Page 31 of Homeport

“I’m a clever man, and you don’t trust me.”

Her gaze lifted to his again. “I don’t know you.”

“What else can I tell you? I come from a big, loud, ethnic family, grew up in New York, studied, without a great deal of enthusiasm, at Columbia. Then because I’m not artistic, shifted into the business of art. I’ve never married, which displeases my mother—enough that I once considered it seriously, and briefly.”

She arched a brow. “And rejected it?”

“At that particular time, with that particular woman. We lacked a spark.” He leaned closer, for the pleasure of her, and because he enjoyed the cautious awareness that came into her eyes when he did. “Do you believe in sparks, Miranda?”

Sparks, she imagined, were cousins to pings. “I believe they fuel initial attraction, but sparks die out and aren’t enough for the long haul.”

“You’re cynical,” he decided. “I’m a romantic. You analyze and I appreciate. That’s an interesting combination, don’t you think?”

She moved her shoulder, discovering she wasn’t quite so relaxed any longer. He had her hand again, just playing with her fingers on the table. He had a habit of touching she wasn’t used to, and one that made her all too aware of sparks.

Sparks, she reminded herself, made a pretty light. But they could also burn.

Being this quickly, and outrageously, attracted to him was dangerous, and it was illogical. It had everything to do with glands and nothing to do with intellect.

Therefore, she concluded, it could and would be controlled.

“I don’t understand romantics. They make decisions based on feelings rather than fact.” Andrew was a romantic, she thought, and hurt for him. “Then they’re surprised when those decisions turn out to be mistakes.”

“But we have so much more fun than cynics.” And he, he realized, was much more attracted to her than he’d anticipated. Not just her looks, he decided as their plates were cleared. It was that leading edge of practicality, of pragmatism. One he found it hard to resist buffing away.

And yes, the big sad eyes.

“Dessert?” he asked her.

“No, I couldn’t. It was a lovely meal.”

“Coffee?”

“It’s too late for coffee.”

He grinned, absolutely charmed. “You’re an orderly woman, Miranda. I like that about you.” Still watching her, he signaled for the bill. “Why don’t we take a walk? You can show me the waterfront.”

“Jones Point’s a safe city,” she began when they strolled in the icy wind that whipped off the water. The limo followed them at a crawl, a fact that both amused and staggered her. However much wealth she’d come from, no Jones would ever hire a limo to pace them as they walked. “It’s very walkable. There are several parks. They’re gorgeous in the spring and summer. Shade trees, banks of flowers. You’ve never been here before?”

“No. Your family’s lived here for generations?”

“Yes. There have always been Joneses in Jones Point.”

“Is that why you live here?” His gloved fingers tangled with hers, leather sliding over leather. “Because it’s expected?”

“No. It’s where I come from, where I am.” It was difficult to explain, even to herself, how deep her roots were sunk in that rocky New England soil. “I enjoy traveling, but this is where I want to be when it’s time to come home.”

“Then tell me about Jones Point.”

“It’s quiet and settled. The city itself grew from a fishing village into a community with emphasis on culture and tourism. A number of residents still make their living from the sea. What we call the waterfront is actually along Commercial Street. Lobstering is profitable—the packing plant ships all over the world.”

“Have you ever done it?”

“What?”

“Gone lobstering.”

“No.” She smiled a little. “I can see the boats and buoys from the cliffs behind the house. I like to watch them.”

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