by Nora Roberts
“My God.”
He had to give her points for speedy recovery as she leaped up and snatched it loose. With her eyes wide now and little gasps of distress sounding in her throat, she began to rush around gathering clothes, trying to save the flowers they’d crushed.
Ryan leaned his back against the wall and watched the show.
“I can’t find one of my socks.”
He smiled as she stared down at him, rumpled clothes pressed to her breasts. “You’re still wearing it.”
She glanced down, saw the traditional argyle on her left foot. “Oh.”
“It’s a cute look for you. Got a camera?”
Since the moment seemed to call for it, she dumped the clothes on his head.
At Ryan’s insistence, they took a bottle of wine out to the cliffs and sat in the warm spring sun. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s beautiful in the spring.”
The water went from a pale blue at the horizon to a deeper hue where boats plied its surface, then to a dark, rich green near the shore where it spewed and beat against rock.
The wind was kind today, a caress instead of a slap.
The pines that lined the side of the land and marched up the rise showed fresh and tender new growth. The hardwoods showed the faintest blush of leaves to come.
No one walked the ragged sweep of beach below or disturbed the scatter of broken shells tossed up during a recent storm. He was glad of it, glad the boats were distant and toylike, the buoys silent.
They were alone.
If he looked back toward the house, he could just see the shape of the old south garden. The worst of the deadwood and thorny brown weeds had been cleared away. The dirt looked freshly turned and raked. He could see small clusters of green. She said she would garden, he remembered, and she was a woman who followed through.
He’d like to watch her at work, he realized. He’d very much enjoy seeing her kneeling there, concentrating on bringing the old garden back to life, making those sketches she’d drawn a reality.
He’d like to see what she made bloom there.
“We should be in my office working,” she said as guilt began to prick through the pleasure of the afternoon.
“Let’s consider this a field trip.”
“You need to see the final design for the exhibit.”
“Miranda, if I didn’t trust you there, completely, you wouldn’t have my property.” He sipped his wine and reluctantly shifted his thoughts to work. “In any case, you sent my office daily reports on it. I imagine I’ve got the picture.”
“Working on it’s giving me some time to put other things in perspective. I don’t know what we can accomplish by all this, other than the obvious benefit to your organization and mine, and a hefty contribution to NEA. The other—”
“The other’s progressing.”
“Ryan, we should give all the information we can to the police. I’ve thought about this. It’s what should have been done right from the start. I let myself get caught up—my ego, certainly, and my feelings for you—”
“You haven’t told me what those are. Are you going to?”
She looked away from him, watched the tall iron buoys wave gently and without sound. “I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for you. I don’t know what it is, or what to do about it. My family isn’t good with personal relationships.”
“What does your family have to do with it?”
“The Jones curse.” She sighed a little because she didn’t have to glance back to know he smiled. “We always screw it up. Neglect, apathy, self-absorption. I don’t know what it is, but we’re just no good at being with other people.”
“So you’re a product of your genes, and not your own woman.”
Her head twisted sharply, making him grin at the quick insult in her eyes. Then she controlled it and inclined her head. “That was very good. But the fact remains that I’m nearly thirty years old and I’ve never had a serious, long-term relationship. I don’t know if I’m capable of maintaining one.”
“First you have to be willing to find out. Are you?”
“Yes.” She started to rub her nervous hand on her slacks, but he took it, held it.
“Then we start from there. I’m as much out of my element as you are.”
“You’re never out of your element,” she murmured. “You have too many elements.”
He laughed and gave her hand a squeeze. “Why don’t we behave like a comfortable couple and I’ll tell you about my trip to San Francisco?”
“You saw your brother.”
“Yes, he and his family will be coming out for the gala. The rest of the family will come in from New York.”
“All of them? All of your family’s coming?”
“Sure. It’s a big deal. Anyway, I should warn you, you’re going to be checked out thoroughly.”
“Wonderful. One more thing to be nervous about.”
“Your mother’s coming. And your father—which is a small dilemma, as he thinks I’m someone else.”
“Oh God, I forgot. What will we do?”
“We won’t know what in the world he’s talking about.” Ryan merely grinned when she gaped. “Rodney’s British, I’m not. And he’s not nearly as good-looking as I am, either.”
“Do you really think my father’s going to fall for something like that?”
