Homeport (4 page)

Then something bubbled up inside her she was too dazed
to recognize as hysteria. “I'm already packed,” she said, and laughed.

She was still laughing when she hung up the phone. Laughing when she slid bonelessly into a chair, and didn't realize when she tucked herself into a small, defensive ball that the laughter had turned to sobs.

 

She had both hands wrapped tight around a cup of hot tea, but she didn't drink it. She knew the cup would shake, but it was a comfort to hold it, to feel the heat pass through the cup and into her chilled fingers, soothe the abraded skin of her palms.

She'd been coherent—it was imperative to be coherent, to be clear and precise and calm when reporting a crime to the police.

Once she was able to think again, she'd made the proper calls, she'd spoken to the officers who had come to the house. But now that it was done and she was alone again, she couldn't seem to keep a single solid thought in her mind for more than ten seconds.

“Miranda!” The shout was followed by the cannon bang of the front door slamming. Andrew rushed in, took one horrified study of his sister's face. “Oh Jesus.” He hurried to her, crouched at her feet and began to play his long fingers over her pale cheeks. “Oh, honey.”

“I'm all right. Just some bruises.” But the control she'd managed to build back into place trembled. “I was more scared than hurt.”

He saw the tears in the knees of her trousers, the dried blood on the wool. “The son of a bitch.” His eyes, a quieter blue than his sister's, abruptly went dark with horror. “Did he . . .” His hands lowered to hers so that they gripped the china cup together. “Did he rape you?”

“No. No. It was nothing like that. He just stole my purse. He just wanted money. I'm sorry I had the police call you. I should have done it myself.”

“It's all right. Don't worry.” He tightened his grip on her hands, then released them quickly when she winced. “Oh, baby.” He took the cup from her hands, set it aside,
then lifted her abraded palms. “I'm so sorry. Come on, I'll take you to the hospital.”

“I don't need the hospital. It's just bumps and bruises.” She drew a deep breath, finding it easier to do so now that he was here.

He could infuriate her, and he had disappointed her. But in all of her life, he'd been the only one to stick with her, to be there.

He picked up her cup of tea, pressed it into her hands again. “Drink a little,” he ordered before he rose and paced off some of the fear and anger.

He had a thin, rather bony face that went well with the long, lanky build. His coloring was like his sister's, though his hair was a darker red, almost mahogany. Nerves had him patting his hand against his thigh as he moved.

“I wish I'd been here. Damn it, Miranda. I should have been here.”

“You can't be everywhere, Andrew. No one could have predicted that I'd be mugged in our own front yard. I think—and the police think—that he was probably going to break into the house, rob us, and my coming home surprised him, changed his plans.”

“They said he had a knife.”

“Yeah.” Gingerly she lifted a hand to the shallow cut on her throat. “And I can report that I haven't outgrown my knife phobia. One look at it, and my mind just froze.”

Andrew's eyes went grim, but he spoke gently as he came back to sit beside her. “What did he do? Can you tell me?”

“He just came out of nowhere. I was getting my things out of the trunk. He yanked me back by the hair, put the knife to my throat. I thought he was going to kill me, but he knocked me down, took my purse, my briefcase, slashed my tires, and left.” She managed a wavering smile. “Not exactly the homecoming I was expecting.”

“I should have been here,” he said again.

“Andrew, don't.” She leaned into him, closed her eyes. “You're here now.” And that, it seemed, was enough to steady her. “Mother called.”

“What?” He started to drape an arm around her shoulders, and now sat forward to look at her face.

“The phone was ringing when I got into the house. God, my mind's still fogged,” she complained, and rubbed at her temple. “I have to go to Florence tomorrow.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You just got home and you're hurt, you're shaken. Christ, how can she ask you to get on a plane right after you've been mugged?”

“I didn't tell her.” She only shrugged. “I wasn't thinking. In any case, the summons was loud and clear. I have to book a flight.”

“Miranda, you're going to bed.”

“Oh yeah.” She smiled again. “Very soon now.”

