by Nora Roberts
But he’d tried, Andrew told himself, letting the whiskey slide down his throat in a hot caress. He’d done his best to make his marriage work, to make Elise happy, to be the kind of husband she wanted and break the Jones curse.
And had failed all around.
“I’ll take another, Annie.”
“No, you won’t.”
Andrew shifted on his stool, sighed gustily. He’d known Annie McLean most of his life, and knew how to get around her.
In the sweet summer when they were seventeen, they’d tumbled together onto a rough blanket over rougher sand and had made love by the crashing waves of the Atlantic.
He supposed the stumbling sex—which had turned out to be a first for both of them—had as much to do with the beer they’d consumed, the night itself, and the foolishness of youth as the licks of heat they’d sparked off each other.
And neither of them could have known what that one night, those few hot hours by the sea, would do to both of them.
“Come on, Annie, let me have another drink.”
“You’ve already had two.”
“So one more won’t hurt.”
Annie finished drawing a beer, slid the mug gracefully down the length of the cherry wood bar toward the waiting customer. Briskly, she wiped her narrow hands on her bar apron.
At five-six and a hundred thirty well-toned pounds, Annie McLean gave the impression of no-nonsense competence.
A select few—including a two-timing cheat of an ex-husband—knew there was a delicate-winged blue butterfly on her butt.
Her wheat-colored hair was worn short and spiky to frame a face more interesting than pretty. Her chin was pointed, her nose listed slightly to the left and was splattered with freckles. Her voice was pure Down East and tended to flatten vowels.
She could, and had, tossed grown men out of her bar with her own work-roughened hands.
Annie’s Place was hers because she’d made it hers. She’d sunk every penny of her savings from her days of cocktail waitressing into the bar—every penny her slick-talking ex hadn’t run off with—and had begged and borrowed the rest. She’d worked day and night transforming what had been little more than a cellar into a comfortable neighborhood bar.
She ran a clean place, knew her regulars, their families, their troubles. She knew when to draw another draft, when to switch to coffee, and when to demand car keys and call cabs.
She looked at Andrew and shook her head. He’d drink himself blind if she let him.
“Andrew, go home. Make yourself a meal.”
“I’m not hungry.” He smiled, knowing how to put his dimples to work. “It’s cold and rainy out, Annie. I just want a little something to warm the blood.”
“Fine.” She turned to the coffee station and filled a mug from the pot. “This is hot and fresh.”
“Christ. I can go right down the street and get a goddamn drink without the hassle.”
She merely lifted her eyebrows. “Drink your coffee and stop whining.” With this, she began to work her way down the bar.
The rain was keeping most of her customers home. But those who had braved the storm were glued to their seats, sipping beer, watching the sports channel on TV, huddled in conversations.
There was a pretty fire burning in the little stone hearth and someone had plugged in quarters and Ella Fitzgerald on the juke.
It was her kind of night. Warm, friendly, easy. This was the reason she’d been willing to risk every dime, to work her hands raw and lie awake in bed worrying night after night. Not many had believed she could succeed, a twenty-six-year-old woman whose only business experience had come from serving mugs of beer and counting tips.
Seven years later, and Annie’s Place was a Jones Point standard.
Andrew had believed, she remembered with a tug of guilt as she saw him stomp out of the bar. He’d lent her money when the banks wouldn’t. He’d come by with sandwiches when she’d been painting walls and staining wood. He’d listened to her dreams when others had ignored them.
He figured he owed her, she thought now. And he was a decent man who paid his debts.
But he couldn’t erase the night sixteen years before when, lost in love with him, she’d given him her innocence, taken his. He couldn’t make her forget that in doing so they’d created a life, one that had flickered only briefly.
He couldn’t make her forget the look on his face when, with joy leaping under terror, she’d told him she was pregnant. His face had gone blank, his body stiff as he sat on the rock on the long stretch of beach and stared out to sea.
