Homeport by Nora Roberts Page B

uncomfortably, staggering. “Did he hit on you?”
    â€œGet a grip on yourself.”
    â€œDid he?”
    â€œNo. Not exactly,” she amended. “And if he did, or does, I’m a grown woman who knows how to block the blow or hit back, as the choice may be.”
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œI didn’t ask.”
    â€œThe roads are still pretty crappy.”
    â€œIt’s March in Maine—of course the roads are crappy. Don’t go big brother on me, Andrew.” She patted his cheek when she said it, more relaxed now because he wasn’t. “That must be Ryan,” she added when the doorbell rang. “Behave.”
    â€œFor three Vasaris, I’ll behave,” he muttered, but his brow creased as he watched Miranda walk out. Sometimes he forgot how outrageous she could look if she took a little time on it. The fact that she’d obviously taken the time gave him an itch between the shoulder blades.
    The itch might have become a burn if he’d seen the way Ryan’s eyes flashed, the way the heat in them simmered, when Miranda opened the door and stood framed in it.
    It was a solid punch to the gut, Ryan thought, and one he should have been better prepared for. “You look like something Titian would have painted.” He took her hand, but this time stepped in and brushed his lips over her cheeks—one, then the other, European-style.
    â€œThank you.” She closed the door and resisted the urge to lean back against it to catch her balance. There was something powerful and unnerving about the way her heeled boots made them of a height so that their eyes and mouths were lined up. As they would be, she thought, in bed.
    â€œAndrew’s in the parlor,” she told him. “Would you like to come in for a moment?”
    â€œYes, I would. You have a fabulous home.” He scanned the foyer, flicked a glance at the staircase as he followed her toward the parlor. “Dramatic and comfortable at the same time. You should commission someone to paint it.”
    â€œMy grandfather did an oil of it. It’s not very good, but we’re fond of it. Can I get you a drink?”
    â€œNo, nothing. Hello, Andrew.” He offered his hand. “I’m stealing your sister away for the evening, unless you’d like to join us.”
    Ryan had played the odds all of his life, but he cursed himself now as he saw Andrew consider the invitation. Though he was unaware that Miranda was making narrow-eyed, threatening faces behind his back, Ryan was relieved when Andrew shook his head.
    â€œI appreciate it, but I’ve got some plans. You two enjoy yourselves.”
    â€œI’ll just get my coat.”
    Andrew saw them off, then dragged his own coat out of the closet. His plans had changed. He no longer felt like drinking alone. He preferred getting drunk in company.
    Â 
    Miranda pursed her lips as she slid into the back of the limo. “Do you always travel this way?”
    â€œNo.” Ryan slipped in beside her, took a single white rose out of a bud vase and offered it. “But I had a yen for champagne I couldn’t indulge if I was driving.” To prove it, he lifted an already opened bottle of Cristal from an ice bucket and poured her a flute.
    â€œBusiness dinners rarely start with roses and champagne.”
    â€œThey should.” He poured his own glass, tapped it tohers. “When they include women with arresting looks. To the beginning of an entertaining relationship.”
    â€œAssociation,” she corrected, and sipped. “I’ve been in your New York gallery.”
    â€œReally? And what did you think of it?”
    â€œIntimate. Glamorous. A small polished jewel with art as the facets.”
    â€œI’m flattered. Our gallery in San Francisco is airier, more light and space. We focus on contemporary and modern art there. My brother Michael has an eye and an affection for it. I prefer the