by Nora Roberts
“Dr. Warfield was released this evening.”
Ice gathered in his gut again. He punched the accelerator, sending the car into a violent fishtail. Going against a lifetime of habit, he called the police. “Get me Detective Cook.”
“I’m going to need the copies, Miranda. Where are they?”
“I don’t have them.”
“Now you know that’s a lie and you lie so poorly. I really need those copies.” This time Elise stepped forward. “We want this all tidy in the end, don’t we?”
“Why should I give them to you? You’re going to kill me either way.”
“Of course I am. It’s the only logical step, isn’t it? But . . .” She shifted the gun and stopped Miranda’s heart. “I wouldn’t have to kill Andrew.”
“Don’t.” Quickly, Miranda held up her hands, a gesture of surrender. “Please.”
“Give me the copies, and I won’t.”
“They’re hidden, out in the lighthouse.” Away from Andrew, she thought.
“Oh, perfect. Can you guess where I was conceived?” Elise laughed until tears swam in her eyes. “My mother told me how he took her there—to paint her—then seduced her. How wonderful that it all ends where it really began.” Elise gestured with the gun. “After you, Niece Miranda.”
With one last glance at her brother, she turned. She knew the gun was aimed at her back. At her spine, she imagined. In a larger space she might have a chance. If she could distract Elise for just an instant, she could try. She was bigger, stronger, and she was sane.
“The police are closing in,” she told Elise, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “Cook’s determined to close this case. He won’t give up.”
“After tonight, the case will be closed. Keep moving. You always walk with such a purposeful stride, Miranda—let’s be consistent.”
“If you shoot me, how will you explain it?”
“I’m hoping that won’t be necessary. But if it is, I’ll put the gun in Andrew’s hand, his finger on the trigger, and fire it again. It’ll be messy, but in the end the logical conclusion would be you argued over this business. You struck him, he shot you. It’s your gun, after all.”
“Yes, I know. It couldn’t have been easy for you to hit yourself, give yourself a concussion after you killed Richard.”
“A bump on the head, a few stitches. I got a lot of sympathy out of it, and it goes a long way to putting me in the clear. How could a fragile little thing like me work up the guts to fake an attack like that?”
She jabbed the gun into the base of Miranda’s spine. “But you and I know I can do a lot more.”
“Yes, we do. We’ll need a flashlight.”
“Get it. You still keep it in the second drawer on the left, I imagine. Such a creature of habit.”
Miranda removed the flashlight, flicking it on while testing its weight. It could be a weapon. All she needed was the opportunity.
She opened the back door and stepped out into the driving rain. She thought of running, of taking a leap into the gathering fog. But the gun was still pressed into her back. She’d be dead before she took the first step.
“Looks like we’re about to get very wet. Keep going.”
Hunched against wind and rain, she walked steadily toward the point. Distance was imperative now. She could hear the waves crashing wildly, stirred by the storm. Every slash of lightning threw the cliffs into sharp relief.
“Your plan won’t work out here, Elise.”
“Keep going, keep going.”
“It won’t work. If you use that gun on me now, they’ll know there was someone else here. They’ll know it couldn’t have been Andrew. And they’ll find you.”
“Shut up. What do you care? You’ll be dead anyway.”
“You’ll never have everything I have. That’s really what you want, isn’t it? The name, the pedigree, the position. It’ll never be yours.”
“You’re wrong. I’ll have it all. Instead of just being ruined, you’ll be dead.”
“Richard kept a book.” She used the circling stream of light from the tower on the point to guide her now, shifting her grip on the flashlight. “He wrote it all down. Everything he did.”
“Liar!”
“Everything, Elise. It’s all recorded. They’ll know I was right. Dead or alive, I’ll still have the glory. So everything you’ve done is for nothing.”
“Bitch. You lying bitch.”
“But I lie so poorly.” Teeth gritted, she swung around. The force of the blow struck Elise on an upflung arm and sent her sprawling. Miranda leaped on her, grabbing for the gun.
She’d been wrong, she realized. Sanity wasn’t an advantage. Elise fought like an animal, teeth snapping, nails gouging. She felt hot pain on her throat, a spurt and trickle of blood as they rolled over the rocky ground toward the edge of the cliffs.
Ryan shouted her name as he ran into the house, shouting it again and again as he pounded up the stairs. When he found Andrew terror squeezed his heart into a hot ball.
He heard the crash of thunder, then the echoing blast of gunshots. With fear drenching his skin, he shoved through the terrace doors.
