by Nora Roberts
“I figure there won’t be a nice linguine and red sauce for lunch, but we’ll catch a pizza on the way. That should give it enough time.”
“For what?”
“For the cops to find the body, for her to hear about it. What do you figure she’ll do when she does?”
“She’ll go straight to the lab.”
“That’s what I’m counting on. That should give us a nice window to search her place.”
“We’re going to break into my mother’s home?”
“Unless she leaves a spare key under the mat. Put this on.” He pulled a ball cap out of the saddlebags. “The neighbors will spot that hair of yours a mile away.”
“I don’t see the point in this,” Miranda said an hour later, sitting on the bike behind him half a block down from her mother’s home. “I can’t justify breaking into my mother’s home, rummaging through her things.”
“Any paperwork dealing with your tests that was kept at the lab is a loss. There’s a chance she might have copies here.”
“Why would she?”
“Because you’re her daughter.”
“It wouldn’t matter to her.”
But it matters to you, Ryan thought. “Maybe, maybe not. Is that her?”
Miranda looked back at the house, caught herself ducking behind Ryan like a schoolgirl playing hooky. “Yes, I guess you called this part of it.”
“Attractive woman. You don’t look much like her.”
“Thank you so much.”
He only chuckled and watched Elizabeth, ruthlessly groomed in a dark suit, unlock her car. “Keeps her cool,” he noted. “You wouldn’t know to look at her that she’s just been told her business has been broken into, and one of her employees is dead.”
“My mother isn’t given to outward displays of emotion.”
“Like I said, you’re not much like her. Okay, we’ll walk down from here. She won’t be back for a couple of hours, but we’ll do this in one to keep it simple.”
“There’s nothing simple here.” She watched him sling his bag over his shoulder. Oh yes, she decided, her life would never be the same. She was a criminal now.
He walked right up to the front door and rang the bell. “She have a staff? A dog? A lover?”
“She has a housekeeper, I believe, but not a live-in. She doesn’t care for pets.” She tugged the ball cap more securely over her hair. “I don’t know anything about her sex life.”
He rang the bell again. There wasn’t much more embarrassing to his mind than stepping into what you believed was an empty home to do your job, and discovering the owner was home sick with the flu.
He slipped out his picks and defeated the locks in little more time than if he’d used a key. “Alarm system?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Okay, we’ll deal with it.” He stepped in, saw the panel on the wall, and the light indicating the system required a code. He had a minute, he concluded, and pulling out a screwdriver, removed the facing, snipped a couple of wires, and put it to rest.
Because the scientist in her couldn’t help but admire his quick, economic efficiency, she made her voice bland. “You make me wonder why anyone bothers with this sort of thing. Why not just leave the doors and windows open?”
“My sentiments exactly.” He winked at her, then scanned the foyer. “Nice place. Very appealing art—a bit on the static side but attractive. Where’s her office?”
She only stared at him a moment, wondering why she found his casual critique of her mother’s taste amusing. She should have been appalled. “Second floor, to the left I think. I haven’t spent a great deal of time here.”
“Let’s try it.” He climbed up a graceful set of stairs. Place could have done with a bit more color, he thought, a few surprises. Everything was as perfect as a model home and had the same unoccupied feel. It was certainly classy, but he much preferred his own apartment in New York or Miranda’s elegantly shabby house in Maine.
He found the office feminine but not fussy, polished but efficient, cool but not quite brittle. He wondered if it reflected the occupant, and thought it likely.
“Safe?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“So, look around,” he suggested, and began to do so by tipping forward the backs of paintings. “Here it is, behind this very nice Renoir print. I’ll deal with this, you go through the desk.”
She hesitated. Even as a child she’d known better than to enter any room of her mother’s without permission. She would never have strolled in and borrowed earrings or copped a spritz of perfume. And she certainly would never have touched the contents of her mother’s desk.
It appeared she was about to make up for lost time.
She shoved aside the conditioning of a lifetime and dived in, with a great deal more enthusiasm than she’d ever admit.
“There are a lot of files here,” she told Ryan while she flipped through. “Most seem to be personal. Insurance, receipts, correspondence.”
“Keep looking.”
She sat in the desk chair—another first—and pawed through another drawer. Excitement was bubbling in her belly now, guilty, shameful excitement.
“Copies of contracts,” she murmured, “and reports. I guess she does some work here. Oh.” Her fingers froze. “The Fiesole Bronze. She has a file.”
