Page 73 of Homeport

He smiled at the shock in her voice. He imagined she’d expected him to take her to some nasty little slum where the sound of raised voices was as pervasive as the smell of garlic and garbage.

“The family moved here about ten years ago. Come on, they’re expecting us, and Mama’s likely got some antipasto ready.”

“What do you mean expecting?”

“I called to let her know we were coming.”

“You called? Who am I supposed to be?”

“That’s a question everyone has to decide for themselves.”

“What did you tell her?” Miranda demanded, and clung to the handle as he leaned across to open her door.

“That I was bringing a woman home to dinner.” He stayed where he was a moment, his body angled and pressed to hers, his face close. “Don’t be shy. They’re very easy people.”

“I’m not shy.” But there was the faintly sick sensation in her stomach she experienced whenever she had to meet new people on a social level. In this case, she told herself, such things were absurd. “I just want to know how you’ve explained . . . Stop that,” she demanded when his gaze lowered and lingered on her mouth.

“Hmm.” He really wanted to take a slow, tasty bite of that stubborn bottom lip. “Sorry, I was distracted. You smell . . . interesting, Dr. Jones.”

The moment called for action and movement—and not the ridiculous fantasy that leaped into her brain of grabbing two handfuls of his hair and yanking his mouth to hers. Instead she slapped one hand on his chest, yanked the door open with the other, and scooted out.

He chuckled a little—which helped relieve the ball of tension that had gathered low in his gut, and climbed out the opposite side. “Hey, Remo.”

The big brown dog who’d been sleeping in the yard uncurled himself, let out one bark that echoed like a cannon blast, then jumped lovingly on Ryan. “I thought you were going to learn some manners.” Grinning, he scratched the delighted dog’s ears. “What happened to obedience school? You flunked out again, didn’t you?” Ryan asked as they headed toward the door.

As if avoiding the question, the dog slid his eyes to the side and gazed at Miranda. His tongue lolled out in a canine grin.

“Not afraid of dogs, are you?”

“No, I like them,” she replied as Ryan pushed open the front door. Through it emerged the sound of the evening news, voices, male and female, raised in what appeared to be a bitter and violent argument, delicious aroma of roasted garlic and spices, and a large spotted cat who dashed for freedom and began an immediate war with the dog.

“Home sweet home,” Ryan murmured, and pulled her into the melee.

“If you can’t behave like a decent human being, I don’t want you to speak to any of my friends, ever again.”

“All I did was mention that if she had some really basic plastic surgery, she would improve her looks, her self-esteem, and her sex life.”

“You’re a pig, Patrick.”

“Yeah, well, your friend has a nose like a tail fin on a fifty-seven Chevy.”

“Not only a pig, but a shallow, superficial asshole on top of it.”

“I’m trying to hear the news, here. Take it outside until the sports are over, for sweet Christ’s sake.”

“This,” Miranda said in prim and precise tones, “is obviously a bad time.”

“No, this is normal,” Ryan assured her, and dragged her into the spacious, cluttered, and noisy living room.

“Hey, Ry!”

The man—boy really, Miranda noted as he turned with a grin nearly as lethal as Ryan’s—took a few gangly strides and punched Ryan in the shoulder. A sign, Miranda assumed, of affection.

His dark hair was curly, his eyes a glinting golden brown in a face that Miranda supposed had caused the girls in his high school to sigh into their pillows at night.

“Pat.” With equal affection, Ryan caught him in a headlock for the introduction. “My baby brother Patrick, Miranda Jones. Behave,” he warned Patrick.

“Sure. Hey, Miranda, how’s it going?”

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