Page 55 of Homeport

They’d always argued about them, she remembered as she tugged on her pajamas. They’d always shared views and thoughts and hopes. She doubted she would have survived childhood intact without him. They’d been each other’s anchor in a chilly sea for as long as she could remember.

She only wished she could do more to steady him now and convince him to seek help. But whenever she touched on the subject of his drinking, he only closed up. And drank more. All she could do was watch, and stand with him until he fell off the edge of the cliff he was so tenuously poised on. Then she would do what she could to help him pick up the pieces.

She climbed into bed, arranging her pillows to support her back, then picked up her volume of bedtime reading. Some might say rereading Homer wasn’t a particularly relaxing occupation. But it worked for her.

By midnight, her mind was full of Greek battles and betrayals and clear of worries. She marked her place, set the book aside, and turned off her light. In moments she was dreamlessly asleep.

Deeply enough that she didn’t hear the door open, close again. She didn’t hear the lock click smoothly into place, or the footsteps cross the room toward the bed.

She awoke with a jolt, a gloved hand hard over her mouth, another clamped firmly at her throat, and a man’s voice softly threatening in her ear.

“I could strangle you.”

PART TWO

The Thief

All men love to appropriate the belongings

of others. It is a universal desire; only the

manner of doing it differs.

—ALAIN RENÉ LESAGE

eleven

Her mind simply froze. The knife. For a hideous moment she would have sworn she felt the prick of a blade at her throat rather than the smooth grip of hands, and her body went lax with terror.

Dreaming, she must be dreaming. But she could smell leather and man, she could feel the pressure on her throat that forced her to dig deep for air, and the hand that covered her mouth to block any sound. She could see a faint outline, the shape of a head, the breadth of shoulders.

All of that blipped into her stunned brain and was processed in seconds that seemed like hours.

Not again, she promised herself. Never again.

In instinctive reaction, her right hand balled into a fist, and came off the mattress in a snap of movement. He was either faster, or a mind reader, as he shifted an instant before the blow landed. Her fist bounced harmlessly off his biceps.

“Lie still and keep quiet.” He hissed the order and added a convincing little shake. “However much I’d like to hurt you, I won’t. Your brother’s snoring at the other end of the house, so it’s unlikely he’ll hear you if you scream. Besides, you won’t scream, will you?” His fingers gentled on her throat, with a shivering caress of thumb. “It’d bruise your Yankee pride.”

She muttered something against his gloved hand. He removed it, but kept the other on her throat. “What do you want?”

“I want to kick your excellent ass from here to Chicago. Damn it, Dr. Jones, you fucked up.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was hard to keep her breathing under control, but she managed it. That too was pride. “Let go of me. I won’t scream.”

She wouldn’t because Andrew might hear, and might come roaring in. And whoever was currently pinning her to the bed was probably armed.

Well, she thought, this time so was she. If she could manage to get into her nightstand drawer and grab her gun.

In response, he sat on the bed beside her, and still holding her in place, reached out for the switch on the bedside lamp. She blinked rapidly against the flash of light, then stared wide-eyed, slack-jawed.

“Ryan?”

“How could you make such a stupid, sloppy, unprofessional mistake?”

He was dressed in black, snug jeans, boots, a turtleneck and bomber jacket. His face was as strikingly handsome as ever, but his eyes weren’t warm and appealing as she remembered. They were hot, impatient, and unmistakably dangerous.

“Ryan,” she managed again. “What are you doing here?”

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