Homeport

He picked her up to carry her into the house.
    “Don’t let go for a while.”
    “I won’t.”

epilogue
    B ut he did. She should have known he would. The thieving son of a bitch.
    Trust me, he said. And she had. He’d saved her life, only to carelessly leave it in shambles.
    Oh, he’d waited, Miranda thought as she paced her bedroom. He’d stuck by her until her cuts and bruises were treated. He’d stayed by her side until they were sure Andrew was out of danger.
    His arms had been around her, protective, supportive, when she related the nightmare she’d been through with Elise.
    He’d even held her hand while they gave Cook Ryan’s slightly edited version of events. And she’d let him. She corroborated everything he said, amended pertinent details to keep him out of a prison cell.
    He’d saved her life after all. The worm.
    Then he’d vanished, without a word, without a warning. He’d packed up and left.
    She knew just where he’d gone. He was the only other person who knew about the storage garage. He’d gone after The Dark Lady. She didn’t doubt he had it by now, that and the David. He’d probably already passed them along to one of his clients for a fat fee and was basking on some beach in the tropics, sipping rum punch and oiling some blonde’s butt.
    If she ever saw him again. . .but of course, she wouldn’t. All the business they had—the legal end of business—was being handled by his gallery manager. The exhibit was a raging success. He’d benefited from that, and from his involvement in helping to solve several murders.
    She had her reputation. The international press was raving about her. The brave and brilliant Dr. Jones.
    Elise had wanted to destroy her, and in the end, had made her.
    But she didn’t have the bronze, and she didn’t have Ryan.
    She had to accept she would never have either.
    Now she was alone in a big, empty house, with Andrew being fussed over by his fiancée as he recovered. He was happy and healing, and she was glad of it. And she was miserably envious.
    She had her reputation all right, she thought. She had the Institute, and perhaps finally, the full knowledge of her parents’ respect if not their love.
    She had no life whatsoever.
    So, she would make a new one. She dragged an impatient hand through her hair. She would take the advice everyone was peppering her with and go on a long, well-deserved vacation. She’d buy a bikini, get a tan, and have a fling.
    Oh yes, that’s going to happen, she thought with a scowl, and shoved open her terrace doors to step out into the warm spring night.
    The flowers she’d planted in big stone urns filled the air with scent. The sweetness of stock, the spice of dianthus, the charm of verbena. Yes, she was learning about some small and lovely things, taking the time to learn. To enjoy.
    To fall into the moment.
    White and full, the moon rose over the sea, cruised among the stars, and gave the seascape she loved a mystic, intimate glow. The sea sang its rough song with an arrogance that made her yearn.
    He’d been gone for two weeks. She knew he wasn’t coming back. In the end it was as it had always been. There was something more important than Miranda.
    Still, she’d get over it. She was already on her way. She would take that vacation, but she’d use the time right here. It was here she needed to be. Home, making the home she had never been given. She’d finish the garden, she’d have the house painted. She’d buy new curtains.
    And while she would never trust another man in this lifetime, at least she knew she could trust herself.
    “This moment would be more atmospheric if you were wearing a long, flowing robe.”
    She didn’t whirl. She still had enough control for that. She turned slowly.
    He was grinning at her. Dressed in thief’s black and standing in her bedroom grinning.
    “Jeans and a T-shirt,” he continued. “Though you fill them out nicely, they lack the romance of a silk robe the breeze could flutter around you.” He stepped out on the terrace. “Hello, Dr. Jones.”
    She stared, felt his fingertips brush her cheek where a bruise had yet to fade. “You son of a bitch,” she said, and rammed her fist full out into his face.
    It knocked him back several steps, had his vision wavering. But his balance was good. He shifted his jaw gingerly, dabbed at the blood on his mouth. “Well, that’s one way to say hello. Obviously, you’re not entirely pleased to see me.”
    “The only way