Page 104 of Homeport

“I want to know how accurate it is. Save the comments.”

“It’s fairly complete, and insulting.”

Oh yeah, there was that prissy tone of voice too. It just destroyed him with wanting to turn it into moans. “Was Hawthorne’s wife with him in Florence?”

“No.”

“Richard’s divorced.” What the hell, he thought, and tortured himself by turning his head just enough to get a good solid sniff of her hair. “Was he a couple when he did his stint in Maine?”

“I don’t know. I barely met him. In fact, I didn’t remember him until he reminded me we’d met.” Annoyed, she turned her head, found her eyes locked on his—and something in his wasn’t focused on work. Her heart did a quick cartwheel and shot little springs of lust into her belly. “Why does it matter?”

“Why does what matter?” He wanted that mouth. Goddamn it, he was entitled to that mouth.

“The, uh . . . Richard being divorced.”

“Because people tell their lovers and spouses all kinds of confidential things. Sex,” he murmured, and wrapped that loose tendril around his finger, “is a great communicator.”

One tug, he thought, one little tug and her mouth would be on his. He’d have all that hair in his hands, all the wild, curling mass of it. He’d have her naked in five minutes. Except for the glasses.

He was starting to have incredible fantasies about Miranda wearing only her glasses.

It was with real regret that he didn’t tug, but unwound her hair, turned, and scowled at the screen.

“We need to go through the worker bees too, but we need a break.”

“A break?” There wasn’t a single organized thought in her mind. Her nerves were sizzling along the surface of her skin like little licks of lightning.

If he touched her now, if he kissed her now, she knew she’d go off like a rocket. She straightened, closed her eyes. And yearned.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Let’s put this away, and go have a meal.”

Her eyes popped open again. “A what?”

“Food, Dr. Jones.” He tapped keys, concentrating, and didn’t see her scrub her hands over her face behind his back.

“Yes, food.” Her voice shook slightly—laughter or despair, she couldn’t be sure. “Good idea.”

“What would you like for your last night in Florence?”

“The last night?”

“Things might get sticky here. We’re better off working on home ground.”

“But if The Dark Lady is here—”

“We’ll come back for her.” He shut off his machine, pushed away from the little desk. “Florence isn’t a big city, Dr. Jones. Sooner or later, someone you know is going to spot you.” He flicked a finger over her hair. “You just don’t blend. Now, fast, fancy, or rowdy?”

Home. She discovered she very much wanted to go home, to see it with these new eyes. “I think I’d like rowdy for a change.”

“Excellent choice. I know just the place.”

It was loud, it was crowded, and the harsh lights bounced off the unapologetically garish paintings that crowded the wall. They suited the hanks of hanging sausages and whole smoked hams that were the restaurant’s primary decor. Tables were pushed together so that diners—friends and strangers alike—ate the hearty portions of meat and pasta elbow to elbow.

They were wedged in a corner by a round man with a stained apron who took Ryan’s order for a bottle of local red with a nod. At Miranda’s left was one half of a gay American couple who were touring Europe. They shared a basket of bread while Ryan engaged them in conversation with an ease and openness Miranda admired.

She would never have talked to strangers in a restaurant except in the most limited fashion. But by the time the wine was set on the table and poured, she knew they were from New York, ran a restaurant in the Village, and had been together for ten years. It was, they said, their anniversary trip.

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