Homeport (25 page)

Ryan let her have her quiet. When he pulled up in front of his building, he gave the keys to the doorman. “Hi, Jack. Arrange to have this rental returned to the airport, would you, and send Dr. Jones's bags—they're in the trunk—up to my apartment.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Boldari. Welcome home.” The twenty that slipped discreetly from palm to palm had Jack's smile widening. “Have a nice evening.”

“I don't understand your life,” Miranda began as he
escorted her through an elegant lobby decked out with glossy antiques and attractive art.

“That's all right. I don't understand yours either.” He stepped into an elevator and used a key to access the top floor. “You must be worn out. Jack'll have your things up in a minute. You can get comfortable.”

“Your mother wanted to know why I wasn't having sex with you.”

“I wonder the same thing all the time.” The elevator opened into a spacious living area done in bold blues and greens. Wide terrace windows offered a pricey view of New York.

He'd obviously indulged himself in his affection for the finer things, she decided with a quick scan. Art Deco lamps, Chippendale tables, Baccarat crystal.

She wondered how much of it he'd stolen.

“All purchased legitimately,” he said, reading her perfectly. “Well, that Erté lamp was hot, but I couldn't resist it. Want a nightcap?”

“No, no I don't.”

The floor was glossy honey-toned wood accented with one of the most beautiful Orientals she'd ever seen. Art on the walls ranged from a misty Corot to a soft, lovely watercolor of what she recognized as the Irish countryside.

“Your mother's work.”

“Yes, she's good, isn't she?”

“Very. Confusing, but very good.”

“She likes you.”

With a sigh, Miranda wandered to the window. “I like her too, for some reason.”

Her own mother had never hugged her that way, with a good, solid squeeze that communicated approval and affection. Her own father had never grinned at her with that lively twinkle in his eyes, as Ryan's father had.

She wondered how, despite it all, his family had seemed so much more blissfully normal than her own.

“That'll be your bags.” When the buzzer sounded, Ryan moved over to check the intercom, then released the elevator. The delivery was made quickly, with another
exchange of bills. When the elevator whispered closed again, Ryan left her bags where they were and crossed to her.

“You're tense,” he murmured after he began kneading her shoulders. “I'd hoped an evening with my family would relax you.”

“How does anyone relax with all that energy around them?” She arched back against his hands before she could stop herself. “You must have had an interesting childhood.”

“I had a terrific childhood.” Far from the privileged one she'd known, and from all appearances, a great deal more loving. “Long day,” he murmured, and because he knew she was beginning to relax, bent down to nibble at her neck.

“Yes, very. Don't.”

“I was about to work my way around. . . here.” He turned her, covered her mouth with his and stole her breath.

His mother had said kisses should get the blood up. Hers was up, bubbling close under her skin, swimming in her head, pumping much too hard and fast through her veins.

“Don't,” she said again, but it was a weak protest, easily ignored by both of them.

He could feel the need simmering inside her. It didn't matter that it wasn't for him in particular. He wouldn't let it matter. He wanted her, wanted to be the one to crack through the shield and discover the volcano he was sure was inside of her.

Something about her pulled at him with a slow and steady strength that refused to be ignored.

“Let me touch you.” Even as he asked, he took, his hands running up her sides to skim her breasts. “Let me have you.”

Oh, yes
. The sigh of it circled around in her cloudy brain as if searching for a place to land.
Touch me. Have me. God, please don't let me think
.

“No.” It was a shock to hear herself say it. To realize she was pulling away even as she yearned to strain closer. “This won't work.”

“It was working just fine for me.” He hooked his hand
in the waistband of her trousers and gave her a yank. “And I'd say it was working just fine for you too.”

“I won't be seduced, Ryan.” She concentrated on the annoyed flash in his eyes and ignored the screams of her own system for the release his mouth had promised. “I won't be had. If we're going to finish this arrangement successfully, it has to be on a business level. And only that level.”

