by Nora Roberts
“Of course it is.”
He only shook his head. “You’re too busy looking into the work to look at it. Beauty,” he said, gesturing to the serene face of the Madonna, “is a most irrational thing. You’re nervous,” he added when he took her hands and felt the chill on her skin.
“Anxious,” she corrected. “Have you seen the other areas?”
“I thought you’d walk me through.”
“All right, but I don’t have much time. I’m expecting my mother within the hour. I want everything in place when she gets here.”
She walked with him through the room. “I’ve left wide traffic patterns, putting the sculptures—with the Donatello bronze as the centerpiece—out into the room for a full circling view. People should be free to wander, then to move through this egress into the next gallery, the largest, which represents the High Renaissance.”
She stepped through. “We’ll continue the theme here of showing not only the art itself, but what surrounded it, underlay it, inspired it. I’ve used more gold in here, and red. For power, for the church, royalty.”
Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she circled, studying details, looking for any slight adjustment that needed to be made. “This era was richer and had more drama. So much energy. It couldn’t last, but during its brief crest, it produced the most important works of any era before or since.”
“Saints and sinners?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The most popular models of art, saints and sinners. The raw yet elegant sexuality and selfishness of the gods and goddesses, juxtaposed with the brutality of war and cheek by jowl with the grand suffering of the martyr.”
He studied the beatific if somewhat baffled face of Saint Sebastian, who was about lanced through with arrows. “I never got martyrs. I mean, what was the point?”
“Their faith would be the obvious answer.”
“No one can steal your faith, but they can sure as hell take your life—and in nasty, inventive ways.” He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “Arrows for the ever popular Sebastian, roasting alive for good old Saint Lorenzo. Crucifixions, body parts lopped off with glee and abandon. Lions, tigers, and bears. Oh my.”
She chuckled in spite of herself. “That is why they’re martyrs.”
“Exactly.” He turned away from Sebastian and beamed at her. “So you’re faced with the pagan horde and their primitive yet hideously efficient implements of torture. Why not just say, ‘Sure, no problem, boys and girls. What god would you prefer I worship today?’ What you say doesn’t change what you think or what you believe, but they can certainly change your status of living.”
He jerked a thumb toward the canvas. “Just ask poor beleaguered Sebastian.”
“I can see you’d have prospered during persecutions.”
“Damn right.”
“What about words like courage, conviction, integrity?”
“Why die for a cause? Better to live for it.”
While she pondered his philosophy and searched for the flaws in it, he strolled over to study a table artfully crowded with religious artifacts. Silver crucifixes, chalices, relics.
“You’ve done an amazing job here, Dr. Jones.”
“I think it works very well. The Titians will be the major focal point of this room, along with your Raphael. It’s a magnificent piece, Ryan.”
“Yes, I like it quite a lot. Want to buy it?” He turned to grin at her. “The beauty of my business, Dr. Jones, is that everything has a price. Meet it, and it’s yours.”
“If you’re serious about selling the Raphael, I’ll work up a proposal. A great many of our pieces, however, are donated or on permanent loan.”
“Not even for you, darling.”
She only moved her shoulders. She hadn’t expected anything else. “I’d put The Dark Lady there,” she said suddenly. “Every time I imagined this room, worked on the angles, the flow, the theme, I’d see it standing on a white column with grapevines twining down. Right here.” She stepped forward. “Under the light here. Where everyone could see it. Where I could see it.”
“We’ll get it back, Miranda.”
She said nothing, annoyed with herself for daydreaming. “Do you want to see the next room? We have your Vasaris up.”
“Later.” He stepped to her. It had to be done. He’d intended to tell her immediately, but he hadn’t been able to face putting that haunted look back into her eyes. “Miranda, I got a call from my brother in San Francisco. From Michael. A body was pulled out of the bay last night. It was Harry Mathers.”
She only stared, her eyes locked on his for a long silent moment before she simply closed them and turned away. “It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t random.”
“The news reports my brother’s heard don’t give many details. Just that he was killed before he was dumped in the water.”
His throat had been slit, Ryan thought, but there was no reason to add that detail. She already knew the who and why. What good would it do for her to know the how?
“Three people now. Three people dead. And for what?” With her back still to him she stared up at the glorious face of the Madonna. “For money, for art, for ego? Maybe all three.”
“Or maybe none of those, not really. Maybe it’s you.”
The quick stabbing pain in her heart had her shuddering once before she turned back. He saw the fear in her eyes, and knew that fear wasn’t for herself. “Because of me? Someone could hate me that much? Why? I can’t think of anyone I’ve had that kind of impact on, anyone I’ve hurt so deeply they would murder to protect a lie that ruins my professional reputation. For God’s sake, Ryan, Harry was only a boy.”
