by Nora Roberts
It made her smile, then it made her sigh.
She simply wasn’t fashioned for romance. And hadn’t she proven it? The only man who’d ever stirred her to the point of aching was a thief with no more integrity than a mushroom.
She was better, much better off alone. As she’d always been.
She reached the river, watched the dying sun sprinkle its last lights on the water. When the roar of an engine sounded behind her, when that engine revved violently, impatiently, she knew he’d found her. She’d known he would.
“Get on.”
She glanced back, saw his furious face, the way that anger could turn those warm golden eyes to deadly ice. He was all in black now, as she was, and astride a blue motorbike. The wind had blown his hair into disorder. He looked dangerous, and absurdly sexy.
“I can walk, thanks.”
“Get on, Miranda. Because if I have to get off and put you on, it’s going to hurt.”
Since the alternative was to run like a coward, and likely be run over for her trouble, she shrugged carelessly. She walked to the curb, swung a leg over to sit behind him. She gripped the back of the seat for balance.
But when he took off like a bullet, survival instinct took over and had her wrapping her arms tightly around him.
seventeen
“I guess I should have used the handcuffs after all.” After taking the narrow, winding streets with a reckless and risky speed that suited his mood, Ryan jerked the bike to a halt in the Piazzale Michelangelo.
It seemed apt, and it gave them a heart-shattering view of Florence, with the Tuscan hills rising beyond. As well as the privacy he wanted should he decide to commit violence.
It was nearly empty, with the vendors that crowded the area gone for the day and a broody storm gathering in the western sky, where the sun clung tenuously to the horizon.
“Off,” he ordered, and waited for her to pry her hands from their death grip around his waist. He’d given her a couple of good scares on the ride. He’d meant to.
“You drive like a lunatic.”
“Half Italian, half Irish. What do you expect?” He swung off himself, then dragged her to the wall, where Florence spread like an old jewel below. There were still a few tourists taking pictures of the grand fountain, but since they were Japanese he thought he could risk ripping into her in either English or Italian. He chose the latter because he considered it more passionate.
“Where are they?”
“Safe.”
“I didn’t ask how they were, but where. What have you done with the bronzes?”
“The sensible thing. It’s going to storm,” she said as lightning licked the sky with the same edgy sizzle as the nerves riding in her stomach. “We should get inside somewhere.”
He simply pushed her back against the wall, and held her there, body against body. “I want the bronzes, Miranda.”
She kept her eyes on his. She wouldn’t appeal to the handful of lingering tourists for help. This, she promised herself, she would deal with on her own. “They’re worthless to you.”
“That’s for me to decide. Damn it, I trusted you.”
Now her eyes fired back. “You mean you couldn’t lock me into the suite the way you did in your apartment.” She kept her voice low, its already husky tone rough with temper. “You couldn’t make me wait the way you did at the Bargello while you went ahead and acted without telling me what you planned to do. This time I went ahead.”
He put his arms around her so that they looked like desperate lovers too involved with each other to notice storm or city. His grip shortened her breath considerably. “Went ahead and what?”
“Made arrangements. You’re hurting me.”
“Not yet I’m not. You had to give them to someone. Your mother. No,” he decided when she continued to stare at him. “Not your mother. You’re still hoping to make her grovel for doubting you. Got a boyfriend here in Florence, Dr. Jones, someone you could sweet-talk into tucking the bronzes away until you figure I’d give up? Now I want the bronzes—both of them.”
Thunder grumbled, rolled closer.
“I told you, they’re safe. I made arrangements. I did what I thought best.”
“Do I look like I give a rat’s ass what you think?”
“I want to prove they’re copies. So do you. If I run the tests and the comparisons, it could be claimed I slanted them. We’d be no better off than we are now. It was your job to get the bronze from the Bargello, it’s mine to determine how to prove it’s a forgery.”
“You gave them to someone from Standjo.” He drew back only far enough to take her face in his hands. “What kind of idiot are you?”
“I gave them to someone I trust, to someone I’ve known for years.” She took a deep breath, hoping to trade temper for reason. “He’ll do the work because I asked him. And tomorrow, I’ll contact him and get the results.”
He had a vicious urge to bounce her head off the wall, just to see if it was really as hard as he suspected. “Follow this logic, Dr. Jones. The Dark Lady is a forgery. Therefore someone at Standjo made the copy. Someone who knows what the tests would show, how to make it look real enough to pass prelims, someone who likely has a source who’d pay some excellent lire for the real thing.”
“He wouldn’t do that. His work’s important to him.”
“Mine’s important to me. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
He was already dragging her across the plaza to the bike when the first fat drops of rain fell. “To the lab, sweetheart. We’ll check up on your friend’s progress.”
“Don’t you understand? If we break into the lab, the tests will be moot. No one will believe me.”
“You forget. I already believe you. That’s part of the problem. Now get on, or I leave you here and take care of business myself.”
She considered it, then decided the last thing Giovanni needed was a furious Ryan breaking into the lab. “Let him do the tests.” She pushed at her wet hair. “It’s the only way they’ll have validity.”
