The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 2

by Nora Roberts

  It would have been so much easier to resist staying if she did.

  He couldn’t concentrate this way. She was a constant distraction from the work at hand, just by being close enough to touch. She was an infinitely touchable woman if only because she was always vaguely surprised by little strokes and pats.

  And because he wanted to do so, to nudge her awake and into arousal with little strokes and pats, with quiet sips and nibbles until she was hot and slippery and eager for him, he got out of bed.

  Sex was supposed to be a simple form of entertainment, not an obsession, for God’s sake.

  He tugged on a pair of loose black pants, found a cigar and his lighter, and quietly opened her terrace doors and stepped out.

  Breathing the air was like drinking a lightly chilled and mellow white, he decided. It could become a casual habit, one easily taken for granted. The height gave him a full view of the sea, of the ragged spit of land with the glowing spear of the lighthouse, and that spear’s straight beaming lance.

  It held a sense of age and tradition, of security again easily taken for granted by those who saw it day after day. Things changed slowly here, if they flexed their muscles and decided to change at all.

  You would see the same view morning after morning, he decided. A similar scatter of boats over the same moody sea, and all with the beat and pulse of that sea as a backdrop. He could see the stars, brilliantly clear like bright studs pinned to velvet. The moon was waning, losing its edge.

  He was afraid he was losing his.

  Annoyed with himself, he lighted the cigar, blew a fume of smoke into the wind that never seemed to rest.

  They were getting nowhere, he thought. Miranda could create her charts and graphs, calculate her time lines, and input her data until she generated reams of paperwork. None of it delved into the hearts and minds of the people involved. It couldn’t touch on greed or anger, jealousy or hate. A chart couldn’t illustrate why one human took the life of another over a piece of metal.

  He needed to know the players, to understand them, and he’d barely begun.

  He thought he’d come to know her. She was an efficient woman with a practical shell, an aloof nature that could, with the proper key, be unlocked to expose the warmth and needs under the surface. Her upbringing had been privileged and cold. She’d reacted to that by distancing herself from people, honing her mind, fixing her goals and setting along a straight, linear path to achieving them.

  Her weakness was her brother.

  They’d stuck together, bonding initially out of defense or rebellion or genuine affection. It didn’t matter what had forged that bond; it existed, it was real and strong and unified them. What came out of it was loyalty and love. He’d seen for himself what Andrew’s drinking, his unpredictability, had done to her. It left her shaken and angry and baffled.

  And he’d seen the hope and the happiness in her eyes during the dinner they’d shared that evening. She believed he was climbing back toward the brother she’d known. She needed that belief, that faith. He couldn’t stand the idea of shattering it.

  So he would keep his suspicions to himself. He knew just what addictions, any kind of addictions, could do to warp a man. To make him consider and to make him commit acts he would never have considered or committed otherwise.

  Andrew headed the Institute, he had power, the ease of motion within the organization to have managed the switch of the first bronze. The motive could have been money, or a simple lust to own, or the surrendering to blackmail. No one was in a better position to have orchestrated the thefts and the forgeries than one of the Joneses.

  He considered Charles Jones. He’d been the one to discover the David. It wasn’t unreasonable to theorize that he’d wanted it for himself. He would have needed help. Andrew? Possibly. Giovanni, just as possibly. Or any of the most trusted staff.

  Elizabeth Jones. Proud, cold, driven. She’d based her life on art, the science of it rather than the beauty. She, like her husband, had put their family in the shadows in order to concentrate energy and time and effort on gaining prestige. Their own. Wouldn’t a priceless statue make the perfect trophy for a lifetime of work?

  Giovanni. A trusted employee. A brilliant scientist or he would never have been a part of Miranda’s team. Charming, by her account. A single man who enjoyed flirting with women. Maybe he’d flirted with the wrong one, or had craved more than his position at Standjo offered.

