by Nora Roberts
figure it was moved. And when they don’t find her, they won’t be able to pinpoint when she was taken. If our luck holds, we’ll be back in the States by that time anyway.”
“I need to see it.”
“There’s time for that. I gotta tell you, knowingly stealing a forgery . . . it just doesn’t give you that rush.”
“Doesn’t it?” she murmured.
“Nope. And I’m going to miss that rush when I’m fully retired. You did a good job, by the way.”
“Oh.” She didn’t feel a rush at all, just a sinking sensation in her stomach.
“Distracting the guard. Better fortify yourself.” He offered cheese again. “We’ve still got work to do.”
It was surreal, sitting in the hotel room and holding The Dark Lady in her hands. She examined it carefully, noting where samples and scrapings had been taken, judging the weight, critiquing the style.
It was a beautiful and graceful piece of work, with the blue-green patina giving it the dignity of age.
She set it on the table beside the David.
“She’s gorgeous,” Ryan commented as he puffed on his cigar. “Your sketch of her was very accurate. You didn’t capture the spirit, but you certainly got the details. You’d be a better artist if you put some heart into your work.”
“I’m not an artist.” Her throat was dry as dust. “I’m a scientist, and this isn’t the bronze I tested.”
He lifted a brow. “How do you know?”
She couldn’t tell him it felt wrong. She couldn’t even acknowledge to herself that it simply didn’t give her the same tingle in her fingertips when she held it. So she gave him facts.
“It’s very possible for someone with training to recognize the work of the twentieth century just by a visual exam. In this case I certainly wouldn’t depend on that alone. But I took scrapings. Here, and here.” She used a fingertip to point to the back of the calf, the curve of the shoulder. “There’s no sign of them on this piece. Ponti’s lab took scrapings from the back, and the base. Those aren’t my marks. I need equipment and my notes to verify, but this isn’t the bronze I worked on.”
Considering, Ryan tapped his cigar in an ashtray. “Let’s verify it first.”
“No one will believe me. Even when I verify it, no one will believe this isn’t the bronze.” She looked over at him. “Why should they?”
“They’ll believe you when we have the original.”
“How—”
“One step at a time, Dr. Jones. You’re going to want to change. Basic black works best for an entertaining evening of breaking and entering. I’ll arrange for transportation.”
She moistened her lips. “We’re going into Standjo.”
“That’s the plan.” He sensed her waffling and leaned back in his chair. “Unless you want to call your mother, explain all this to her and ask her to give you a little lab time.”
Miranda’s eyes cooled as she rose. “I’ll change.”
The bedroom door didn’t have a lock, so she dragged over the desk chair and lodged the back under the knob. It made her feel better. He was using her, was all she could think, as if she were just another tool. The idea of them being partners was an illusion. And now she’d helped him steal.
She was about to break into her family’s business. And how would she stop him if he decided to do more than run a few basic tests?
She could hear him talking on the phone in the parlor, and took her time changing into a black shirt and slacks. She needed a plan of her own, needed to enlist someone she could trust.
“I’ve got to run down to the desk,” he called out. “Snap it up in there. I’ll only be a minute, and I need to change too.”
“I’ll be ready.” And the minute she heard the door shut, she was dragging the chair away from the door. “Be there, be there, be there,” she murmured frantically, as she yanked her address book out of her briefcase. Flipping through, she found the number and made the call.
“Pronto.”
“Giovanni, it’s Miranda.”
“Miranda?” It wasn’t pleasure in his voice, but caution. “Where are you? Your brother’s been—”
“I’m in Florence,” she interrupted. “I need to see you right away. Please, Giovanni, meet me inside Santa Maria Novella. Ten minutes.”
“But—”
“Please, it’s vital.” She hung up quickly, then moving fast, covered the bronzes sloppily in bubble wrap and stuffed them back in their bag. She grabbed the bag and her purse, and ran.
She took the stairs, hurrying down the carpeted treads with her heart banging in her chest, her arms straining against the weight of the bag. She pulled up short at the base, eased out.
She could see Ryan at the desk, chatting cheerfully with the clerk. She couldn’t risk crossing the lobby, and tried to slide invisibly around the corner and jog through the lounge. She kept going, through the glass doors that led to the pretty courtyard, with its sparkling swimming pool and shady trees. Pigeons scattered as she raced through.
Though the bag weighed heavily, she didn’t stop for breath until she’d circled the building and made it out to the street. Even then, she took only time enough to shift hands, readjust the weight, cast one nervous glance behind her. Then she headed straight for the church.