“Take it. We’ll look through it later.” He listened to the last tumbler click into place. “Now I have you, my little beauty. Very nice, very nice,” he whispered, opening a velvet case and examining a double rope of pearls. “Heirlooms—they’d suit you.”
“Put those back.”
“I’m not stealing them. I don’t do jewelry.” But he opened another box and hmmed at the glitter of diamonds. “Very classy earrings, about three carats each, square-cut, looks like Russian whites, probably first water.”
“I thought you didn’t do jewelry.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t have an interest. These would be killers with your ring.”
“It’s not my ring,” she said primly, but her gaze shifted to the diamond winking on her finger. “It’s window dressing.”
“Right. Look at this.” He pulled out a thin plastic holder. “Look familiar?”
“The X rays.” She was away from the desk and grabbing for them in two thumping heartbeats. “The computer printouts. Look, look at them. It’s there. You can see it. The corrosion level. Just look. It’s there. It’s real.”
Suddenly swamped with emotion, she pressed the heel of her hand to her brow and squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s there. I wasn’t wrong. I didn’t make a mistake.”
“I never thought you did.”
She opened her eyes again, smiled. “Liar. You broke into my bedroom and threatened to strangle me.”
“I said I could strangle you.” He circled her throat with his hands again. “And that was before I knew you. Tidy up, honey. We’ve got enough to keep us busy for a while.”
They spent the next several hours in the hotel suite, with Miranda going over the copies of her reports line by line and Ryan huddled at his computer.
“It’s all here. Everything I did, stage by stage. Every test, every result. Admittedly, it’s light on documentation, but it stands. Why didn’t she see that?”
“Take a look at this and see if I’ve got it right.”
“What?”
“I’ve done a cross-check.” He motioned her over. “These are the names I come up with. People who had access to both bronzes. There’s probably more, but these are the key players.”
She rose and read over his shoulder. She only set her teeth when she noted her name topped the list. Her mother was there, as was her father, Andrew, Giovanni, Elise, Carter, Hawthorne, Vincente.
“Andrew didn’t have access to The Dark Lady.”
A tendril of the hair she’d pinned up fell and tickled his cheek. The immediate tightening of his loins had him letting out a long quiet breath. If nothing else, he thought, her hair was going to dri
ve him to drink before they were done.
“He’s connected to you, your mother, and Elise. Close enough.”
She sniffed and shoved her glasses more securely on her nose. “That’s insulting.”
“I want to know how accurate it is. Save the comments.”
“It’s fairly complete, and insulting.”
Oh yeah, there was that prissy tone of voice too. It just destroyed him with wanting to turn it into moans. “Was Hawthorne’s wife with him in Florence?”
“No.”
“Richard’s divorced.” What the hell, he thought, and tortured himself by turning his head just enough to get a good solid sniff of her hair. “Was he a couple when he did his stint in Maine?”
“I don’t know. I barely met him. In fact, I didn’t remember him until he reminded me we’d met.” Annoyed, she turned her head, found her eyes locked on his—and something in his wasn’t focused on work. Her heart did a quick cartwheel and shot little springs of lust into her belly. “Why does it matter?”
“Why does what matter?” He wanted that mouth. Goddamn it, he was entitled to that mouth.
“The, uh . . . Richard being divorced.”
“Because people tell their lovers and spouses all kinds of confidential things. Sex,” he murmured, and wrapped that loose tendril around his finger, “is a great communicator.”
One tug, he thought, one little tug and her mouth would be on his. He’d have all that hair in his hands, all the wild, curling mass of it. He’d have her naked in five minutes. Except for the glasses.
He was starting to have incredible fantasies about Miranda wearing only her glasses.
It was with real regret that he didn’t tug, but unwound her hair, turned, and scowled at the screen.
“We need to go through the worker bees too, but we need a break.”
“A break?” There wasn’t a single organized thought in her mind. Her nerves were sizzling along the surface of her skin like little licks of lightning.
If he touched her now, if he kissed her now, she knew she’d go off like a rocket. She straightened, closed her eyes. And yearned.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Let’s put this away, and go have a meal.”
Her eyes popped open again. “A what?”
“Food, Dr. Jones.” He tapped keys, concentrating, and didn’t see her scrub her hands over her face behind his back.
“Yes, food.” Her voice shook slightly—laughter or despair, she couldn’t be sure. “Good idea.”
“What would you like for your last night in Florence?”
“The last night?”
“Things might get sticky here. We’re better off working on home ground.”
