by Nora Roberts
an inch in length. It ached like a fever.
He couldn’t remember more than pieces from the evening before, but what did swim back into his mind made his raw stomach clench again.
He saw the image of himself, standing at the top of the stairs, waving a nearly empty bottle and shouting down, slopping the words out while Miranda stared up at him.
And there had been something like loathing in her eyes.
He closed his own. It was all right, he could control it. Maybe he’d stepped over a line the night before, but he wouldn’t do it again. He’d take a couple of days off from drinking, prove to everyone he could. It was the stress, that was all. He had reason to be stressed.
He downed some aspirin, pretended his hands weren’t shaking. When he dropped the bottle and pills spilled out on the tile, he left them there. He walked out, carrying his sickness with him.
He found Miranda in her office, dressed casually in a sweater and leggings, her hair bundled on top of her head and her posture perfect as she worked at her computer.
It took him more time than he cared to admit to gather the courage to step inside. But when he did, she glanced over, then quickly clicked her data to save and blanked the screen.
“Good morning.” She knew her voice was frigid, but couldn’t find the will to warm it. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you are. You may want to put ice on that eye.”
“What do you want from me? I said I’m sorry. I had too much to drink. I embarrassed you, I acted like an idiot. It won’t happen again.”
“Won’t it?”
“No.” The fact that she didn’t give an inch infuriated him. “I went past my limit, that’s all.”
“One drink is past your limit, Andrew. Until you accept that, you’re going to continue to embarrass yourself, to hurt yourself and the people who care about you.”
“Look, while you’ve been off having your little fling with Boldari, I’ve been here, up to my ears, dealing with business. And part of that business is your screwup in Florence.”
Very slowly, she got to her feet. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me, Miranda. I’m the one who’s had to listen to our mother and our father complain and bitch about the mess with that bronze of yours. And I’m the one who spent days looking for the goddamn documents on the David—that you were in charge of. I’m taking the heat for that too because you’re out of it. You can waltz off and spend your time fucking some—”
The crack of her hand across his face shocked them both, left them staring and breathless. She curled her fingers into her stinging palm, pressed it to her heart, and turned away from him.
He stood where he was, wondering why the new apology that ached in his heart couldn’t be forced out of his mouth. So, saying nothing at all, he turned and walked out.
She heard the slam of the front door moments later, then looking out the window, saw his car drive off.
All of her life, he’d been her rock. And now, she thought, because she simply wasn’t capable of enough compassion, she’d struck out when he needed her. And she’d pushed him away.
She didn’t know if she had it in her to pull him back.
Her fax phone rang, then picked up the transmission with its high-pitched squeal. Rubbing the tension out of the back of her neck, Miranda walked over as the message slid into the tray.
Did you think I wouldn’t know? Did you enjoy Florence, Miranda? The spring flowers and the warm sunshine? I know where you go. I know what you do. I know what you think. I’m right there, inside your mind, all the time.
You killed Giovanni. His blood’s on your hands.
Can you see it?
I can.
With a sound of fury, Miranda crushed the paper into a ball, heaved it across the room. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, waiting for the red haze that was fury and fear to fade. When it had, she walked over calmly, picked up the paper, smoothed it out with great care.
And put it neatly into the drawer.
Ryan came back with an armload of daffodils so bright and sunny she couldn’t do anything but smile. But because it didn’t reach her eyes, he tipped up her chin.
“What?”
“It’s nothing, they’re wonderful.”
“What?” he repeated, and watched her struggle to overcome her habitual reluctance to share trouble.
“Andrew and I had a scene. He left. I don’t know where he’s gone, and I know there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You have to let him find his own level, Miranda.”
“I know that too. I need to put these in water.” On impulse she picked up her grandmother’s favored rose medallion vase, and taking it to the kitchen, busied herself arranging the flowers on the kitchen table. “I’ve made some progress, I think,” she told him. “I’ve put together some lists.”
She thought about the fax, wondered if she should tell him. Later, she decided. Later when she’d thought it all through.
“Lists?”
“Organizing thoughts and facts and tasks on paper. I’ll go get the hard copies so we can go over them.”
“Fine.” He opened the refrigerator, perused the contents. “Want a sandwich?” Since she was already gone, he shrugged and began to decide what an inventive man could put together.