“I don't like that level.”

“That's the deal, and it's nonnegotiable.”

“Your tongue ever get frostbite when you use that tone?” He jammed his hands in his pocket as she studied him balefully. “Okay, Dr. Jones, it's all business. I'll show you your room.”

He walked back to pick up her suitcases and carried them up a fluid curve of metal stairs with a soft green patina. Then, setting her bags down just inside the door, he nodded. “You should find this comfortable enough, and private. We're booked out tomorrow evening. That'll give me time to tie up a few loose ends here. Sleep well,” he added, and shut the door in her face before she had the chance to shut it in his.

She started to shrug, then her eyes widened when she heard the click of a lock. In one leap she was at the door rattling the knob.

“You son of a bitch. You can't lock me in here.”

“An ounce of prevention, Dr. Jones.” His voice was soft as silk through the door. “Just to make sure you stay where I put you until tomorrow.”

He walked away whistling while she pounded and promised vengeance.

fifteen

T
hough she knew
it was a useless gesture, Miranda locked the door to the bathroom in the morning. She showered quickly, struggling to keep one eye on the door in case Ryan decided he wanted to play games.

She wouldn't have put it past him.

Once she was safely bundled into her robe, she took her time. She wanted to be completely dressed, with a confident shield of makeup and tidily groomed hair, before she saw him. There would be, she determined, no cozy little breakfast chat in pajamas.

Of course, he had to let her out first. The bastard.

“Let me out of here, Boldari,” she called as she rapped smartly on the door.

Her answer was silence. Incensed, she knocked harder, shouted louder, and began to add inventive threats.

Kidnapping, she decided; she'd add kidnapping to the list of charges against him. She hoped the other inmates at whatever federal facility he spent the rest of his life in rejoiced in torturing him.

Frustrated, she started to rattle the knob. It turned
smoothly under her hand and caused her angry flush to deepen into embarrassment.

She stepped out, glanced cautiously down the hallway. Doors were open, so she walked to the first one, determined to confront him.

She found herself in a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with books, cozy leather chairs, a small marble fireplace with an ornate pendulum clock gracing the mantel. A hexagon-shaped glass cabinet held an impressive collection of Oriental snuff bottles. She sniffed once. He might be slick on taste and culture, but he was still a thief.

She tried the next doorway and found his bedroom. The big half-tester with rococo head and footboards was impressive enough, but the fact that it was tidily made, with the pearl-gray duvet cover nicely fluffed, had her brow lifting. Either he hadn't slept in it, or his mother had trained him very well.

After meeting Maureen, she voted for the latter.

A very masculine room, she decided, yet subtly sensual with jade-green walls and creamy trim. Sinuous women in the Art Deco style he seemed fond of held frosted-glass shades that would soften the light. An oversized chair in that same moonlight gray was tilted invitingly toward a full-sized fireplace fashioned of rose-veined marble. Ornamental lemon trees in huge urns flanked the wide window where the curtain had been drawn open to let in the sunlight and the view.

The chest of drawers was Duncan Phyfe, and along with the bronze of the Persian god Mithras was a scatter of loose change, a ticket stub, a book of matches, and other ordinary contents of a man's pocket.

She was tempted to poke into his closet, open drawers, but resisted. It wouldn't do for him to pop in while she was at it and get the impression she was at all interested.

There was a third room, obviously an office of a man who could afford the best for his at-home work. Two computers, both with laser printers, the expected fax and desktop copier, a two-line phone, oak filing cabinets. Sturdy oak
shelves held books and trinkets and dozens of framed photographs of his family.

The young children would be his nieces and nephews, she thought. Pretty faces mugging for the camera. The serene Madonna-like woman holding an infant was likely his sister Bridgit, the sleekly handsome man with the Boldari eyes would be Michael, and the woman his arm was draped around his wife. They lived in California, she remembered.