“But if The Dark Lady is here—”
“We’ll come back for her.” He shut off his machine, pushed away from the little desk. “Florence isn’t a big city, Dr. Jones. Sooner or later, someone you know is going to spot you.” He flicked a finger over her hair. “You just don’t blend. Now, fast, fancy, or rowdy?”
Home. She discovered she very much wanted to go home, to see it with these new eyes. “I think I’d like rowdy for a change.”
“Excellent choice. I know just the place.”
It was loud, it was crowded, and the harsh lights bounced off the unapologetically garish paintings that crowded the wall. They suited the hanks of hanging sausages and whole smoked hams that were the restaurant’s primary decor. Tables were pushed together so that diners—friends and strangers alike—ate the hearty portions of meat and pasta elbow to elbow.
They were wedged in a corner by a round man with a stained apron who took Ryan’s order for a bottle of local red with a nod. At Miranda’s left was one half of a gay American couple who were touring Europe. They shared a basket of bread while Ryan engaged them in conversation with an ease and openness Miranda admired.
She would never have talked to strangers in a restaurant except in the most limited fashion. But by the time the wine was set on the table and poured, she knew they were from New York, ran a restaurant in the Village, and had been together for ten years. It was, they said, their anniversary trip.
“It’s our second honeymoon.” Enjoying himself, Ryan picked up Miranda’s hand and kissed it. “Right, Abby darling?”
At sea, she stared at him, then responded to his light kick under the table. “Oh, yes. Um . . . we couldn’t afford a honeymoon when we were first married. Kevin was just getting started and I was . . . only a junior exec at the agency. Now we’re treating ourselves before kids come along.”
Stunned at herself, she gulped down wine while Ryan beamed at her. “It was worth the wait. You breathe romance with every inhale in Florence.”
Defying every law of physics, the waiter pushed his way through the excuse for space between the tables and demanded what they wanted.
Less than an hour later, Miranda wanted more wine. “It’s wonderful. It’s a wonderful place.” She shifted in her chair to smile affectionately at a table of Brits who chatted in polite voices while a table of Germans beside them downed local beer and sang. “I never go to places like this.” It all spun in her head, scents, voices, wine. “I wonder why.”
“Want some dessert?”
“Sure I do. Eat, drink, and be merry.” She poured another glass of wine and grinned tipsily at him. “I love it here.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He nudged the bottle farther out of her reach and signaled the waiter.
“Weren’t they a nice couple?” She smiled sentimentally at the space their table companions had recently vacated. “They were really in love. We’re going to look ’em up, right, when we get home? No, when they get home. We’re going home tomorrow.”
“We’ll try the zabaglione,” Ryan told the waiter, eyeing Miranda under lifted brows as she began to hum along with the drunk Germans. “And cappuccino.”
“I’d rather have more wine.”
“Not a good idea.”
“Why not?” Filled with love for her fellowman, she picked up her glass and drained it. “I like it.”
“It’s your head,” he said with a shrug when she snagged the bottle again. “Keep it up, and you’re not going to have a pleasant flight home.”
“I’m a very good flier.” Eyes narrowed, she poured until the wine was precisely a half-inch from the rim of the glass. “See that, steady as a rock. Dr. Jones is always steady.” She giggled and leaned forward conspiratorially. “But Abby’s a lush.”
“Kevin is more than a little concerned that she’s going to pass out at the table so that he has to carry her home.”
“Nah.” She rubbed the back of her hand over her nose. “Dr. Jones wouldn’t permit that. Too embarrassing. Let’s walk down by the river. I want to walk by the river in the moonlight. Abby’ll let you kiss her.”
“That’s an interesting offer, but I think we’d better get you home.”
“I love Maine.” She leaned back, swinging the glass in her hand. “I love the cliffs and the fog and the waves crashing and the lobster boats. I’m going to plant a garden. This year I’m really going to do it. Mmmm.” This was her opinion of the creamy dessert set in front of her. “I like indulging.” She set the glass down long enough to dive a spoon in. “I never knew that about me,” she said with her mouth full.
“Try the coffee,” he suggested.
“I want the wine.” But when she grabbed for it, he snatched it up.
“Can I interest you in something else?”
She studied him thoughtfully, then grinned. “Bring me the head of the Baptist,” she ordered, then collapsed into giggles. “Did you really steal his bones? I just can’t understand a man who’d steal the bones of a saint. But it’s fascinating.”
Time to go, Ryan decided, and quickly dug out more than enough