  Elise. Ex-wife. Ex-wives were often vengeful. She’d transferred from the Institute to Standjo, Florence. She was in a position of trust and power. She might have used Andrew, then discarded him. As lab manager, she’d be privy to all data. She would have held both bronzes in her hands. Had she coveted them?

  Richard Hawthorne. Bookworm. Still waters often ran deep and often ran violent. He knew his history, knew how to research. His type was largely overlooked in favor of the more flamboyant, the more demanding. It could eat at a man.

  Vincente Morelli, longtime friend and associate. With a very young, very demanding wife. He’d given the Institute and Standjo years of his life, of his work, of his skills. Why not cash in on more than a paycheck and a pat on the back for services rendered?

  John Carter, with his worn shoes and ridiculous ties. Stable as granite. Why not just as hard? He’d been with the Institute for more than fifteen years, plodding his way along. Following orders, clinging to routines. Maybe he was still following orders.

  Any one of them could have planned it, he decided. But he didn’t believe any one of them could have executed two such flawless switches alone. There was teamwork here, gears meshing. And a cool and clever mind behind it all.

  He was going to need more than personnel records and time lines to uncover that mind.

  He watched a star fall, streaking toward the sea with an arc of light. And he began to plan.

  “What do you mean you’re going to call my mother?”

  “I’d call your father,” Ryan said, peeking over her shoulder to see what she was up to on the computer, “but I get the impression your mother’s more involved in the business. What are you doing there?”

  “Nothing. Why are you going to call my mother?”

  “What is that? A gardening web page?”

  “I need some data, that’s all.”

  “On flowers?”

  “Yes.” She’d already printed out several informative documents on soil treatments, perennials, and planting seasons, so closed the page. “My mother?”

  “In a minute. Why do you need data on flowers?”

  “Because I’m going to start a garden, and I know nothing about it.”

  “So you’re taking the scientific approach.” He bent down to kiss the top of her head. “You really are cute, Miranda.”

  She removed her glasses and put them on the desk. “I’m delighted I’ve amused you. Now will you answer my question?”

  “Your mother?” He sat on the desk, facing her. “I’m going to call her to tell her my conditions for the loan of the Vasaris, and a Raphael and Botticelli.”

  “Raphael and Botticelli? You never agreed to loan us anything but the Vasaris.”

  “New deal. Five paintings—and I may let her talk me into tossing in a Donatello sculpture—a three-month loan, with the Boldari Gallery suitably acknowledged in all advertising, with the proceeds from the fund-raiser going to the National Endowment for the Arts.”

  “Fund-raiser?”

  “I’ll get to that. The reason I’m choosing the New England Institute of Art History is because of its reputation, its dedication to not only displaying art but teaching, restoring, studying, and preserving it. I was very impressed when I was here a few weeks ago and was taken through the facility by Dr. Miranda Jones.”

  He tugged on her hair, sent it tumbling to her shoulders as he liked it best. And ignored her curse of annoyance. “I was particularly intrigued by her idea of creating a display of the history and progress,” he went on, “with its social, religious, and political un
derlayment, of the Italian Renaissance.”

  “Were you?” she murmured. “Were you really?”

  “I was riveted.” He picked up her hand to toy with her fingers and noted she’d taken off the ring he’d put there. The fact that the lack of it caused his brows to draw together in annoyance was something to ponder later. “I was struck by her vision of this showing, and by the idea of arranging a similar display, after the three-month period, in my own gallery in New York.”

  “I see. A partnership.”

  “Exactly. We were of one mind, and during the preliminary stages of discussion, you brought up the idea of holding a fund-raiser at the Institute, benefiting the NEA. As Boldari Galleries are staunch supporters of the organization, I was caught. It was very clever of you to dangle that lure.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, “wasn’t it?”

  “I’m ready to move forward on this mutual project at the earliest possible date, but having been told that Dr. Jones is on a leave of absence, I’m quite concerned. I can’t possibly work with anyone else. The delay has led me to consider working with the Art Institute in Chicago instead.”

