I divide all readers into two classes; those who read to remember and those who read to forget.
William Lyon Phelps
ePub
A4Chương 26
M
iranda stared down at the fax that had just hummed out of her machine. This one was all in caps, as if the sender was screaming the words.I HAVEN'T ALWAYS HATED YOU. BUT I WATCHED YOU. YEAR AFTER YEAR. DO YOU REMEMBER THE SPRING YOU GRADUATED FROM GRAD SCHOOL—WITH HONORS, OF COURSE—AND HAD AN AFFAIR WITH THE LAWYER. CREG ROWE WAS HIS NAME, AND HE BROKE IT OFF, DUMPED YOU BECAUSE YOU WERE TOO COLD AND DIDN'T PAY ENOUGH ATTENTION TO HIS NEEDS. REMEMBER THAT, MIRANDA?
HE TOLD HIS FRIENDS YOU WERE A MEDIOCRE FUCK. I BET YOU DIDN'T KNOW THAT. WELL, NOW YOU DO.
I WASN'T VERY FAR AWAY. NOT VERY FAR AWAY AT ALL.
DID YOU EVER FEEL ME WATCHING YOU?
DO YOU FEEL IT NOW?
THERE ISN'T MUCH TIME LEFT. YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE WHAT YOU WERE TOLD. YOU SHOULD HAVE ACCEPTED THE WAY THINGS WERE. THE WAY I WANTED THEM TO BE. MAYBE GIOVANNI WOULD BE ALIVE IF YOU HAD.
DO YOU EVER THINK OF THAT?
I DIDN'T ALWAYS HATE YOU, MIRANDA. BUT I DO NOW.
CAN YOU FEEL MY HATE?
YOU WILL.
The paper trembled in her hands as she read it. There was something horribly childlike about the big block letters, the schoolyard-bully taunts. It was meant to hurt, humiliate, and frighten, she told herself. She couldn't allow it to succeed.
But when the buzzer on her intercom sounded, her breath caught on a gasp and her fingers clenched and crumpled the edges of the fax. Foolishly she laid it on her desk, smoothing out the creases precisely as she answered Lori's page.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Boldari is here, Dr. Jones. He wonders if you have a moment to see him."
Ryan. She nearly said his name aloud, pressed her fingertips to her lips to keep the word in her mind only. "Would you ask him to wait, please."
"Of course."
So he was back. Miranda rubbed her hands over her cheeks to bring color back into them. She had her pride, she thought. She was entitled to her pride. She wasn't going to rush through the door and throw herself into his arms like some moonstruck lover.
He'd been gone nearly two weeks, and not once had he called her. Oh, there'd been contact, she thought as she hunted up her compact and used the stingy mirror to smooth her hair, to add lipstick. Memos and telexes and e-mail and faxes, all sent by some office drone and signed in his name.
He hadn't bothered to ease away kindly when he was done with her. He'd had his office staff do it for him.
She wouldn't make a scene. They still had business, on several levels. She would see it through.
He wouldn't have the satisfaction of knowing she'd needed him. Had needed him every day and night of those two weeks.
She steadied herself, unlocking a drawer to lay the latest fax on a pile of others. They'd been coming in daily now, some only a line or two, others rambling like the one today. The printout of the e-mail was with them, though Lost1 had never contacted her again.
She locked the drawer, pocketed the key, then went to the door.
"Ryan." She sent him a polite smile. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Please, come in."
At her desk, Lori shifted her eyes from face to face, cleared her throat. "Should I hold your calls?"
"No, that won't be necessary. Would you like some—"
She never finished. As she closed the door behind them, he pressed her back against it and crushed his mouth to hers in a fiercely hungry kiss that battered against the wall she'd so carefully built.
Fisting her hands, she kept her arms at her sides and gave him nothing back, not even the passion of resistance.
When he drew away—his eyes narrowed in speculation—she inclined her head and shifted aside. "How was your trip?"
"Long. Where did you go, Miranda?"
"I've been right here. I'm sure you want to see the final design. I have the drawings. I'll be happy to take you down and show you what we've finished so far. I think you'll be pleased."
She moved to the drawing board and began unrolling a large sheet of paper.
"That can wait."
She looked up, angled her head. "Did you have something else in mind?"
"Entirely. But obviously that can wait as well." His eyes remained narrowed as he crossed to her, as if he were seeing her for the first time and taking in all the details. When they were eye to eye, he cupped a hand under her chin, slowly spread his fingers over her cheek.
"I missed you." He said it with a hint of puzzlement in his voice, as if he'd just solved a complex riddle. "More than I intended to, expected to. More than I wanted to."
"Really?" She stepped away because his touch left her shaken. "Is that why you called so often?"
"That's why I didn't call." He dipped his hands in his pockets. He felt like a fool. And there was a nervous flutter in his stomach that warned him a man could experience emotions more alarming than foolishness. "Why didn't you call me? I made certain you knew how to reach me."
She tilted her head. It was an odd and rare sight, she thought. Seeing Ryan Boldari uncomfortable. "Yes, your various assistants were very efficient in giving me your whereabouts. As the project here was proceeding on schedule, there wasn't any reason to bother you about it. And since you seem to have decided to handle the other area of business on your own, there was little I could do about it."
"You weren't supposed to matter quite so much." He rocked back on his heels as he spoke, as if trying to find his balance. "I don't want you to matter this much. It's in my way."
She turned aside, hoping she was quick enough to keep him from seeing the hurt she knew flashed into her eyes. Anything that potent, that keen, had to show. "If you'd wanted to end our personal relationship, Ryan, you could have done it less cold-bloodedly."
He laid his hands on her shoulders, then tightened his grip, spun her angrily around when she tried to wrench away. "Do I look like I want to end it?" He dragged her toward him, covering her mouth with his again, holding her there as she struggled for freedom. "Does that feel like I want to end it?"
"Don't play with me this way." She stopped fighting, and her voice was shaky and weak. She could despise herself for it, but she couldn't change it. "I'm not equipped for this kind of game."
"I didn't know I could hurt you." As his anger drained, he rested his brow against hers. The hands that had gripped her shoulders gentled and skimmed lightly down her arms.
"Maybe I wanted to see if I could. That doesn't say much for me."
"I didn't think you were coming back." Desperate for distance and the control she hoped came with it, she eased out of his arms. "People have a remarkably easy time walking away from me."
He saw now that he'd damaged something very fragile, and something he hadn't recognized as precious. Not just her trust in him, but her belief in them. He didn't think or plan or calculate the odds, he just looked at her and spoke. "I'm halfway in love with you. Maybe more. And nothing about it is easy."
