Read Online Homeport by Nora Roberts - Free Book Online Page B

cold-blooded, self-absorbed people had tangled in bed long enough to conceive a couple of children.
    When he was a boy, Andrew had often fantasized that Charles and Elizabeth had purchased him and his sister from some poor couple who’d wept copiously when they traded their children for rent money.
    When he was older, he’d enjoyed imagining that he and Miranda had been created in a lab, experiments conceived out of science rather than sex.
    But the sad fact was that there was too much Jones in him for it not to have come down naturally.
    Yeah, he thought, and lifted his glass, old Charles and Elizabeth had tangoed one night thirty-three years ago and conceived the next generation of assholes.
    But he’d tried, Andrew told himself, letting the whiskey slide down his throat in a hot caress. He’d done his best to make his marriage work, to make Elise happy, to be the kind of husband she wanted and break the Jones curse.
    And had failed all around.
    â€œI’ll take another, Annie.”
    â€œNo, you won’t.”
    Andrew shifted on his stool, sighed gustily. He’d known Annie McLean most of his life, and knew how to get around her.
    In the sweet summer when they were seventeen, they’d tumbled together onto a rough blanket over rougher sand and had made love by the crashing waves of the Atlantic.
    He supposed the stumbling sex—which had turned out to be a first for both of them—had as much to do with the beer they’d consumed, the night itself, and the foolishness of youth as the licks of heat they’d sparked off each other.
    And neither of them could have known what that one night, those few hot hours by the sea, would do to both of them.
    â€œCome on, Annie, let me have another drink.”
    â€œYou’ve already had two.”
    â€œSo one more won’t hurt.”
    Annie finished drawing a beer, slid the mug gracefully down the length of the cherry wood bar toward the waiting customer. Briskly, she wiped her narrow hands on her bar apron.
    At five-six and a hundred thirty well-toned pounds, Annie McLean gave the impression of no-nonsense competence.
    A select few—including a two-timing cheat of an ex-husband—knew there was a delicate-winged blue butterfly on her butt.
    Her wheat-colored hair was worn short and spiky to frame a face more interesting than pretty. Her chin was pointed, her nose listed slightly to the left and was splattered with freckles. Her voice was pure Down East and tended to flatten vowels.
    She could, and had, tossed grown men out of her bar with her own work-roughened hands.
    Annie’s Place was hers because she’d made it hers. She’d sunk every penny of her savings from her days of cocktail waitressing into the bar—every penny her slick-talking ex hadn’t run off with—and had begged and borrowed the rest. She’d worked day and night transforming what had beenlittle more than a cellar into a comfortable neighborhood bar.
    She ran a clean place, knew her regulars, their families, their troubles. She knew when to draw another draft, when to switch to coffee, and when to demand car keys and call cabs.
    She looked at Andrew and shook her head. He’d drink himself blind if she let him.
    â€œAndrew, go home. Make yourself a meal.”
    â€œI’m not hungry.” He smiled, knowing how to put his dimples to work. “It’s cold and rainy out, Annie. I just want a little something to warm the blood.”
    â€œFine.” She turned to the coffee station and filled a mug from the pot. “This is hot and fresh.”
    â€œChrist. I can go right down the street and get a goddamn drink without the hassle.”
    She merely lifted her eyebrows. “Drink your coffee and stop whining.” With this, she began to work her way down the bar.
    The rain was keeping most of her customers home. But those who had braved the storm were glued to their seats, sipping beer, watching the sports