Homeport (26 page)

“Luck has very little to do with it.” Idly, he flicked a fingertip down her cheek. “You look a bit like her—the shape of the face, the strong bone structure. It would be interesting to see you with that cagey, self-aware smile on your face. You don't smile very often, Miranda.”

“I haven't had much to smile about lately.”

“I think we can change that. The car will be here in about an hour—Abby. Take some time and get used to your new name. And if you don't think you can remember to call me Kevin . . .” He winked at her. “Just call me sweetheart.”

“I will not.”

“Oh, one last thing.” He pulled a small jeweler's box out of his pocket. When he flipped the lid the flash of diamonds made her blink. “By the power invested in me, and so forth,” he said, plucking it out of the box and taking her hand.

“No.”

“Don't be such an idiot. It's window dressing.”

It wasn't possible not to look down and be dazzled when he shoved it on her finger. The wedding band was studded with brilliant square-cut diamonds, four in all, that sparkled like ice. “Some window. I suppose it's stolen.”

“You wound me. I've got a friend who runs a place in the diamond district. I got it wholesale. I need to pack.”

She worried the ring on her finger while he started up the stairs. It was absurd, but she wished the ring hadn't fit
quite so perfectly. “Ryan? Can you really do this?”

He sent her a wink over his shoulder. “Watch me.”

He knew immediately she'd been into his things. She'd been neat, but not quite neat enough. In any case, she wouldn't have seen the small telltales he left scattered through his room—the single strand of hair placed over the knobs of his double closet doors, the slim bit of invisible tape over the top of his dresser drawer. It was an old habit, and one he'd never broken even with the high security in his building.

He only shook his head. She wouldn't have found anything he hadn't wanted her to find.

He opened his closet, pressed a mechanism hidden under a portion of the chair rail, and stepped into his private room. Selecting what he needed didn't take much time. He'd already thought it through. He would need his picks, the pocket electronics of his trade. The coil of thin, flexible rope, surgical gloves.

Spirit gum, hair color, a couple of scars, two pairs of glasses. He doubted the job would call for disguises, and if it went correctly, it wouldn't call for anything but the most basic of tools. Still, he preferred to be prepared for anything.

These he packed carefully in the false bottom of his suitcase. He added the expected choices a man on a romantic vacation to Italy would take, filling the case and a garment bag.

In his office he outfitted his own laptop, chose the disks he wanted. He clicked off his mental list as he packed, adding a few items he'd picked up at Spy 2000 downtown and had beefed up himself.

Satisfied, he locked his current identification in the safe behind the complete volumes of Edgar Allan Poe—the father of the locked-door mystery—and on impulse took out the plain gold band he kept there.

It had been his grandfather's wedding ring. His mother had given it to him at the wake two years ago. Though he'd had occasion to wear a wedding ring as cover before, he'd never used this one.

Without questioning why he wanted to this time, he slipped it on, locked up, and went back for his suitcases.

The intercom buzzed, announcing the car, as he carried them downstairs. Miranda had already brought her things down. Her suitcases, laptop, and briefcase were stacked neatly. Ryan lifted his brows.

“I like a woman who knows how to be ready on time. All set?”

She drew a deep breath. This, she thought, was it. “Let's get going. I hate to rush at the airport.”

He smiled at her. “That's my girl,” he said, and bent down to pick up one of her cases.

“I can carry my own things.” She pushed his hand away and picked it up herself. “And I'm not your girl.”

With a shrug he stepped back, waiting until she'd managed to sling straps over her shoulders, heft the cases. “After you, Dr. Jones.”

 

It shouldn't have surprised her that he'd managed to book two first-class seats on ridiculously short notice. Because she jolted every time the flight attendant addressed her as Mrs. O'Connell, Miranda buried herself in the pages of Kafka immediately after takeoff.

Ryan passed some time with the latest Lawrence Block burglar novel. Then sipped champagne and watched Arnold Schwarzenegger kick big-time ass on his video screen. Miranda drank mineral water and tried to concentrate on a nature documentary.

Midway over the Atlantic, the restless night caught up with her. Doing her best to ignore her seat companion, she took her seat back down, stretched out, and ordered her brain to sleep.

She dreamed of Maine, of the cliffs with the sea thrashing below, and a thick gray fog that smothered shapes. The light flicked in a blurry swath, and she used it to guide her toward the lighthouse.

She was alone, so completely alone.

And she was afraid, terribly afraid.

Stumbling, groping, fighting not to let her breath sob out
no matter how it burned her lungs. A woman's laughter, soft and menacing, taunted her so that she ran.

And running, found herself on the edge of the cliff over a boiling sea.

When a hand gripped hers, she held on tight.
Don't leave me alone
.

