The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 2

by Nora Roberts

  But beneath that long-legged stride was the arrogant and unwitting sexuality of a woman who believed herself a step beyond the physical need for men. It was a swinging, aloof gait.

  Even in the dim light, he recognized her. She was, he thought with a slow smile, a hard woman not to notice.

  He’d been sitting there for nearly an hour now, entertaining himself with various arias from Carmen, La Bohème, The Marriage of Figaro. Really, he had all he needed for now, and had done what he needed to do, but he was grateful he’d loitered long enough to see her arrive.

  An early riser, he decided, a woman who liked her work well enough to face it on a cold, snowy morning before most of the city stirred. He appreciated a person who enjoyed their work. God knew, he loved his.

  But what to do about Dr. Miranda Jones? he wondered. He imagined she was using the side entrance, even now sliding her key card through the slot, adding her code on the number pad. No doubt she would carefully reset the security alarms once she was inside.

  All reports indicated she was a practical and careful woman. He appreciated practical women. It was such a joy to corrupt them.

  He could work around her, or he could use her. Either way, he would get the job done. But using her would be so much more. . . entertaining. Since this would be his last job, it seemed only fair it include some entertainment in addition to the thrill and the profit.

  He thought it would be worth his while to get to know Miranda Jones, to indulge himself with her. Before he stole from her.

  He saw the light flick on in a window on the third floor of the sprawling granite building. Straight to work, he mused, smiling again as he caught the shadow of movement behind the window.

  It was about time he got to work himself. He started the car, pulled away from the curve, and drove off to dress for the next part of his day.

  The New England Institute of Art History had been built by Miranda’s great-grandfather. But it was her grandfather, Andrew Jones, who had expanded it to its full potential. He’d always had a keen interest in the arts, and had even fancied himself a painter. He’d been at least good enough to convince a number of healthy young models to take off their clothes and pose for him.

  He’d enjoyed socializing with artists, entertaining them, acting as patron when one—particularly an attractive female one—caught his eye. A ladies’ man and enthusiastic drinker he might have been, but he’d also been generous, imaginative, and had never been afraid to put his money where his heart lay.

  The building was a strong gray granite, spreading over a full block, with its towering columns, its wings and squared-off archways. The original structure had been a museum with carefully tended grounds, huge old shade trees, and a quiet, rather stern-faced dignity.

  Andrew had wanted more. He’d seen the Institute as a showcase for art and for artists, as an arena where art was displayed, restored, taught, and analyzed. So he had cut down the trees, slabbed over the grounds, and erected the graceful and somewhat fanciful additions to the original structure.

  There were classrooms with high light-filled windows, carefully designed laboratories, lofty storerooms, and a beehive of offices. Gallery space had been more than tripled.

  Students who wished to study there were taken on merit. Those who could afford to pay paid dearly for the privilege. Those who couldn’t, and were deemed worthy, were subsidized.

  Art was holy at the Institute, and science was its deity.

  Carved in a stone lintel above the main entrance were the words of Longfellow.

  ART IS LONG, AND TIME IS FLEETING

  Studying, preserving, and displaying that art was how the Institute spent its time.

  It remained basically true to Andrew’s conception fifty years later with his grandchildren at the helm.

  The museum galleries it held were arguably the finest in Maine, and the work represented there had been carefully chosen and acquired over the years, beginning with Charles’s and then Andrew’s own collections.

  The public areas swept the main floor, gallery spilling into gallery through wide archways. Classrooms and studios jammed the second level, with the restoration area separated from them by a small lobby where visitors with the correct passes could tour the work spaces.

  The labs occupied the lower level and shot off into all wings. They were, despite the grand galleries and educational facilities, the foundation.

  The labs, Miranda often thought, were her foundation as well.

  Setting her briefcase aside, she moved to the Federal library table under her window to brew coffee. As she switched the pot on, her fax line rang. After opening her blinds, she moved to the machine and took out the page.

