by Nora Roberts
people who’ll be more than happy to swear to it.”
“Criminals.”
“That’s no way to talk about my friends and family. Especially when you haven’t met them. Second,” he continued while she ground her teeth, “you’d have to explain to the police why the stolen item was insured for six figures and was worth pocket change.”
“You’re lying. I authenticated that piece myself. It’s sixteenth century.”
“Yeah, and the Fiesole bronze was cast by Michelangelo.” He smirked at her. “That shut you up. Now sit down, and I’ll tell you just how we’re going to handle this.”
“I want you out of here.” She tossed up her chin. “I want you to leave this house immediately.”
“Or what?”
It was impulse, a wild one, but for once she followed the primal instinct. She made a dive, had the drawer open, and the gun at her fingertips. His hand closed over her wrist, and he cursed lightly as he yanked the gun free. With his other hand he shoved her back onto the bed.
“Do you know how many accidental shootings happen in the home because people keep loaded guns?”
He was stronger than she’d estimated. And faster. “This wouldn’t have been an accident.”
“You could hurt yourself,” he muttered, and neatly removed the clip. He pocketed it and tossed the gun back in her drawer. “Now—”
She made a move to get up and he placed his spread hand on her face and pushed her back.
“Sit. Stay. Listen. You owe me, Miranda.”
“I—” She almost choked. “I owe you?”
“I had a spotless record. Every time I took on a job, I satisfied the client. And this was my last one, damn it. I can’t believe I’d get to the end and have some brainy redhead sully my reputation. I had to give my client a piece out of my private collection, and refund his fee in order to satisfy our contract.”
“Record? Client? Contract?” She barely resisted tearing at her hair and screaming. “You’re a thief, for God’s sake, not an art dealer.”
“I’m not going to argue semantics with you.” He spoke calmly, a man totally in charge. “I want the little Venus, the Donatello.”
“Excuse me, you want what?”
“The small Venus that was in the display with your forged David. I could go back and take it, but that wouldn’t square the deal. I want you to get it, give it to me, and if it’s authentic, we’ll consider this matter closed.”
No amount of willpower could stop her from gaping. “You’re out of your mind.”
“If you don’t, I’ll arrange for the David to find its way on the market again. When the insurance company recovers it—and has it tested, as is routine—your incompetence will be uncovered.” He angled his head and saw by the way her brow creased that she was following the path very well. “That, on top of your recent disaster in Florence, would put a snug, and unattractive, cap on your career, Dr. Jones. I’d like to spare you that embarrassment, though I have no idea why.”
“Don’t do me any favors. You’re not blackmailing me into giving you a Donatello, or anything else. The bronze is not a fake, and you’re going to prison.”
“Just can’t admit you made a mistake, can you?”
You were so sure, weren’t you? It appears you were wrong. How will you explain it? She shuddered once before she could control it. “When I make one, I will.”
“The way you did in Florence?” he countered, and watched her eyes flicker. “News of that blunder’s trickling through the art world. Opinions are about fifty-fifty as to whether you doctored the tests or were just incompetent.”
“I don’t care what the opinions are.” But the statement was weak and she began to rub her arms for warmth.
“If I’d heard about it a few days earlier, I wouldn’t have risked lifting something you’d authenticated.”
“I couldn’t have made a mistake.” She closed her eyes because suddenly the thought of that was worse, much worse, than knowing he’d used her to steal. “Not that kind of a mistake. I couldn’t have.”
The quiet despair in her voice had him tucking his hands in his pockets. She looked fragile suddenly, and unbearably weary.
“Everybody makes them, Miranda. It’s part of the human condition.”
“Not in my work.” There were tears in her throat as she opened her eyes to stare at him. “I don’t make them in my work. I’m too careful. I don’t jump to conclusions. I follow procedure. I . . .” Her voice began to hitch, her chest to heave. She pressed her crossed hands between her breasts to try to control the hot tears that rose inside her like a tide.
“Okay, hold on. Let’s not get emotional.”
“I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.” She repeated it over and over, like a mantra.
“There’s good news. This is business, Miranda.” Those big blue eyes were wet and brilliant. And distracting. “Let’s keep it on that level, and we’ll both be happier.”
“Business.” She rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth, relieved that the absurdity of the statement had stemmed the tide of tears. “All right, Mr. Boldari. Business. You say the bronze is a fake. I say it’s not. You say I won’t report this to the police. I say I will. What are you going to do about it?”
He studied her a moment. In his line of work—both of them—he had to be a quick and accurate judge of people. It was easy to see that she would stand by her testing, and that she’d call the police. The second part didn’t worry him overmuch, but it would cause some inconvenience.
“Okay, get dressed.”
“Why?”