Santa Maria Novella, with its beguiling patterns of green and white marble, was just a short walk from the hotel.
Miranda controlled her need to run and walked into its cool, dim interior. Her legs wobbled as she headed down and found a seat near the left of the chancel. Once there, she tried to understand what the hell she was doing.
Ryan was going to be furious, and she couldn’t be sure just how much violence simmered under that elegant surface. But she was doing the right thing, the only logical thing.
Even the copy had to be protected until there was resolution. You couldn’t trust a man who stole for a living.
Giovanni would come, she told herself. She’d known him for years. However flirtatious, however eccentric he might be, he was at heart a scientist. And he’d always been her friend.
He would listen, he would assess. He would help.
Trying to calm herself, she shut her eyes.
There was something in the air of such places, temples of age and faith and power. Religion had always been, on some levels, about power. Here, that power had manifested itself in great art, so much of it paid for from the coffers of the Medicis.
Buying their souls? she wondered. Balancing out their misdeeds and sins by creating grandeur for a church? Lorenzo had betrayed his wife with the Dark Lady—however acceptable such affairs had been. And his greatest protégé had immortalized her in bronze.
Had he known?
No, no, she remembered, he’d been dead when the bronze was cast. She would have been making the transition to Piero, or one of the younger cousins.
She wouldn’t have given up the power her beauty granted her by turning away a new protector. She was too smart for that, too practical. To prosper, or even to survive during that period, a woman needed the shield of a man, or her own wealth, a certain acceptable lineage.
Or great beauty with a cool mind and heart that knew how to wield it.
Giulietta had known.
Shivering, Miranda opened her eyes again. It was the bronze, she reminded herself, not the woman that mattered now. It was science, not speculation that would solve the puzzle.
She heard the rapid footsteps and tensed. He’d found her. Oh God. She jumped up, whirled, and nearly wept with relief.
“Giovanni.” Her limbs went weak as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
“Bella, what are you doing here?” He returned the embrace with a combination of exasperation and affection. “Why do you call me with fear in your voice and ask me to meet you like a spy?” He glanced over at the high altar. “And in church.”
“It’s quiet, it’s safe. Sanctuary,” she said with a weak smile as she drew back. “I want to explain, but
I don’t know how much time I have. He knows I’m gone by now, and he’ll be looking for me.”
“Who knows?”
“Too complicated. Sit down a minute.” Her voice was a whisper, as suited churches and conspiracies. “Giovanni, the bronze. The Dark Lady—it was a forgery.”
“Miranda, my English comes and goes, but to be a forgery makes it necessary to have something to forge. The bronze was a fake, a bad joke, a . . .” He groped for a word. “Bad luck,” he decided. “The authorities have questioned the plumber, but it appears he was no more than a dupe. Is this the word? Someone hoped to pass the statue off as genuine, and nearly succeeded.”
“It was genuine.”
He took her hands. “I know this is difficult for you.”
“You saw the test results.”
“Sì, but . . .”
It hurt, seeing both doubt and suspicion in the eyes of a friend. “Do you think I doctored them?”
“I think there were mistakes. We moved too fast, all of us. Miranda—”
“The pace doesn’t alter the results. That bronze was real. This one is a forgery.” She reached down and brought the wrapped bronze to the top of the bag.
“What is this?”
“It’s the copy. The one Ponti tested.”
“Dio mio! How did you get it?” His voice rose on the question, causing a few heads to turn. Wincing, he leaned closer and whispered. “It was being held in the Bargello.”
“That’s not important. What is important is that this is not the bronze we worked on. You’ll be able to see that for yourself. Once you have it in the lab.”
“In the lab? Miranda, what madness is this?”
“This is sanity.” She had to cling to that. “I’m barred from Standjo. The records are all there, Giovanni, the equipment is there. I need your help. There’s a bronze David in this bag as well. It’s a forgery. I’ve already tested it. But I want you to take them both in, examine them, run what tests you can. You’ll compare the results of the Fiesole Bronze with the ones that were run on the original. You’ll prove it’s not the same bronze.”
“Miranda, be sensible. Even if I do as you ask, I’ll only prove you were wrong.”
“No. You get my notes, your own. Richard’s. You run the tests, you compare. We couldn’t all have been wrong, Giovanni. I’d do it myself, but there are complications.”
She thought of Ryan, furious, tearing the city apart to find her and the bronzes. “And running them myself won’t convince anyone. It needs to be objective. I can’t trust anyone but you.”