Her voice was grim now, sharp with the fury that rolled in behind the fear. “Just a boy,” she repeated, “and he was snipped off like a loose thread. Just as carelessly as that. Who could I matter to so much they would have a boy killed that way? I’ve never mattered to anyone.”
That, he thought, was the saddest thing he’d ever heard anyone say. Sadder still was the fact that she believed it. “You make more of an impact than you realize, Miranda. You’re strong, you’re successful. You’re focused on what you want and where you want to go. And you get there.”
“I haven’t stepped over anyone on the way.”
“Maybe you didn’t see them. Patrick’s been working on tracing that e-mail you received.”
“Yes.” She pushed a hand through her hair. Didn’t see them? she wondered. Could she be that self-absorbed, that remote, that cold? “Did he manage it? It’s been more than a week now. I thought he must have given up.”
“He never does when he has his teeth into a computer puzzle.”
“What is it? What are you trying not to tell me?”
“The user name was attached very briefly to an account. Put on and taken off, and buried under a great deal of computer jargon.”
She felt the cold ball form in her stomach. It would be bad, she knew. Very bad. “What was the account?”
He laid his hands on her shoulders. “It was your mother’s.”
“That’s not possible.”
“The message was routed out of Florence, on that area code, and under the account registered to Elizabeth Standford-Jones, and under her password. I’m sorry.”
“It can’t be.” She pulled away from him. “No matter how much—how little—no matter what,” she managed. “She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t hate me this much. I can’t accept that.”
“She had access to both bronzes. No one would question her. She sent for you, then she fired you and sent you home. She pulled you away from the Institute. I’m sorry.” He put his hand to her cheek. “But you’re going to have to consider the facts.”
It was logical. It was hideous. She closed her eyes, and let his arms come around her.
“Excuse me.”
She jerked in his arms as if they were bullets and not words at her back. Very slowly, she turned, took a long bracing breath. “Hello, Mother.”
Elizabeth didn’t look as though she’d spent the last several hours flying across an ocean and dealing with the small annoyances that come with international travel. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her steel-blue suit showed not a single crease or wrinkle.
Miranda felt as she always did when faced with her mother’s unwavering perfection—tousled, awkward, ungainly. Now suspicion was added to the mix. Could this woman who’d preached integrity all of her life have betrayed her own daughter?
“I apologize for interrupting your . . . work.”
Too accustomed to parental disapproval to react, Miranda merely nodded. “Elizabeth Standford-Jones, Ryan Boldari.”
“Mr. Boldari.” Elizabeth assessed the situation, decided that the gallery owner had demanded Miranda’s participation in the project for more reasons than her qualifications. Because the results benefited the Institute, she put warmth in her smile. “How nice to finally meet you.”
“A pleasure.” He crossed the room to take her hand, noting that mother and daughter didn’t even bother with the cool air kisses women often exchanged. “I hope your flight was uneventful.”
“It was, thank you.” A beautiful face, she thought, and a smooth manner. The photographs she’d seen of him in art magazines over the years hadn’t quite been able to capture the power of the combination. “I apologize for not being able to get away sooner as I’d planned. I hope the project is progressing as you anticipated, Mr. Boldari.”
“Ryan, please. And it’s already exceeded my expectations. Your daughter is everything I could wish for.”
“You’ve been busy,” she said to Miranda.
“Very. We’ve closed off the wing on this level to the public for the last two days. The team’s put in a lot of hours, but it’s paying off.”
“Yes, I can see it is.” She scanned the room, impressed and pleased, but only said, “You have work to do yet, of course. You’ll be able to tap the talents of Standjo now. Several staff members flew out today, and a few others will be here by tomorrow. They know they’re at your disposal. Elise and Richard are here now, along with Vincente and his wife.”
“Does Andrew know Elise is here?”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “If he doesn’t, he will shortly.” And the warning in her tone was clear. No personal family business was to be discussed or allowed to interfere. “Your father is due in tonight. He’ll be a tremendous help with the final selections of the artifacts.”
“I’ve already made the final selections,” Miranda said flatly.
“It’s rare that any project of this size can’t benefit from a fresh eye.”
“Are you planning to take me off this project too?”
There was a moment when it appeared Elizabeth would respond. Her lips trembled open, but then firmed again as she turned to Ryan. “I’d very much like to see your Vasaris.”
“Yes, Ryan, show her the Vasaris. They’re in the next area. If you’ll both excuse me, I have an appointment.”
“I feel obliged to tell you, Elizabeth,” Ryan began when Miranda walked out, “that this very impressive exhibit wouldn’t have been possible without your daughter. She conceived it, designed it, and has implemented it.”
“I’m well aware of Miranda’s talents.”
“Are you?” He said it mildly, with a slight and deliberately mocking lift of brow. “Obviously I’m mistaken then. I assumed since you didn’t comment on the results of four weeks of intense work on her part, you found them lacking in some way.”
