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She dragged desperately at his shirt. “Oh God, I hate this.”

“I'll never wear it again.”

“No, no.” A shaky laugh trembled out of her throat. “I hate being so needy. Touch me. I can't stand it. Touch me.”

“I'm trying to.” He yanked at the trim paisley vest she wore under her tweed jacket. “You would pick today to wear all these damn clothes.”

They made it to the base of the stairs, stumbled. The vest went flying. “Wait. I have to—” His fingers dived into her hair, scattering pins as they curled in that rich mass of red.

“Miranda.” His mouth was on hers again, oceans of need cresting in that one bruising meeting of lips.

He swallowed her moans, his own, fed on them as they tripped up another two steps. She was tugging his shirt out of his waistband, struggling to drag it down his arms, gasping for air, sobbing for more as finally, finally her hands found flesh.

His muscles quivered under her hands. She could feel his heart pounding, as wildly as hers. It was just sex. It solved nothing, proved nothing. But God help her, she didn't care.

Her starched cotton shirt caught on her wrists at the cuffs and for a moment she was bound by it, thrilling, helpless as he shoved her back against the wall and feasted on her breasts.

He wanted a war, vicious, primal, savage. And found it
in himself, in her feral response and demand. His fingers rushed down, unhooking the mannish trousers, sliding over her, into her so that her hips pushed forward. She came brutally, choking out his name as her body quaked from the shock.

Her mouth streaked over his face, his throat, her hands dug into his hips, tore at his clothes and drove him mad. He plunged into her where they stood, driving her hard against the wall, driving himself deeper and deeper.

She clawed at him now, her nails raking down his back. The sounds she made, primitive groans, wanton cries, throaty whimpers, called to his blood. When she went limp, he lifted her by the hips, blind and deaf to everything but the mindless need to take, and take and take. Each violent stroke was a possession.

Mine.

“More.” He panted it out. “Stay with me. Come back.”

“I can't.” Her hands slid off his damp shoulders. Her mind and body drained.

“Take more.”

She opened her eyes, found herself trapped in his. So dark, so hot, the deep gold glittering like sunburst and focused only on her. Her skin began to quiver again, little jolts of need that shimmered at the nerve endings and spread. Then those jolts turned to aches, raw, pulsing aches that turned each breath to a senseless moan. Pleasure had claws, and they ripped at her, threatened to tear her to pieces.

When she screamed, he buried his face in her hair and let himself crash.

 

It was like surviving a train wreck, Ryan decided. Barely surviving. They were sprawled on the floor, bodies tangled and numb, minds destroyed. She was lying across him, simply because they'd gone down that way—her midriff over his belly, her head facedown against the Persian runner.

Every few minutes, her stomach would quiver, so he knew she was still alive.

“Miranda.” He croaked it out, realizing suddenly his
throat was wild with thirst. Her response was something between a grunt and a moan. “Do you think you can get up?”

“When?”

He laughed a little and reached down to rub her bottom. “Now would be good.” When she didn't move, he growled, “Water. I must have water.”

“Can't you just push me?”

It wasn't quite as simple as that, but he managed to extract himself from beneath her limp body. He braced a hand on the wall to keep his balance as he walked down the stairs. In the kitchen, he stood naked, gulped down two glasses of tap water, then poured a third. Steadier, he started back, his smile spreading when he scanned the scatter of clothes and flowers.

She was still on the floor at the top of the steps, on her back now, eyes shut, one arm flung out over her head, hair a glorious tangle that clashed with the deep red of the runner.

“Dr. Jones. What would the
Art Revue
say about this?”

“Hmm.”

Still grinning, he crouched, nudged the side of her breast with the glass to get her attention. “Here, you could probably use this.”

“Mmm.” She managed to sit up, took the glass in both hands and downed every drop. “We never made it to the bedroom.”

“There's always next time. You look very relaxed.”

“I feel like I've been drugged.” She blinked, focused on the painting on the wall behind him, and stared at the white bra that hung celebrationally from the top corner of the frame. “Is that mine?”

He looked back, ran his tongue over his teeth. “I don't believe I was wearing one.”

“My God.”

He had to give her points for speedy recovery as she leaped up and snatched it loose. With her eyes wide now and little gasps of distress sounding in her throat, she began
to rush around gathering clothes, trying to save the flowers they'd crushed.

Ryan leaned his back against the wall and watched the show.

“I can't find one of my socks.”

He smiled as she stared down at him, rumpled clothes pressed to her breasts. “You're still wearing it.”

She glanced down, saw the traditional argyle on her left foot. “Oh.”

“It's a cute look for you. Got a camera?”

Since the moment seemed to call for it, she dumped the clothes on his head.

 

At Ryan's insistence, they took a bottle of wine out to the cliffs and sat in the warm spring sun. “You're right,” he said. “It's beautiful in the spring.”

The water went from a pale blue at the horizon to a deeper hue where boats plied its surface, then to a dark, rich green near the shore where it spewed and beat against rock.

The wind was kind today, a caress instead of a slap.

The pines that lined the side of the land and marched up the rise showed fresh and tender new growth. The hardwoods showed the faintest blush of leaves to come.

No one walked the ragged sweep of beach below or disturbed the scatter of broken shells tossed up during a recent storm. He was glad of it, glad the boats were distant and toylike, the buoys silent.

They were alone.

If he looked back toward the house, he could just see the shape of the old south garden. The worst of the deadwood and thorny brown weeds had been cleared away. The dirt looked freshly turned and raked. He could see small clusters of green. She said she would garden, he remembered, and she was a woman who followed through.

He'd like to watch her at work, he realized. He'd very much enjoy seeing her kneeling there, concentrating on bringing the old garden back to life, making those sketches she'd drawn a reality.

