by Nora Roberts
each other’s personal choices.”
“No.” This time he ignored her jerk away and clamped her hand. “No, we’re not. We’ve always been able to depend on each other.”
“Well, I can’t depend on you anymore, Andrew, can I?” She looked at him now, saw how haggard his face was against the dark glasses he’d put on. He should have looked rakish, she thought. Instead he looked pitiful.
“I know I’ve let you down.”
“I can take care of myself. You’ve let yourself down.”
“Miranda, please.” He’d known it wouldn’t be easy, but he hadn’t realized how completely her rejection would rip at him. “I know I’ve got a problem. I’m trying to come to terms with that. I’m . . . I’m going to a meeting tonight. AA.”
He saw the flicker in her eyes, of hope, of sympathy, of love, and shook his head. “I don’t know if it’s going to be for me. I’m just going to go, listen, see how I feel about it.”
“It’s a good start, it’s a good step.”
He rose, stared out over the restless water. “When I left this morning, I went looking for a bottle. I didn’t realize it, didn’t consciously think about it. Not until I got the shakes, until I found myself driving around looking for a liquor store or a bar, anything that was open on a Sunday morning.”
He looked down at his hand, flexed the fingers, felt the small aches. “It scared the hell out of me.”
“I’ll help you, Andrew. I’ve read all the literature. I’ve been to a couple of Alanon meetings.”
He turned back to stare at her. She was watching him, twisting the jacket in her hands. And the hope was deeper in her eyes. “I was afraid you’d started to hate me,” he said.
“I wanted to. Just can’t.” She wiped at tears. “I’ve been so angry with you, for taking you away from me. When you left today I kept thinking you’d come back drunk, or you’d finally be stupid enough to drive when you’d been drinking and kill yourself. I would have hated you for that.”
“I went to Annie’s. Didn’t know I was going there either, until I was parked in front of her building. She’s—I’m—Hell. I’m going to stay at her place for a few days. Give you some privacy with Ryan, give you and me a little space.”
“Annie’s? You’re going to stay with Annie?”
“I’m not sleeping with her.”
“Annie?” she said again, gaping at him. “Annie McLean?”
“Is that a problem for you?”
It was the defensive way he said it that had her lips curving up. “No, not at all. That’s something I think I’d like very much to see. She’s a strong-willed, ambitious woman. And she won’t take any crap from you.”
“Annie and I . . .” He wasn’t sure how to explain it. “We’ve got a history. Maybe now we’re going to see about having a present.”
“I didn’t know you were anything but friends.”
He stared down the beach, thought he could almost pick out the spot where two reckless teenagers had lost their innocence. “We were, then we weren’t. I don’t know what we are now.” But finding out, he thought, was giving him a direction and purpose he hadn’t had in too long. “I’m sleeping on her couch for a couple of nights. I’m going to get my feet under me again, whatever it takes. But the odds are I’m going to disappoint you again before I do.”
She’d read everything she could get her hands on about alcoholism, treatment, recovery. She knew about backsliding, starting over, failure. “You’re not disappointing me today.” She held out a hand, linking fingers tight when he took it. “I’ve missed you so much.”
He picked her up off the rock to hold her. He knew she was crying, could feel it in the little quivers her body made against his. But she made no sound. “Don’t give up on me, okay?”
“Tried. Can’t.”
He laughed a little and pressed his cheek to hers. “This thing you’ve got going with New York—”
“How come he was Ryan before, and now he’s New York?”
“Because now he’s messing around with my sister, and I’m reserving judgment. This thing you’ve got,” he repeated. “It’s working for you?”
She drew back. “It’s working today.”
“Okay. Since we’ve made up, why don’t we go up and have a drink to celebrate.” His dimples winked. “Drunk humor. How about a pot roast?”
“It’s too late in the day to start one. I’ll make you a very manly meat loaf.”
“Good enough.”
As they started back, she braced herself, knowing she would have to tell him and shatter the moment. “Andrew, Mother called a bit ago.”
“Can’t she take Easter off like everybody else?”
“Andrew.” She stopped, kept a hand on his arm. “Someone broke into the lab in Florence. Giovanni was there, alone. He was murdered.”
“What? Giovanni? Oh my God.” He turned, walked to the edge of the water, stood there with the surf soaking his shoes. “Giovanni’s dead? Murdered? What the hell is going on?”