There, silhouetted by the fire flash of lightning, he saw two figures tangled on the cliffs. Even as he offered up the first prayer, as he climbed over the rail to leap down, he saw them go off.
• • •
Her breath was sobbing, burning her throat. There was pain everywhere, the stench of blood and fear. She gripped the slippery butt of the gun, tried to twist it away. It bucked in her hand, once, twice, and the fury of sound punched pain in her ears.
Someone was screaming, screaming, screaming. She tried to dig her heels in for purchase and found her legs dangling in space. In the blasts and jolts of light, she could see Elise’s face over hers, contorted, mouth wide, teeth bared, eyes blind with madness. In them, for one horrified second, she saw herself.
From somewhere she heard her name, a desperate call. As if in answer, she twisted, shoved viciously. With Elise clawing at her, they tumbled over the edge.
She could hear a woman laughing, or perhaps it was weeping as she tore at rock and dirt with her fingers, felt herself dragged down.
A thousand prayers babbled in her mind, a thousand jumbled images. Rock bit at her skin as her body fought to cling to the wall of the cliff. Panting, wild with fear, she looked over her shoulder, saw Elise’s white face, dark eyes, saw her even now release her hold on rock to aim the gun—and then she fell.
Trembling, sobbing, Miranda pressed her cheek against the cold face of the cliff. Her muscles were screaming, her fingers burning. Below her, the sea she had always loved crashed impatiently and waited.
Her stomach shuddered, spewing a dizzying nausea into her throat. Fighting it back, she lifted her face to the pounding rain again, stared at the edge just a foot above her head, watched the shaft of light from the old tower slice through the dark as if to guide her.
She would not die this way. She would not lose this way. She kept her eyes focused on the goal and fought to find some small purchase with her feet. She clawed her way up one sweaty inch, then another before her feet slid free.
She was dangling by bloody fingertips when Ryan bellied over the edge.
“Jesus. Sweet Jesus, Miranda, hang on. Look at me. Miranda, look at me, take my hand.”
“I’m slipping.”
“Take my hand. You have to reach up, just a little.” He braced himself on the slick rocks and held both hands down to her.
“I can’t let go. My fingers are frozen. I can’t let go. I’ll fall.”
“No you won’t.” Sweat slid down his face along with the rain. “Take my hand, Miranda.” While his head screamed with panic, he grinned at her. “Come on, Dr. Jones. Trust me.”
Her breath came out on a wild, broken sob. She pried her numb fingers from the rock and reached for his. For a gut-wrenching instant, she felt herself hang, a fingertip away from death. Then his hand clamped firm over hers.
“Now the other one. I need both your hands.”
“Oh God, Ryan.” Blind now, she let go.
When her full weight locked his arms, he thought they might both go over. He inched back, cursing the rain that made their hands slip, that seemed to turn the rock into sheer glass. But she was helping him, boosting herself with her feet, her breath hissing with the effort as they worked.
She used her elbows on the ledge, pressing down, scraping them raw as he dragged her the last few inches over the top.
When she collapsed on him, he wrapped her in his arms, cradled her on his lap and rocked them both in the rain.
“I saw you go over. I thought you were dead.”
“I would have been.” Her face was buried against his chest where his heart beat in hard, jerky pulses. From somewhere in the distance came the high pitched whine of sirens. “If you hadn’t come. I couldn’t have held on much longer.”
“You’d have held on.” He tipped her head back, looked into her eyes. There was blood on her face. “You’d have held on,” he repeated. “Now you can hold on to me.” He picked her up to carry her into the house.
“Don’t let go for a while.”
“I won’t.”
epilogue
B ut he did. She should have known he would. The thieving son of a bitch.
Trust me, he said. And she had. He’d saved her life, only to carelessly leave it in shambles.
Oh, he’d waited, Miranda thought as she paced her bedroom. He’d stuck by her until her cuts and bruises were treated. He’d stayed by her side until they were sure Andrew was out of danger.
His arms had been around her, protective, supportive, when she related the nightmare she’d been through with Elise.
He’d even held her hand while they gave Cook Ryan’s slightly edited version of events. And she’d let him. She corroborated everything he said, amended pertinent details to keep him out of a prison cell.
He’d saved her life after all. The worm.
Then he’d vanished, without a word, without a warning. He’d packed up and left.
She knew just where he’d gone. He was the only other person who knew about the storage garage. He’d gone after The Dark Lady. She didn’t doubt he had it by now, that and the David. He’d probably already passed them along to one of his clients for a fat fee and was basking on some beach in the tropics, sipping rum punch and oiling some blonde’s butt.