“We’ll go to the lab—you can test it again, in front of me, satisfy the first level of business.”
“It’s two in the morning.”
“So we won’t be interrupted. Unless you want to go in your pajamas, get some clothes on.”
“I can’t test what I don’t have.”
“I have it.” He gestured toward the leather bag he’d set just inside the door. “I brought it with me, with the idea of ramming it down your throat. But reason prevailed. Dress warm,” he suggested, and sat comfortably in her armchair. “The temperature’s dropped.”
“I’m not taking you into the Institute.”
“You’re a logical woman. Be logical. I have the bronze and your reputation in my hands. You want a chance of getting the first back and salvaging the second. I’m giving it to you.” He waited a moment to let that sink in. “I’ll give you the time to test it, but I’m going to be right there, breathing down your neck when you do. That’s the deal, Dr. Jones. Be smart. Take the deal.”
She needed to know, didn’t she? To be sure. And once she was sure, she would toss him to the police before he could blink those pretty eyes of his.
She could handle him, she decided. The fact was, her pride demanded she take the opportunity to do just that. “I’m not going to change clothes in front of you.”
“Dr. Jones, if I had sex on my mind, we’d have dealt with that when we were on the floor. Business,” he said again. “And you’re not getting out of my sight until we’ve concluded it.”
“I really hate you.” She said it with such loathing he saw no cause to doubt her word. But he smiled to himself as she shut herself into the closet and hangers began to rattle.
She was a scientist, an educated woman with unimpeachable breeding and an unblemished reputation. She had had papers published in a dozen important science and art journals. Newsweek had done an article on her. She’d lectured at Harvard and had spent three months as a guest professor at Oxford.
It wasn’t possible that she was driving through the chilly Maine night with a thief, intending to break into her own lab and conduct clandestine tests on a stolen bronze.
She hit the brakes and swung her car to the shoulder of the road. “I can’t do this. It’s ridiculous, not to mention illegal. I’m calling the police.”
“Fine.” Ryan merely shrugged as she reached for her car phone. “You do that, sweethear
t. And you explain to them what you’re doing with a worthless hunk of metal you tried to pass off as a work of art. Then you can explain to the insurance company—you’ve already made a claim, haven’t you?—how it happens you expected them to pay you five hundred grand for a fake. One you authenticated, personally.”
“It’s not a fake,” she said between her teeth, but she didn’t punch in 911.
“Prove it.” His grin flashed in the dark. “To me, Dr. Jones, and to yourself. If you do . . . we’ll negotiate.”
“Negotiate, my ass. You’re going to jail,” she told him, and shifted in her seat so they were face-to-face. “I’m going to see to it.”
“First things first.” Amused, he reached out and gave her chin a friendly pinch. “Call your security. Tell them you and your brother are coming in to do some work in the lab.”
“I’m not involving Andrew.”
“Andrew’s already involved. Just make the call. Use whatever excuse you like. You couldn’t sleep, so you decided to get some work done while it’s quiet. Go on, Miranda. You want to know the truth, don’t you?”
“I know the truth. You wouldn’t know it if it jumped up and bit you.”
“You lose a little of that high-society cool when you’re pissed off.” He leaned forward, kissed her lightly before she could shove him back. “I like it.”
“Keep your hands off me.”
“That wasn’t my hands.” He took her shoulders, caressed. “Those were my hands. Make the call.”
She elbowed him aside, and jabbed in the number. The cameras would be on, she thought. He’d never pass as Andrew, so they were finished before they began. Her security chief, if he had any sense at all, would call the police. All she’d have to do was tell her story, and Ryan Boldari would be cuffed and penned and out of her life.
“This is Dr. Miranda Jones,” she slapped out as Ryan patted her knee in approval. “My brother and I are on our way in. Yes, to work. With all the confusion of the last few days, I’m behind in my lab work. We should be there in about ten minutes. We’ll use the main door. Thank you.”
She disconnected, sniffed. She had him now, she decided, and he’d turned the key himself. “They’re expecting me, and will switch off the alarm when I get there.”
“Fine.” He stretched out his legs as she pulled onto the road again. “I’m doing this for you, you know.”
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“No thanks necessary.” He waved them away, grinning while she snarled. “Really. Despite all the trouble you’ve caused me, I like you.”
“Why, I’m all aflutter.”
“See? You’ve got style—not to mention a mouth that just begs to be savored over long hours in the dark. I really regretted not having more time with that mouth of yours.”
Her hands tightened on the wheel. The hitch in her breathing was fury. She wouldn’t allow it to be anything else. “You’ll have more time, Ryan,” she said sweetly. “This mouth of mine is going to chew you up and spit you out before we’re done.”