Something flickered in her eyes that might have been embarrassment. He hoped it was. “Not at all. I have every confidence in Miranda’s capabilities. If she has a flaw it’s overenthusiasm and the tendency to become too personally involved.”
“Most would consider those assets rather than flaws.”
He was baiting her, but she couldn’t see the reason for it. “In business, objectivity is essential. I’m sure you’d agree.”
“I prefer passion in all things. Riskier, but the benefits are much more rewarding. Miranda has passion, but she tends to repress it. Hoping, I’d guess, for your approval. Do you ever give it?”
Temper showed coldly on her, a chill in the eyes, frost lining the voice. “My relationship with Miranda isn’t your concern, Mr. Boldari, any more than your relationship with her is mine.”
“Odd. I’d say the opposite was true, since your daughter and I are lovers.”
Her fingers tightened briefly on the strap of the slim leather attaché case she carried. “Miranda is an adult. I don’t interfere with her personal affairs.”
“Just her professional ones, then. Tell me about The Dark Lady.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Dark Lady.” He kept his eyes on hers. “Where is she?”
“The Fiesole Bronze,” Elizabeth said evenly, “was stolen from a storeroom at the Bargello several weeks ago. Neither I nor the authorities have any idea of its current location.”
“I wasn’t speaking of the copy, but of the original.”
“Original?” Her face remained blank. But he saw something behind it. Knowledge, shock, consideration—it was difficult to be sure with a woman with such rigid control.
“Elizabeth?” A group of people came in, with Elise in the forefront. Ryan saw a small, finely built woman with a pixie crop of hair and big, brilliant eyes. One step behind was a balding, pale-faced man he tagged as Richard Hawthorne, then a lushly built Sophia Loren look-alike with her arm through that of a robust man with olive skin and glossy white hair. The Morellis, he decided. Hovering over them, beaming loving avuncular smiles, was John Carter.
“Excuse me.” Elise linked her pretty hands together. “I didn’t know you were busy.”
More grateful for the interruption than she would allow to show, Elizabeth made introductions.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” Elise told him. “I was in your gallery in New York only last year. It’s a treasure. And this.” Her eyes shone as she turned a circle. “This is glorious. Richard, get your nose away from that map and look at the paintings.”
He turned, a sheepish smile on his face. “I can never resist a map. It’s an excellent exhibit.”
“You must have worked like dogs.” Vincente gave Carter a hearty slap on the back.
“I expected to be called on to scrub floors at any moment. Miranda had us jumping through hoops.” Carter smiled sheepishly again. “The restoration on the Bronzino was only finished yesterday. I heard everyone in the department shuddered when they saw her coming. Every department head’s been chugging Maalox for the past two weeks. Doesn’t seem to bother Miranda. Woman’s got nerves of steel.”
“She’s done a brilliant job.” Elise glanced around again. “Where is she?”
“She had an appointment,” Elizabeth said.
“I’ll catch up with her later. I hope she’ll put us to work.”
“She knows you’re available.”
“Good. I, um, I thought I’d see if Andrew’s free for a few moments.” She sent Elizabeth an apologetic and wistful smile. “I’d like to see how he’s doing. If you don’t need me just now.”
“No, go ahead.” She glanced over with mild amusement as Gina Morelli exclaimed and cooed over the display of jewelry. “Richard, I know you’ve been chafing to visit the library.”
“I’m predictable.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
“We’ll know where to find him,” Vincente said. “He’ll be buried in books. Me, I’ll wait for Gina to study and covet every bauble—then she’ll drag me shopping.” He shook his head. “She too is predictable.”
“Two hours,” Elizabeth announced, in the tone of the director. “Then we’ll meet back here and do what needs to be done.”
Elise hesitated outside the door of Andrew’s office. His assistant was away from her desk, and she was grateful. Ms. Purdue was devoted to Andrew and wouldn’t approve of an ex-wife’s unscheduled visit. She heard his voice through the open door. It w
as a strong voice and brought her an odd nostalgia.
She’d always liked his voice. The clear tone of it, the upper-crust accent, faintly Kennedyesque, she thought. She supposed, in her way, she’d seen him as a kind of scion of that type of high-powered, successful New England family.
There had been such potential in their marriage, she thought. She’d had such hopes. But in the end, there’d been nothing to do but divorce and move on. From what she knew, she had moved on with considerably more success than Andrew.
Though she was aware of the regret in her eyes, she fixed on a bright smile and rapped lightly on the jamb.
“We’re expecting five hundred guests,” he said into the phone, then glanced up and froze.
It all flooded back in individual drops of memory. The first time he’d seen her when she took over the job as assistant lab manager at his father’s recommendation. In a lab coat and goggles. The way she’d pushed the goggles up to rest on her head when Miranda introduced them.