Homeport by Nora Roberts Page B
Authors: Nora Roberts
reminded herself. What else could she expect?
Deliberately she relaxed her shoulders again. She couldn’t let one timid secretary set her off on a tangent of self-analysis.
Because, happily, she had no appointments or public meetings scheduled, she wore the same sweater and trousers she’d slipped into that morning to watch the dawn. Her hair was bundled back in an excuse for a braid and curls were already escaping from the messy plait.
She was thinking that it was past midday in Italy, and the bronze would be in intense testing. It made her shoulders knot up again.
She stepped through the door of her brother’s outer office. Inside was a sturdy Victorian desk, two viciously straight-backed chairs, filing cabinets in no-nonsense gray, and the woman who guarded it all.
“Good morning, Ms. Purdue.”
Andrew’s assistant was somewhere on the downside of fifty, tidy as a nun and just as strict. She wore her streaky salt-and-pepper hair in an identical knot every day, year in, year out, and was never without a starched blouse and dark blazer and skirt.
She was always Ms. Purdue.
She nodded, removed her busy fingers from her keyboard and folded them neatly. “Good morning, Dr. Jones. I didn’t know you were back from Italy.”
“I got back yesterday.” She tried a smile, thinking it was as good a time as any to be more personable with the staff. “It’s a bit of a shock coming back to this cold.” When Ms. Purdue responded only with a brisk nod, Miranda gave up on the idea—gratefully—of a chat. “Is my brother in?”
“Dr. Jones just stepped downstairs to greet a guest. He should be back momentarily. Would you care to wait, or shall I take a message?”
“No, it’s nothing. I’ll see him later.” She turned when she heard male voices echo up the stairs. If Ms. Purdue’s critical eyes hadn’t been on her, Miranda would have made a dash for cover rather than risk the possibility of socializing with Andrew’s guest.
She wouldn’t be stuck if she’d gone straight to the lab, she thought, and briskly brushed the hair out of her eyes and fixed on a polite smile.
Her smile wavered when Andrew and his companion reached the top of the stairs.
“Miranda, this is handy.” Andrew beamed at her—and a quick survey showed Miranda no sign of a night of drinking. “Saves me from calling your office. I’d like you to meet Ryan Boldari, of the Boldari Gallery.”
He stepped forward, took Miranda’s hand and brought it smoothly to his lips. “How nice to meet you, finally.”
He had a face that could have been reproduced with rich bold strokes on one of the Institute’s paintings. The dark, wild good looks were only marginally tamed by an impeccably cut gray suit and perfectly knotted silk tie. His hair was thick, black as ink, and gloriously wavy. His skin was dusky gold, taut over strong bones and marred intriguingly by a small crescent-shaped scar at the far tip of his left eyebrow.
His eyes held hers and were a dark, rich brown that took little drifts of gold from the light. His mouth might have been sculpted by a master and was curved in a smile designed to make a woman wonder how it would feel against hers. And sigh.
She heard a ping—a single and cheerful snapping sound inside her head—as her heart bumped twice.
“Welcome to the Institute, Mr. Boldari.”
“I’m delighted to be here.” He kept her hand in his because it appeared to fluster her. However politely she smiled, there was a faint line of annoyance between her brows.
She debated giving her hand one good tug, then decided it would seem entirely too female a move.
“Why don’t we step into my office?” Oblivious to whatever games were being played under his nose, Andrew gestured toward his office door. “Miranda, got a minute?”
“Actually, I was just—”
“I’d appreciate a few moments of your time, Dr. Jones.” Ryan flashed that smile at her as he shifted his hand from hers to her elbow. “I have a
Deliberately she relaxed her shoulders again. She couldn’t let one timid secretary set her off on a tangent of self-analysis.
Because, happily, she had no appointments or public meetings scheduled, she wore the same sweater and trousers she’d slipped into that morning to watch the dawn. Her hair was bundled back in an excuse for a braid and curls were already escaping from the messy plait.
She was thinking that it was past midday in Italy, and the bronze would be in intense testing. It made her shoulders knot up again.
She stepped through the door of her brother’s outer office. Inside was a sturdy Victorian desk, two viciously straight-backed chairs, filing cabinets in no-nonsense gray, and the woman who guarded it all.
“Good morning, Ms. Purdue.”
Andrew’s assistant was somewhere on the downside of fifty, tidy as a nun and just as strict. She wore her streaky salt-and-pepper hair in an identical knot every day, year in, year out, and was never without a starched blouse and dark blazer and skirt.
She was always Ms. Purdue.
She nodded, removed her busy fingers from her keyboard and folded them neatly. “Good morning, Dr. Jones. I didn’t know you were back from Italy.”
“I got back yesterday.” She tried a smile, thinking it was as good a time as any to be more personable with the staff. “It’s a bit of a shock coming back to this cold.” When Ms. Purdue responded only with a brisk nod, Miranda gave up on the idea—gratefully—of a chat. “Is my brother in?”
“Dr. Jones just stepped downstairs to greet a guest. He should be back momentarily. Would you care to wait, or shall I take a message?”
“No, it’s nothing. I’ll see him later.” She turned when she heard male voices echo up the stairs. If Ms. Purdue’s critical eyes hadn’t been on her, Miranda would have made a dash for cover rather than risk the possibility of socializing with Andrew’s guest.
She wouldn’t be stuck if she’d gone straight to the lab, she thought, and briskly brushed the hair out of her eyes and fixed on a polite smile.
Her smile wavered when Andrew and his companion reached the top of the stairs.
“Miranda, this is handy.” Andrew beamed at her—and a quick survey showed Miranda no sign of a night of drinking. “Saves me from calling your office. I’d like you to meet Ryan Boldari, of the Boldari Gallery.”
He stepped forward, took Miranda’s hand and brought it smoothly to his lips. “How nice to meet you, finally.”
He had a face that could have been reproduced with rich bold strokes on one of the Institute’s paintings. The dark, wild good looks were only marginally tamed by an impeccably cut gray suit and perfectly knotted silk tie. His hair was thick, black as ink, and gloriously wavy. His skin was dusky gold, taut over strong bones and marred intriguingly by a small crescent-shaped scar at the far tip of his left eyebrow.
His eyes held hers and were a dark, rich brown that took little drifts of gold from the light. His mouth might have been sculpted by a master and was curved in a smile designed to make a woman wonder how it would feel against hers. And sigh.
She heard a ping—a single and cheerful snapping sound inside her head—as her heart bumped twice.
“Welcome to the Institute, Mr. Boldari.”
“I’m delighted to be here.” He kept her hand in his because it appeared to fluster her. However politely she smiled, there was a faint line of annoyance between her brows.
She debated giving her hand one good tug, then decided it would seem entirely too female a move.
“Why don’t we step into my office?” Oblivious to whatever games were being played under his nose, Andrew gestured toward his office door. “Miranda, got a minute?”
“Actually, I was just—”
“I’d appreciate a few moments of your time, Dr. Jones.” Ryan flashed that smile at her as he shifted his hand from hers to her elbow. “I have a