  “She won’t care for that.”

  “I didn’t think she would.” He nipped the pins out of her hand before she could bundle her hair back up, and carelessly tossed them over his shoulder.

  “Damn it, Ryan—”

  “Don’t interrupt. We need you back inside the Institute. We need whoever’s behind the forgeries to know you’re back on the job. Then once we’ve got everything in place, we need everyone who was connected to the two bronzes here, together, in one spot.”

  “You may very well be able to manage the first. A display such as the one you’re describing would be very prestigious.”

  She would have gotten up to retrieve the pins, but he was playing with her hair again, watching her face as he gathered it, twined it. “Um. My mother appreciates the power of prestige. Obviously the second part would be a given after that. But I don’t know how you expect to manage the last of it.”

  “I’ll tell you.” He grinned and leaned over to flick a finger down her cheek. “We’re going to throw a hell of a party.”

  “A party? The fund-raiser?”

  “That’s right.” He rose and began poking around on her shelves, in her drawers. “And we’re going to have it in Giovanni’s name, a kind of memorial.”

  “Giovanni.” It turned her blood cold. “You’d use him for this? He’s dead.”

  “You can’t change that, Miranda. But we’ll arrange it so that whoever killed him comes. And we’ll be one step closer to the bronzes.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “I’m working out the details. Don’t you have a sketch pad?”

  “Yes, of course.” Wavering between irritation and confusion, she rose and took one from a filing cabinet.

  “I should have known. Well, bring it along, get yourself a couple of pencils.”

  “Bring it along where?”

  “To the back porch. You can sit and sketch your garden while I make some phone calls.”

  “You expect me to sketch a garden while all this is going on?”

  “It’ll relax you.” He chose some pencils from her desk, tucked them in his shirt pocket, picked up her glasses, tucked them in hers. “And you’ll plant a better one if you know what you want to look at.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the room.

  “When did you come up with all this?”

  “Last night. Couldn’t sleep. We’re spinning wheels, when we need action. We’ve been letting someone else run the show, and we’ve got to start pushing the buttons.”

  “That’s all very interesting and metaphorical, Ryan, but holding a fund-raiser in Giovanni’s name won’t guarantee his killer will show. And it certainly doesn’t put the bronzes in our hands.”

  “One step at a time, baby. You going to be warm enough?”

  “Don’t fuss. Sitting outside and sketching isn’t going to relax me. If we’re going to pull off this display, I should be working on that.”

  “You’ll be putting your nose to the grindstone soon enough.”

  Resigned, she stepped out on the porch. April had decided to make its entrance gently, bowing in balmy breezes and sunny skies. It could change, she knew, in a surprising instant to wet spring snow and high winds. It was part of the appeal, she supposed, the caprices of coastal weather.

  “Just sit.” He gave her a brotherly kiss on the brow. “I’ll handle this part.”

  “Well then, I just won’t worry my pretty little head.”

  He laughed and took out his cell phone. “The only thing little about you, Dr. Jones, is your tolerance level. But somehow I find that alluring. What’s your mother’s number?”

  She adjusted her thoughts, accepted that he was innately skilled at arousing and annoying—often simultaneously. “That’s her home number,” she told him after she’d recited it. “With the time difference, that’s most likely where you’ll find her.”

  As he punched it in, she looked out over the lawn. He would charm Elizabeth, Miranda decided. His talent with women was inarguable, and something it didn’t suit her to consider too deeply. He would know just how to appeal to Elizabeth, as he’d known just how to appeal to her daughter. With enough time, she doubted there was a woman on the planet he couldn’t convince to eat the menu selection of his choice right out of his talented hands.

  She sighed, hearing the way his voice flowed over her mother’s name as the connection was made. Then she blocked it out.

  The shattering blue of the sky, the glimpses of sea and rock that sparkled under the sun only made her lawn look shabbier. She could see the paint peeling on the porch rail, and winter-browned weeds poking up through the chipped surface of the flagstones that formed a walkway to the cliffs.