Her eyes went dark, her cheeks went pale. She laid a hand on the edge of her desk as she felt her balance shift. "I—Ryan…" No amount of effort could catch any of the words spinning around in her head and form them into coherent thought.
"No logical response for that, is there, Dr. Jones?" He stepped to her, took her hands. "What are we going to do about this situation?"
"I don't know."
"Whatever it is, I don't want to do it here. Can you leave?"
"I… Yes, I suppose."
He smiled, brushed his lips over her fingers. "Then come with me."
They went home.
She assumed he'd want to go somewhere quiet, where they could talk, sort through these emotions that were so obviously foreign to both of them. Perhaps a restaurant, or the park, since spring was dancing prettily into Maine.
But he'd driven up the coast road, and neither of them spoke. She watched the land narrow, the water, quietly blue in the midday sunlight, close in on either side.
On the long rocky beach to the east, a woman stood watching a young boy dance in the playful surf and toss bread crumbs to greedy gulls. The road curved just close enough for Miranda to see the wide, delighted grin on his face as the birds swooped down to snag the feast.
Beyond them, the soft red sails of a schooner held the wind and cruised snappily southward.
She wondered if she'd ever been as innocently happy as that young boy, or as confidently peaceful as the schooner.
On the sound side, the trees were dressed in that tender green of April, more haze than texture. She loved that look the best, she realized, that delicate beginning. Odd that she'd never known that about herself. As the road climbed, the trees stirred, swaying under a soft spring sky laced with white clouds as harmless as cotton.
And there, on the edges of the hill where the old house stood, was the sudden ocean of cheery yellow. A sea of daffodils, a forest of forsythia, both of which had been planted before she was born.
He surprised her by stopping the car and grinning. "That's fabulous."
"My grandmother planted it all. She said that yellow was a simple color, and it made people smile."
"I like your grandmother." On impulse he got out, walked to the verge, and picked her a handful of the yellow trumpets. "I don't think she'd mind," he said as he climbed back inside and held them out.
"No, she wouldn't." But she found herself wanting to weep.
"I brought you daffodils once before." He laid a hand on her cheek until she turned her head to look at him. "Why don't they make you smile?"
With her eyes closed she pressed her face to the flowers. Their scent was unbearably sweet. "I don't know what to do, about what I feel. I need steps, I need reasonable, comprehensive steps."
"Don't you ever just want to stumble, and see where you fall?"
"No." But she knew that's exactly what she'd done. "I'm a coward."
"You're anything but that."
She shook her head, fiercely. "When I step into emotional territory, I'm a coward, and I'm afraid of you."
He dropped his hand, shifted position so he gripped the steering wheel with both of them. Arousal and guilt churned in his belly. "That's a dangerous thing to tell me. I'm capable of using that, taking advantage of that."
"I know it. Just as you're capable of stopping by the side of the road and picking daffodils. If you were only capable of one of those moods, I wouldn't be afraid of you."
Saying nothing, he restarted the car, drove slowly up the curved lane and parked at the front of the house. "I'm not willing to shift back and make it only business between us. If you think that's an option here, you're mistaken."
She jolted when his hand whipped out, gripped her chin. "Badly mistaken," he added, and the silky threat in his voice had her pulse pounding with panicked excitement.
"However I feel, I won't be pressured." She put her hand to his wrist and shoved. "And I keep my options open."
With that said, she pushed the door open and got out of the car, missing his lightning grin. And the heat in his eyes.
"We'll see about that, Dr. Jones," he murmured, and followed her up the steps.
"Whatever our personal relationship, we have priorities. We need to go over the plans for the exhibit."
"We will." Ryan jingled the change in his pocket as Miranda unlocked the front door.
"I need you to give me more details on what you expect to happen when we have everyone together."
"You'll get them."
"We need to talk all of this through, step by step. I need to have it organized in my mind."
"I know."
She closed the door. They stood staring at each other in the quiet foyer. Her throat went desert dry as he stripped off his leather jacket, watched her.
Like hunter to prey, she thought, and wondered why that sensation should be so damn delightful. "I have a copy of the design here. Up in my office. Here. All the paperwork. Copies are upstairs."
"Of course you do." He took a step forward. "I wouldn't expect anything less. Do you know what I want to do to you, Dr. Jones? Right here, right now." He stepped closer, stopped just short of touching her though he could feel the urgent need for her pulsing in every cell.
"We haven't resolved anything in that area. And we need to deal with business." Her heart was knocking against her ribs like a rude and impatient guest banging at a locked door. "I have the copies here," she said again. "So I could work on them when I wasn't… there. Oh God."
They leaped at each other. Hands tugging and fumbling with clothes, mouths bumping, then fusing. Heat spewed up like a geyser erupting and scorching them with steam.
She dragged desperately at his shirt. "Oh God, I hate this."
"I'll never wear it again."
"No, no." A shaky laugh trembled out of her throat. "I hate being so needy. Touch me. I can't stand it. Touch me."
"I'm trying to." He yanked at the trim paisley vest she wore under her tweed jacket. "You would pick today to wear all these damn clothes."
They made it to the base of the stairs, stumbled. The vest went flying. "Wait. I have to—" His fingers dived into her hair, scattering pins as they curled in that rich mass of red.
"Miranda." His mouth was on hers again, oceans of need cresting in that one bruising meeting of lips.
He swallowed her moans, his own, fed on them as they tripped up another two steps. She was tugging his shirt out of his waistband, struggling to drag it down his arms, gasping for air, sobbing for more as finally, finally her hands found flesh.
His muscles quivered under her hands. She could feel his heart pounding, as wildly as hers. It was just sex. It solved nothing, proved nothing. But God help her, she didn't care.
Her starched cotton shirt caught on her wrists at the cuffs and for a moment she was bound by it, thrilling, helpless as he shoved her back against the wall and feasted on her breasts.
He wanted a war, vicious, primal, savage. And found it in himself, in her feral response and demand. His fingers rushed down, unhooking the mannish trousers, sliding over her, into her so that her hips pushed forward. She came brutally, choking out his name as her body quaked from the shock.
Her mouth streaked over his face, his throat, her hands dug into his hips, tore at his clothes and drove him mad. He plunged into her where they stood, driving her hard against the wall, driving himself deeper and deeper.
She clawed at him now, her nails raking down his back. The sounds she made, primitive groans, wanton cries, throaty whimpers, called to his blood. When she went limp, he lifted her by the hips, blind and deaf to everything but the mindless need to take, and take and take. Each violent stroke was a possession.