  Welcome home, Miranda. Did you enjoy Florence? Too bad your trip was cut so rudely short. Where do you think you made your mistake? Have you thought about it? Or are you so sure you’re right?

  Prepare for the fall. It’s going to be a hard jolt.

  I’ve waited so long. I’ve watched so patiently.

  I’m watching still, and the wait’s almost over.

  Miranda caught herself rubbing a hand up and down her arm to warm it as she read the message. Though she made herself stop, the chill remained.

  There was no name, no return number.

  It read like a sly chuckle, she thought. The tone taunting and eerily threatening. But why, and who?

  Her mother? It shamed her that Elizabeth’s name was the first to form in her mind. But surely a woman of Elizabeth’s power, personality, and position wouldn’t stoop to cryptic and anonymous messages.

  She’d already hurt Miranda in the most direct way possible.

  It was more likely a disgruntled employee at either Standjo or the Institute, someone who felt she’d been unfair in her policy or work assignments.

  Of course, that was it, she decided and tried to breathe clearly again. A technician she’d reprimanded or a student who was unhappy with a grade. This was only meant to unsettle her, and she wouldn’t allow it to work.

  But rather than discarding it, she slipped it into her bottom drawer and turned the key in the lock.

  Putting it out of her mind, she sat to outline her day on paper. By the time she’d completed the first tasks on her list—reading her mail and memos, organizing her phone messages—the sun was up and streaming in bands through the slats of her blinds.

  “Miranda?” A quick rap on the door jolted her.

  “Yes, come in.” She glanced at the clock, noting her assistant was punctual, as always.

  “I saw your car in the lot. Didn’t know you were coming back today.”

  “No, it was . . . unscheduled.”

  “So how was Florence?” Lori moved briskly around the room, checking for messages, adjusting the slant of the blinds.

  “Warm, sunny.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” Satisfied all was in its proper place, Lori sat and perched her notebook on her knee. She was a pretty blonde with a Kewpie doll mouth, a voice like Betty Boop, and an edge of efficiency sharp as a honed razor. “It’s nice to have you back,” she said with a smile.

  “Thanks.” Because the welcome was sincere, Miranda smiled in return. “It’s nice to be back. I’ve got a lot to catch up on. Right now I need updates on the Carbello Nude and the Bronzino restoration.”

  The routine was soothing, so much so that Miranda forgot everything but the matters at hand for the next two hours. Leaving Lori to set up appointments and meetings, she headed out to check in with the lab.

  Because she was thinking of Andrew, Miranda decided to detour by his office before heading down. His domain was in the opposite wing, closer to the public areas. The galleries, acquisitions, and displays were his province, while Miranda preferred working mainly behind the scenes.

  She strode down the corridors, her practical boots treading over marble. Here and there the wide square windows allowed streams of pale light to streak over the floor, offered the muffled sound of street traffic, glimpses of buildings and bare trees.
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  Office doors were discreetly closed. The occasional sound of phones or the whine of faxes echoed dully. A secretary carried a ream of paper out of the supply room and shot Miranda a startled-rabbit look, before murmuring a “Good morning, Dr. Jones,” then scurrying on.

  Was she that intimidating? Miranda thought. That unfriendly? Because it made her think of the fax, she narrowed her eyes at the woman’s back as she scooted through a door and closed it behind her.

  Maybe she wasn’t outgoing, maybe the staff didn’t have the same easy affection for her that they seemed to have for Andrew, but she wasn’t . . . hard. Was she?

  It disturbed her to think so, to wonder if her innate reserve was perceived as coldness.

  Like her mother.

  No, she didn’t want to believe that. Those who knew her wouldn’t think so. She had a solid relationship with Lori, an easy camaraderie with John Carter. She didn’t run the lab here like a boot camp where no one could speak their mind or tell a joke.

  Though no one joked with her, she thought.

  She was in charge, she reminded herself. What else could she expect?

  Deliberately she relaxed her shoulders again. She couldn’t let one timid secretary set her off on a tangent of self-analysis.

