by Nora Roberts
her on his lap. Since she wasn’t going to drink it, he took the glass of wine out of her hand and set it aside. “But since he’s not here at the moment . . .” He cupped the back of her neck and brought her mouth to his.
He’d meant to leave it at that, a kiss, a nuzzle, a quiet moment. But the taste of her was warmer than he’d expected. The morning-in-the-woods scent of her skin more provocative than it should have been. He found himself nipping his teeth into that soft lower lip, licking at the little ache as she shivered once.
And when her arms tightened around him and her mouth moved urgently under his, he lost himself, slipped into her, surrounded himself with her.
Curves, lines, scent, flavors.
His busy hands unfastened the buttons of her blouse, skimmed under to bare those shoulders, to trace hypnotically over the swell of her breasts.
Sighs, moans, shudders.
“I can’t get enough of you.” His words were more irritated than pleased. “I always think I have, then I only have to see you to want you.”
And no one had ever wanted her like this. She felt herself falling, deep, deeper, into the rippling warm waters of a wide well of sensation. Just feelings, no thoughts, no reason. Just needs, basic as breath.
His fingers played over her breasts, silky bird wings of motion. His tongue followed them as he shifted her, nudging her up until his mouth could close hotly over her so that the echoing tug low in her belly mirrored the aches. He caught her nipple in his teeth, a light bite, a small exquisite pain.
Willing, eager, she arched back, giving herself to him, to the moment, delighting in his single focus.
To feed on her.
Just as intent, she took her hands over him, stroking, sliding, seeking, finding her way under his shirt to flesh. Sampling that flesh and feeding herself as they rolled from the chair to the rug.
Her legs parted, trapping him in that erotic V, her hips arched so that heat pressed against heat, each movement tormenting them both.
He needed to be in her, to fill her, to bury himself in her. The primal need to possess, to be possessed, had them both grappling with clothes, gasping for air as they tumbled over the floor.
Then she was astride him, her body bent forward, her palms pressed to his chest so their mouths could tangle again. Slowly, slowly, he lifted her hips. Their eyes locked, both dark and glazed. Finally, finally, she lowered herself to him, took him in, held him there with muscles clamped and trembling.
Then she rode, body arched back, hair flowing like wild red rain over her shoulders, her eyes narrowed to slits as pleasure overwhelmed. Speed ruled now. Here was energy, electric waves of power that swam into the blood, whipped at the heart, fueled the body to bursting.
Faster, harder, deeper, with his fingers digging desperately into her hips, her breath expelling in harsh sobs. The orgasm lanced through her, the desperate edge of it racking her, wrecking her.
Still he drove into her, his grip locking her to him as he pushed her higher with strong, steady thrusts.
A roaring filled her head, like a sea warring with a gale, and the next wave was scorching, tossing her up on one long, hot sweep.
She thought she heard someone scream.
And he saw her, in that mindless moment, hair tumbled, body arched, arms lifted, her eyes half closed, her lips curved in a smile of sly female awareness.
She was as priceless, as alluring and magnificent as The Dark Lady, and just as powerful. As his own release burst through him, he had one clear thought.
Here was his destiny.
Then his mind was wiped clean as the same wave caught him and flipped him over the edge.
“Good God.” It was the best he could do. Never before had he lost himself so utterly in a woman or felt so bound to one. Though she still shuddered, she seemed to melt onto him, her body sliding down until her gasps were muffled against his throat.
“Miranda.” He said her name once, stroking a hand down her back, up again. “Christ, I’m going to miss you.”
She kept her eyes closed, said nothing at all. But she let herself sink in, let herself go, because a part of her didn’t believe he’d come back.
He was gone when she awoke in the morning, leaving only a note on the pillow beside her.
Good morning, Dr. Jones. I made coffee. It’ll be fresh enough unless you oversleep. You’re out of eggs. I’ll be in touch.
Though it made her feel foolish as a lovesick teenager, she read it half a dozen times, then got up to tuck it like a declaration of undying devotion in her jewelry case.
The ring he’d pushed onto her finger, the ring she’d kept foolishly in a velvet-lined square box in the case, was gone.