Mine.
"More." He panted it out. "Stay with me. Come back."
"I can't." Her hands slid off his damp shoulders. Her mind and body drained.
"Take more."
She opened her eyes, found herself trapped in his. So dark, so hot, the deep gold glittering like sunburst and focused only on her. Her skin began to quiver again, little jolts of need that shimmered at the nerve endings and spread. Then those jolts turned to aches, raw, pulsing aches that turned each breath to a senseless moan. Pleasure had claws, and they ripped at her, threatened to tear her to pieces.
When she screamed, he buried his face in her hair and let himself crash.
o O o
It was like surviving a train wreck, Ryan decided. Barely surviving. They were sprawled on the floor, bodies tangled and numb, minds destroyed. She was lying across him, simply because they'd gone down that way—her midriff over his belly, her head facedown against the Persian runner.
Every few minutes, her stomach would quiver, so he knew she was still alive.
"Miranda." He croaked it out, realizing suddenly his throat was wild with thirst. Her response was something between a grunt and a moan. "Do you think you can get up?"
"When?"
He laughed a little and reached down to rub her bottom. "Now would be good." When she didn't move, he growled, "Water. I must have water."
"Can't you just push me?"
It wasn't quite as simple as that, but he managed to extract himself from beneath her limp body. He braced a hand on the wall to keep his balance as he walked down the stairs. In the kitchen, he stood naked, gulped down two glasses of tap water, then poured a third. Steadier, he started back, his smile spreading when he scanned the scatter of clothes and flowers.
She was still on the floor at the top of the steps, on her back now, eyes shut, one arm flung out over her head, hair a glorious tangle mat clashed with the deep red of the runner.
"Dr. Jones. What would the Art Revue say about this?"
"Hmm."
Still grinning, he crouched, nudged the side of her breast with the glass to get her attention. "Here, you could probably use this."
"Mmm." She managed to sit up, took the glass in both hands and downed every drop. "We never made it to the bedroom."
"There's always next time. You look very relaxed."
"I feel like I've been drugged." She blinked, focused on the painting on the wall behind him, and stared at the white bra that hung celebrationally from the top corner of the frame. "Is that mine?"
He looked back, ran his tongue over his teeth. "I don't believe I was wearing one."
"My God."
He had to give her points for speedy recovery as she leaped up and snatched it loose. With her eyes wide now and little gasps of distress sounding in her throat, she began to rush around gathering clothes, trying to save the flowers they'd crushed.
Ryan leaned his back against the wall and watched the show.
"I can't find one of my socks."
He smiled as she stared down at him, rumpled clothes pressed to her breasts. "You're still wearing it."
She glanced down, saw the traditional argyle on her left foot. "Oh."
"It's a cute look for you. Got a camera?"
Since the moment seemed to call for it, she dumped the clothes on his head.
o O o
At Ryan's insistence, they took a bottle of wine out to the cliffs and sat in the warm spring sun. "You're right," he said. "It's beautiful in the spring."
The water went from a pale blue at the horizon to a deeper hue where boats plied its surface, then to a dark, rich green near the shore where it spewed and beat against rock.
The wind was kind today, a caress instead of a slap.
The pines that lined the side of the land and marched up the rise showed fresh and tender new growth. The hardwoods showed the faintest blush of leaves to come.
No one walked the ragged sweep of beach below or disturbed the scatter of broken shells tossed up during a recent storm. He was glad of it, glad the boats were distant and toylike, the buoys silent.
They were alone.
If he looked back toward the house, he could just see the shape of the old south garden. The worst of the deadwood and thorny brown weeds had been cleared away. The dirt looked freshly turned and raked. He could see small clusters of green. She said she would garden, he remembered, and she was a woman who followed through.
He'd like to watch her at work, he realized. He'd very much enjoy seeing her kneeling there, concentrating on bringing the old garden back to life, making those sketches she'd drawn a reality.
He'd like to see what she made bloom there.
"We should be in my office working," she said as guilt began to prick through the pleasure of the afternoon.
"Let's consider this a field trip."
"You need to see the final design for the exhibit."
"Miranda, if I didn't trust you there, completely, you wouldn't have my property." He sipped his wine and reluctantly shifted his thoughts to work. "In any case, you sent my office daily reports on it. I imagine I've got the picture."
"Working on it's giving me some time to put other things in perspective. I don't know what we can accomplish by all this, other than the obvious benefit to your organization and mine, and a hefty contribution to NEA. The other—"
"The other's progressing."
"Ryan, we should give all the information we can to the police. I've thought about this. It's what should have been done right from the start. I let myself get caught up—my ego, certainly, and my feelings for you—"
"You haven't told me what those are. Are you going to?"
She looked away from him, watched the tall iron buoys wave gently and without sound. "I've never felt for anyone what I feel for you. I don't know what it is, or what to do about it. My family isn't good with personal relationships."
"What does your family have to do with it?"
"The Jones curse." She sighed a little because she didn't have to glance back to know he smiled. "We always screw it up. Neglect, apathy, self-absorption. I don't know what it is, but we're just no good at being with other people."
"So you're a product of your genes, and not your own woman."
Her head twisted sharply, making him grin at the quick insult in her eyes. Then she controlled it and inclined her head. "That was very good. But the fact remains that I'm nearly thirty years old and I've never had a serious, long-term relationship. I don't know if I'm capable of maintaining one."
"First you have to be willing to find out. Are you?"
"Yes." She started to rub her nervous hand on her slacks, but he took it, held it.
"Then we start from there. I'm as much out of my element as you are."
"You're never out of your element," she murmured. "You have too many elements."
He laughed and gave her hand a squeeze. "Why don't we behave like a comfortable couple and I'll tell you about my trip to San Francisco?"
"You saw your brother."
"Yes, he and his family will be coming out for the gala. The rest of the family will come in from New York."
"All of them? All of your family's coming?"
"Sure. It's a big deal. Anyway, I should warn you, you're going to be checked out thoroughly."
"Wonderful. One more thing to be nervous about."
"Your mother's coming. And your father—which is a small dilemma, as he thinks I'm someone else."
"Oh God, I forgot. What will we do?"
"We won't know what in the world he's talking about." Ryan merely grinned when she gaped. "Rodney's British, I'm not. And he's not nearly as good-looking as I am, either."
"Do you really think my father's going to fall for something like that?"
