Page 32 of Homeport

Observe rather than participate, he thought.

“This area is Old Port,” she continued. “You’ll find a lot of galleries in this part of town. You might be interested in visiting some of them before you leave.”

“I might.”

“The city shows best in the spring, when you can make use of the parks and beaches. There are some beautiful stretches of marsh and sand, views of Miracle Bay and the islands. But in dead winter, it can be a postcard. The pond freezes in Atlantic Park, and people come to ice-skate.”

“Do you?” He slipped an arm around her shoulder to block her from the edge of the wind. Their bodies bumped. “Skate.”

“Yes.” Her blood simmered; her throat went dry. “It’s excellent exercise.”

He laughed, and just beyond the circle of light tossed out by a streetlamp, turned her to him. Now his hands were on her shoulders, and the wind at his back streamed through his hair. “So it’s for the exercise, not for the fun.”

“I enjoy it. It’s too late in the year for skating now.”

He could feel her nerves, the shimmer of them under his hands. Intrigued by them, he drew her a little closer. “And how do you get your exercise this late in the year?”

“I walk a lot. Swim when I can.” Her pulse was beginning to jump, a sensation she knew she couldn’t trust. “It’s too cold to stand.”

“Then why don’t we consider this an exercise in sharing body heat.” He hadn’t intended to kiss her—eventually yes, of course—but not this soon. Still, he hadn’t lied when he told her he was a romantic. And the moment simply called for it.

He brushed his lips over hers, testing, his eyes open as hers were. The wariness in hers caused his lips to curve as he tasted her a second time. He was a man who believed in practicing until he was skilled in a matter he enjoyed. He was very skilled in the matter of women and patiently warmed her lips with his until hers softened, parted, until her lashes fluttered down and she sighed quietly into his mouth.

Maybe it was foolish, but what could it hurt? The little war of reason in her head faded to whispers as sensation layered over. His mouth was firm and persuasive, his body long and hard. He tasted faintly of the wine they’d shared and was just as arousingly foreign and rich.

She found herself leaning into him, her hands clutching at his coat at the waist. And her mind went blank with pleasure.

Suddenly his hands were cupping her face, the cold, smooth leather of his gloves a shock to her dreaming brain. Her eyes opened to find his narrowed on her face, with an intensity burning in them the easy kiss didn’t warrant.

“Let’s try that again.”

This time his mouth was rough and hot, plundering hers until her head roared with sounds like the sea below the cliffs of her home. There was demand here, and the arrogant certainty it would be answered. Even as her mind lurched back, bent on refusing, her mouth answered.

He knew what it was to want. He’d wanted a great deal in his life, and had made it his business to see his desires were met. Wanting her was acceptable, even expected. But wanting her now, this forcibly, was dangerous. Even a man who gambled by choice knew to avoid unwinnable risks.

Still, he lingered long enough to be certain he would spend a very uncomfortable night, alone. He couldn’t afford to seduce her, to take her back to his bed. There was work to be done, and the timing was already set. Most of all, he couldn’t afford to care for her. Growing attached to a pawn was a certain way to lose the game.

He never lost.

He held her away, skimming his gaze over her face. Her cheeks were flushed, from the cold and the heat. Her eyes were clouded still with a passion he imagined had surprised her as much as him. She shivered as he stroked his hands down to her shoulders again. And she said nothing.

“I should take you home.” However much he cursed himself, his smile was smooth and easy.

“Yes.” She wanted to sit, to steady herself. To think again. “It’s getting late.”

“Another minute,” he murmured, “it would have been too late.” Taking her hand, he led her to the waiting limo. “Do you get to New York often?”

“Now and again.” The heat seemed to be centered in a ball in her gut. The rest of her was cold, viciously cold.

“You’ll let me know when your plans take you there. And I’ll adjust mine.”

“All right,” she heard herself say, and didn’t feel foolish at all.

She sang in the shower. It was something she never did. She didn’t have to be told she had a dreadful voice, when she could hear it for herself. But this morning she belted out “Making Whoopee.” She had no idea why that tune was lodged in her head—had no idea she even knew the lyrics—but she gurgled them as water sluiced over her head.

She was still humming when she dried off.

Bending from the waist, she wrapped a towel around her mass of hair, swinging her hips as she did so. She was no better at dancing, though she knew all the proper steps. The members of the art council who had guided her through her rigid waltzes would have been shocked to see the cool Dr. Jones bumping and grinding around her efficient bathroom.

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