Page 86 of Homeport

It was beautifully made, undoubtedly expensive, and adorable enough to have her pressing her lips together to keep them from curving. “It’s completely impractical for a three-year-old.”

“It was made for a three-year-old,” he corrected. “That’s why it’s little. Quanto?” he asked the hovering merchant, and the game was on.

When he’d finished the round, he headed west. But if he’d hoped to tempt her with the flawless fashions of the Via dei Tornabuoni, he underestimated her willpower.

He bought three pairs of shoes in Ferragamo’s cathedral to footwear. She bought nothing—including a gorgeous pair of pearl-gray leather pumps that had caught her eye and stirred her desire.

The credit cards in her wallet, she reminded herself, weren’t stamped with her name. She’d go barefoot before she used one.

“Most women,” he observed as he walked toward the river, “would have a dozen bags and boxes by now.”

“I’m not most women.”

“So I’ve noticed. You’d look damn good in leather, though.”

“In your pathetic fantasies, Boldari.”

“There’s nothing pathetic about my fantasies.” He stepped to a storefront and opened a glass door.

“What now?”

“Can’t come to Florence without buying some art.”

“We didn’t come here to buy anything. This is supposed to be business.”

“Relax.” He took her hand, bringing it up in a sweep to his lips. “Trust me.”

“Those are two phrases that will never go together when applied to you.”

The shop was crowded with marble and bronze reproductions. Gods and goddesses danced to lure tourists into plunking down their gold cards and purchasing a copy of a master’s work or an offering by a new artist.

Patience straining, Miranda prepared to waste another precious hour while Ryan fulfilled his family obligations. But he surprised her by nodding toward a slender statue of Venus within five minutes.

“What do you think of her?”

Soberly, she stepped up, circled the polished bronze figure. “It’s adequate, not particularly good, but if one of your legion of relatives is looking for some lawn art, it would do well enough.”

“Yeah, I think she’ll do well enough.” He aimed a delighted smile toward the clerk, then made Miranda’s brows draw together as he fumbled with guidebook Italian.

Throughout the shopping spree, he’d spoken the language fluidly, often peppering his speech with casual colloquialisms. Now he slaughtered the most basic of phrases with a miserable accent that had the clerk beaming at him.

“You’re American. We can speak English.”

“Yeah? Thank God.” He laughed and tugged Miranda by the hand to bring her closer. “My wife and I want something special to take home. We really like this piece. It’ll look great in the sunroom, won’t it, Abby?”

Her answer was a “hmmm.”

He didn’t bargain well this time, either, just winced over the price, then pulled her away as if to hold a private consult.

“What’s this all about?” She found herself whispering because his head was bent close to hers.

“I wouldn’t want to buy it without being sure my wife approved.”

“You’re a jackass.”

“That’s what I get for being a considerate husband.” He lowered his head, kissed her firmly on the mouth—and only by instinct avoided her teeth. “Promise me you’ll try that again later.”

Before she could retaliate, he turned back to the clerk. “We’ll take her.”

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