"Of course he will, because that's our story and we're sticking to it." He crossed his ankles, drew in the cool, moist air. And realized he hadn't been completely relaxed for days. "Why in the world would I have introduced myself to him as someone else—particularly since I was in New York when he came to see you. He'll be confused, but he's hardly going to stand there and call Ryan Boldari a liar."
She let it simmer a moment. "I don't see what choice we have, and my father certainly doesn't pay close attention to people, but—"
"Just follow my lead there, and smile a lot. Now, when I was in San Francisco I looked up Harrison Mathers."
"You found Harry?"
"I found his apartment. He wasn't there. But I spent an interesting half hour with the hooker across the hall. She told me he's been gone a few days, and that—"
"One moment." She tugged her hand free of his and held up a single finger. "Would you mind repeating that?"
"He'd been gone a few days?"
"No, there was something about you spending time with a prostitute."
"It was well worth the fifty—well, hundred actually. I gave her another fifty when we were done."
"Oh, would that have been like a tip?"
"Yeah." He beamed at her. "Jealous, darling?"
"Would jealousy be inappropriate?"
"A little jealousy is very healthy."
"All right, then." She bunched her recently freed hand into a fist and rammed it into his stomach.
He wheezed out a breath, sat up cautiously in case she decided to hit him again. "I stand corrected. Jealousy is definitely unhealthy. I paid her to talk to me."
"If I thought otherwise, you'd be well on your way to the rocks down below." This time she smiled while he eyed her warily. "What did she tell you?"
"You know, that Yankee cool can be just a little frightening, Dr. Jones. She told me that I was the second man who'd come by that day looking for him. She had a very large gun pointed at me at the time."
"A gun. She had a gun?"
"She didn't like the look of the first guy. Women in her line of work generally know how to size a man up quickly. From her description, I'd say she was right about him—you'd know that firsthand. I think he was the one who attacked you."
Her hand went quickly to her throat. "The man who was here, who stole my purse? He was in San Francisco?"
"Looking for young Harry—and my guess is, your former student was lucky not to be home. He's tied in, Miranda. Whoever he made the bronze for, whoever he gave or sold it to, doesn't want him around any longer."
"If they find him—"
"I arranged for someone to keep an eye out for him. We'll have to find him first."
"Maybe he ran away. Maybe he knew they were looking for him."
"No, I looked around his place. He left all his art supplies, a small stash of grass." Ryan leaned back on his elbows again and watched the clouds puff lazily across the sky. "I didn't get the impression he'd left in a particular hurry. The advantage is we know someone's looking for him. At this point, no one knows we are. The way the kid's been living, either he didn't get much for the forgery, or he blew it fast and hasn't explored the wonderful world of blackmail."
"Would they have threatened him first?"
"What would be the point? They didn't want him to run. They'd want to eliminate him, quick and quiet." But there was something in her eyes. "Why?"
"I've been getting… communications." It was a clean, professional word and made her less jittery.
"Communications?"
"Faxes, for the most part. For some time now. They've been coming daily since you left. Faxes, one e-mail, here and at the office."
Again, he sat up. This time his eyes were narrow and cool. "Threats?"
"Not exactly, or not really threats until most recently."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I am telling you."
"Why the hell didn't you let me know this was going on all along?" The blank look she sent him had him getting to his feet so quickly he knocked the glass aside and sent it tumbling over the rocks. "It never occurred to you, did it? To tell me you were being stalked this way, frightened this way? Don't tell me you weren't frightened," he tossed out before she could speak. "I can see it in your face."
He saw, she thought, entirely too much, too easily. "What could you have done about it?"
He stared at her, eyes smoldering, then jamming his hands in his pockets, turned away. "What do they say?"
"Various things. Some of them are very calm, short and subtly threatening. Others are more disjointed, rambles. They're more personal, they talk about things that happened or little events in my life."
Because a hunted feeling crept up her spine, she got to her feet. "One came after Giovanni… after Giovanni," she repeated. "It said his blood was on my hands."
He had no choice but to put his own resentment and hurt aside. It surprised him how much there was of both that she hadn't trusted him. Hadn't counted on him. But now he turned back, looked her straight in the eye.
"If you believe that, if you let some anonymous bastard push you into believing that, you're a fool, and you're giving them exactly what they want."
"I know that, Ryan. I understand that perfectly." She thought she could say it calmly, but her voice broke. "I know it's someone who knows me well enough to use what would hurt me most."
He moved to her, wrapped his arms tightly around her. "Hold on to me. Come on, hold on." When her arms finally encircled him, he rubbed his cheek over her hair. "You're not alone, Miranda."
But she had been, for so long. A man like him would never know what it was like to stand in a roomful of people and feel so alone. So alien. So unwanted.
"Giovanni—he was one of the few people who made me feel… normal. I know whoever killed him is sending me the message. I know that in my head, Ryan. But in my heart, I'll always be to blame. And they know it."
"Then don't let them use you, or him, this way."
She'd closed her eyes, so overwhelmed with the comfort he'd offered. Now she opened them, stared out toward the sea as his words struck home. "Using him," she murmured. "You're right. I've been letting them use him to hurt me. Whoever it is hates me, and made certain I knew it in the fax that came today."
"You have copies of them all?"
"Yes."
"I want them." When she started to pull away, he held her in place, stroked her hair. Didn't she feel herself trembling? he wondered. "The e-mail. Did you trace it?"
"I didn't have any luck. The user name doesn't show up on the server—it's the server we use here and at Standjo."
"Did you keep it on your machine?"
"Yes."
"Then we'll trace it." Or Patrick would, he thought. "I'm sorry I wasn't here." He drew back, framed her face. "I'm here now, Miranda, and no one's going to hurt you while I am." When she didn't answer, he tightened his grip, looked carefully at her face. "I don't make promises lightly, because I don't break them once I do. I'm going to see this through with you, all the way. And I won't let anything happen to you."
He paused, then took what he considered a dangerous step toward a nasty edge. "Do you still want to talk to Cook?"
She'd been so sure that was the right thing. So sure, until he'd looked at her and promised. Until by doing so, he'd made her believe, against all common sense, that she could trust him.
"We'll see it through, Ryan. I guess neither one of us could swallow anything less."
"Put the base directly over the mark." Miranda stood back, watching the two burly men from maintenance haul the three-foot marble stand to the exact center of the room. She knew it was the exact center, as she'd measured it three times personally. "Yes, perfect. Good."
"Is that the last one, Dr. Jones?"
"In this area, yes, thank you."
She narrowed her eyes, envisioning the Donatello bronze of Venus bathing in place on the column.
