Page 88 of Homeport

“I know how to work a camera.” She snatched it from him. “Kevin.”

She moved back, blocked and focused. Maybe her heart tripped a little. He was such a staggering sight, tall and dark and grinning cockily at the camera.

“There. Satisfied now?”

“Almost.” He snagged a couple of tourists who happily agreed to take a picture of the young Americans.

“This is ridiculous,” Miranda muttered as she found herself posing once again, this time with Ryan’s arm around her waist.

“It’s for my mother,” he said, then followed impulse and kissed her.

A flock of pigeons swarmed up with a rush of wings and a flutter of air. She had no time to resist, less to defend. His mouth was warm, firm, sliding over hers as the arm around her waist angled her closer. The quiet sound she made had nothing to do with protest. The hand she lifted to his face had everything to do with holding him there.

The sun was white, the air full of sound. And her heart trembled on the edge of something extraordinary.

It was either pull away or sink, Ryan thought. He turned his lips into the palm of her hand. “Sorry,” he said, and didn’t smile—couldn’t quite pull it off. “I guess I fell into the moment.”

And leaving her there with her knees trembling, he retrieved his camera.

He strapped it back on, picked up the shopping bag, then with his eyes on hers, held out a hand. “Let’s go.”

She’d almost forgotten the purpose, almost forgotten the plan. With a nod, she fell into step with him.

When they reached the gates of the old palace, he tugged the guidebook out of his back pocket, like a good tourist.

“It was built in 1255,” he told her. “From the sixteenth to the mid-nineteenth century it was a prison. Executions were carried out in the courtyard.”

“Apt under the circumstances,” she muttered. “And I know the history.”

“Dr. Jones knows the history.” He gave her butt an affectionate pat. “Abby, honey.”

The minute they were inside the principal ground-floor room, he dug out his video camera. “Great place, isn’t it, Abby? Look at this guy—he’s knocked back a few, huh?”

He aimed the camera at the glorious bronze of the drunken Bacchus, then began to slowly pan the room. “Wait until Jack and Sally see these. They’ll be green.”

He swung the camera toward a doorway where a guard sat keeping an eye on the visitors. “Wander around,” he told her under his breath. “Look awed and middle-class.”

Her palms were sweating. It was ridiculous, of course. They had a perfect right to be here. No one could possibly know what was going on inside her head. But her heart pounded painfully in her throat as she circled the room.

“Wonderfully awful, isn’t it?”

She jolted a little when he came up beside her as she pretended to study Bandinelli’s Adam and Eve. “It’s an important piece of the era.”

“Only because it’s old. It looks like a couple of suburbanites who hang out at a nudist colony every other weekend. Let’s go see Giambologna’s birds in the loggia.”

After an hour, Miranda began to suspect that a great deal of criminal activity involved the tedious. They went into every public room, capturing every inch and angle on camera. Still, she’d forgotten that the Sala dei Bronzetti held Italy’s finest collection of small Renaissance bronzes. Because it made her think of the David, her nerves began to twitch again.

“Haven’t you got enough yet?”

“Nearly. Go flirt with the guard over there.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Get his attention.” Ryan lowered the camera and briskly undid the top two buttons on Miranda’s crisp cotton blouse.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Making sure his attention’s focused on you, cara. Ask him some questions, use bad guidebook Italian, bat your eyes and make him feel important.”

---