There was a shot of Ryan with Colleen, grinning identical grins, and a group picture of the entire family obviously taken near Christmas. The lights from the tree were prettily blurred behind the crowd of faces.

They looked happy, she thought. Unified, and not at all stiff the way people often appeared in posed photos. She found herself lingering over them, studying another of Ryan kissing the hand of his sister, who wore a princess-in-a-fairy-tale wedding gown, and the glow that matched it.

Envy moved through her before she could stop it. There were no sentimental photographs arranged in her home to capture family moments.

She wished, foolishly, that she could slide into one of those photographs, snuggle under one of those casually welcoming arms and feel what they felt.

Feel love.

She shook the thought off, turned determinedly away from the shelves. It wasn't the time to speculate on why the Boldari family was so warm, and her own so cold. She needed to find Ryan and give him a piece of her mind while her annoyance was still fresh.

She headed downstairs, biting her tongue to keep from calling his name. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction. He wasn't in the living room, nor in the somewhat hedonistic den with its big screen TV, complicated stereo, and full-sized pinball machine—appropriately titled “Cops and Robbers.”

She imagined he thought that ironic.

Nor was he in the kitchen. But there was a half-pot of coffee left on warm.

He wasn't in the apartment at all.

She snatched up the phone with some wild idea of calling Andrew and telling him everything. There was no dial tone. Cursing viciously, she dashed back out into the living room and jabbed the button on the elevator. It didn't make a sound. Snarling, she turned to the door, found it locked.

Eyes narrowed, she flicked on the intercom and heard nothing but static.

The son of a bitch had unlocked the bedroom, but he'd simply expanded the perimeters of her cage.

 

It was after one before she heard the quiet hum of the elevator. She hadn't whiled away the morning. She'd taken the opportunity to go over every inch of his living quarters. She'd pawed through his closet without guilt. He definitely leaned toward Italian designers. She'd riffled through his drawers. He preferred sexy silk boxers, and shirts and sweaters of natural fibers.

The desks—bedroom, library, and office—had all been annoyingly locked. She'd wasted quite a bit of time attacking the locks with hairpins. The passwords on his computers had blocked her, the stone terrace off the living room had charmed her, and the caffeine she'd continued to drink as she pried had her system jumping.

She was more than ready for him when he walked through the elevator door.

“How dare you lock me in this way. I'm not a prisoner.”

“Just a precaution.” He set aside the briefcase and shopping bags he carried.

“What's next? Handcuffs?”

“Not until we know each other better. How was your day?”

“I—”

“Hate, loathe, and despise me,” he finished as he took off his coat. “Yes, we've covered that.” He hung it up neatly. She'd been right, his mother had trained him well. “I had a few errands I had to run. I hope you made yourself at home while I was out.”

“I'm leaving. I must have been temporarily insane when I thought we could work together.”

He waited until she was at the base of the stairs. “
The Dark Lady
is being held in a storeroom at the Bargello until it can be decided where she came from, and who cast her.”

She stopped, as he'd known she would, and turned slowly back. “How do you know?”

“It's my business to know. Now, with or without you, I'm going to Italy and liberating her. I can, with little trouble, find another archeometrist, and will eventually figure out just what happened and why. You walk out, you're all the way out.”

“You'll never get it out of the Bargello.”

“Oh yes.” His smile was quick and wolfish. “I will. You can have a pass at her once I do, or you can run along back to Maine and wait for your parents to decide you're not grounded anymore.”

She let the last comment pass. She supposed it was close enough to the truth. “How will you get it out?”

“That's my problem.”

“If I'm going to agree with this moronic plan, I have to have details.”

“I'll fill you in on what you need to know as we go along. That's the deal. In or out, Dr. Jones. Time's wasting.”

It was here, she realized, where she crossed the line, passed the point of no return. He was watching her, waiting, with just enough arrogance in his eyes to scrape at her pride.

“If you manage to perform a miracle and actually get inside the Bargello, you take nothing but the bronze. It isn't a shopping spree.”