“Both your lunch meat and your bread are on the edge,” he told her when she came back in. “But we risk it or starve.”
“Andrew was supposed to go to the market.” She watched him slice undoubtedly soft tomatoes and frowned. He looked very much at home, she decided. Not just helping himself to the contents of the kitchen, but preparing them.
“I suppose you can cook.”
“No one got out of our house unless they could cook.” He glanced her way. “I suppose you don’t.”
“I’m a very good cook,” she said with some annoyance.
“Really? How do you look in an apron?”
“Efficient.”
“I bet you don’t. Why don’t you put one on and let me see?”
“You’re fixing lunch. I don’t need an apron. And just as a passing observation, you’re a bit locked into regular meals.”
“Food’s a passion.” He licked tomato juice, slowly, from his thumb. “I’m very locked into regular passions.”
“So it would seem.” She sat and tapped the edges of her papers together to align them. “Now—”
“Mustard or mayo?”
“It doesn’t matter. Now, what I’ve done—”
“Coffee, or something cold?”
“Whatever.” She heaved out a breath, telling herself he couldn’t possibly be interrupting her train of thought just to annoy her. “In order to—”
“Milk’s off,” he said, sniffing the carton he pulled out of the fridge.
“Dump the damn stuff down the sink then, and sit down.” Her eyes flashed as she looked up, and caught him grinning at her. “Why do you purposely aggravate me?”
“Because it puts such pretty color in your face.” He held up a can of Pepsi. “Diet?”
She had to laugh, and when she did, he sat down at the table across from her. “There, that’s better,” he decided, pushed her plate closer, then picked up his own sandwich. “I can’t concentrate on anything but you when you’re sad.”
“Oh, Ryan.” How could she possibly defend her heart against these kinds of assaults? “I’m not sad.”
“You’re the saddest woman I’ve ever known.” He kissed her fingers. “But we’re going to fix that. Now what have you got?”
She gave herself a moment to regain her balance, then picked up the first sheet. “The first is an amended draft of the list you had of personnel with access to or contact with both of the bronzes.”
“Amended.”
“I’ve added a tech who I remembered flew in from Florence to work with Giovanni on another project during the given time period. He was only here for a few days, as I recall,
but for accuracy’s sake should be included. His name wasn’t on the records we accessed because he was, technically, employed by the Florence branch and only here on temporary loan. I also added length of employment, which may factor into loyalty, and base salaries, as it could be assumed that money is a motivation.”
She’d also alphabetized the names, he noted. God love her. “Your family pays well.” He’d noted that before.
“Quality staff demands appropriate financial reward. On the next list I worked up a probability ratio. You’ll note my name remains, but the probability is low. I know I didn’t steal the originals. I’ve taken Giovanni off as he couldn’t have been involved.”
“Why?”
She blinked up at him. His blood’s on your hands. “Because he was murdered. He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry, Miranda, that only makes him dead. It’s still possible he was involved, and killed for any number of reasons.”
“But he was testing the bronzes when he was killed.”
“He’d have needed to, to be sure. Maybe he was panicking, demanding a bigger cut, or just pissed off one of his associates. His name stays on.”
“It wasn’t Giovanni.”
“That’s emotion, not logic, Dr. Jones.”
“Very well.” Jaw stiff, she added Giovanni’s name. “You may disagree, but I’ve rated my family low. In my opinion they don’t apply here. They’ve no reason to steal from themselves.” He only looked at her, and after a long moment, she pushed the sheet aside.
“We’ll table the probability list for now. Here I’ve made a time line, from the date the David came into our hands, the length of time it remained in the lab. Without my notes and records, I can only guess at the times and dates of the individual tests, but I believe this is fairly close.”
“You made graphs and everything.” He leaned closer, admiring the work. “What a woman.”
“I don’t see the need for sarcasm.”
“I’m not being sarcastic. This is great. Nice color,” he added. “You put it at two weeks. But you wouldn’t have worked on it seven days at a stretch or twenty-four hours a day.”
“Here.” She referred him to another chart and felt only a little foolish. “These are approximated times the David was locked in the lab vault. Getting to it would have required a key card, security clearance, a combination, and a second key. Or,” she added, tilting her head, “a very good burglar.”
His gaze slid over to hers, dark gold and mocking. “I was in Paris during this time.”