If she ever saw him again. . .but of course, she wouldn’t. All the business they had—the legal end of business—was being handled by his gallery manager. The exhibit was a raging success. He’d benefited from that, and from his involvement in helping to solve several murders.
She had her reputation. The international press was raving about her. The brave and brilliant Dr. Jones.
Elise had wanted to destroy her, and in the end, had made her.
But she didn’t have the bronze, and she didn’t have Ryan.
She had to accept she would never have either.
Now she was alone in a big, empty house, with Andrew being fussed over by his fiancée as he recovered. He was happy and healing, and she was glad of it. And she was miserably envious.
She had her reputation all right, she thought. She had the Institute, and perhaps finally, the full knowledge of her parents’ respect if not their love.
She had no life whatsoever.
So, she would make a new one. She dragged an impatient hand through her hair. She would take the advice everyone was peppering her with and go on a long, well-deserved vacation. She’d buy a bikini, get a tan, and have a fling.
Oh yes, that’s going to happen, she thought with a scowl, and shoved open her terrace doors to step out into the warm spring night.
The flowers she’d planted in big stone urns filled the air with scent. The sweetness of stock, the spice of dianthus, the charm of verbena. Yes, she was learning about some small and lovely things, taking the time to learn. To enjoy.
To fall into the moment.
White and full, the moon rose over the sea, cruised among the stars, and gave the seascape she loved a mystic, intimate glow. The sea sang its rough song with an arrogance that made her yearn.
He’d been gone for two weeks. She knew he wasn’t coming back. In the end it was as it had always been. There was something more important than Miranda.
Still, she’d get over it. She was already on her way. She would take that vacation, but she’d use the time right here. It was here she needed to be. Home, making the home she had never been given. She’d finish the garden, she’d have the house painted. She’d buy new curtains.
And while she would never trust another man in this lifetime, at least she knew she could trust herself.
“This moment would be more atmospheric if you were wearing a long, flowing robe.”
She didn’t whirl. She still had enough control for that. She turned slowly.
He was grinning at her. Dressed in thief’s black and standing in her bedroom grinning.
“Jeans and a T-shirt,” he continued. “Though you fill them out nicely, they lack the romance of a silk robe the breeze could flutter around you.” He stepped out on the terrace. “Hello, Dr. Jones.”
She stared, felt his fingertips brush her cheek where a bruise had yet to fade. “You son of a bitch,” she said, and rammed her fist full out into his face.
It knocked him back several steps, had his vision wavering. But his balance was good. He shifted his jaw gingerly, dabbed at the blood on his mouth. “Well, that’s one way to say hello. Obviously, you’re not entirely pleased to see me.”
“The only way I’d be pleased to see you is through steel bars, you bastard. You used me, you lied to me. Trust me, you said, and all the time you were after the bronze.”
He worked his tongue over his gums, tasted blood. Damn, the woman had a straight-on right jab. “That’s not entirely accurate.”
She balled her fist, more than ready to use it again. “You went to Florence, didn’t you? You walked out of here, got on a plane, and went to Florence for the statues.”
“Of course. I told you I was going to.”
“Miserable thief.”
“I’m an excellent thief. Even Cook thought so—though he’ll never prove it.” He smiled again, combed his fingers through the thick, dark hair the breeze blew into sexy disorder. “Now I’m a retired thief.”
She folded her arms. Her left shoulder was still sore from the night on the cliffs, and the ache eased when she supported it. “I imagine you can live very well in retirement for what you sold the bronzes for.”
“A man wouldn’t have to work again, in several lifetimes, for what the Michelangelo is worth.” While she clenched her fists, he watched her warily as he took out a cigar. “She’s the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen. The copy was good, it hinted at the power of her. But it couldn’t capture her heart, her mind, her essence. I’m amazed anyone who’d seen both could mistake one for the other. The Dark Lady sings, Miranda. She is incomparable.”
“She belongs to the Italian people. She belongs in a museum where she can be seen and studied.”
“You know, that’s the first time you’ve referred to her that way. Before you always said ‘it,’ or ‘the bronze,’ but never ‘her.”’
She turned to look out over the lawn, where the garden—hers now—was glowing in the moonlight. “I’m not going to discuss pronouns.”
“It’s more than that, and you know it. You’ve learned something you neglected all these years in your quest for knowledge. Art lives.”
He blew out a stream of smoke. “How’s Andrew?”