He'd like to see what she made bloom there.

“We should be in my office working,” she said as guilt began to prick through the pleasure of the afternoon.

“Let's consider this a field trip.”

“You need to see the final design for the exhibit.”

“Miranda, if I didn't trust you there, completely, you wouldn't have my property.” He sipped his wine and reluctantly shifted his thoughts to work. “In any case, you sent my office daily reports on it. I imagine I've got the picture.”

“Working on it's giving me some time to put other things in perspective. I don't know what we can accomplish by all this, other than the obvious benefit to your organization and mine, and a hefty contribution to NEA. The other—”

“The other's progressing.”

“Ryan, we should give all the information we can to the police. I've thought about this. It's what should have been done right from the start. I let myself get caught up—my ego, certainly, and my feelings for you—”

“You haven't told me what those are. Are you going to?”

She looked away from him, watched the tall iron buoys wave gently and without sound. “I've never felt for anyone what I feel for you. I don't know what it is, or what to do about it. My family isn't good with personal relationships.”

“What does your family have to do with it?”

“The Jones curse.” She sighed a little because she didn't have to glance back to know he smiled. “We always screw it up. Neglect, apathy, self-absorption. I don't know what it is, but we're just no good at being with other people.”

“So you're a product of your genes, and not your own woman.”

Her head twisted sharply, making him grin at the quick insult in her eyes. Then she controlled it and inclined her head. “That was very good. But the fact remains that I'm nearly thirty years old and I've never had a serious, long-term relationship. I don't know if I'm capable of maintaining one.”

“First you have to be willing to find out. Are you?”

“Yes.” She started to rub her nervous hand on her slacks, but he took it, held it.

“Then we start from there. I'm as much out of my element as you are.”

“You're never out of your element,” she murmured. “You have too many elements.”

He laughed and gave her hand a squeeze. “Why don't we behave like a comfortable couple and I'll tell you about my trip to San Francisco?”

“You saw your brother.”

“Yes, he and his family will be coming out for the gala. The rest of the family will come in from New York.”

“All of them? All of your family's coming?”

“Sure. It's a big deal. Anyway, I should warn you, you're going to be checked out thoroughly.”

“Wonderful. One more thing to be nervous about.”

“Your mother's coming. And your father—which is a small dilemma, as he thinks I'm someone else.”

“Oh God, I forgot. What will we do?”

“We won't know what in the world he's talking about.” Ryan merely grinned when she gaped. “Rodney's British, I'm not. And he's not nearly as good-looking as I am, either.”

“Do you really think my father's going to fall for something like that?”

“Of course he will, because that's our story and we're sticking to it.” He crossed his ankles, drew in the cool, moist air. And realized he hadn't been completely relaxed for days. “Why in the world would I have introduced myself to him as someone else—particularly since I was in New York when he came to see you. He'll be confused, but he's hardly going to stand there and call Ryan Boldari a liar.”

She let it simmer a moment. “I don't see what choice we have, and my father certainly doesn't pay close attention to people, but—”

“Just follow my lead there, and smile a lot. Now, when I was in San Francisco I looked up Harrison Mathers.”

“You found Harry?”

“I found his apartment. He wasn't there. But I spent an interesting half hour with the hooker across the hall. She told me he's been gone a few days, and that—”

“One moment.” She tugged her hand free of his and held up a single finger. “Would you mind repeating that?”

“He'd been gone a few days?”

“No, there was something about you spending time with a prostitute.”

“It was well worth the fifty—well, hundred actually. I gave her another fifty when we were done.”

“Oh, would that have been like a tip?”

“Yeah.” He beamed at her. “Jealous, darling?”

“Would jealousy be inappropriate?”

“A little jealousy is very healthy.”

“All right, then.” She bunched her recently freed hand into a fist and rammed it into his stomach.

He wheezed out a breath, sat up cautiously in case she decided to hit him again. “I stand corrected. Jealousy is definitely unhealthy. I paid her to talk to me.”

“If I thought otherwise, you'd be well on your way to the rocks down below.” This time she smiled while he eyed her warily. “What did she tell you?”

“You know, that Yankee cool can be just a little frightening, Dr. Jones. She told me that I was the second man who'd come by that day looking for him. She had a very large gun pointed at me at the time.”

“A gun. She had a gun?”

“She didn't like the look of the first guy. Women in her line of work generally know how to size a man up quickly. From her description, I'd say she was right about him—you'd know that firsthand. I think he was the one who attacked you.”

Her hand went quickly to her throat. “The man who was here, who stole my purse? He was in San Francisco?”

“Looking for young Harry—and my guess is, your former student was lucky not to be home. He's tied in, Miranda. Whoever he made the bronze for, whoever he gave or sold it to, doesn't want him around any longer.”

“If they find him—”

“I arranged for someone to keep an eye out for him. We'll have to find him first.”

“Maybe he ran away. Maybe he knew they were looking for him.”

“No, I looked around his place. He left all his art supplies, a small stash of grass.” Ryan leaned back on his elbows again and watched the clouds puff lazily across the sky. “I didn't get the impression he'd left in a particular hurry. The advantage is we know someone's looking for him. At this point, no one knows we are. The way the kid's been living, either he didn't get much for the forgery, or he blew it fast and hasn't explored the wonderful world of blackmail.”

“Would they have threatened him first?”

“What would be the point? They didn't want him to run. They'd want to eliminate him, quick and quiet.” But there was something in her eyes. “Why?”

“I've been getting . . . communications.” It was a clean, professional word and made her less jittery.

“Communications?”

“Faxes, for the most part. For some time now. They've been coming daily since you left. Faxes, one e-mail, here and at the office.”

Again, he sat up. This time his eyes were narrow and cool. “Threats?”

“Not exactly, or not really threats until most recently.”