Page 160 of Homeport

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am telling you.”

“Why the hell didn’t you let me know this was going on all along?” The blank look she sent him had him getting to his feet so quickly he knocked the glass aside and sent it tumbling over the rocks. “It never occurred to you, did it? To tell me you were being stalked this way, frightened this way? Don’t tell me you weren’t frightened,” he tossed out before she could speak. “I can see it in your face.”

He saw, she thought, entirely too much, too easily. “What could you have done about it?”

He stared at her, eyes smoldering, then jamming his hands in his pockets, turned away. “What do they say?”

“Various things. Some of them are very calm, short and subtly threatening. Others are more disjointed, rambles. They’re more personal, they talk about things that happened or little events in my life.”

Because a hunted feeling crept up her spine, she got to her feet. “One came after Giovanni . . . after Giovanni,” she repeated. “It said his blood was on my hands.”

He had no choice but to put his own resentment and hurt aside. It surprised him how much there was of both that she hadn’t trusted him. Hadn’t counted on him. But now he turned back, looked her straight in the eye.

“If you believe that, if you let some anonymous bastard push you into believing that, you’re a fool, and you’re giving them exactly what they want.”

“I know that, Ryan. I understand that perfectly.” She thought she could say it calmly, but her voice broke. “I know it’s someone who knows me well enough to use what would hurt me most.”

He moved to her, wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Hold on to me. Come on, hold on.” When her arms finally encircled him, he rubbed his cheek over her hair. “You’re not alone, Miranda.”

But she had been, for so long. A man like him would never know what it was like to stand in a roomful of people and feel so alone. So alien. So unwanted.

“Giovanni—he was one of the few people who made me feel . . . normal. I know whoever killed him is sending me the message. I know that in my head, Ryan. But in my heart, I’ll always be to blame. And they know it.”

“Then don’t let them use you, or him, this way.”

She’d closed her eyes, so overwhelmed with the comfort he’d offered. Now she opened them, stared out toward the sea as his words struck home. “Using him,” she murmured. “You’re right. I’ve been letting them use him to hurt me. Whoever it is hates me, and made certain I knew it in the fax that came today.”

“You have copies of them all?”

“Yes.”

“I want them.” When she started to pull away, he held her in place, stroked her hair. Didn’t she feel herself trembling? he wondered. “The e-mail. Did you trace it?”

“I didn’t have any luck. The user name doesn’t show up on the server—it’s the server we use here and at Standjo.”

“Did you keep it on your machine?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll trace it.” Or Patrick would, he thought. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He drew back, framed her face. “I’m here now, Miranda, and no one’s going to hurt you while I am.” When she didn’t answer, he tightened his grip, looked carefully at her face. “I don’t make promises lightly, because I don’t break them once I do. I’m going to see this through with you, all the way. And I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He paused, then took what he considered a dangerous step toward a nasty edge. “Do you still want to talk to Cook?”

She’d been so sure that was the right thing. So sure, until he’d looked at her and promised. Until by doing so, he’d made her believe, against all common sense, that she could trust him.

“We’ll see it through, Ryan. I guess neither one of us could swallow anything less.”

“Put the base directly over the mark.” Miranda stood back, watching the two burly men from maintenance haul the three-foot marble stand to the exact center of the room. She knew it was the exact center, as she’d measured it three times personally. “Yes, perfect. Good.”

“Is that the last one, Dr. Jones?”

“In this area, yes, thank you.”

She narrowed her eyes, envisioning the Donatello bronze of Venus bathing in place on the column.

This gallery was devoted to works of the Early Renaissance. A prized Brunelleschi drawing was matted behind glass and two Masaccio paintings were ornately framed and already hung, along with a Botticelli that soared twelve feet and showed the majestic ascension of the Mother of God. There was a Bellini that had once graced the wall of a Venetian villa.

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