She couldn’t risk telling him. His strength of will, his emotions, his illness . . . it was too unstable a mix. “I wish I knew. She said the lab had been vandalized, equipment and records destroyed. And Giovanni . . . they think he was working late, and someone came in.”
“A burglary?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem . . . She said she didn’t think anything of value had been taken.”
“It makes no sense.” He whirled around, his face grim and battered. “Someone breaks into the gallery here, takes a valuable bronze and doesn’t squash a fly on his way in or out. Now someone breaks into the lab at Standjo, kills Giovanni, wrecks the place and takes nothing?”
“I don’t understand it either.” That, at least, was partially true.
“What’s the connection?” he muttered, and had her gaping at him.
“Connection?”
“There are no coincidences.” Jingling the change in his pocket, he began to walk up and down the beach. “Two break-ins, within a couple of weeks, at different divisions of the same organization. One lucrative and quiet, the other violent and without apparent reason. There’s always a reason. Giovanni worked at both locations at some time.” Behind the dark lenses, his eyes narrowed. “He did some of the work on the David, didn’t he?”
“Ah . . . yes, yes, he did.”
“The David’s stolen, the documents are missing, and now Giovanni’s dead. What’s the connection?” He didn’t expect an answer, and she was spared from fumbling for a lie.
“I’m going to pass this on to Cook, for whatever good it does. Maybe I should go to Florence.”
“Andrew.” Her voice wanted to quake. She wouldn’t risk him, wouldn’t let him go anywhere near Florence. Or the person who had killed Giovanni. “That’s not a good idea right now. You need to stay close to home, rebuild your routine and stability. Let the police do their jobs.”
“It’s probably better to try to figure it out from here, anyway,” he decided. “I’m going up to call Cook, give him something to chew on besides his Easter ham.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” She worked up a smile. “To start your Easter meat loaf.”
He was distracted enough not to notice how quickly her smile slipped away into worry. But he spotted Ryan on the cliff path. Pride, ego, shame, and brotherly resistance built very quickly.
“Boldari.”
“Andrew.” Ryan decided to avoid an unproductive pissing match and stepped aside.
But Andrew was already primed. “Maybe you think since she’s a grown woman and her family’s screwed up that there’s nobody to look out for her, but you’re wrong. You hurt her, you son of a bitch, and I’ll break you in two.” His eyes went to slits when Ryan grinned at him. “You hear a joke?”
“No. It’s just that the last part of that statement is very similar to what I said to my sister Mary Jo’s husband when I caught them necking in his Chevy. I’d already dragged him out and punched him first, much to MJ’s
annoyance and distress.”
Andrew rocked on his heels. “You’re not my sister’s husband.”
“Neither was he, at the time.” The words were out, glibly delivered before the potential meaning struck Ryan. The humor blinked out of his eyes and discomfort blinked on. “What I mean to say is—”
“Yeah?” Enjoying himself now, Andrew nodded. “What do you mean to say?”
A man could do a lot of thinking in the time it took to clear the throat. “I mean to say that I have a great deal of affection and respect for your sister. She’s a beautiful, interesting, and appealing woman.”
“You’re light on your feet, Ryan.” It seemed they were back to Ryan, for the moment. “Good balance.” They both looked down to where Miranda stood on the narrow beach watching the waves rise.
“And she’s not as sturdy as she thinks she is,” Andrew added. “She doesn’t let herself get too close to too many, because when she does, the soft center’s exposed.”
“She matters to me. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Yeah.” Particularly, Andrew thought, since it had been said with a great deal of heat and some reluctance. “That’ll do. By the way, I appreciate what you did for me last night, and for not rubbing my nose in it today.”
“How’s the eye?”
“Hurts like a bastard.”
“Well then, that’s punishment enough, I’d say.”
“Maybe.” He turned and started up the path. “We’re having meat loaf,” he called back. “Go make her put her jacket on, will you?”
“Yeah,” Ryan murmured. “I think I’ll do that.” He started down, picking his way over rocks, skidding a bit on pebbles. She started up, steady as a mountain goat.
“Those aren’t the right kind of shoes for this.”
“You’re telling me.” Then he caught her against him. “Your arms are cold. Why don’t you have your jacket on?”
“The sun’s warm enough. Andrew’s going to an AA meeting tonight.”
“That’s great.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “It’s a good start.”
“He can do it.” The breeze tugged hair out of the elastic band she’d pulled on, and forced her to shake it out of her face. “I know he can. He’s going to be staying with a friend for a couple of days, just to give himself time to steady a bit. And I think he’s not quite comfortable with sleeping under the same room while we’re . . . sleeping.”