And his voice had been flat, cool, impersonal when he offered to marry her.
Paying a debt, she thought now. Nothing more, nothing less. And by offering to do what most would consider the honorable thing, he’d broken her heart.
Losing the baby only two weeks later was fate, she supposed. It had spared both of them overwhelming decisions. But she’d loved what had been growing inside her, just as she’d loved Andrew.
Once she accepted the baby was gone, she’d stopped loving. That, she knew, had been as much a relief to Andrew as it had been to her.
The hum of friendship, she thought, was a lot easier to dance to than the pluck of heartstrings.
Damn women were the bane of his existence, Andrew decided as he unlocked his car and climbed behind the wheel. Always telling you what to do, how to do it, and most of all how you were doing it wrong.
He was glad he was done with them.
He was better off burying himself in work at the Institute by day and blurring the edges with whiskey at night. Nobody got hurt that way. Especially him.
Now he was much too sober, and the night ahead was much too long.
He drove through the rain, wondering what it would be like to just keep driving. To go until he just ran out of gas and start fresh wherever that might be. He could change his name, get a job in construction. He had a strong back and good hands. Maybe hard, manual labor was the answer.
No one would know him, or expect anything of him.
But he knew he wouldn’t. He would never leave the Institute. It was, as nothing else had ever been, home. He needed it every bit as much as it needed him.
Well, he had a bottle or two at the house. There was no reason he couldn’t have a couple drinks in front of his own fire to lull him to sleep.
But he saw the lights winking through the rain as he drove up the winding lane. Miranda. He hadn’t expected his sister home, not for days yet. His fingers tightened on the wheel as he thought of her in Florence, with Elise. It took him several minutes after he’d stopped the car before he was able to relax them.
The wind whipped at him as he shoved the car door open. Rain slapped at his face and streamed down his collar. Directly over the peaks and gables of the house, the sky exploded with sharp forks of lightning.
A wild night. He imagined Miranda was inside enjoying it. She loved a good storm. For himself, he would take peace, quiet, and oblivion.
He dashed toward the door, then shook himself like a dog the minute he was inside the foyer. He hung his wet coat on the old oak hall rack, dragged a hand through his hair without glancing in the antique mirror. He could hear the funereal tones of Mozart’s Requiem coming from the parlor.
If Miranda was playing that, he knew the trip hadn’t gone well.
He found her curled up in a chair in front of the fire, bundled into her favored gray cashmere robe, sipping tea from their grandmother’s best china.
All of her comfort tools, he noted, neatly in place.
“You’re back early.”
“Looks that way.” She studied him. She was sure he’d been drinking, but his eyes were clear, his color normal. At least he was still marginally sober.
Though he wanted a drink, he sat down across from her. It was easy to spot the signs of simmering temper. But he knew her better than anyone, and could also see the misery under it. “So, what’s the deal?”
“She had a project for me.” Be
cause she’d hoped he would come home before she went to bed, Miranda had brought two cups. She poured tea into the second now and pretended she didn’t see Andrew’s wince of distaste.
She knew very well he’d prefer a glass of whiskey.
“An incredible project,” Miranda continued, holding out the cup and saucer. “A bronze was discovered in the cellar of the Villa della Donna Oscura. Do you know the history of the place?”
“Refresh me.”
“Giulietta Buonadoni.”
“Okay, got it. The Dark Lady, a mistress of one of the Medicis.”
“Lorenzo the Magnificent—at least he was her first protector,” Miranda specified, grateful that Andrew’s knowledge of the era was thorough enough. It would save time. “The bronze was of the lady herself, no mistaking that face. She wanted me to do the tests, the dating.”
He waited a beat. “Elise could have handled it.”
“Elise’s field is broader than mine.” There was a hint of annoyance in Miranda’s tone. “Renaissance is my era, bronzes my specialty. Elizabeth wanted the best.”
“She always does. So, you ran the tests?”