This gallery was devoted to works of the Early Renaissance. A prized Brunelleschi drawing was matted behind glass and two Masaccio paintings were ornately framed and already hung, along with a Botticelli that soared twelve feet and showed the majestic ascension of the Mother of God.
There was a Bellini that had once graced the wall of a Venetian villa.
With the Donatello as the central point, the display showcased the first true burst of artistic innovation that was not simply the foundation for the brilliance of the sixteenth century, but a period of great art in itself.
True, she considered the style of the period less emotional, less passionate. The figural representation even in Masaccio's work was somewhat static, the human emotions more stylized than real.
But the miracle was that such things existed, and could be studied, analyzed centuries after their execution.
Tapping her finger to her lips, she studied the rest of the room. She'd had the tall windows draped in deep blue fabric that was shot with gold. Tables of varying heights were also spread with it, and on the glittering fabric were the tools of artists of that era. The chisels and palettes, the calipers and brushes. She'd chosen each one herself from the museum display.
It was a pity they had to be closed under glass, but even with such a rich and sophisticated crowd, fingers could become sticky.
On an enormous carved wooden stand a huge Bible sat open to pages painstakingly printed in glorious script by ancient monks. Still other tables were strewn with the jewelry favored by both men and women of the period. There were embroidered slippers, a comb, a woman's ivory trinket box, each piece carefully chosen for just that spot. Huge iron candle stands flanked the archway.
"Very impressive." Ryan stepped between them.
"Nearly perfect. Art, with its social, economic, political, and religious foundations. The mid-fourteen hundreds. The birth of Lorenzo the Magnificent, the Peace of Lodi, and the resulting balance, however precarious, of the chief Italian states."
She gestured to a large map, dated 1454, on the wall. "Florence, Milan, Naples, Venice, and of course, the papacy. The birth too of a new school of thought in art—humanism. Rational inquiry was the key."
"Art's never rational."
"Of course it is."
He only shook his head. "You're too busy looking into the work to look at it. Beauty," he said, gesturing to the serene face of the Madonna, "is a most irrational thing. You're nervous," he added when he took her hands and felt the chill on her skin.
"Anxious," she corrected. "Have you seen the other areas?"
"I thought you'd walk me through."
"All right, but I don't have much time. I'm expecting my mother within the hour. I want everything in place when she gets here."
She walked with him through the room. "I've left wide traffic patterns, putting the sculptures—with the Donatello bronze as the centerpiece—out into the room for a full circling view. People should be free to wander, then to move through this egress into the next gallery, the largest, which represents the High Renaissance."
She stepped through. "We'll continue the theme here of showing not only the art itself, but what surrounded it, underlay it, inspired it. I've used more gold in here, and red. For power, for the church, royalty."
Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she circled, studying details, looking for any slight adjustment that needed to be made. "This era was richer and had more drama. So much energy. It couldn't last, but during its brief crest, it produced the most important works of any era before or since."
"Saints and sinners?"
"I'm sorry?"
"The most popular models of art, saints and sinners. The raw yet elegant sexuality and selfishness of the gods and goddesses, juxtaposed with the brutality of war and cheek by jowl with the grand suffering of the martyr."
He studied the beatific if somewhat baffled face of Saint Sebastian, who was about lanced through with arrows. "I never got martyrs. I mean, what was the point?"
"Their faith would be the obvious answer."
"No one can steal your faith, but they can sure as hell take your life—and in nasty, inventive ways." He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. "Arrows for the ever popular Sebastian, roasting alive for good old Saint Lorenzo. Crucifixions, body parts lopped off with glee and abandon. Lions, tigers, and bears. Oh my."
She chuckled in spite of herself. "That is why they're martyrs."
"Exactly." He turned away from Sebastian and beamed at her. "So you're faced with the pagan horde and their primitive yet hideously efficient implements of torture. Why not just say, 'Sure, no problem, boys and girls. What god would you prefer I worship today?' What you say doesn't change what you think or what you believe, but they can certainly change your status of living."
He jerked a thumb toward the canvas. "Just ask poor beleaguered Sebastian."
"I can see you'd have prospered during persecutions."
"Damn right."
"What about words like courage, conviction, integrity?"
"Why die for a cause? Better to live for it."
While she pondered his philosophy and searched for the flaws in it, he strolled over to study a table artfully crowded with religious artifacts. Silver crucifixes, chalices, relics.
"You've done an amazing job here, Dr. Jones."
"I think it works very well. The Titians will be the major focal point of this room, along with your Raphael. It's a magnificent piece, Ryan."
"Yes, I like it quite a lot. Want to buy it?" He turned to grin at her. "The beauty of my business, Dr. Jones, is that everything has a price. Meet it, and it's yours."
"If you're serious about selling the Raphael, I'll work up a proposal. A great many of our pieces, however, are donated or on permanent loan."
"Not even for you, darling."
She only moved her shoulders. She hadn't expected anything else. "I'd put The Dark Lady there," she said suddenly. "Every time I imagined this room, worked on the angles, the flow, the theme, I'd see it standing on a white column with grapevines twining down. Right here." She stepped forward. "Under the light here. Where everyone could see it. Where I could see it."
"We'll get it back, Miranda."
She said nothing, annoyed with herself for daydreaming. "Do you want to see the next room? We have your Vasaris up."
"Later." He stepped to her. It had to be done. He'd intended to tell her immediately, but he hadn't been able to face putting that haunted look back into her eyes. "Miranda, I got a call from my brother in San Francisco. From Michael. A body was pulled out of the bay last night. It was Harry Mathers."
She only stared, her eyes locked on his for a long silent moment before she simply closed them and turned away. "It wasn't an accident. It wasn't random."
"The news reports my brother's heard don't give many details. Just that he was killed before he was dumped in the water."
His throat had been slit, Ryan thought, but there was no reason to add that detail. She already knew the who and why. What good would it do for her to know the how?
"Three people now. Three people dead. And for what?" With her back still to him she stared up at the glorious face of the Madonna. "For money, for art, for ego? Maybe all three."
"Or maybe none of those, not really. Maybe it's you."
The quick stabbing pain in her heart had her shuddering once before she turned back. He saw the fear in her eyes, and knew that fear wasn't for herself. "Because of me? Someone could hate me that much? Why? I can't think of anyone I've had that kind of impact on, anyone I've hurt so deeply they would murder to protect a lie that ruins my professional reputation. For God's sake, Ryan, Harry was only a boy."
Her voice was grim now, sharp with the fury that rolled in behind the fear. "Just a boy," she repeated, "and he was snipped off like a loose thread. Just as carelessly as that. Who could I matter to so much they would have a boy killed that way? I've never mattered to anyone."