  Her grandmother had tended the house and the grounds as a mother tends beloved children, she remembered. Now she and Andrew had let it go, ignoring the small details, shrugging off what they considered the more tedious responsibilities.

  Major repairs and maintenance were simple. You just hired someone to deal with it. She didn’t think either she or Andrew had ever mowed their own lawn, raked leaves, pruned a bush, or yanked a weed.

  It would be a good change, she thought. Something they could share. The manual labor, the satisfaction of seeing the improvements would be good therapy for him. And, she decided, for her. One way or another, the cycle her life was in just now would end. When it did, she would need something to fill the hole.

  Casting her mind back, she tried to remember how the side garden had looked when she was a child and her grandmother had still been fit and well enough to tend it.

  Tall spiky flowers, she recalled, with deep purple and deep red blooms. Something butter yellow and daisylike in a flower with stems that bent gracefully under the weight. Her pencil began to move as she brought it back into her mind. Clumps of green with a slender stem shooting up and ending with an upturned white cup. There was a scent too, from flowers that looked something like carnations with red and white blooms and a strong spicy fragrance.

  Others with rich blue trumpets. Yes, and snapdragons. She was ridiculously thrilled she finally put a name to a variety.

  While Ryan made his pitch on the phone to the mother, he watched the daughter. She was relaxing, he noted, smiling a little as she drew. Fast sketching, the kind that took innate talent and a good eye.

  Her hair was tousled, her fingers long, the nails neat, short, and unpainted. She’d taken her glasses out of her pocket and put them on. Her sweater bagged at the shoulders, her trousers were the color of putty.

  He thought she was the most stunning woman he’d ever seen.

  And because thinking that, he lost his thread, he turned away and wandered to the far end of the porch.

  “Please, call me Ryan. I hope I may call you Elizabeth. I’m sure you know just how brilliant and how delightful your daughter is, but I must tell you what a tremendous i
mpression she made on me. When I learned she’d taken a leave of absence, well, disappointed is a mild term.”

  He listened for a moment, smiling to himself. He wondered if Miranda was aware her voice had that same upper-crust pitch when she was trying to disguise annoyance.

  “Oh yes, I have no doubt there are members of the staff at the Institute who could take the basic idea and implement it. But I’m not interested in working with the second line. Although Lois Berenski at the Chicago Art Institute—you know Lois, I assume. . . . Yes. She’s very competent and quite interested in this proposal. I’ve promised to get back to her within forty-eight hours, which is why I’m taking the liberty of bothering you at home. My preference is the Institute and Miranda, but if this can’t be accomplished before my deadline, I’ll have to . . .”

  He trailed off, grinning openly now as Elizabeth began a hard sell. Getting comfortable, he swung a leg over the rail, straddling it while he let his gaze sweep the coast, watch the gulls swoop, and allowed Elizabeth to wheel and deal until she gave him exactly what he wanted.

  It took forty minutes, during which time he wandered into the kitchen, made himself a small snack plate of crackers, cheese, and olives, and carried it back outside. When it was done, he and Elizabeth had agreed to have drinks the evening before the gala—he was calling it a gala now—and raise a toast to their mutual project.

  He hung up, popped an olive in his mouth. “Miranda?”

  She was still sketching, well into her third angle on her proposed garden. “Hmmm.”

  “Answer the phone.”

  “What?” She glanced up, vaguely annoyed with the interruption. “The phone’s not ringing.”

  He winked. “Wait for it,” he told her, then grinned when the kitchen phone pealed. “That’ll be your mother. If I were you, I’d act surprised—and just a little reluctant.”

  “She agreed?”

  “Answer the phone, and find out.”

  She was already leaping up, dashing into the house to snatch the phone off the hook. “Hello? . . . Hello, Mother.” She pressed a hand to her speeding heart and listened.