“I ran them. I ran them again. I had top members of the staff assisting me. I did everything, personally, step by step. Then I went back and did it all again.”
“And?”
“It was genuine, Andrew.” Some of the excitement leaked through as she leaned forward. “Late fifteenth century.”
“That’s incredible. Wonderful. Why aren’t you celebrating?”
“There’s more.” She had to take a breath, steady herself. “It’s a Michelangelo.”
“Jesus.” He set his cup aside hurriedly. “Are you sure? I don’t remember anything about a lost bronze.”
A stubborn line dug its way between her eyebrows. “I’d stake my reputation on it. It’s an early work, brilliantly executed—it’s a gorgeous piece, echoing the sensual style of his drunken Bacchus. I was still working on documentation when I left, but there’s enough to support it.”
“The bronze wasn’t documented?”
Miranda began to tap her foot in irritation. “Giulietta probably hid it, or at least kept it to herself. Politics. It fits,” she insisted. “I’d have proven it without a doubt if she’d given me more time.”
“Why didn’t she?”
Unable to sit, Miranda unfolded her legs and got up to jab at the fire with a poker. “Someone leaked it to the press. We weren’t nearly ready for an official announcement, and the government got nervous. They fired Standjo, and she fired me. She accused me of leaking it.” Furious, she whirled back. “Of wanting the glory so badly I’d have risked the project to get it. I would never have done that.”
“No, of course not.” He could brush that aside without a thought. “They fired her.” Though it was small of him, he couldn’t quite stop the grin. “I bet that set her off.”
“She was livid. Under other circumstances, I might get some satisfaction out of that. But now I’ve lost the project. Not only won’t I get credit, but the only way I’ll see that piece again is in a museum. Damn it, Andrew, I was so close.”
“You can bet that when the bronze is authenticated and announced, she’ll find a way to get Standjo’s name in it.” He arched a brow at his sister. “And when she does, you’ll just have to make sure yours isn’t left out.”
“It’s not the same.” She took it away from me, was all Miranda could think.
“Take what you can get.” He rose as well, wandering over to the liquor cabinet. Because he would have to ask. “You saw Elise?”
“Yes.” Miranda slid her hands into the pockets of her robe. Because she would have to answer. “She looks fine. I think she’s well suited to managing the lab there. She asked how you were.”
“And you told her I was just dandy.”
Miranda watched him pour the first drink. “I didn’t think you wanted me to tell her you were turning into a brooding, self-destructive drunk.”
“I’ve always brooded,” he said, saluting her. “All of us do, so that doesn’t count. Is she seeing anyone?”
“I don’t know. We never got around to discussing our sex lives. Andrew, you have to stop this.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a waste and it’s stupid. And frankly, though I like her, she’s not worth it.” She lifted her shoulders. “No one’s worth it.”
“I loved her,” he murmured, watching the liquor swirl before he drank. “I gave her the best I had.”
“Did you ever consider that maybe she didn’t give her best? Maybe she was the one who didn’t measure up?”
He studied Miranda over the rim of his glass. “No.”
“Maybe you should. Or maybe you should consider that the best you had and the best she had didn’t equal the best together. Marriages fail all the time. People get over it.”
He studied the liquor, watching the light flicker through the glass. “Maybe if they didn’t get over it so easily, marriages wouldn’t fail so often.”
“And maybe if people didn’t pretend love makes the world go round, they’d pick their partners with more care.”
“Love does make the world go round, Miranda. That’s why the world’s so fucked up.”
He lifted his glass and drank deeply.
five
T he sky shimmered with a cold, gray, angry dawn. Restless, dark, and full of sound, the sea hammered against the rocks and rose up to punch its white fists into the raw and bitter air. Spring would have a fight on its hands before it could beat back winter.
Nothing could have pleased Miranda more.
She stood on the bluff, her mood as fitful as the churning water below. She watched it spew up from the rocks, ice-edged and mean, and drew in the ancient violence of its scent.
