by Nora Roberts
“You expecting anyone today? Housekeeper, cable guy, appliance repairman?”
“No. The cleaning company comes on Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“Cleaning company.” He took off his jacket. “You won’t get homey casseroles and sage advice from cleaning companies. You need a housekeeper named Mabel who wears a white bib apron and sensible shoes.”
“The cleaning company is efficient, and unobtrusive.”
“Too bad. Andrew’s left for work by now.” He noted by his watch it was eight-fifteen. “What time does your assistant get in?”
“Lori gets in by nine, usually a bit before.”
“You’ll need to call her—got her home number?”
“Yes, but—”
“Give her a call, tell her you’re not going to make it in today.”
“Of course I’m going in. I have meetings.”
“She’ll cancel them.” He moved into the parlor and made himself at home by stacking kindling for a fire. “Tell her to get copies of personnel records for the lab, going back three years. It’s the best place to start. Have her shoot them to your computer here.”
He lighted the starter and within seconds the kindling was crackling. She said nothing as he chose two logs from the woodbox, and placed them on the flaming kindling with the efficiency of an Eagle Scout.
When he rose, turned, her smile was as sharp and unfriendly as an unsheathed blade. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Honey, you’re going to have to take orders a bit more cheerfully. Somebody’s got to be in charge, you know.”
“And you’re in charge.”
“That’s right.” He crossed over to her, took her by the shoulders. “I know a lot more about larceny than you do.”
“Most people wouldn’t consider that an attribute for leadership.”
“Most people aren’t trying to catch a thief.” His gaze roamed down, lingered on her mouth.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“I never censor my thoughts. It gives you ulcers. We could enjoy this . . . association a lot more if you were a little friendlier.”
“Friendlier?”
“More flexible.” He drew her closer. “In certain areas.”
She let her body bump lightly against his, allowed her lashes to flutter. “Such as?”
“Well, for starters . . .” He lowered his head, drew in her scent, anticipated that first taste. And his breath whooshed out in a pained rush as her fist plowed into his stomach.
“I told you to keep your hands off of me.”
“So you did.” With a slow nod, he rubbed his gut. Another few inches to the south, he thought, and her fist would have unmanned him. “You’ve got a good, solid punch, Dr. Jones.”
“Be grateful I pulled it, Boldari.” Though she hadn’t, not by an inch. “Or you’d be on your hands and knees whistling for air. I take it we understand each other on this point.”
“Perfectly. Make the call, Miranda. And let’s get to work.”
She did what he asked because it made sense. The only way to proceed was to begin, and to begin you needed a starting point.
By nine-thirty, she was in her home office, calling up data on her desktop.
The room was as efficient as her office at the Institute, if slightly cozier. Ryan had lighted a fire there as well, though she didn’t consider it cold enough to indulge in one. Flames crackled cheerfully in the stone hearth; the late-winter sun beamed through the curtains he’d swept back.
They sat hip to hip at her desk, scanning names.
“Looks like you had an unusually large turnover about eighteen months ago,” he pointed out.
“Yes. My mother revamped her lab in Florence. Several staff members transferred there, or moved from there to the Institute.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t jump at it.”
“At what?”
“A move to Florence.”
She shot the file to the printer. A hard copy would mean she didn’t have to sit next to him. “It wasn’t an option. Andrew and I run the Institute. My mother runs Standjo.”
“I see.” And he thought he did. “Some friction between you and Mama?”
“My family relationships are none of your concern.”
“More than some friction, I’d say. How about your father?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are you Daddy’s little girl?”
She laughed before she could stop herself, then rose to retrieve the printout. “I’ve never been anyone’s little girl.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, and meant it.
“My family isn’t the issue here.” She sat on the raspberry-colored love seat and tried to concentrate on the names that kept blurring in front of her tired eyes.
“They could be. Yours is a family-run business. Maybe someone took a shot at your family by taking the bronze.”
“Your Italian’s showing,” she said dryly, and made him smile.
“The Irish are every bit as interested in revenge, darling. Tell me about the people on the list.”
“John Carter. Lab manager. Got his doctorate from Duke. He’s worked at the Institute for sixteen years. Oriental art is his primary interest.”
“No, get personal. Is he married? Does he pay alimony? Gamble, drink his lunch, dress in women’s clothes on Saturday night?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She tried to sit up straight, then gave in and curled up her legs. “He’s married, no divorces. Two children. I think the oldest just started college.”
“Takes a lot of money to raise kids, send them to college.” He scanned across, noted the annual salary. “He makes a decent living, but decent doesn’t satisfy everyone.”
“His wife’s a lawyer, and likely makes more than he does. Money isn’t a problem for them.”
“Money’s always a problem. What kind of car does he drive?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
“How does he dress?”
She started to sigh, but thought she saw what he was getting at. “Old jackets and silly ties,” she began, closing her eyes to try to bring her lab manager into focus. “No flash—though his wife bought him a Rolex for their twentieth anniversary.” She stifled a yawn and snuggled down a little farther into the cushions. “He wears the same shoes every day. Hush Puppies. When they’re ready to fall off his feet, he buys another pair.”