His plane landed at nine-thirty and Ryan was uptown at his gallery by eleven. It was a fraction of the size of the Institute, more like a sumptuous private home than a gallery.
The ceilings soared, the archways were wide, and the stairs curved, giving the space an airy and fluid feel. The carpets he’d chosen to scatter over the marble and hardwood floors were as much works of art as the paintings and sculptures.
His office there was on the fourth level. He’d kept it small in order to devote every available space to public areas. But it was well and carefully appointed and lacked no comfort.
He spent three hours at his desk catching up on work with his assistant, in meetings with his gallery director approving sales and acquisitions, and arranging for the necessary security and transportation for the pieces to be shipped to Maine.
He took time to schedule interviews with the press regarding the upcoming exhibit and fund-raiser, decided to shuffle in a fitting for a new tux, and called his mother to tell her to buy a new dress.
He was sending the whole family to Maine for the gala.
Next on the schedule was a call to his travel agent cousin.
“Joey, it’s Ry.”
“Hey, my favorite traveling man. How’s it going?”
“Well enough. I need a flight to San Francisco, day after tomorrow, open-end return.”
“No problemo. What name you want to use?”
“Mine.”
“There’s a change. Okay, I’ll get you booked and fax you the itinerary. Where you at?”
“Home. You can book flights for my family, going to Maine.” He gave his cousin the dates.
“Got it. All first-class, right?”
“Naturally.”
“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Ry.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear because I have a favor to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“I’m going to give you a list of names. I need to find out what kind of traveling these people have been doing. For the last three and a half years.”
“Three and a half years! Jesus Christ, Ry.”
“Concentrate on international flights, to and from Italy in particular. Ready for the names?”
“Look, Ry, I love you like a brother. This kind of thing’ll take days, maybe weeks, and it’s dicey. You don’t just punch a few buttons and get that kind of info. Airlines aren’t supposed to give it out.”
It was a song and dance he’d heard before. “I’ve got season tickets to the Yankees. VIP lounge with locker room passes.”
There was a short silence. “Give me the names.”
“I knew I could count on you, Joey.”
When he was done, he kicked back in his chair. He took the ring he’d given Miranda out of his pocket, watched it shine in the light coming through the filtered glass at his back.
He thought he would have his friend the jeweler pop the stones and make them into earrings for her. Earrings were safer than a ring. Women, even bright, practical women, could get the wrong idea about a ring.
She’d appreciate the gesture, he thought. And he was going to owe her something, after all. He’d have the earrings made, then have them shipped to her when he—and the bronzes—were a comfortable distance away.
He imagined, once she had a chance to think
it through, she’d conclude that he’d acted in the only logical fashion. No one could expect him to come out of his last job empty-handed.
He put the ring back in his pocket so he’d stop imagining what it had looked like on her hand.
She was going to get what she needed, he reminded himself, and when he rose his fingers were still toying with the ring. They would prove her bronze had been genuine, they’d uncover a forger, a murderer, and she’d be haloed in the spotlight with her reputation glinting like gold.
He had several clients who would pay a delightful fee for a prize like The Dark Lady. He had only to choose the lucky winner. And that fee would cover his time, his expenses, his aggravation, with a nice little bonus like cream over the top.
Unless he decided to keep it for himself. She would be, without question, the prize of his private collection.
But . . . business was business. If he found the right client—and gained the right fee—he could start a new gallery in Chicago or Atlanta or . . . Maine.
No, he’d have to stay clear of Maine after this was done.
A pity, he thought. He’d come to love it there, near the sea, near the cliffs, catching scents of water and pine. He’d miss it.
He’d miss her.
It couldn’t be helped, he told himself. He had to neatly close out one area of his life and start a new one. As a completely legitimate art broker. He’d keep his word to his family, and he’d have kept his word to Miranda. More or less.
Everyone would go back where they belonged.
It was his own fault if he’d let his feelings get a little too tangled up. Most of that, he was sure, was due to the fact they’d been virtually living together for weeks now.
He liked waking up beside her, a little too much. He enjoyed standing with her on the cliffs, listening to that husky voice, nudging one of those rare smiles out of her. The ones that reached her eyes and took that sad look out of them.