He simply gunned the engine. “Get on.”
She got on, and as he tore out of the plaza she tried to convince herself she’d make him see reason once they got to Standjo.
Half a block from Standjo he pulled the bike into a small forest of others along the curbing. “Be quiet,” he said, jumping off to remove pouches from the saddlebags. “Do what you’re told, and carry this.” He shoved one of the bags into her hands, then took her arm in a firm grip and led her down the street.
“We’ll go in the back, just in case anyone’s curious enough to be looking out into the rain. We’ll cross directly over the photo lab to the stairs.”
“How do you know the setup?”
“I do my research. I’ve got blueprints of the whole facility on disk.” He drew her around the back of the building, then pulled out a pair of surgical gloves. “Put these on.”
“This isn’t going to—”
“I said be quiet and do what you’re told. You’ve already caused me more trouble than necessary. I’m going to disable the alarm in this sector, which means you don’t go more than one foot away from me while we’re inside.”
He pulled on his own gloves as he spoke, and thought nothing of the rain now pounding over them. “If we need to access another area of the building, I’ll deal with the security from inside. It’ll be easier. There’re no guards, it’s all electronic, so it’s unlikely we’d run into anyone but your good pal over a holiday weekend.”
She started to protest again, then backed off. It occurred to her that once she was inside, she’d have Giovanni behind her. Surely the two of them could handle one irritating thief.
“If he’s not inside, with the bronzes, I’m going to make you very sorry.”
“He’s there. He gave me his word.”
“Yeah, like you gave me yours.” He approached the door, setting down his bag to prepare to work. Then his eyes narrowed as he studied the fixture beside the door. “Alarm’s
off,” he murmured. “Your friend’s careless, Dr. Jones. He didn’t reset the system from inside.”
She ignored the rippling chill over her skin. “I suppose he didn’t think it necessary.”
“Um-hmm. Door’s locked, though. That would be automatic once it was shut. We’ll fix that.”
He unrolled a soft leather strip, using his body to shield his tools as best he could. He’d have to wipe them down well later, he mused. Couldn’t risk rust.
“This shouldn’t take long, but keep your eye out anyway.”
He hummed lightly, a tune she recognized as a passage from Aida. She crossed her arms over her chest, turned her back to him, and stared into the driving rain.
Whoever had installed security hadn’t wanted to deface the beautiful old door with dead bolts. The brass knobs were sad-faced cherubs that suited the medieval architecture and guarded a series of efficient but aesthetically discreet locks.
Ryan blinked rain out of his eyes and wished vaguely for an umbrella.
He had to work by feel alone. The pounding of the rain prevented him from hearing that faint and satisfying click of tumblers. But the sturdy British locks surrendered, degree by degree.
“Bring the bag,” he told her when he pulled the heavy door open.
He used his penlight to guide them to the stairs. “You explain to your friend that I’m helping you out, and I’ll take it from there. That is, if he’s here.”
“I said he’d be here. He promised me.”
“Then he must like to work in the dark.” He shined his light straight ahead. “That’s your lab, right?”
“Yes.” Her brows drew together. It was black as pitch. “He just hasn’t gotten here yet.”
“Who turned off the alarm?”
“I . . . He’s probably in the chem lab. That’s his field.”
“We’ll check that out in a minute. Meanwhile we’ll just see if your notes are still in your office. Through here?”
“Yes, through the doors and to the left. It was only my temporary office.”
“You put the data on your computer’s hard drive?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll get it.”
The doors were unlocked, which gave him an unhappy feeling. Deciding to err on the side of caution, he shut off his flashlight. “Stay behind me.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.” He eased through the door, blocking her body with his. For several humming seconds he listened, and hearing nothing but the whoosh of air through the vents, reached over to turn on the lights.
“Oh God.” Instinctively, she gripped his shoulder. “Oh my God.”
“I thought scientists were tidy,” he murmured.
It looked as if someone had indulged in a vicious tantrum, or a hell of a party. Computers were smashed, and the glass from monitors and test tubes littered the floor. Worktables had been overturned, papers scattered. Stations that had been surgically ordered were now a jumble of wreckage. The stench of chemicals unwisely mixed smeared the air.
“I don’t understand this. What’s the point of this?”
“It wasn’t burglary,” he said easily. “Not with all these computers busted instead of lifted. Looks to me, Dr. Jones, like your friend’s come and gone.”
“Giovanni would never do this.” She pushed past Ryan to kick her way through the rubble. “It had to be vandals, kids on a rampage. All this equipment, all this data.” She mourned it even as she stormed through the room. “Destroyed, ruined.”
Vandals? He didn’t think so. Where was the graffiti, where was the glee? This had been done in rage, and with purpose. And he had a hunch it was going to circle right around on them.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“I have to check the other sections, see how extensive the damage is. If they got to the chem lab—”
She broke off, shoving her way through the mess with the terrible idea of a gang of young hoods with a volatile supply of stolen chemicals.
“You can’t fix it,” he muttered under his breath, and started after her. When he caught up, she was standing in an open doorway, staring, swaying.
