eyes widened when she heard the click of a lock. In one leap she was at the door rattling the knob.

“You son of a bitch. You can’t lock me in here.”

“An ounce of prevention, Dr. Jones.” His voice was soft as silk through the door. “Just to make sure you stay where I put you until tomorrow.”

He walked away whistling while she pounded and promised vengeance.

fifteen

Though she knew it was a useless gesture, Miranda locked the door to the bathroom in the morning. She showered quickly, struggling to keep one eye on the door in case Ryan decided he wanted to play games.

She wouldn’t have put it past him.

Once she was safely bundled into her robe, she took her time. She wanted to be completely dressed, with a confident shield of makeup and tidily groomed hair, before she saw him. There would be, she determined, no cozy little breakfast chat in pajamas.

Of course, he had to let her out first. The bastard.

“Let me out of here, Boldari,” she called as she rapped smartly on the door.

Her answer was silence. Incensed, she knocked harder, shouted louder, and began to add inventive threats.

Kidnapping, she decided; she’d add kidnapping to the list of charges against him. She hoped the other inmates at whatever federal facility he spent the rest of his life in rejoiced in torturing him.

Frustrated, she started to rattle the knob. It turned smoothly under her hand and caused her angry flush to deepen into embarrassment.

She stepped out, glanced cautiously down the hallway. Doors were open, so she walked to the first one, determined to confront him.

She found herself in a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with books, cozy leather chairs, a small marble fireplace with an ornate pendulum clock gracing the mantel. A hexagon-shaped glass cabinet held an impressive collection of Oriental snuff bottles. She sniffed once. He might be slick on taste and culture, but he was still a thief.

She tried the next doorway and found his bedroom. The big half-tester with rococo head and footboards was impressive enough, but the fact that it was tidily made, with the pearl-gray duvet cover nicely fluffed, had her brow lifting. Either he hadn’t slept in it, or his mother had trained him very well.

After meeting Maureen, she voted for the latter.

A very masculine room, she decided, yet subtly sensual with jade-green walls and creamy trim. Sinuous women in the Art Deco style he seemed fond of held frosted-glass shades that would soften the light. An oversized chair in that same moonlight gray was tilted invitingly toward a full-sized fireplace fashioned of rose-veined marble. Ornamental lemon trees in huge urns flanked the wide window where the curtain had been drawn open to let in the sunlight and the view.

The chest of drawers was Duncan Phyfe, and along with the bronze of the Persian god Mithras was a scatter of loose change, a ticket stub, a book of matches, and other ordinary contents of a man’s pocket.

She was tempted to poke into his closet, open drawers, but resisted. It wouldn’t do for him to pop in while she was at it and get the impression she was at all interested.

There was a third room, obviously an office of a man who could afford the best for his at-home work. Two computers, both with laser printers, the expected fax and desktop copier, a two-line phone, oak filing cabinets. Sturdy oak shelves held books and trinkets and dozens of framed photographs of his family.

The young children would be his nieces and nephews, she thought. Pretty faces mugging for the camera. The serene Madonna-like woman holding an infant was likely his sister Bridgit, the sleekly handsome man with the Boldari eyes would be Michael, and the woman his arm was draped around his wife. They lived in California, she remembered.

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