“Of course he will, because that’s our story and we’re sticking to it.” He crossed his ankles, drew in the cool, moist air. And realized he hadn’t been completely relaxed for days. “Why in the world would I have introduced myself to him as someone else—particularly since I was in New York when he came to see you. He’ll be confused, but he’s hardly going to stand there and call Ryan Boldari a liar.”
She let it simmer a moment. “I don’t see what choice we have, and my father certainly doesn’t pay close attention to people, but—”
“Just follow my lead there, and smile a lot. Now, when I was in San Francisco I looked up Harrison Mathers.”
“You found Harry?”
“I found his apartment. He wasn’t there. But I spent an interesting half hour with the hooker across the hall. She told me he’s been gone a few days, and that—”
“One moment.” She tugged her hand free of his and held up a single finger. “Would you mind repeating that?”
“He’d been gone a few days?”
“No, there was something about you spending time with a prostitute.”
“It was well worth the fifty—well, hundred actually. I gave her another fifty when we were done.”
“Oh, would that have been like a tip?”
“Yeah.” He beamed at her. “Jealous, darling?”
“Would jealousy be inappropriate?”
“A little jealousy is very healthy.”
“All right, then.” She bunched her recently freed hand into a fist and rammed it into his stomach.
He wheezed out a breath, sat up cautiously in case she decided to hit him again. “I stand corrected. Jealousy is definitely unhealthy. I paid her to talk to me.”
“If I thought otherwise, you’d be well on your way to the rocks down below.” This time she smiled while he eyed her warily. “What did she tell you?”
“You know, that Yankee cool can be just a little frightening, Dr. Jones. She told me that I was the second man who’d come by that day looking for him. She had a very large gun pointed at me at the time.”
“A gun. She had a gun?”
“She didn’t like the look of the first guy. Women in her line of work generally know how to size a man up quickly. From her description, I’d say she was right about him—you’d know that firsthand. I think he was the one who attacked you.”
Her hand went quickly to her throat. “The man who was here, who stole my purse? He was in San Francisco?”
“Looking for young Harry—and my guess is, your former student was lucky not to be home. He’s tied in, Miranda. Whoever he made the bronze for, whoever he gave or sold it to, doesn’t w
ant him around any longer.”
“If they find him—”
“I arranged for someone to keep an eye out for him. We’ll have to find him first.”
“Maybe he ran away. Maybe he knew they were looking for him.”
“No, I looked around his place. He left all his art supplies, a small stash of grass.” Ryan leaned back on his elbows again and watched the clouds puff lazily across the sky. “I didn’t get the impression he’d left in a particular hurry. The advantage is we know someone’s looking for him. At this point, no one knows we are. The way the kid’s been living, either he didn’t get much for the forgery, or he blew it fast and hasn’t explored the wonderful world of blackmail.”
“Would they have threatened him first?”
“What would be the point? They didn’t want him to run. They’d want to eliminate him, quick and quiet.” But there was something in her eyes. “Why?”
“I’ve been getting . . . communications.” It was a clean, professional word and made her less jittery.
“Communications?”
“Faxes, for the most part. For some time now. They’ve been coming daily since you left. Faxes, one e-mail, here and at the office.”
Again, he sat up. This time his eyes were narrow and cool. “Threats?”
“Not exactly, or not really threats until most recently.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I am telling you.”
“Why the hell didn’t you let me know this was going on all along?” The blank look she sent him had him getting to his feet so quickly he knocked the glass aside and sent it tumbling over the rocks. “It never occurred to you, did it? To tell me you were being stalked this way, frightened this way? Don’t tell me you weren’t frightened,” he tossed out before she could speak. “I can see it in your face.”
He saw, she thought, entirely too much, too easily. “What could you have done about it?”
He stared at her, eyes smoldering, then jamming his hands in his pockets, turned away. “What do they say?”
“Various things. Some of them are very calm, short and subtly threatening. Others are more disjointed, rambles. They’re more personal, they talk about things that happened or little events in my life.”
Because a hunted feeling crept up her spine, she got to her feet. “One came after Giovanni . . . after Giovanni,” she repeated. “It said his blood was on my hands.”
He had no choice but to put his own resentment and hurt aside. It surprised him how much there was of both that she hadn’t trusted him. Hadn’t counted on him. But now he turned back, looked her straight in the eye.
“If you believe that, if you let some anonymous bastard push you into believing that, you’re a fool, and you’re giving them exactly what they want.”