“Yankee conservatism.”
“Don’t knock a cornerstone.” She drew in a breath. “There’s something else. I told him about Giovanni. He’s made the connection.”
“What do you mean he’s made the connection?”
“I mean for the past year or so he’s been killing his brain cells, and I’d nearly forgotten how smart he is. He put it together in minutes. A connection between the break-in here, and the one there. He’s going to talk to Detective Cook about it.”
“Great, bring in the cops.”
“It’s the reasonable thing to do. It’s too coincidental for Andrew.” Speaking quickly, she ran back over what her brother had said. “He’ll explore this. I didn’t tell him what I know or suspect. I can’t risk his state of mind right now when he should be concentrating on recovery, but I can’t go on lying to him either. Not for much longer.”
“Then we’ll have to work faster.” He had no intention of playing team ball, or sharing the bronzes. Once he had them, he was keeping them. “The wind’s picking up,” he commented, and draped an arm around her as they walked up the path. “I heard a rumor about meat loaf.”
“You’ll get fed, Boldari. And I can promise my meat loaf is very passionate.”
“In some cultures meat loaf is considered an aphrodisiac.”
“Really? Odd that was never covered in any of my anthropology courses.”
“It only works if you serve it with mashed potatoes.”
“Well then, I guess we’ll have to test that theory.”
“They can’t be instant.”
“Please. Don’t insult me.”
“I think I’m crazy about you, Dr. Jones.”
She laughed, but the soft center her brother had spoken of was laid bare.
PART THREE
The Price
Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous; but
who is able to stand before envy?
—PROVERBS
twenty-two
T he country quiet kept Ryan awake, and made him think of New York. Of the comforting and continual buzz of traffic, of the pace that got into your blood so that you lengthened your stride to get to the next corner, beat the light, keep the clip steady.
Places this close to the ocean made you slow down. Once you slowed down, you could get settled in and rooted before you realized it was happening.
He needed to get back to New York, to his gallery, which he’d already left too long in other hands. Of course, he often did, but that was when he was traveling, moving from place to place. Not when he was . . . planted this way.
He needed to pull up stakes, and soon.
She was sleeping beside him, her breathing echoing the slow, steady ebb and flow of the sea outside. She didn’t curl up against him, but maintained her own space and gave him his. He told himself he appreciated that. But he didn’t. It irked him that she didn’t cuddle and cling and at least pretend that she was trying to hold him down.
It would have been so much easier to resist staying if she did.
He couldn’t concentrate this way. She was a constant distraction from the work at hand, just by being close enough to touch. She was an infinitely touchable woman if only because she was always vaguely surprised by little strokes and pats.
And because he wanted to do so, to nudge her awake and into arousal with little strokes and pats, with quiet sips and nibbles until she was hot and slippery and eager for him, he got out of bed.
Sex was supposed to be a simple form of entertainment, not an obsession, for God’s sake.
He tugged on a pair of loose black pants, found a cigar and his lighter, and quietly opened her terrace doors and stepped out.
Breathing the air was like drinking a lightly chilled and mellow white, he decided. It could become a casual habit, one easily taken for granted. The height gave him a full view of the sea, of the ragged spit of land with the glowing spear of the lighthouse, and that spear’s straight beaming lance.
It held a sense of age and tradition, of security again easily taken for granted by those who saw it day after day. Things changed slowly here, if they flexed their muscles and decided to change at all.
You would see the same view morning after morning, he decided. A similar scatter of boats over the same moody sea, and all with the beat and pulse of that sea as a backdrop. He could see the stars, brilliantly clear like bright studs pinned to velvet. The moon was waning, losing its edge.
He was afraid he was losing his.
Annoyed with himself, he lighted the cigar, blew a fume of smoke into the wind that never seemed to rest.
They were getting nowhere, he thought. Miranda could create her charts and graphs, calculate her time lines, and input her data until she generated reams of paperwork. None of it delved into the hearts and minds of the people involved. It couldn’t touch on greed or anger, jealousy or hate. A chart couldn’t illustrate why one human took the life of another over a piece of metal.
He needed to know the players, to understand them, and he’d barely begun.
He thought he’d come to know her. She was an efficient woman with a practical shell, an aloof nature that could, with the proper key, be unlocked to expose the warmth and needs under the surface. Her upbringing had been privileged and cold. She’d reacted to that by distancing herself from people, honing her mind, fixing her