“I'll call her.” He sucked in his breath as a man might when faced with an ugly chore. “I'll explain.”

“My hero.” Loving him, she kissed his cheek. “No, I'll go. A hot bath, some aspirin, and I'll be fine. And after this little adventure, I could use a distraction. It seems she has a bronze she wants me to test.” Because it had gone cold, she set the tea down again. “She wouldn't summon me to Standjo if it wasn't important. She wants an archeometrist, and she wants one quickly.”

“She's got archeometrists on staff at Standjo.”

“Exactly.” This time Miranda's smile was thin and bright. “Standjo” stood for Standford-Jones. Elizabeth had made certain that not only her name but everything else on her agenda came first in the Florence operation. “So if she's sending for me, it's big. She wants to keep it in the family. Elizabeth Standford-Jones, director of Standjo, Florence, is sending for an expert on Italian Renaissance bronzes, and she wants one with the Jones name. I don't intend to disappoint her.”

 

She didn't have any luck booking a flight for the following morning and had to settle for a seat on the evening flight to Rome with a transfer to Florence.

Nearly a full day's delay.

There would be hell to pay.

As she tried to soak out the aches in a hot tub, Miranda
calculated the time difference and decided there was no point in calling her mother. Elizabeth would be at home, very likely in bed by now.

Nothing to be done about it tonight, she told herself. In the morning, she'd call Standjo. One day couldn't make that much difference, even to Elizabeth.

She'd hire a car to take her to the airport, because the way her knee was throbbing, driving could be a problem even if she could replace her tires quickly. All she had to do was . . .

She sat straight up in the tub, sloshing water to the rim.

Her passport. Her passport, her driver's license, her company IDs. He'd taken her briefcase and her purse—he'd taken all her identification documents.

“Oh hell,” was the best she could do as she rubbed her hands over her face. That just made it all perfect.

She yanked the old-fashioned chain plug out of the drain of the claw-foot tub. She was steaming now, and the burst of angry energy had her getting to her feet, reaching for a towel, before her wrenched knee buckled under her. Biting back a yelp, she braced a hand against the wall and sat on the lip of the tub, the towel dropping in to slop in the water.

The tears wanted to come, from frustration, from the pain, from the sudden sharp fear that came stabbing back. She sat naked and shivering, her breath trembling out on little hitching gasps until she'd controlled them.

Tears wouldn't help her get back her papers, or soothe her bruises or get her to Florence. She sniffled them back and wrung out the towel. Carefully now, she used her hands to lift her legs out of the tub, one at a time. She gained her feet as clammy sweat popped out on her skin, causing the tears to swim close again. But she stood, clutching the sink for support, and took stock of herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

There were bruises on her arms. She didn't remember him grabbing her there, but the marks were dark gray, so logically he had. Her hip was black-and-blue and stunningly painful. That, she remembered, was a result of being rammed back against the car.

Her knees were scraped and raw, the left one unattractively red and swollen. She must have taken the worst of the fall on it, twisted it. The heels of her hands burned from their rude meeting with the gravel of the drive.

But it was the long, shallow slice on her throat that had her head going light, her stomach rolling with fresh nausea. Fascinated and appalled, she lifted her fingers to it. Just a breath from the jugular, she thought. Just a breath from death.

If he'd wanted her to die, she would have died.

And that was worse than the bruising, the sick throbbing aches. A stranger had held her life in his hands.

“Never again.” She turned away from the mirror, hobbled over to take her robe from the brass hook by the door. “I'm never going to let it happen again.”

She was freezing, and wrapped herself as quickly as she could in the robe. As she was struggling to belt it, a movement outside the window had her head jerking up, her heart thundering.

He'd come back.

She wanted to run, to hide, to scream for Andrew, to curl herself into a ball behind a locked door. And with her teeth gritted, she eased closer to the window, looked out.

It was Andrew, she saw with a dizzying wave of relief. He was wearing the plaid lumberman's jacket he used when he split wood or hiked on the cliffs. He'd turned the floodlights on, and she could see something glinting in his hand, something he swung as he strode along over the yard.