That, he thought, was the saddest thing he'd ever heard anyone say. Sadder still was the fact that she believed it. "You make more of an impact than you realize, Miranda. You're strong, you're successful. You're focused on what you want and where you want to go. And you get there."
"I haven't stepped over anyone on the way."
"Maybe you didn't see them. Patrick's been working on tracing that e-mail you received."
"Yes." She pushed a hand through her hair. Didn't see them? she wondered. Could she be that self-absorbed, that remote, that cold? "Did he manage it? It's been more than a week now. I thought he must have given up."
"He never does when he has his teeth into a computer puzzle."
"What is it? What are you trying not to tell me?"
"The user name was attached very briefly to an account. Put on and taken off, and buried under a great deal of computer jargon."
She felt the cold ball form in her stomach. It would be bad, she knew. Very bad. "What was the account?"
He laid his hands on her shoulders. "It was your mother's."
"That's not possible."
"The message was routed out of Florence, on that area code, and under the account registered to Elizabeth Standford-Jones, and under her password. I'm sorry."
"It can't be." She pulled away from him. "No matter how much—how little—no matter what," she managed. "She couldn't do this. She couldn't hate me this much. I can't accept that."
"She had access to both bronzes. No one would question her. She sent for you, then she fired you and sent you home. She pulled you away from the Institute. I'm sorry." He put his hand to her cheek. "But you're going to have to consider the facts."
It was logical. It was hideous. She closed her eyes, and let his arms come around her.
"Excuse me."
She jerked in his arms as if they were bullets and not words at her back. Very slowly, she turned, took a long bracing breath. "Hello, Mother."
Elizabeth didn't look as though she'd spent the last several hours flying across an ocean and dealing with the small annoyances that come with international travel. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her steel-blue suit showed not a single crease or wrinkle.
Miranda felt as she always did when faced with her mother's unwavering perfection—tousled, awkward, ungainly. Now suspicion was added to the mix. Could this woman who'd preached integrity all of her life have betrayed her own daughter?
"I apologize for interrupting your… work."
Too accustomed to parental disapproval to react, Miranda merely nodded. "Elizabeth Standford-Jones, Ryan Boldari."
"Mr. Boldari." Elizabeth assessed the situation, decided that the gallery owner had demanded Miranda's participation in the project for more reasons than her qualifications. Because the results benefited the Institute, she put warmth in her smile. "How nice to finally meet you."
"A pleasure." He crossed the room to take her hand, noting that mother and daughter didn't even bother with the cool air kisses women often exchanged. "I hope your flight was uneventful."
"It was, thank you." A beautiful face, she thought, and a smooth manner. The photographs she'd seen of him in art magazines over the years hadn't quite been able to capture the power of the combination. "I apologize for not being able to get away sooner as I'd planned. I hope the project is progressing as you anticipated, Mr. Boldari."
"Ryan, please. And it's already exceeded my expectations. Your daughter is everything I could wish for."
"You've been busy," she said to Miranda.
"Very. We've closed off the wing on this level to the public for the last two days. The team's put in a lot of hours, but it's paying off."
"Yes, I can see it is." She scanned the room, impressed and pleased, but only said, "You have work to do yet, of course. You'll be able to tap the talents of Standjo now. Several staff members flew out today, and a few others will be here by tomorrow. They know they're at your disposal. Elise and Richard are here now, along with Vincente and his wife."
"Does Andrew know Elise is here?"
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. "If he doesn't, he will shortly." And the warning in her tone was clear. No personal family business was to be discussed or allowed to interfere. "Your father is due in tonight. He'll be a tremendous help with the final selections of the artifacts."
"I've already made the final selections," Miranda said flatly.
"It's rare that any project of this size can't benefit from a fresh eye."
"Are you planning to take me off this project too?"
There was a moment when it appeared Elizabeth would respond. Her lips trembled open, but then firmed again as she turned to Ryan. "I'd very much like to see your Vasaris."
"Yes, Ryan, show her the Vasaris. They're in the next area. If you'll both excuse me, I have an appointment."
"I feel obliged to tell you, Elizabeth," Ryan began when Miranda walked out, "that this very impressive exhibit wouldn't have been possible without your daughter. She conceived it, designed it, and has implemented it."
"I'm well aware of Miranda's talents."
"Are you?" He said it mildly, with a slight and deliberately mocking lift of brow. "Obviously I'm mistaken then. I assumed since you didn't comment on the results of four weeks of intense work on her part, you found them lacking in some way."
Something flickered in her eyes that might have been embarrassment. He hoped it was. "Not at all. I have every confidence in Miranda's capabilities. If she has a flaw it's overenthusiasm and the tendency to become too personally involved."
"Most would consider those assets rather than flaws."
He was baiting her, but she couldn't see the reason for it. "In business, objectivity is essential. I'm sure you'd agree."
"I prefer passion in all things. Riskier, but the benefits are much more rewarding. Miranda has passion, but she tends to repress it. Hoping, I'd guess, for your approval. Do you ever give it?"
Temper showed coldly on her, a chill in the eyes, frost lining the voice. "My relationship with Miranda isn't your concern, Mr. Boldari, any more than your relationship with her is mine."
"Odd. I'd say the opposite was true, since your daughter and I are lovers."
Her fingers tightened briefly on the strap of the slim leather attache case she carried. "Miranda is an adult. I don't interfere with her personal affairs."
"Just her professional ones, then. Tell me about The Dark Lady."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The Dark Lady." He kept his eyes on hers. "Where is she?"
"The Fiesole Bronze," Elizabeth said evenly, "was stolen from a storeroom at the Bargello several weeks ago. Neither I nor the authorities have any idea of its current location."
"I wasn't speaking of the copy, but of the original."
"Original?" Her face remained blank. But he saw something behind it. Knowledge, shock, consideration—it was difficult to be sure with a woman with such rigid control.
"Elizabeth?" A group of people came in, with Elise in the forefront. Ryan saw a small, finely built woman with a pixie crop of hair and big, brilliant eyes. One step behind was a balding, pale-faced man he tagged as Richard Hawthorne, then a lushly built Sophia Loren look-alike with her arm through that of a robust man with olive skin and glossy white hair. The Morellis, he decided. Hovering over them, beaming loving avuncular smiles, was John Carter.
"Excuse me." Elise linked her pretty hands together. "I didn't know you were busy."
More grateful for the interruption than she would allow to show, Elizabeth made introductions.
