Page 187 of Homeport

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“I won’t steal a thing. Didn’t I resist those pearls of your grandmother’s? All that lovely Italian gold of Elise’s? Even the pretty little locket I could have given one of my nieces? I’d have been a hero.”

“Your nieces are too young for lockets.” She let out a sigh and leaned her head on his shoulder again. “I didn’t get mine until I was sixteen. My grandmother gave me a very pretty heart-shaped one that her mother had given to her.”

“And you put a lock of your boyfriend’s hair in it.”

“Hardly. I didn’t have boyfriends. She’d already put her picture in it anyway, and my grandfather’s. It was to help me remember my roots.”

“Did it?”

“Of course. Good New England stock always remembers roots. I’m a Jones,” she said quietly. “And Elizabeth was right. I might never have been hers, but I was always my grandmother’s.”

“You’ll have her pearls now.”

“Yes, and I’ll treasure them. I lost the locket a few years ago. Broke my heart.” Feeling better, she straightened. “I need to get maintenance in here. We have to put this place back in order. I’m hoping we can open the exhibit to the public tomorrow.”

“You do that,” he murmured. “I’ll meet you back at the house later. Go straight there, will you, so I don’t have to search you out.”

“Where else would I go?”

thirty

Andrew whistled as he walked into the house. He knew a grin was plastered on his face. It had been there all day. It wasn’t just the sex—well, he thought, jogging up the stairs, the sex hadn’t hurt. It had been a long dry spell for old Andrew J. Jones.

But he was in love. And Annie loved him back. Spending the day with her had been the most exciting, the most peaceful, the most amazing experience he’d ever known. It had been almost spiritual, he decided with a chuckle.

They’d cooked breakfast together, and had eaten it in bed. They’d talked until his throat was raw. So many words, so many thoughts and feelings bursting to get out. He’d never been able to talk to anyone the way he could talk to Annie.

Except Miranda. He couldn’t wait to tell Miranda.

They were going to be married in June.

Not a big, formal wedding, nothing like what he and Elise had done. Something simple and sweet, that’s what Annie wanted. Right in the backyard with friends and music. He was going to ask Miranda to be his best man. She’d get such a kick out of that.

He stepped into his bedroom. He wanted to get out of the wrinkled mess of the tuxedo. He was taking Annie out to dinner, and tomorrow, he was buying her a ring. She said she didn’t need one, but on that one issue he was going into override.

He wanted to see his ring on her finger.

He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it aside. He vowed to shovel out his room sometime that week. He and Annie wouldn’t be moving in after they were married. The house was Miranda’s now. The new Dr. and Mrs. Jones were going house hunting as soon as they got back from their honeymoon.

He was going to take her to Venice.

He was still grinning as he struggled to tug out his studs. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a blur of motion. Pain exploded in his head, a burst of red light behind his eyes. His knees buckled as he tried to turn, tried to strike out. The second blow had him crashing into a table and falling into the black.

The storm broke. Miranda was still a mile from home when the rain flooded over her windshield. Lightning slashed so close that its companion burst of thunder shook the car. It was going to be a mean one. She forced herself to slow her speed though she wanted nothing more at that moment than to be home, to be dry and warm and inside.

Fog was sneaking along the ground, masking the shoulder of the road. To narrow her concentration, she switched off the radio, shifted forward in her seat.

But her mind played it all back.

The call from Florence, then the mugging. John Carter flying out while she was delayed. The bronze had been in the safe in her mother’s office. Who had access to the safe? Only Elizabeth.

But if Miranda’s association with Ryan had taught her anything, it was that locks were made to be picked.

Richard had run tests; therefore, he had gained access to the bronze. Who had worked with him? Who had brought the gun to the Institute and used it?

John? She tried to imagine it but kept seeing his homely, concerned face. Vincente? Loud, friendly, avuncular Vincente? Could either of them have pumped two bullets into Richard, have struck Elise?

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