Puzzled, she pressed her face against the window.

A golf club? What in the world was he doing outside marching across the snowy lawn with a golf club?

Then she knew, and love flooded into her, soothing her more than any painkiller.

He was guarding her. The tears came back. One spilled over. Then she saw him stop, pull something from his pocket, lift it.

And she watched him take a long swig from a bottle.

Oh, Andrew, she thought, as her eyes closed and her heart sank. What a mess we are.

• • •

It was the pain that woke her, bright pops of it that banged out of her knee. Miranda fumbled on the light, shook out pills from the bottle she'd put on her bedside table. Even as she swallowed them she realized she should have taken Andrew's advice and gone to the hospital, where some sympathetic doctor would have written her a prescription for some good, potent drugs.

She glanced at the luminous dial of her clock, saw it was after three. At least the cocktail of ibuprofen and aspirin she'd taken at midnight had given her three hours of relief. But she was awake now, and chasing the pain. Might as well finish it off, she decided, and face the music.

With the time difference, Elizabeth would be at her desk. Miranda picked up the phone and put the call through. Moaning a bit, she shifted her pillows against the curvy wrought-iron headboard and eased back against them.

“Miranda, I was about to call to leave a message at your hotel for your arrival tomorrow.”

“I'm going to be delayed. I—”

“Delayed?” The word was like a single ice chip, frigid and sharp.

“I'm sorry.”

“I thought I made it clear this project is priority. I've guaranteed the government that we would begin tests today.”

“I'm going to send John Carter. I—”

“I didn't send for John Carter, I sent for you. Whatever other work you have can be delegated. I believe I made that clear as well.”

“Yes, you did.” No, she thought, the pills weren't going to help this time. But the cold anger beginning to stir inside her was bound to outdistance a little pain. “I had every intention of being there, as instructed.”

“Then why aren't you?”

“My passport and other identification were stolen yesterday. I'll arrange to have them replaced as soon as possible and rebook my flight. This being Friday, I doubt I can have new documents before sometime next week.”

She knew how bureaucracies worked, Miranda thought grimly. She'd been raised in one.

“Even in a relatively quiet place like Jones Point, it's foolishly careless not to lock your car.”

“The documents weren't in my car, they were on me. I'll let you know as soon as they're replaced and I've rescheduled. I apologize for the delay. The project will have my full time and attention as soon as I arrive. Goodbye, Mother.”

It gave her perverse satisfaction to hang up before Elizabeth could say another word.

 

In her elegant and spacious office three thousand miles away, Elizabeth stared at the phone with a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

“Is there a problem?”

Distracted, Elizabeth glanced over at her former daughter-in-law. Elise Warfield sat, a clipboard resting on her knee, her big green eyes puzzled, her soft, lush mouth curved slightly in an attentive smile.

The marriage between Elise and Andrew hadn't worked, which was a disappointment to Elizabeth. But her professional and personal relationship with Elise hadn't been damaged by the divorce.

“Yes. Miranda's been delayed.”

“Delayed?” Elise lifted her brows so that they disappeared under the fringe of bangs that skimmed over her brow. “That's not like Miranda.”

“Her passport and other identification were stolen.”

“Oh, that's dreadful.” Elise got to her feet. She stood just over five-two. Her body had lush feminine curves that managed to look delicate. With her sleek cap of ebony hair, her large, heavily lashed eyes and milky white skin, the deep red of her mouth, she resembled an efficient and sexy fairy. “She was robbed?”

“I didn't get the details.” Elizabeth's lips tightened briefly. “She'll arrange to have them replaced and reschedule her flight. It may take several days.”

Elise started to ask if Miranda had been hurt, then closed
her mouth on the words. From the look in Elizabeth's eyes, either she didn't know, or it wasn't her major concern. “I know you want to begin testing today. It can certainly be arranged. I can shift some of my work and start them myself.”