"It's so nice to meet you," Elise told him. "I was in your gallery in New York only last year. It's a treasure. And this." Her eyes shone as she turned a circle. "This is glorious. Richard, get your nose away from that map and look at the paintings."
He turned, a sheepish smile on his face. "I can never resist a map. It's an excellent exhibit."
"You must have worked like dogs." Vincente gave Carter a hearty slap on the back.
"I expected to be called on to scrub floors at any moment. Miranda had us jumping through hoops." Carter smiled sheepishly again. "The restoration on the Bronzino was only finished yesterday. I heard everyone in the department shuddered when they saw her coming. Every department head's been chugging Maalox for the past two weeks. Doesn't seem to bother Miranda. Woman's got nerves of steel."
"She's done a brilliant job." Elise glanced around again. "Where is she?"
"She had an appointment," Elizabeth said.
"I'll catch up with her later. I hope she'll put us to work."
"She knows you're available."
"Good. I, urn, I thought I'd see if Andrew's free for a few moments." She sent Elizabeth an apologetic and wistful smile. "I'd like to see how he's doing. If you don't need me just now."
"No, go ahead." She glanced over with mild amusement as Gina Morelli exclaimed and cooed over the display of jewelry. "Richard, I know you've been chafing to visit the library."
"I'm predictable."
"Enjoy yourself."
"We'll know where to find him," Vincente said. "He'll be buried in books. Me, I'll wait for Gina to study and covet every bauble—then she'll drag me shopping." He shook his head. "She too is predictable."
"Two hours," Elizabeth announced, in the tone of the director. "Then we'll meet back here and do what needs to be done."
o O o
Elise hesitated outside the door of Andrew's office. His assistant was away from her desk, and she was grateful. Ms. Purdue was devoted to Andrew and wouldn't approve of an ex-wife's unscheduled visit. She heard his voice through the open door. It was a strong voice and brought her an odd nostalgia.
She'd always liked his voice. The clear tone of it, the upper-crust accent, faintly Kennedyesque, she thought. She supposed, in her way, she'd seen him as a kind of scion of that type of high-powered, successful New England family.
There had been such potential in their marriage, she thought. She'd had such hopes. But in the end, there'd been nothing to do but divorce and move on. From what she knew, she had moved on with considerably more success than Andrew.
Though she was aware of the regret in her eyes, she fixed on a bright smile and rapped lightly on the jamb.
"We're expecting five hundred guests," he said into the phone, then glanced up and froze.
It all flooded back in individual drops of memory. The first time he'd seen her when she took over the job as assistant lab manager at his father's recommendation. In a lab coat and goggles. The way she'd pushed the goggles up to rest on her head when Miranda introduced them.
The way she'd laughed and told him it was about time, when he finally worked up the nerve to ask her out.
The first time they'd made love. And the last.
The way she'd looked on their wedding day, radiant, delicate. The way she'd looked when she told him it was over, so cold and distant. And all the moods in between that had slipped from hope and happiness to dissatisfaction, disappointment, then lack of interest.
The voice on the phone was a buzzing in his ears. His hand fisted under the desk. He wished to God there was a drink in it.
"I'll need to get back to you on the rest, but all the details are in the press release. I'm sure we can arrange for a short interview tomorrow night during the event… You're welcome."
"I'm sorry, Drew," she began when he hung up. "Ms. Purdue isn't at her desk, so I thought I'd take the chance."
"It's all right." The foolish words scraped at his throat. "Just another reporter."
"The event is generating a lot of positive press."
"We need it."
"It's been a difficult couple of months." He didn't rise as she thought he would, so she stepped into the room and faced him with his desk between them. "I thought it would be best, easier for both of us, if we had a few minutes. I wouldn't have come, but Elizabeth insisted. And I have to admit, I would have hated to miss all of this."
He couldn't take his eyes off her, no matter how it burned his heart. "We wanted all the key staff members here."
"You're still so angry with me."
"I don't know what I am."
"You look tired."
"Putting this thing together hasn't left a lot of time for R and R."
"I know this is awkward." She reached out a hand, then drew it back again, as if realizing it wouldn't be welcomed. "The last time we saw each other was—"
"In a lawyer's office," he finished.
"Yes." Her gaze dropped. "I wish it could have been handled differently. We were both so hurt and angry, Drew. I was hoping by now we could at least be…"
"Friends?" He let out a bitter laugh that didn't hurt nearly as much as the innocuous word he'd forced through it.
"No, not friends." Those fabulous eyes of hers went soft and damp with emotion. "Just something less than enemies."
It wasn't what she'd expected, this hard-eyed, cynical look. She'd expected regret, unhappiness, even a spurt of anger. She'd been prepared for any and all of that. But not for this tough shield that bounced all her efforts back at her.
He'd loved her. She knew he'd loved her, and had held on to that even as she signed her name on the divorce papers.
"We don't have to be enemies, Elise. We don't have to be anything anymore."
"All right, this was a mistake." She blinked, once, twice, and the tears were gone. "I didn't want any difficulties to spoil tomorrow's success. If you were upset and started drinking—"
"I've quit drinking."
"Really." Her voice was cool again, and the grim amusement in it sliced bloodlessly. It was a talent of hers he'd forgotten. "Where have I heard that before?"
"The difference is it has nothing to do with you now, and everything to do with me. I emptied plenty of bottles over you, Elise, and I'm done with it. Maybe that disappoints you. Maybe you're insulted that I'm not crawling, not devastated to see you standing there. You're not the center of my life anymore."
"I never was." Her control cracked enough to let the words snap through. "If I had been, you'd still have me."
She spun around and rushed out. By the time she got to the elevator, tears were stinging her eyes. She punched the button with her fist.
He waited until the rapid click of her heels had echoed away before lowering his head to the desk. His stomach was in ragged knots and screaming for a drink, just one drink to smooth it all away.
She was so beautiful. How could he have forgotten how beautiful she was? She'd belonged to him once and he'd failed to hold her, to hold their marriage, to be the man she needed.
He'd lost her because he hadn't known how to give enough, to love enough, to be enough.
He had to get out. Get air. He needed to walk, to run, to get the scent of her perfume out of his system. He used the stairs, avoiding the wing with all the bustle of work, slipped through the thin, early-evening visitors in the public areas and walked straight out.
He left his car in the lot and walked, walked until the worst of the burning in his gut had eased. Walked until he no longer had to concentrate to draw and release each breath evenly. He told himself he was thinking clearly now, perfectly clearly.
And when he stopped in front of the liquor store, when he stared at the bottles promising relief, enjoyment, escape, he told himself he could handle a couple of drinks.
