Page 98 of Homeport

“Just walk down the hall,” he ordered, shifting his bags so that he could wrap an arm around her waist. She didn’t lean on him, didn’t seem to have enough substance in her body to give weight, but he kept his arm around her until they were inside the suite.

He locked the door, added the safety latch before taking her into the bedroom. “Get out of the wet clothes, into a robe.” He’d have preferred to dump her in a hot bath, but was afraid she’d just slip under and drown.

He checked the terrace doors, made certain they too were locked before he searched out a bottle of brandy from the minibar. He didn’t bother with glasses.

She was sitting on the bed, exactly as he’d left her. “You’ve got to get out of those clothes,” he told her. “You’re soaked through.”

“I— My fingers don’t work.”

“Okay, okay. Here, swallow.”

He broke the seal on the bottle, then held it to her lips. She obeyed mindlessly, until the fire spurted down her throat and into her belly. “I don’t like brandy.”

“I don’t like spinach, but my mother made me eat it. One more time. Come on, be a good soldier.” He managed to pour another swallow down her throat before she sputtered and pushed his hand away.

“I’m all right. I’m all right.”

“Sure you are.” Hoping to ease the queasiness in his own stomach, he tipped back the bottle and took a healthy gulp himself. “Now the clothes.” He set the bottle aside and went to work on the buttons of her shirt.

“Don’t—”

“Miranda.” Realizing his legs weren’t completely steady, he sat beside her. “Does it look like I’m going to cop a feel here? You’re in shock. You need to get warm and dry. So do I.”

“I can do it. I can.” She got shakily to her feet and stumbled into the bath.

When the door clicked shut, he resisted the urge to open it again to be certain she wasn’t in a heap on the floor.

For a moment he lowered his head into his hands, ordered himself to breathe, just breathe. It was his first up-close and personal experience with violent death. Fresh, violent, and real, he thought, and took one more shot of brandy from the bottle.

It wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat.

“I’m going to order up some food. Something hot.” He peeled out of his wet jacket as he spoke. Keeping an eye on the door, he stripped, tossed his wet clothes aside, and pulled on slacks and a shirt.

“Miranda?” With his hands in his pockets, he frowned at the door. Modesty be damned, he decided, and pushed it open.

She’d put on a robe, but her hair was still streaming with wet as she stood in the center of the room, her arms wrapped tight around her body as she rocked herself. She sent Ryan one look of unspeakable misery. “Giovanni.”

“Okay, all right.” He put his arms around her, cradled her head on his shoulder. “You did good, you did fine. It’s okay to fall apart now.”

She only clenched and unclenched her hands against his back. “Who could have done that to him? He’s never hurt anyone. Who could have done that?”

“We’ll figure it out. We will. We’re going to talk about it, step by step.” He cuddled her closer, stroking a hand down her wet hair as much to soothe himself as her. “But your mind has to be clear. I need your brain. I need your logic.”

“I can’t think. I keep seeing him, lying there. All the blood. He was my friend. He came when I asked him to. He. . .”

And the full horror of it struck her, a brutal slice to the heart that cleared her head to shocking, vicious clarity. “Oh God, Ryan. I killed him.”

“No.” He pulled her back so that their eyes were level again. “Whoever bashed in the back of his head killed him. You get over that, Miranda, because it’s not going to help.”

“He was only in there tonight because of me. If I hadn’t asked him, he’d have been at home, or out on a date, or sitting in some trattoria drinking wine with friends.”

She pressed her fisted hands to her mouth, the eyes over them swimming with horror. “He’s dead because I asked him to help me, because I didn’t trust you and because my reputation is so important, so vital, I had to have it done my way.” She shook her head. “I’m never going to get over that.”

However miserable her eyes, her color was back and her voice was stronger. Guilt could energize as well as paralyze. “Okay, then use it. Dry your hair while I order some food. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

She dried her hair, and slipped into white cotton pajamas, then wrapped the robe over them. She would eat, she told herself, because she would be ill if she didn’t. She needed to be well, strong, and clearheaded if she was going to avenge Giovanni.

Avenge? she thought with a shudder. She’d never believed in vengeance. Now it seemed perfectly sane, perfectly logical. The term “an eye for an eye” circled grimly in her head. Whoever killed Giovanni had used her as a weapon as cold-bloodedly as they’d used the bronze.

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