Homeport by Nora Roberts Page B

claim to have been a poor student of science, but he certainly asked questions and appeared interested in the answers. Perhaps he was simply putting her at ease by steering the conversation onto professional ground, but she was grateful for the results.
    She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent an evening talking about her work, and talking of it, she remembered why she loved it.
    “It’s the discovery,” she told him. “The study of a piece of art, and finding its history, its individuality, its personality, I suppose.”
    “Dissecting it?”
    “In a way, yes.” It was so pleasant to sit like this, in the cozy warmth of the restaurant with a fire blazing nearby and the cold dark sea just outside the window. “The paint itself, then the brushstrokes, the subject, the purpose. All the parts of it that can be studied and analyzed to give the answers.”

    “And you don’t feel, in the end, the answer is simply the art itself?”
    “Without the history, and the analysis, it’s just a painting.”
    “When something’s beautiful, it’s enough. If I was to analyze your face, I’d take your eyes, the bold summer blue of them, the intelligence in them, the hint of sadness. And the suspicion,” he added with a smile. “Your mouth, soft, wide, reluctant to smile. Your cheekbones, sharp, aristocratic. Your nose, slim, elegant. Separate the features, study, analyze, I’d still come to the conclusion that you’re a stunning woman. And I can do that by just sitting back and appreciating the whole.”
    She toyed with her scrod, struggling not to be overly flattered or charmed. “That was clever.”
    “I’m a clever man, and you don’t trust me.”
    Her gaze lifted to his again. “I don’t know you.”
    “What else can I tell you? I come from a big, loud, ethnic family, grew up in New York, studied, without a great deal of enthusiasm, at Columbia. Then because I’m not artistic, shifted into the business of art. I’ve never married, which displeases my mother—enough that I once considered it seriously, and briefly.”
    She arched a brow. “And rejected it?”
    “At that particular time, with that particular woman. We lacked a spark.” He leaned closer, for the pleasure of her, and because he enjoyed the cautious awareness that came into her eyes when he did. “Do you believe in sparks, Miranda?”
    Sparks, she imagined, were cousins to pings. “I believe they fuel initial attraction, but sparks die out and aren’t enough for the long haul.”
    “You’re cynical,” he decided. “I’m a romantic. You analyze and I appreciate. That’s an interesting combination, don’t you think?”
    She moved her shoulder, discovering she wasn’t quite so relaxed any longer. He had her hand again, just playing with her fingers on the table. He had a habit of touching she wasn’t used to, and one that made her all too aware of sparks.
    Sparks, she reminded herself, made a pretty light. But they could also burn.
    Being this quickly, and outrageously, attracted to him was dangerous, and it was illogical. It had everything to do with glands and nothing to do with intellect.
    Therefore, she concluded, it could and would be controlled.
    “I don’t understand romantics. They make decisions based on feelings rather than fact.” Andrew was a romantic, she thought, and hurt for him. “Then they’re surprised when those decisions turn out to be mistakes.”
    “But we have so much more fun than cynics.” And he, he realized, was much more attracted to her than he’d anticipated. Not just her looks, he decided as their plates were cleared. It was that leading edge of practicality, of pragmatism. One he found it hard to resist buffing away.
    And yes, the big sad eyes.
    “Dessert?” he asked her.
    “No, I couldn’t. It was a lovely meal.”
    “Coffee?”
    “It’s too late for coffee.”
    He grinned, absolutely charmed. “You’re an orderly woman, Miranda. I like that about you.” Still watching her, he