“Agreed.”

“If we do end up in possession of the bronze, I'm in full charge of it.”

“You're the scientist,” he added with a smile. She was welcome to the copy, he thought. He wanted the original. “That's the deal,” he repeated. “In or out?”

“In.” Her breath exploded out. “God help me.”

“Good. Now.” He opened the briefcase, tossed items onto the table. “These are for you.”

She picked up the dark blue book. “This isn't my passport.”

“It is now.”

“This isn't my name—how did you get this picture?” She stared down at the image of herself. “This is the photo in my passport.”

“Exactly.”

“No,
my
passport. And my driver's license,” she continued, snatching it up. “You stole my wallet.”

“Borrowed certain items in your wallet,” he corrected.

She vibrated. There was no other word for it. “You came in my room while I was sleeping and took my things.”

“You were restless,” he remembered. “Lots of tossing and turning. Maybe you should try meditation to release some of that tension.”

“That's despicable.”

“No, it was necessary. It would have been despicable if I'd climbed into bed with you. Fun, but despicable.”

She drew air in through her nose, looked down it. “What have you done with my proper identification?”

“It's safe. You won't need it until we get back. Just playing it on the side of caution, darling. If the cops are snooping around, better that they don't know you've left the country.”

She tossed the passport down again. “I'm not Abigail O'Connell.”

“Mrs. Abigail O'Connell—we're on our second honeymoon. And I think I'll call you Abby. It's friendly.”

“I'm not pretending I'm married to you. I'd rather be married to a sociopath.”

She was green, after all, he reminded himself. A little patience was in order. “Miranda, we're traveling together. We'll share a hotel suite. A married couple isn't going to raise eyebrows or cause questions to be asked. All this does is keep things simple. For the next several days, I'm Kevin O'Connell, your devoted spouse. I'm a stockbroker, you're in advertising. We've been married for five years, live on the Upper West Side, and we're considering starting a family.”

“So now we're Yuppies.”

“No one uses that term anymore, but basically yes. I got you a couple of credit cards there.”

She glanced down at the table. “How did you get this identification?”

“Contacts,” he said easily.

She imagined him in a dark, smelly room with an enormous man with a snake tattoo and bad breath who sold forged IDs and assault weapons.

It was nowhere close to the split-level town house in New Rochelle where Ryan's accountant cousin—second, once removed—created documents in his basement.

“It's illegal to enter a foreign country with false identification.”

He stared at her for ten full seconds, then roared with laughter. “You're wonderful. Seriously. Now, I need a detailed description of the bronze. I need to be able to recognize her quickly.”

She studied him, wondering how anyone could keep up with a man who flipped from hilarity to brisk business in the blink of an eye. “Ninety point four centimeters in height, twenty-four point sixty-eight kilograms in weight, a nude female with the blue-green patina typical of a bronze more than five hundred years old.”

As she spoke, the image of it flashed brilliantly in her head. “She's standing on the balls of her feet, her arms lifted—it would be easier if I just sketched it for you.”

“Great.” He walked over to a cabinet, took a pad and pencil from a drawer. “As precise as you can. I hate to make mistakes.”

She sat, and with a speed and skill that had his brows lifted, put the image in her mind on paper. The face, that sly and sensuous smile, the seeking, spread fingers lifted high, the fluid arch of the body.

“Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous,” he murmured, struck by the power of the image as he leaned over Miranda's shoulder. “You're good. Do you paint?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't.” She had to struggle not to jerk her shoulder. His cheek nearly rested against her as she sketched in the last details.

“You have real talent. Why waste it?”

“I don't. A skilled sketch can be very helpful in my work.”

“A gift for art should give you pleasure in your life.” He took the sketch, studied it another moment. “You've got a gift.”

She set her pencil down and rose. “The drawing's accurate. If you're lucky enough to stumble across it, you'll recognize the bronze.”