“Take a nap, Miranda.”
“I’m all right. Who’s next?” She forced her eyes open. “Oh, Elise. My brother’s ex-wife.”
“Ugly divorce?”
“I don’t imagine they’re ever pretty, but she was very gentle with him. She was John’s assistant here, then transferred to Florence. She’s lab manager for my mother. She and Andrew met at the Institute—in fact, I introduced them. He fell like a tree. They were married six months later.” She yawned again, and didn’t bother to stifle it.
“How long did it last?”
“A couple of years. They seemed very happy for most of it, then it just started to fall apart.”
“What did she want? Snazzy clothes, European vacations, a big, fancy house?”
“She wanted his attention,” Miranda mumbled, and pillowed her head on her hands. “She wanted him to stay sober and focused on their marriage. It’s the Jones curse. We just can’t do it. We’re relationship-jinxed. I have to rest my eyes a minute.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
He went back to studying the list. Right now they were just names on a page to him. He intended for them to be a great deal more. Before it was done, he would know the intimate details. Bank balances. Vices. Habits.
And to that list he added three names: Andrew Jones, Charles Jones, and Elizabeth Standford-Jones.
He rose, then bent down to slip her glasses off, lay them on the table beside her. She didn’t look like an innocent young girl in sleep, he decided. But like an exhausted woman.
Moving quietly, he took the chenille throw from the back of the l
ove seat and tossed it over her. He’d let her sleep an hour or two, recharge her mind and her body.
Somewhere inside her were the answers, he was sure of it. She was the link.
While she slept he made a call to New York. There was no point in having a brother who was a genius with computers if you didn’t use him once in a while.
“Patrick? It’s Ryan.” He eased back in the chair and watched Miranda sleep. “I’ve got several things on my plate here, and a little hacker job I don’t have time to deal with. Interested?” He laughed. “Yeah, it pays.”
Church bells were ringing. The music of them echoed over the red-tiled roofs and out to the distant hills. The air was warm, the sky as blue as the inside of a wish.
But in the dank basement of the villa, the shadows were thick. She shivered once as she pried off the stair tread. It was there, she knew it was there.
Waiting for her.
Wood splintered as she hacked at it. Hurry. Hurry. Her breath began to wheeze in her lungs, sweat dripped nastily down her back. And her hands trembled as she reached for it, drew it out of the dark and played her flashlight over the features.
Uplifted arms, generous breasts, a seductive tumble of hair. The bronze was glossy, without the blue-green patina of age. She could trace her fingers over it and feel the chill of the metal.
Then there was harpsong and the light laughter of a woman. The eyes of the statue took on life and luster, the bronze mouth smiled and said her name.
Miranda.
She awoke with a jolt, her heart galloping. For a moment she would have sworn she smelled perfume—floral and strong. And could hear the faint echo of harp strings.
But it was the buzzer on the front door that sounded, repeatedly and with some impatience. Shaken, Miranda tossed back the throw and hurried out of the room.
It was surprising enough to see Ryan at the open front door. But it was a shock to the heart to see her father standing on the doorstep.
“Father.” She cleared the sleep out of her voice and tried again. “Hello. I didn’t know you were coming to Maine.”
“Just got in.” He was a tall man, trim, browned by the sun. His hair was full and thick and shiny as polished steel. It matched his trim beard and moustache and suited his narrow face.
His eyes—the same deep blue as his daughter’s—peered out of the lenses of wire-rim glasses and studied Ryan.
“I see you have company. I hope I’m not intruding.”
Sizing up the situation quickly, Ryan offered a hand. “Dr. Jones, what a pleasure. Rodney J. Pettebone. I’m an associate of your daughter’s—and a friend, I hope. Just in from London,” he continued, stepping back and drawing Charles neatly inside. He glanced toward the stairs where Miranda continued to stand, staring at him as if he’d grown two heads.
“Miranda’s been kind enough to give me a bit of her time while I’m here. Miranda dear.” He held out a hand and a ridiculously adoring smile.
She wasn’t sure which baffled her more, the puppy dog smile or the upper-crust British accent that was rolling off his tongue as if he’d been born a royal.
“Pettebone?” Charles frowned as Miranda stood stiff and still as one of her bronzes. “Roger’s boy.”
“No, he’s my uncle.”
“Uncle? I didn’t realize Roger had siblings.”
“Half brother, Clarence. My father. Can I take your coat, Dr. Jones?”
“Yes, thank you. Miranda, I was just at the Institute. I was told you weren’t feeling well today.”
“I was— A headache. Nothing . . .”
“We’ve been caught, darling.” Ryan moved up the stairs to take her hand, squeezing it hard enough to rub bone. “I’m sure your father will understand.”
“No,” Miranda said, definitely, “he won’t.”
“It’s completely my fault, Dr. Jones. I only have a few days in the country.” He accented this by kissing Miranda’s fingers lovingly. “I’m afraid I persuaded your daughter to take the day off. She’s helping me with my research on Flemish art of the seventeenth century. I’d be nowhere without her.”