Not only could he handle them, he deserved them. He'd earned them for surviving that face-to-face contact with the woman he'd promised to love, honor, and cherish. Who'd promised him the same. Until death.
He stepped inside, stared at the walls with bottles dark and light lining the shelves. Fifths and pints and quarts just waiting, just begging to be selected.
Try me and you'll feel better. You'll feel fine again. You'll feel fan-fucking-tastic.
Glossy bottles with colorful labels. Smooth bottles with manly names.
Wild Turkey, Jim Beam, Jameson.
He picked up a bottle of Jack Daniel's, running a finger over the familiar black label. And sweat began to pool at the base of his spine.
Good old Jack. Dependable Jack Black.
He could taste it on his tongue, feel the heat slide down his throat and fall welcome to warm his belly.
He took it to the counter and his fingers felt fat and clumsy as he reached for his wallet.
"This be all?" The clerk rang up the bottle.
"Yes," Andrew said dully. "That's it for me."
He carried it with him, tucked into its slim paper sack. He felt the weight of it, the shape of it as he walked.
A twist of the top, and your troubles were over. The nasty ball of pain in your gut forgotten.
As the sun set toward twilight and the air cooled, he went into the park.
The yellow trumpets of the daffodils were rioting, a small ocean of cheer backed by the more elegant red cups of tulips. The first leaves were unfurling on the oaks and maples that would offer shade when the summer heat pounded during its short stay in Maine. The fountain trickled, a musical dance at the center of the park.
Over to the left, swings and slides were deserted. Children were home being washed up for supper, he thought. He'd wanted children, hadn't he? Imagined making a family, a real family where those in it knew how to love, how to touch each other. Laughter, bedtime stories, noisy family meals.
He'd never pulled that off either.
He sat on a bench, staring at the empty swings, listening to the fountain play, and running his hand up and down the shape of the bottle in the thin paper bag.
One drink, he thought. Just one pull from the bottle. Then none of this would matter quite so much.
Two pulls, and you'd wonder why it ever had.
o O o
Annie drew two drafts while the blender beside her whirled with the fixings for a pitcher of margaritas. Happy hour on Friday nights was a popular sport. It was mostly the business crowd, but she had a couple of tables of college students taking advantage of the discount prices and free nibbles while they trashed their professors.
She arched her back, trying to work out the vague ache at the base of her spine as she scanned the room to be certain her waitresses were keeping the customers happy. She dressed the birdbath glasses with salt and lime.
One of her regulars was into a joke involving a man and a dancing frog. She built him a fresh Vodka Collins and laughed at the punch line.
The TV above the bar was showcasing a night baseball game.
She saw Andrew come in, saw what he had in his hand. Her stomach took a slow nosedive, but she kept working. Replaced crowded ashtrays with fresh empties, mopped damp rings from the bar. Watched him walk to it, take a seat on a vacant stool, set the bottle on the bar.
Their eyes met over the brown paper sack. Hers were carefully blank.
"I didn't open it."
"Good. That's good."
"I wanted to. I still want to."
Annie signaled to her head waitress, then tugged off her bar apron. "Take over for me. Let's take a walk, Andrew."
He nodded, but he took the bag with him when he followed her out. "I went to a liquor store. It felt good to be in there."
The streetlights were shining now, little islands of light in the dark. End-of-the-week traffic clogged the streets. Opposing radio stations warred through open car windows.
"I walked to the park and sat on a bench by the fountain." Andrew shifted the bottle from hand to hand as if to keep it limber. "Nobody much around. I thought I could just take a couple of pulls from the bottle. Just enough to warm me up."
"But you didn't."
"No."
"It's hard. What you're doing is hard. And tonight, you made the right choice. Whatever it is, whatever's wrong, you can't add drinking to it."
"I saw Elise."
"Oh."
"She's here for the exhibit. I knew she was coming. But when I looked up and saw her, it just slammed into me. She was trying to make things better, but I wouldn't let her."
Annie hunched her shoulders, jammed her hands into her pockets, and told herself she was insane even pretending she and Andrew stood a chance. That she stood a chance. "You have to do what feels right to you there."
"I don't know what's right. I only know what's wrong."
He walked back to the same park, sat on the same bench and set the bottle beside him.
"I can't tell you what to do, Andrew, but I think if you don't resolve this and let it go, it's going to keep hurting you."
"I know it."
"She's only going to be here a few days. If you could make your peace with it, and with her, while she's here, you'd be better for it. I never made peace with Buster. The son of a bitch."
She smiled, hoping he would, but he only continued to watch her with those steady, serious eyes. "Oh, Andrew." She sighed, looked away. "What I mean is, I never made the effort so we could be civil, and it still eats at me some. He wasn't worth it, God knows, but it eats at me. He hurt me, in a lot of ways, so all I wanted to do in the end was hurt him right back. But worse. Of course, I never did because he never gave a shit."
"Why'd you stay with him, Annie?"
She pushed a hand through her hair. "Because I told him I would. Taking vows at the courthouse on your lunch hour's just the same as doing it in a big church in a fancy white dress."
"Yeah." He gave the hand that now held his a squeeze. "I know it. Believe it or not, I wanted to keep mine. I wanted to prove that I could. Failing at it was like proving I wasn't any different from my father, his father, any of them."
"You're yourself, Andrew."
"That's a scary thought."
Because he needed it, and so did she, she leaned forward, laid her lips on his, let them part when he reached for her. Took him in.
God help her.
She could feel the edge of desperation, but he was careful with her. She'd known too many men who weren't careful. The hand on his face stroked, felt the prickle of a day-old beard, then the smooth skin of his throat.
The needs that kindled inside her were outrageous, and she was afraid they wouldn't help either of them.
"You're not like them." She pressed her cheek to his before the kiss could weaken her too much.
"Well, not tonight anyway." He picked up the bottle, handed it to her. "There, that's a hundred percent profit for you."
There was a relief in it, he realized. The kind a man feels when he whips the wheel of his car just before plunging off a cliff. "I'm going to go to a meeting before I go home." He puffed out a breath. "Annie, about tomorrow night. It would mean a lot to me if you'd change your mind and come."
"Andrew, you know I don't fit in with all those fancy art people."
"You fit with me. Always have."
"Saturday nights are busy." Excuses, she thought. Coward. "I'll think about it. I've got to go."
"I'll walk you back." He rose, took her hand again. "Annie, come tomorrow."
"I'll think about it," she repeated without any intention of doing so. The last thing she wanted to do was go up against Elise on the woman's turf.