She squeezed his hands, knowing she played on his weakness for friendship. She could have stopped the tears that swam into her eyes, but they were genuine. “It’s my reputation, Giovanni. It’s my work. It’s my life.”
He cursed softly, then winced when he remembered where he was, quickly added a prayer and the sign of the cross.
“This will only make you unhappy.”
“I can’t be any more unhappy. For friendship, Giovanni. For me.”
“I’ll do what you ask.”
She squeezed her eyes shut as her heart swelled with gratitude. “Tonight, right away.”
“The sooner it’s done, the better. The lab, it’s closed for a few days, so no one will know.”
“Closed, why?”
He smiled for the first time. “Tomorrow, my lovely pagan, is Good Friday.” And this was not the way he’d intended to spend his holiday weekend. He sighed, nudged the bag with his foot. “Where will I reach you when it’s done?”
“I’ll reach you.” She leaned forward to touch her lips to his. “Grazie, Giovanni. Mille grazie. I’ll never be able to repay you for this.”
“An explanation when it’s done would be a fine start.”
“A full one, I promise. Oh, I’m so glad to see you. I wish I could stay, but I have to get back, and . . . well, I suppose we’d say face the music. I’ll find a way to call you in the morning. Take good care of them,” she added, and nudged the bag toward him with her foot. “Wait a minute or two before you leave, will you. Just in case.”
She kissed him again, warmly, then left him.
Because she looked neither right nor left, she didn’t see the figure standing in the dimness, turned as if to contemplate the faded frescoes of Dante’s Inferno.
She didn’t feel the fury, or the threat.
It was as if a burden had been lifted, the weight that had pressed down on her head, her heart, her conscience. She stepped outside, into the gilded light from the sun that was melting into the west. On the off chance that Ryan was out on foot searching for her, she walked in the opposite direction of the hotel, toward the river.
It wouldn’t do, she thought, to have him find her before she and Giovanni had plenty of distance between them.
It was a long walk, and gave her time to calm herself, time to think, and time, for once, to wonder about the couples who strolled along, hand in hand, who shared long looks or long embraces. Giovanni had once told her romance lived in Florentine air, and she had only to sniff at it.
It made her smile, then it made her sigh.
She simply wasn’t fashioned for romance. And hadn’t she proven it? The only man who’d ever stirred her to the point of aching was a thief with no more integrity than a mushroom.
She was better, much better off alone. As she’d always been.
She reached the river, watched the dying sun sprinkle its last lights on the water. When the roar of an engine sounded behind her, when that engine revved violently, impatiently, she knew he’d found her. She’d known he would.
“Get on.”
She glanced back, saw his furious face, the way that anger could turn those warm golden eyes to deadly ice. He was all in black now, as she was, and astride a blue motorbike. The wind had blown his hair into disorder. He looked dangerous, and absurdly sexy.
“I can walk, thanks.”
“Get on, Miranda. Because if I have to get off and put you on, it’s going to hurt.”
Since the alternative was to run like a coward, and likely be run over for her trouble, she shrugged carelessly. She walked to the curb, swung a leg over to sit behind him. She gripped the back of the seat for balance.
But when he took off like a bullet, survival instinct took over and had her wrapping her arms tightly around him.
seventeen
“I guess I should have used the handcuffs after all.” After taking the narrow, winding streets with a reckless and risky speed that suited his mood, Ryan jerked the bike to a halt in the Piazzale Michelangelo.
It seemed apt, and it gave them a heart-shattering view of Florence, with the Tuscan hills rising beyond. As well as the privacy he wanted should he decide to commit violence.
It was nearly empty, with the vendors that crowded the area gone for the day and a broody storm gathering in the western sky, where the sun clung tenuously to the horizon.
“Off,” he ordered, and waited for her to pry her hands from their death grip around his waist. He’d given her a couple of good scares on the ride. He’d meant to.
“You drive like a lunatic.”
“Half Italian, half Irish. What do you expect?” He swung off himself, then dragged her to the wall, where Florence spread like an old jewel below. There were still a few tourists taking pictures of the grand fountain, but since they were Japanese he thought he could risk ripping into her in either English or Italian. He chose the latter because he considered it more passionate.
“Where are they?”
“Safe.”
“I didn’t ask how they were, but where. What have you done with the bronzes?”
“The sensible thing. It’s going to storm,” she said as lightning licked the sky with the same edgy sizzle as the nerves