Page 64 of Homeport

“Well, for starters . . .” He lowered his head, drew in her scent, anticipated that first taste. And his breath whooshed out in a pained rush as her fist plowed into his stomach.

“I told you to keep your hands off of me.”

“So you did.” With a slow nod, he rubbed his gut. Another few inches to the south, he thought, and her fist would have unmanned him. “You’ve got a good, solid punch, Dr. Jones.”

“Be grateful I pulled it, Boldari.” Though she hadn’t, not by an inch. “Or you’d be on your hands and knees whistling for air. I take it we understand each other on this point.”

“Perfectly. Make the call, Miranda. And let’s get to work.”

She did what he asked because it made sense. The only way to proceed was to begin, and to begin you needed a starting point.

By nine-thirty, she was in her home office, calling up data on her desktop.

The room was as efficient as her office at the Institute, if slightly cozier. Ryan had lighted a fire there as well, though she didn’t consider it cold enough to indulge in one. Flames crackled cheerfully in the stone hearth; the late-winter sun beamed through the curtains he’d swept back.

They sat hip to hip at her desk, scanning names.

“Looks like you had an unusually large turnover about eighteen months ago,” he pointed out.

“Yes. My mother revamped her lab in Florence. Several staff members transferred there, or moved from there to the Institute.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t jump at it.”

“At what?”

“A move to Florence.”

She shot the file to the printer. A hard copy would mean she didn’t have to sit next to him. “It wasn’t an option. Andrew and I run the Institute. My mother runs Standjo.”

“I see.” And he thought he did. “Some friction between you and Mama?”

“My family relationships are none of your concern.”

“More than some friction, I’d say. How about your father?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you Daddy’s little girl?”

She laughed before she could stop herself, then rose to retrieve the printout. “I’ve never been anyone’s little girl.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, and meant it.

“My family isn’t the issue here.” She sat on the raspberry-colored love seat and tried to concentrate on the names that kept blurring in front of her tired eyes.

“They could be. Yours is a family-run business. Maybe someone took a shot at your family by taking the bronze.”

“Your Italian’s showing,” she said dryly, and made him smile.

“The Irish are every bit as interested in revenge, darling. Tell me about the people on the list.”

“John Carter. Lab manager. Got his doctorate from Duke. He’s worked at the Institute for sixteen years. Oriental art is his primary interest.”

“No, get personal. Is he married? Does he pay alimony? Gamble, drink his lunch, dress in women’s clothes on Saturday night?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She tried to sit up straight, then gave in and curled up her legs. “He’s married, no divorces. Two children. I think the oldest just started college.”

“Takes a lot of money to raise kids, send them to college.” He scanned across, noted the annual salary. “He makes a decent living, but decent doesn’t satisfy everyone.”

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