Free Homeport by Nora Roberts Page B

delight, with respect. Oh, it galled her to know that motivation was buried inside her still, but she’d never been able to dig it out and dispose of it.
    She was nearly thirty, had her doctorate, her position at the Institute, a solid reputation in archeometry. And a pitiful need to hear her parents applaud her act. Well, she would just have to get over it.
    Before long, she thought, her findings would be proven. Then she would make certain that she gained the credit she deserved. She would write a paper on The Dark Lady , and her own involvement in its testing and authentication. And she would never, never forgive Elizabeth for taking the control and the joy out of her hands. Or for having the power to do so.
    The wind rose, sneaking under her sweater like hands grabbing at flesh. The first thin, wet flakes began to swirl. Miranda turned from the sea, her boots clattering on rock as she climbed down the cliff.
    The steady beam of the great light continued to circle atop the white tower, shooting out over the water and rock though there were no ships within its range. From dusk to dawn, year after year, she thought, it never failed. Some would look and see romance, but when Miranda studied the sturdy whitewashed tower, she saw reliability.
    More, she thought now, than was usually found in people.
    In the distance the house was still dark and sleepy, a fanciful silhouette from another time etched against an unforgiving sky.
    The grass was a sickly winter brown and crunched under her heels from frost. The scar of her grandmother’s once lovely garden seemed to scold her.
    This year, Miranda promised herself when she passed the blackened leaves and brittle sticks of stems, she would give it some time and attention. She would make gardening her hobby—she was always promising herself a hobby.
    In the kitchen, she poured the last of the coffee from the pot into her mug. After a final glance outside at the fast-falling snow, she decided to drive to the Institute early, before the roads were covered.
     
    From the warm comfort of his rented Mercedes, he watched the Land Rover glide effortlessly over the thin layer of snow on the street, then turn into the parking lot beside the New England Institute of Art History. It looked like a vehicle that should have been driven by a general during an elegant little war.
    She made quite a picture herself, he mused, watching her climb out. About six feet of female in her boots, he judged, and most of it wrapped in a steel-gray coat that owed more to warmth than fashion. Her hair was a sexy stoplight red that escaped in untidy curls from a black ski cap. She carried a thick briefcase that bulged a bit with its contents, and she moved with a precision and purpose that would have made that wartime general proud.
    But beneath that long-legged stride was the arrogant and unwitting sexuality of a woman who believed herself a step beyond the physical need for men. It was a swinging, aloof gait.
    Even in the dim light, he recognized her. She was, he thought with a slow smile, a hard woman not to notice.
    He’d been sitting there for nearly an hour now, entertaining himself with various arias from Carmen, La Bohème, The Marriage of Figaro . Really, he had all he needed for now, and had done what he needed to do, but he was grateful he’d loitered long enough to see her arrive.
    An early riser, he decided, a woman who liked her work well enough to face it on a cold, snowy morning before most of the city stirred. He appreciated a person who enjoyed their work. God knew, he loved his.
    But what to do about Dr. Miranda Jones? he wondered. He imagined she was using the side entrance, even now sliding her key card through the slot, adding her code on the number pad. No doubt she would carefully reset the security alarms once she was inside.
    All reports indicated she was a practical and careful woman. He appreciated practical women. It was such a joy to corrupt them.
    He could work around her, or he