Giovanni had kept his promise, and he wasn’t going anywhere. He lay on his back, his head twisted at an odd angle and resting in a dark, glossy pool. His eyes, open and dull, were fixed on The Dark Lady, who lay with him, her graceful hands and smiling face covered with blood.
“Sweet Jesus.” It was as much prayer as oath as Ryan jerked her back, forced her around so that she stared into his eyes instead of at what lay in the room beyond. “Is that your friend?”
“I . . . Giovanni.” Her pupils had dilated with shock and her eyes were as black and lifeless as a doll’s.
“Hold it together. You have to hold it together, Miranda, because we might not have much time. Our fingerprints are all over that bronze, do you understand?” And the bronze had recently graduated from forgery to murder weapon. “Those are the only ones the cops will find on it. We’ve been set up here.”
There was a roaring in her ears—the ocean rising up to strike rock. “Giovanni’s dead.”
“Yeah, he is—now stand right here.” For expedience sake, he propped her against the wall. He stepped into the room, breathing through his teeth so as not to absorb the smell of death. The room reeked with it, and the smell was obscenely fresh. Though it made him grimace, he picked up the bronze, stuffed it into his bag. Doing his best to stop his gaze from locking on the face staring up at him, he did a quick search of the wrecked room.
The David had been heaved into a corner. The dent in the wall showed where it had struck.
Very smart, he thought as he pushed it into the bag. Very tidy. Leave both pieces and tie it together. Tie it right around Miranda’s neck like a noose.
She was exactly as he’d left her, but now she was shaking and her skin was the color of paste.
“You can walk,” he said roughly. “You can run if you have to, because we’ve got to get out of here.”
“We can’t—can’t leave him. In there. Like this. Giovanni. He’s dead.”
“And there’s nothing you can do for him. We’re going.”
“I can’t leave him.”
Rather than wasting time arguing, he caught her up in a fireman’s carry. She didn’t struggle, only hung limply and repeated the same words over and over like a chant. “I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him.”
He was out of breath by the time he hit the outside door. Still, he shifted her weight, opened the door only far enough to give him a view of the street. He saw nothing out of place, but the back of his neck continued to prickle as though it felt the business end of a blade.
When they were out in the rain, he dumped her on her feet and shook her hard. “You don’t fall apart until we’re out of here. Put it on ice, Miranda, and do what needs to be done next.”
Without waiting for her assent, he pulled her around the building and down the street. She slid on the bike behind him, held on so that he could feel the jumping skip of her heart against his back as he drove through the rain.
He wanted to get her inside quickly, but forced himself to drive through the city, taking narrow side streets at random to be certain they weren’t being followed. Whoever had killed Giovanni might have been watching the building, waiting for them. He was reserving judgment on that until he managed to get the full story out of Miranda.
Satisfied there was no tail, he parked in front of the hotel. He gathered his bags, then turned to push the wet hair out of her face. “You listen to me. Pay attention.” He held on to her face until her glazed eyes focused. “We have to cross the lobby. I want you to walk straight to the elevator. I’ll handle the clerk. You just go and stand by the elevator. Understand?”
“Yes.” It felt as if the words came from somewhere over the top of her head rather than out of her mouth. Words floating there, meaningless and confusing.
When she walked it was like swimming through syrup, but she walked, intensely focused
on the gleaming doors of the elevators. That was her goal, she thought. She just had to walk to the elevator.
Dimly she heard Ryan talking with the desk clerk, a rumble of male laughter. She stared at the door, reached out and ran her fingertip down the surface as if to gauge the texture. So smooth and cool. Odd, she’d never noticed that before. She laid her palm on it as Ryan came up beside her and pushed the up button.
It rumbled, like the thunder, she realized. Gears shifting, engaging. And the door made a soft hissing sound when it opened.
She didn’t have any more color in her cheeks than the corpse they’d left behind, Ryan noted. And her teeth were starting to chatter. He imagined she was chilled to the bone. God knew he was, and not just from an open ride in drenching rain.
“Just walk down the hall,” he ordered, shifting his bags so that he could wrap an arm around her waist. She didn’t lean on him, didn’t seem to have enough substance in her body to give weight, but he kept his arm around her until they were inside the suite.
He locked the door, added the safety latch before taking her into the bedroom. “Get out of the wet clothes, into a robe.” He’d have preferred to dump her in a hot bath, but was afraid she’d just slip under and drown.
He checked the terrace doors, made certain they too were locked before he searched out a bottle of brandy from the minibar. He didn’t bother with glasses.
She was sitting on the bed, exactly as he’d left her. “You’ve got to get out of those clothes,” he told her. “You’re soaked through.”
“I— My fingers don’t work.”
“Okay, okay. Here, swallow.”
He broke the seal on the bottle, then held it to her lips. She obeyed mindlessly, until the fire spurted down her throat and into her belly. “I don’t like brandy.”
“I don’t like spinach, but my mother made me eat it. One more time. Come on, be a good soldier.” He managed to pour another swallow down her throat before she sputtered and pushed his hand away.