She’d slept poorly, tangled in dreams she blamed on temper as much as travel fatigue. She wasn’t one for dreaming. It was still dark when she’d given up on sleep, and had dressed in a thick green sweater and dun-colored slacks of soft wool. She’d scraped out the last of the coffee—Andrew wasn’t going to be pleased when he awoke—and had brewed herself half a pot.
Now she sipped that coffee, strong and black, out of a big white mug and watched dawn claw its way to life in the unhappy eastern sky.
The rain had stopped, but it would come back, she thought. And as the temperatures had dropped sharply through the night, it would likely come back as snow and sleet. That was fine, that was dandy.
That was Maine.
Florence, with its white, flashing sun and warm, dry wind, was an ocean away. But inside her, in her angry heart, it was close.
The Dark Lady had been her ticket to glory. Elizabeth was right about that at least. Glory was always the goal. But by God, she had worked for it. She’d studied, pushing herself brutally to learn, to absorb, to remember, when her contemporaries had jumped from party to party and relationship to relationship.
There’d been no wild rebellious period in her life, no thumbing her nose at rules and traditions while in college, no mad, heart-wrenching affairs. Repressed, one roommate had called her. Boring as dirt had been the opinion of another. Because some secret part of her had agreed, she had solved that problem by moving off campus and into a small apartment of her own.
She’d been better off, Miranda always thought. She had no skill for social interactions. Beneath the armor of composure and the starch of training she was miserably shy with people, and so much more comfortable with information.
So she had read, written, closed herself into other centuries with a discipline fired by the hot light of ambition.
That ambition had one focus. To be the best. And by being the best, to see her parents look at her with pride, with stunned delight, with respect. Oh, it galled her to know that motivation was buried inside her still, but she’d never been able to dig it out and dispose of it.
She was nearly thirty, had her doctorate, her position at the Institute, a solid reputation in archeometry. And a pitif
ul need to hear her parents applaud her act. Well, she would just have to get over it.
Before long, she thought, her findings would be proven. Then she would make certain that she gained the credit she deserved. She would write a paper on The Dark Lady, and her own involvement in its testing and authentication. And she would never, never forgive Elizabeth for taking the control and the joy out of her hands. Or for having the power to do so.
The wind rose, sneaking under her sweater like hands grabbing at flesh. The first thin, wet flakes began to swirl. Miranda turned from the sea, her boots clattering on rock as she climbed down the cliff.
The steady beam of the great light continued to circle atop the white tower, shooting out over the water and rock though there were no ships within its range. From dusk to dawn, year after year, she thought, it never failed. Some would look and see romance, but when Miranda studied the sturdy whitewashed tower, she saw reliability.
More, she thought now, than was usually found in people.
In the distance the house was still dark and sleepy, a fanciful silhouette from another time etched against an unforgiving sky.
The grass was a sickly winter brown and crunched under her heels from frost. The scar of her grandmother’s once lovely garden seemed to scold her.
This year, Miranda promised herself when she passed the blackened leaves and brittle sticks of stems, she would give it some time and attention. She would make gardening her hobby—she was always promising herself a hobby.
In the kitchen, she poured the last of the coffee from the pot into her mug. After a final glance outside at the fast-falling snow, she decided to drive to the Institute early, before the roads were covered.
From the warm comfort of his rented Mercedes, he watched the Land Rover glide effortlessly over the thin layer of snow on the street, then turn into the parking lot beside the New England Institute of Art History. It looked like a vehicle that should have been driven by a general during an elegant little war.
She made quite a picture herself, he mused, watching her climb out. About six feet of female in her boots, he judged, and most of it wrapped in a steel-gray coat that owed more to warmth than fashion. Her hair was a sexy stoplight red that escaped in untidy curls from a black ski cap. She carried a thick briefcase that bulged a bit with its contents, and she moved with a precision and purpose that would have made that wartime general proud.