“I see.” Obvious disapproval flickered in Charles’s eyes. “I’m afraid—”
“I was about to make some tea.” Miranda interrupted neatly. She needed a moment to realign her thoughts. “If you’ll excuse us, Father. Why don’t you wait in the parlor? It won’t take long. Rodney, you’ll give me a hand, won’t you?”
“Love to.” He beamed a smile when she returned the vise squeeze on his hand.
“Have you lost your mind?” she hissed as she slammed through the kitchen door. “Rodney J. Pettebone? Who the hell is that?”
“At the moment, I am. I’m not here, remember?” He pinched her chin.
“You gave my father the impression we were playing hooky, for God’s sake.” She grabbed the kettle from the stove and took it to the sink. “Not only that, but that we were spending the day playing patty-cake.”
“Patty-cake.” He just couldn’t resist it, and wrapped his arms around her back to hug. He didn’t even mind the elbow in the ribs. “You’re so cute, Miranda.”
“I am not cute, and I am not happy with this ridiculous lie.”
“Well, I suppose I could have told him I’m the one who stole the bronze. Then we could explain to him how it’s a forgery and the Institute is now hip-deep in insurance fraud. Somehow I think the fact that you’re playing patty-cake with some British twit is more palatable.”
Teeth clenched, she warmed the teapot. “Why a British twit, for God’s sake?”
“Just came to me. I thought he might be your type.” He smiled engagingly when she sent a withering look over her shoulder. “The point is, Miranda, your father’s here, he’s been to the Institute, he obviously wants some answers. You have to figure out just which answers to give him.”
“You don’t think I know that? Do I look stupid?”
“Not at all, but I’d say you’re an inherently honest person. Lying takes skill. What you have to do here is give him everything you knew up until the point where I joined you in bed this morning.”
“I could have figured that out for myself, Rodney.” But her stomach was already busy tying itself into knots over the lie.
“You’ve had less than three hours’ sleep. You’re sluggish. Where are your cups?” He reached into a cupboard.
“No, don’t use the everyday.” She waved an absent hand. “Get the good china out of the breakfront in the dining room.”
He lifted his brows. Good china was for company, not for family. It gave him another insight into Miranda Jones. “I’ll get two. I believe Rodney perceives your father wants to have a private chat with you.”
“Coward,” she muttered.
She arranged the pot, the cups, the saucers meticulously on the tray, and tried not to be annoyed that Ryan had gone up the back steps and left her to deal with it alone. She squared her shoulders, lifted the tray, and carried it out to the parlor, where her father stood in front of the fireplace, reading from a small leather notebook.
He was so handsome, was all she could think. Tall and straight and tanned, his hair shining. When she was very young, she’d thought he looked like a picture out of a fairy tale. Not a prince or a knight, but a wizard. So wise and dignified.
She’d so desperately wanted him to love her. To give her piggyback rides and cuddle her in his lap, to tuck the blankets around her at night and tell her foolish stories.
Instead, she’d had to settle for a mild and often absent kind of affection. No one had ever given her piggyback rides or told her foolish stories.
She sighed the sorrow of that away and continued into the room. “I asked Rodney to give us a few minutes alone,” she began. “I imagine you want to talk to me about the burglary.”
“Yes, I do. It’s very upsetting, Miranda.”
“Yes, we’re all very upset.” She set the tray down, settled into a chair, and poured out as she had been taught. “The police are investigating. We
have hopes to recover the bronze.”
“In the meantime, the publicity is damaging for the Institute. Your mother is distressed, and I’ve had to leave my project at a very key time to come here.”
“There was no reason for you to come.” Hands steady, she held out his cup. “Everything’s being done that can be done.”
“Obviously our security is not at an acceptable level. Your brother is responsible for that.”
“This isn’t Andrew’s fault.”
“We put the Institute in his hands, and yours,” he reminded her, and idly sipped his tea.
“He’s doing a marvelous job. Class attendance is up ten percent, gate receipts have increased. The quality of our acquisitions over the past five years has been astonishing.”
Oh, and it galled so to have to defend and justify when the man across from her had walked away from the responsibilities of the Institute as easily as he had the responsibilities of family.
“The Institute was never one of your priorities.” She said it mildly, knowing he would only tune out anger. “You preferred fieldwork. Andrew and I have put all our time and energy into it.”
“And now we have our first theft in more than a generation. It can’t be overlooked, Miranda.”
“No, but the time and sweat and work and the improvements we’ve made, they can be overlooked.”
“No one’s faulting your enthusiasm.” He waved it aside. “However, this must be dealt with. And with the negative publicity from your misstep in Florence added to it, it leaves us in a difficult position.”
“My misstep,” she murmured. How like him to use some limp euphemism for a crisis. “I did everything I was required to do in Florence. Everything.” When she felt the emotion spurting up, she swallowed it and met him on the dispassionate level he expected. “If I could see the results of the retesting, I could analyze my own results and determine where the mistakes were made.”
“That’s something you have to take up with your mother. Though I can tell you, she’s very displeased. If the press hadn’t been notified—”
“I never talked to the press.” She rose now, unable to sit, unable to pretend she was calm. “I never discussed The Dark Lady with anyone outside of the lab. Damn it, why would I?”
