Homeport by Nora Roberts

ornate vertical stem rested cozily at the hollow of her breasts.
    She yanked her hair up, jamming in pins at random. The result was, if she said so herself, carelessly sexy.
    It was a good look, she decided, a confident look, and a far cry from the too tall, socially inept nerd she’d been all through college. No one who glanced at this woman would realize she had nerves in her stomach over a simple business dinner, or that she worried she’d run out of intelligent conversation before the appetizers were served.
    They would see poise and style, she thought. They—and he—would see exactly what she wanted to be seen.
    She grabbed her purse, craned her neck to study her butt in the mirror and assure herself the dress didn’t make it look too big, then headed downstairs.
    Andrew was in the front parlor, already into his second whiskey. He lowered the glass when she walked in, and raised his eyebrows high.
    “Well. Wow.”
    “Andrew, you’re such a poet. Do I look fat in this?”
    “There’s never a correct answer to that question. Or if there is, no man has ever found it. Therefore . . .” He raised his glass in toast. “I abstain.”
    “Coward.” And because her stomach was far too jittery, she poured herself half a glass of white wine.
    “Aren’t you a little slicked up for a business dinner?”
    She sipped, let the wine cruise down to dampen some of the butterfly wings. “Aren’t you the one who lectured me for twenty minutes this afternoon on how beneficial a relationship with the Boldari Gallery could be to us?”
    “Yeah.” But he narrowed his eyes. Though Andrew didn’t often see his sister as a woman, he was seeing her now. She looked, he thought uncomfortably, staggering. “Did he hit on you?”
    “Get a grip on yourself.”
    “Did he?”
    “No. 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.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “I didn’t ask.”
    “The roads are still pretty crappy.”
    “It’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.”
    “For 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.

    “Thank 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.
    “Andrew’s in the parlor,” she told him. “Would you like to come in for a moment?”
    “Yes, 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.”
    “My grandfather did an oil of it. It’s not very good, but we’re fond of it. Can I get you a drink?”
    “No, 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.