“I know that, Ryan. I understand that perfectly.” She thought she could say it calmly, but her voice broke. “I know it’s someone who knows me well enough to use what would hurt me most.”
He moved to her, wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Hold on to me. Come on, hold on.” When her arms finally encircled him, he rubbed his cheek over her hair. “You’re not alone, Miranda.”
But she had been, for so long. A man like him would never know what it was like to stand in a roomful of people and feel so alone. So alien. So unwanted.
“Giovanni—he was one of the few people who made me feel . . . normal. I know whoever killed him is sending me the message. I know that in my head, Ryan. But in my heart, I’ll always be to blame. And they know it.”
“Then don’t let them use you, or him, this way.”
She’d closed her eyes, so overwhelmed with the comfort he’d offered. Now she opened them, stared out toward the sea as his words struck home. “Using him,” she murmured. “You’re right. I’ve been letting them use him to hurt me. Whoever it is hates me, and made certain I knew it in the fax that came today.”
“You have copies of them all?”
“Yes.”
“I want them.” When she started to pull away, he held her in place, stroked her hair. Didn’t she feel herself trembling? he wondered. “The e-mail. Did you trace it?”
“I didn’t have any luck. The user name doesn’t show up on the server—it’s the server we use here and at Standjo.”
“Did you keep it on your machine?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll trace it.” Or Patrick would, he thought. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He drew back, framed her face. “I’m here now, Miranda, and no one’s going to hurt you while I am.” When she didn’t answer, he tightened his grip, looked carefully at her face. “I don’t make promises lightly, because I don’t break them once I do. I’m going to see this through with you, all the way. And I won’t let anything happen to you.”
He paused, then took what he considered a dangerous step toward a nasty edge. “Do you still want to talk to Cook?”
She’d been so sure that was the right thing. So sure, until he’d looked at her and promised. Until by doing so, he’d made her believe, against all common sense, that she could trust him.
“We’ll see it through, Ryan. I guess neither one of us could swallow anything less.”
“Put the base directly over the mark.” Miranda stood back, watching the two burly men from maintenance haul the three-foot marble stand to the exact center of the room. She knew it was the exact center, as she’d measured it three times personally. “Yes, perfect. Good.”
“Is that the last one, Dr. Jones?”
“In this area, yes, thank you.”
She narrowed her eyes, envisioning the Donatello bronze of Venus bathing in place on the column.
This gallery was devoted to works of the Early Renaissance. A prized Brunelleschi drawing was matted behind glass and two Masaccio paintings were ornately framed and already hung, along with a Botticelli that soared twelve feet and showed the majestic ascension of the Mother of God. There was a Bellini that had once graced the wall of a Venetian villa.
With the Donatello as the central point, the display showcased the first true burst of artistic innovation that was not simply the foundation for the brilliance of the sixteenth century, but a period of great art in itself.
True, she considered the style of the period less emotional, less passionate. The figural representation even in Masaccio’s work was somewhat static, the human emotions more stylized than real.
But the miracle was that such things existed, and could be studied, analyzed centuries after their execution.
Tapping her finger to her lips, she studied the rest of the room. She’d had the tall windows draped in deep blue fabric that was shot with gold. Tables of varying heights were also spread with it, and on the glittering fabric were the tools of artists of that era. The chisels and palettes, the calipers and brushes. She’d chosen each one herself from the museum display.
It was a pity they had to be closed under glass, but even with such a rich and sophisticated crowd, fingers could become sticky.
On an enormous carved wooden stand a huge Bible sat open to pages painstakingly printed in glorious script by ancient monks. Still other tables were strewn with the jewelry favored by both men and women of the period. There were embroidered slippers, a comb, a woman’s ivory trinket box, each piece carefully chosen for just that spot. Huge iron candle stands flanked the archway.
“Very impressive.” Ryan stepped between them.
“Nearly perfect. Art, with its social, economic, political, and religious foundations. The mid–fourteen hundreds. The birth of Lorenzo the Magnificent, the Peace of Lodi, and the resulting balance, however precarious, of the chief Italian states.”
She gestured to a large map, dated 1454, on the wall. “Florence, Milan, Naples, Venice, and of course, the papacy. The birth too of a new school of thought in art—humanism. Rational inquiry was the key.”
“Art’s never rational.”