  Because, happily, she had no appointments or public meetings scheduled, she wore the same sweater and trousers she’d slipped into that morning to watch the dawn. Her hair was bundled back in an excuse for a braid and curls were already escaping from the messy plait.

  She was thinking that it was past midday in Italy, and the bronze would be in intense testing. It made her shoulders knot up again.

  She stepped through the door of her brother’s outer office. Inside was a sturdy Victorian desk, two viciously straight-backed chairs, filing cabinets in no-nonsense gray, and the woman who guarded it all.

  “Good morning, Ms. Purdue.”

  Andrew’s assistant was somewhere on the downside of fifty, tidy as a nun and just as strict. She wore her streaky salt-and-pepper hair in an identical knot every day, year in, year out, and was never without a starched blouse and dark blazer and skirt.

  She was always Ms. Purdue.

  She nodded, removed her busy fingers from her keyboard and folded them neatly. “Good morning, Dr. Jones. I didn’t know you were back from Italy.”

  “I got back yesterday.” She tried a smile, thinking it was as good a time as any to be more personable with the staff. “It’s a bit of a shock coming back to this cold.” When Ms. Purdue responded only with a brisk nod, Miranda gave up on the idea—gratefully—of a chat. “Is my brother in?”

  “Dr. Jones just stepped downstairs to greet a guest. He should be back momentarily. Would you care to wait, or shall I take a message?”

  “No, it’s nothing. I’ll see him later.” She turned when she heard male voices echo up the stairs. If Ms. Purdue’s critical eyes hadn’t been on her, Miranda would have made a dash for cover rather than risk the possibility of socializing with Andrew’s guest.

  She wouldn’t be stuck if she’d gone straight to the lab, she thought, and briskly brushed the hair out of her eyes and fixed on a polite smile.

  Her smile wavered when Andrew and his companion reached the top of the stairs.

  “Miranda, this is handy.” Andrew beamed at her—and a quick survey showed Miranda no sign of a night of drinking. “Saves me from calling your office. I’d like you to meet Ryan Boldari, of the Boldari Gallery.”

  He stepped forward, took Miranda’s hand and brought it smoothly to his lips. “How nice to meet you, finally.”

  He had a face that could have been reproduced with rich bold strokes on one of the Institute’s paintings. The dark, wild good looks were only marginally tamed by an impeccably cut gray suit and perfectly knotted silk tie. His hair was thick, black as ink, and gloriously wavy. His skin was dusky gold, taut over strong bones and marred intriguingly by a small crescent-shaped scar at the far tip of his left eyebrow.

  His eyes held hers and were a dark, rich brown that took little drifts of gold from the light. His mouth might have been sculpted by a master and was curved in a smile designed to make a woman wonder how it would feel against hers. And sigh.

  She heard a ping—a single and cheerful snapping sound inside her head—as her heart bumped twice.

  “Welcome to the Institute, Mr. Boldari.”

  “I’m delighted to be here.” He kept her hand in his because it appeared to fluster her. However politely she smiled, there was a faint line of annoyance between her brows.

  She debated giving her hand one good tug, then decided it would seem entirely too female a move.

  “Why don’t we step into my office?” Oblivious to whatever games were being played under his nose, Andrew gestured toward his office door. “Miranda, got a minute?”

  “Actually, I was just—”

  “I’d appreciate a few moments of your time, Dr. Jones.” Ryan flashed that smile at her as he shifted his hand from hers to her elbow. “I have a proposition for your brother I believe you’ll be interested in. Your main field of study is Renaissance, isn’t it?”

  Trapped, she allowed herself to be guided into Andrew’s office. “That’s right.”

  “A brilliant era, so rich in beauty and energy. You know the work of Giorgio Vasari?”

  “Of course, Late Renaissance, a Mannerist, one whose style typified the movement toward elegance.”

  “Ryan has three Vasaris.” Andrew gestured toward chairs that, thanks to Ms. Purdue, weren’t covered with books and papers as they normally were.