“Were you really?”
“I have no idea, but in your probability ratio I don’t compute because there would have been no reason for me to steal a copy and get sucked into this mess if I’d already taken the original.”
Head angled, she smiled sweetly. “Maybe you did it just to get me in bed.”
He glanced up, grinned. “Now, there’s a thought.”
“That,” she said primly, “was sarcasm. This is a time line of the work period on The Dark Lady. We have the records on this, and it’s very fresh in my mind, so this is completely accurate. In this case, the search for documentation was still ongoing, and the authentication not yet official.”
“Project terminated,” Ryan read, and glanced at her. “That was the day you got the ax.”
“If you prefer to simplify, yes.” It still stung both pride and heart. “The following day, the bronze was transferred to Rome. The switch had to be made in that small window of time, as I’d run tests on it just that afternoon.”
“Unless it was switched in Rome,” he murmured.
“How could it have been switched in Rome?”
“Did anyone from Standjo go along for the transfer?”
“I don’t know. Someone from security, perhaps my mother. There would have been papers to sign on both ends.”
“Well, it’s a possibility, but only gives them a few extra hours in any case. They had to be ready, the copy fully prepared. The plumber had it for a week—or so he said. Then the government took it over, another week for them to fiddle with the paperwork and contract Standjo. Your mother contacts you and offers you the job.”
“She didn’t offer me the job, she ordered me to come to Florence.”
“Mmm.” He studied her chart. “Why did it take you six days between the phone call and the flight? Your description doesn’t lead me to believe she’s a patient woman.”
“I was told—and had planned—to leave the following day, two at the most. I was delayed.”
“How?”
“I was mugged.”
“What?”
“This very large man in a mask came out of nowhere, put a knife to my throat.” Her hand fluttered there as if to see if the thin trickle of blood was indeed only a bad memory.
Ryan took her fingers to draw them away and look for himself, though he knew there was no mark. Still, he could imagine it. And his eyes went flat.
“What happened?”
“I was just coming back from a trip. Got out of the car in front of the house, and there he was. He took my briefcase, my purse. I thought he was going to rape me, and I wondered if I had a chance to fight him off, against that knife. I have a bit of a phobia about knives.”
When her fingers trembled lightly, he tightened his grip. “Did he cut you?”
“A little, just. . . just enough to scare me. Then he knocked me down, slashed my tires, and took off.”
“He knocked you down?”
She blinked at the cold steel in his voice, at the unbearable tenderness of his fingers as they stroked over her cheek. “Yes.”
He was blind with fury at the thought of someone holding a knife to her throat, terrorizing her. “How bad were you hurt?”
“Nothing, just bruises and scrapes.” Because her eyes began to sting, she lowered her gaze. She was afraid that the emotions flooding through her were showing—the wonder and bafflement of her feelings for him. No one but Andrew had ever looked at her with that kind of concern, that kind of care.
“It was nothing,” she said again, then stared helplessly as he tipped up her chin and touched his lips to each of her cheeks.
“Don’t be kind to me.” A tear spilled over before she could blink it away. “I don’t handle it well.”
“Learn.” He kissed her again, lightly, then brushed the tear away with his thumb. “Have you ever had trouble like that before around here?”
“No, never.” She managed one hitching breath, then a steadier one. “That’s why I was so shocked, I guess, so unprepared. It’s a very low-crime area. The fact is this was such an aberration it played on the local news for days.”
“They never caught him?”
“No. I couldn’t give them a very detailed description. He wore a mask, so I could only give them his build.”
“Give it to me.”
She didn’t want to recall the incident, but knew he would push her until she relented. “White male, six four or five, two-fifty, two-sixty, brown eyes. Muddy brown. Long arms, big hands, left-handed, wide shoulders, short neck. No distinguishing scars or marks—that I could see.”
“Seems like you gave them quite a bit, considering.”
“Not enough. He never spoke, not a word. That was another thing that frightened me. He went about everything so quickly, so silently. And he took my passport, driver’s license. All my ID. It took me several days, even pulling strings, to arrange for new ones.”
A pro, Ryan concluded. With an agenda.
“Andrew was furious,” she remembered with a ghost of a smile. “He walked around the house every night for a week with a golf club—a nine iron, I think—hoping the man would come back so he could beat him to a pulp.”