“I look forward to it. This is a nice area.” He made the comment conversationally as she followed the coast road into town. “Windswept, dramatic, lonely, but with culture and civilization close at hand. It suits you. The house came down through your family, I take it.”
She didn’t answer. However ludicrous her actions, she wasn’t about to add to them by holding a conversation with him.
“It’s enviable,” he continued, unoffended. “The heritage, and the money, of course. But beyond the privilege it’s the name, you know? The Joneses of Maine. Just reeks of class.”
“Unlike the Boldaris of Brooklyn,” she muttered, but that only made him laugh.
“Oh, we reek of other things. You’d like my family. It’s impossible not to. And what, I wonder, would they make of you, Dr. Jones?”
“Perhaps we’ll meet at your trial.”
“Still determined to bring me to justice.” He appreciated her profile almost as much as the shadows of ragged rocks, the quick glimpses of dark sea. “I’ve been in this game for twenty years, darling. I’ve no intention of making a misstep on the eve of my retirement.”
“Once a thief, always a thief.”
“Oh, in the heart, I agree with you. But indeed . . .” He sighed. “Once I clear my record, I’m done. If you hadn’t messed things up, I’d be taking a well-deserved vacation on St. Bart’s right now.”
“How tragic for you.”
“Yeah, well.” He moved his shoulders again. “I can still salvage a few days.” He unhooked his seat belt, and turned to reach into the backseat for the bag he’d tossed there.
“What are you doing?”
“Nearly there.” He whistled lightly as he took out a ski cap and pulled it down low over his head until his hair was concealed. Next came a long black scarf of cashmere that he wrapped around his neck and over the lower part of his face.
“You can try to alert the guards,” he began, flipping down the visor to check the result in the vanity mirror. “But if you do you won’t see the bronze, or me again. You play it straight, go in, head to the lab just like you would normally, and we’ll be fine. Andrew’s a little taller than I am,” he considered as he unrolled a long, dark coat. “Shouldn’t matter. They’ll see what they expect to see. People always do.”
When she pulled into the parking lot, she had to admit he was right. He was so anonymous in the cold weather gear that no one would look twice at him. More, when they got out of the car and started toward the main entrance, she realized she might have taken him for Andrew herself.
The body language, the gait, the slight hunch in the shoulders were perfect.
She yanked her card through the slot with one irritable flick of the wrist. After a pause, she punched in her code. She imagined herself making wild faces at the camera, tackling Ryan and pounding her fists into his smug face while the guards scrambled. Instead, she tapped her key card lightly against her palm and waited for the buzzer to sound and the locks to open.
Ryan opened the doors himself, laying one brotherly hand on her shoulder. He kept his head down, muttering to her as they walked in. “No detours, Dr. Jones. You don’t really want the trouble, or the publicity.”
“What I want is the bronze.”
“You’re about to get it. Temporarily at least.”
He kept his hand on her shoulder, guiding her down the corridors, down the stairs, to the lab doors. Again, she keyed them in. “You won’t be walking out of here with my property.”
He turned on the lights. “Run your tests,” he suggested, peeling out of his coat. “You’re wasting time.” He kept his gloves on to take out the bronze and hand it to her. “I do know something about authenticating, Dr. Jones, and I’ll be watching you closely.”
And this, he told himself, was one of the biggest risks of his long career. Coming here, with her. He’d boxed himself in, and was damned if he could rationalize the reason. Oh, coming back was one thing, he thought as he watched her take a pair of wire-rim glasses out of a drawer and slip them on.
He’d been right about that, he mused. The sexy scholar. Tucking that thought away, he made himself comfortable while she took the bronze to a workstation for an extraction.
His reputation, his pride—which were one and the same—were at stake.
The job, which should have been a nice, tidy, and uneventful close to his career, had ended up costing him a great deal of trouble, money, and loss of face.
But what he should have done, and had intended to do, was confront her, threaten her, blackmail her into offsetting his losses, and walk away.
He hadn’t been able to resist outwitting her. He had no doubt in his mind she intended to slant the tests in her favor, to try to convince him that the bronze was genuine. And when she did, it was going to cost her.
He thought the Cellini would be fair payment for his indulgence. The Institute, he decided, slipping his hands in his pockets as he watched her work,
was about to make a generous donation to the Boldari Gallery.
It was going to kill her.
Her brows were knit as she straightened from the microscope. There was a twist in her stomach that no longer had anything to do with anger or with irritated arousal. She didn’t speak at all, but made notes in a steady hand.
She took another scraping from the bronze, both the patina and the metal now, put it on a slide and studied that in turn. Her face was pale and set as she placed the bronze on a scale, took additional notes.
“I need to test the corrosion level, take X rays for the tool