  “Really?” Miranda took a seat and fixed on another smile. Andrew’s office was a great deal smaller than hers, because he preferred it that way. It was also cluttered, colorful, and full of the trinkets he liked to surround himself with. Old bones, shards of pottery, bits of glass. She would have preferred to hold this unexpected meeting in the acerbic formality of her own territory.

  Because she was nervous, she imagined herself drumming her fingers, wiggling her foot.

  “Yes.” Ryan gave his slacks a casual hitch to preserve the crease as he settled himself into a narrow leather-backed chair. “Don’t you find his work a bit self-conscious? Overripe?”

  “That too is typical of Mannerism,” Miranda countered. “Vasari is an important artist of that time and style.”

  “Agreed.” Ryan merely smiled. “On a personal level I prefer the style of the Early and High Renaissance, but business is business.” He waved a hand—he had strong, graceful hands, Miranda noted. Wide of palm, long of finger.

  It irritated her to notice, embarrassed her to have—for a second or two—imagined the feel of them on her skin. Like a teenager faced with a rock star, she thought, amazed at herself.

  When she deliberately shifted her gaze from his hands, it collided with his. He smiled again, with a definite gleam in his eyes.

  In defense her voice turned chilly. “And what business do you have with the Institute?”

  Fascinating woman, he thought. The body of a goddess, the manner of a prude, the fashion sense of a refugee, and a very appealing hint of shyness around those hot blue eyes.

  He kept his eyes locked on hers, delighted when faint and flattering color bloomed in her cheeks. In his opinion, women didn’t blush nearly often enough these days.

  He wondered how she looked in those wire-framed glasses that were hooked in the neck of her sweater.

  Scholarly sexy.

  “I met your brother a few months ago when we were both in D.C. for the Women in the Arts benefit. I believe he went in your stead.”

  “Yes, I couldn’t get away.”

  “Miranda was hip-deep in the lab.” Andrew grinned. “I’m more easily dispensable.” He leaned back in his own chair. “Ryan’s interested in our Cellini Madonna.”

  Miranda arched a brow. “It’s one of our prizes.”

  “Yes, I’ve just seen it. Glorious. Your brother and I discussed a trade.”

  “The Cellini.” He
r gaze whipped to her brother. “Andrew.”

  “Not permanent,” Ryan said quickly, and didn’t bother to disguise the chuckle at her quick distress. “A three-month exchange—to our mutual benefit. I’m planning on doing a Cellini exhibit in our New York gallery, and the loan of your Madonna would be a coup for me. In exchange, I’m willing to lend the Institute all three of my Vasaris for the same span of time.”

  “You could do the three-styles-of-the-Renaissance exhibit you’ve muttered about for years,” Andrew pointed out.

  It was one of her dreams, a full-scale exhibit showcasing the full scope of her field of interest. Art, artifacts, history, documents, all on display, precisely as she chose.

  She kept her hands neatly folded to stop herself from pumping a triumphant fist in the air.

  “Yes, I suppose I could.” She felt the quick churn of excitement in her gut, but turned placidly to Ryan. “The Vasaris have been authenticated.”

  Ryan inclined his head, and both of them pretended not to hear Andrew’s low moan. “Yes, of course. I’ll see that you get copies of the documents before we draft the agreement. And you’ll do the same for me, on the Cellini.”

  “I can have them for you today. My assistant can have them messengered to your hotel.”

  “Good. I’d appreciate it.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to work out the details.”

  But when she rose, he rose with her, and took her hand again. “I wonder if I can impose on you to show me around a bit. Andrew tells me that the labs and restoration facilities are your milieu. I’d very much like to see them.”

  “I—”

  Before she could excuse herself, Andrew was up and giving her a none too subtle jab in the ribs. “You couldn’t be in better hands. I’ll see you back here in a couple hours, Ryan. Then we’ll check out that clam chowder I promised you.”