Page 182 of Homeport

Her fingers went limp as wax and slid off the wood. “You—you could ask me now and save yourself the suspense.”

“No.” His eyes on hers, he laid her on the bed. “After. After, Annie,” he murmured, and sank into her.

It was coming home, it was finding treasure. It was simple, and it was extraordinary.

They weren’t innocent this time, weren’t fumbling children, eager and curious. And all the years between then and now had given what was between them time to ripen.

Now was like decanting wine of a fine vintage.

Her arms came around him. He was so gentle, so careful, so gloriously thorough. His big hands smoothed over her, tracing her throat, her shoulders, paving the way for his lips.

He murmured to her, wonderful foolishness, as he stripped out of his jacket, let her help him out of his shirt. Then his flesh cruised along hers and made them both sigh.

Dawn was breaking in the rosy red light that heralded storms. But there in the narrow bed was peace and patience. Each touch, each taste was taken, was given with quiet joy.

Even when she trembled, when the need began to build to an ache inside her, she smiled and brought his mouth to hers again.

He took his time, stroking her body to life, his own pacing it. And the first time she crested, arching up and up with a moan of delight, he rolled with her for the sheer joy of it.

He traced kisses down her back, over her shoulder blades, down to her hips, then shifted her over to nuzzle at her breasts. Her hands moved over him, exploring, testing, arousing. As breath thickened and the sun grew strong, he slipped inside her.

A slow and steady rhythm, savoring, prolonging. Belonging. She rose and fell with him, making the climb, twined with him as they reached the top, holding tight when they trembled there. Falling with him was like drifting out of the clouds.

Then he shifted his weight, drew her against his side, buried his face in her hair.

“I still like your moves, Andrew.” She sighed against his shoulder. “I really like your moves.”

He felt whole again, healed. “I like your tattoo, Annie. I really like your tattoo.”

She winced. “Oh God, I forgot about it.”

“I’m never going to look at a butterfly in quite the same way again.” When she laughed and lifted her face, he continued to smile. “It’s taken me a long time to figure out what I need, what makes me happy. Give me a chance to make you happy. I want to build a life and a family with you.”

“We both really screwed up the first time.”

“We weren’t ready.”

“No.” She touched his face. “It feels like we are now.”

“Belong to me.” He pressed a kiss into her palm. “Let me belong to you. Will you, Annie?”

“Yes.” She laid her hand over his heart. “Yes, Andrew. I will.”

Ryan stood in Miranda’s office, trying to picture it. Oh, he could still imagine clearly enough the way it had looked the night before. Such things plant themselves on the brain and are rarely rooted out even with great effort.

There was a nasty stain on the carpet, the windows were smeared, and the dust from the crime scene investigation coated every surface.

How far would the bullet have propelled Richard’s body? he wondered. How close to each other had he and his killer been standing? Close enough, he thought, for the bullets to have left powder burns on the tuxedo shirt. Close enough for Hawthorne to have looked into his murderer’s eyes and have seen his death there.

Ryan was damn sure of that.

He stepped back, moved to the doorway, scanned the room.

Desk, chairs, window, the lamp that had been switched on. Counter, file cabinets. He could see it all.

“You shouldn’t be in here, Mr. Boldari.”

“They’ve taken the tape down,” Ryan said without turning. “It seems the investigators got all they could from this area.”

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