The fact was—the very worrying fact was—there was nothing about her that didn’t appeal to him.
It was a good thing they had their own spaces back for a while. They would put it all back in perspective with a little distance.
But he wondered why, as he nearly convinced himself this was true, he felt a nasty little ache around his heart.
She tried not to think about him. To wonder if he thought of her. It was more productive, she told herself, to focus entirely, exclusively, on her work.
It would very likely be all she had left before much longer.
She nearly succeeded. Through most of the day she had dozens of details demanding her skill and attention. If her mind wandered once or twice, she was disciplined enough to steer it back to the task at hand.
If a new level of loneliness had been reached in only a single day, she would learn to adjust.
She would have to.
Miranda was about to shut down for the day and take the rest of her work home when her computer signaled an incoming e-mail. She finished her long, detailed post to the decorator she’d contracted regarding the lengths of fabrics required, copying both Andrew and the proper procurement clerk in requisitions.
She scanned the post, made a few minor adjustments, then clicked to both send and receive. Her incoming mail flashed on-screen under the header A DEATH IN THE FAMILY.
Uneasy, she clicked on read.
You have the False Lady. There’s blood on her hands. She wants it to be yours. Admit your mistake, pay the price and live. Go on as you are, and nothing will stop her.
Killing becomes her.
Miranda stared at the message, reading each word over and over until she realized she was curled in the chair, rocking.
They wanted her to be afraid, to be terrified. And oh God, she was.
They knew she had the forgery. It could only mean someone had seen her with Giovanni, or that he had told someone. Someone who had killed him, and wished her dead.
Struggling for control, she studied the return address. Lost1. Who was Lost1? The url was the standard route all Standjo organizations used for electronic mail. She did a quick name search, but found nothing, then hit the reply button.
Who are you?
She left it at that and sent. In took only seconds for the message to flash across her screen denying her. Not a known user.
He’d been quick, she decided. But he had taken a chance sending her the post. What could be sent could surely be traced. She printed out a hard copy, saved the post to a file.
A glance at her watch told her it was nearly six. There was no one to help her now. No one was waiting for her.
She was alone.
twenty-five
“S o, have you heard from Ryan?”
Miranda checked off items on the list fixed to her clipboard as she supervised the maintenance crew in the removal of selected paintings from the wall in the South Gallery.
“Yes, his office faxed the details of the transportation schedule. All items will arrive next Wednesday. I’m having a team of our security meet their security at the airport.”
Andrew studied her profile for another moment, then shrugged. They both knew that wasn’t what he’d meant. Ryan had already been gone a week.
He dug into the bag of pretzels he’d taken to eating by the pound. They made him thirsty, and when he was thirsty he drank gallons of water. Then he had to piss like a racehorse.
He’d worked it out in his mind that all the liquid was flushing toxins out of his system.
“Ms. Purdue and Clara are dealing with the caterer,” he told her. “We don’t have a final count for attendees, but they’d like the menu approved. I’d like you to take a look at it before we sign the final contract. It’s really your show.”
“It’s our show,” Miranda corrected, still checking off her list. She wanted both the paintings and the frames cleaned before the opening, and had sent a memo to restoration giving them priority.
“It better be a good one. Closing off this gallery has a lot of the visitors grumbling.”
“If they come back in a couple of weeks, they’ll get more than their money’s worth.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.
“You’ve been putting in a lot of hours on this.”
“There’s a lot to do, and not much time to do it. Anyway, I like being busy.”
“Yeah.” He rattled his pretzels. “Neither one of us is looking for loose time right now.”
“You’re doing okay?”
“Is that the code for are you drinking?” It came out with an edge he hadn’t intended. “Sorry.” His fingers dived into the bag again. “No, I’m not drinking.”
“I know you’re not. It wasn’t code.”
“I’m dealing with it.”
“I’m glad you came back home, but I don’t want you to feel you have to be there with me if you’d rather be with Annie.”
“The fact that I’ve figured out I want to be with Annie makes it a little rough to stay there sleeping on her couch. If you get the picture.”
“Yeah, I get the picture.” She crossed over to dip into the pretzels herself.