Beside her, Ryan looked down at their joined hands. Hers were white-knuckled even in sleep. What chased her there, he wondered, and what kept her from reaching out?

He soothed her fingers with his thumb until they relaxed. But he kept her hand in his, finding it curiously comforting as he closed his own eyes and slept.

sixteen

“T
here's only one
bedroom.” Miranda saw nothing of the lovely suite but the single bedroom with its gracious king-sized bed and elegant white coverlet.

In the parlor, Ryan opened the double doors and stepped out on an enormous terrace where the air was ripe with spring and the Italian sun shone cheerfully on the soft red rooftops.

“Check this view. This terrace is one of the reasons I wanted to book this room again. You could live out here.”

“Good.” She pushed open the doors from the bedroom and stepped out. “Why don't you plan to do just that?” She would not be charmed by the throat-aching view of the city, nor the cheerful geraniums that lined the boxes just under the stone parapet. Nor the man who leaned over them, looking as though he'd been born to stand in precisely that spot.

“There's only one bedroom,” she repeated.

“We're married. Which reminds me, how about getting me a beer?”

“I'm sure there's a certain kind of woman who finds you irresistibly amusing, Boldari. I don't happen to be that
certain kind.” She stepped up to the rail. “There is only one bed in the only one bedroom.”

“If you're shy, we can take turns on the parlor sofa. You first.” He draped an arm over her shoulders and added a friendly squeeze. “Relax, Miranda. Getting you in the sack would be fun, but it's not my first priority. A view like this makes up for a long plane flight, doesn't it?”

“The view isn't my first priority.”

“It's here, might as well appreciate it. There's a young couple who lives in that flat, there.” He steered her over a bit and pointed to a top-floor window on a soft yellow building just to the left. “They'd work on the rooftop garden on Saturday mornings together. And one night they came out and made love there.”

“You watched them?”

“Only until the intent was unmistakable. I'm not a pervert.”

“The jury's still out on that one. You've been here before, then.”

“Kevin O'Connell stayed here for a few days last year. Which is why we're using him again. In a well-run hotel like this, the staff tends to remember guests—more so if they tip well, and Kevin's a generous soul.”

“Why were you here as Kevin O'Connell?”

“A little matter of a reliquary with a bone fragment of Giovanni Battista.”

“You stole a relic? A
relic
? John the Baptist's bone?”

“A fragment thereof. Hell, pieces of him are scattered all over Italy—especially here, where he's patron saint.” He couldn't help himself, he got a huge kick out of her staggered shock. “Very popular guy, old Johnny. Nobody's going to miss a splinter or two of bone.”

“I don't have words,” Miranda murmured.

“My client had cancer—convinced himself that the relic would cure him. Of course, he's dead, but he lived nine months longer than the doctors gave him. So who's to say? Let's get unpacked.” He patted her arm. “I want a shower, then we'll get to work.”

“Work?”

“I've got some shopping to do.”

“I'm not spending the day looking for Ferragamos for your sister.”

“That won't take long, and I'll need trinkets for the rest of the family.”

“Look, Boldari, I think we have a higher priority than gathering souvenirs for your family.”

He infuriated her by leaning over and kissing the tip of her nose. “Don't worry, darling. I'll buy you something too. Wear comfortable shoes,” he advised her, and strolled back inside to shower.

 

He bought a fluid gold bracelet set with emerald cabochons in a shop on the Ponte Vecchio—his mother's birthday was coming up—and had it sent back to the hotel. Obviously enjoying the press of tourists and bargain hunters who swarmed the bridge over the placid Arno, he added gold chains in shimmering Italian gold, marcasite earrings, and Florentine-style brooches. For his sisters, he told Miranda as she waited impatiently and refused to be charmed by the tumbling glitter in display windows.

“Stand here long enough,” he commented, “you can hear every language in the world.”

“Have we stood here long enough?”

He slipped an arm around her shoulders, shaking his head as she stiffened. “Don't you ever let yourself fall into the moment, Dr. Jones? It's Florence, we're standing on the oldest of the city's bridges. The sun's shining. Take a breath,” he suggested, “and drink it in.”

She nearly did, nearly leaned into him and did just that. “We didn't come here for the atmosphere,” she said, in what she hoped was a tone cool enough to dampen his enthusiasm and her own uncharacteristic urges.

“The atmosphere's still here. And so are we.” Undaunted, he took her hand and pulled her along the bridge.

The little shops and stands appeared to delight him, Miranda noted, watching him bargain for leather bags and trinket boxes near the Piazza della Repubblica.

She ignored his suggestion that she treat herself to
something, and giving her attention to the architecture, waited for him in simmering silence.

“Now, this is Robbie.” He took a tot-sized black leather jacket with silver trim from a rack.

“Robbie?”

“My nephew. He's three. He'd get a big kick out of this.”

It was beautifully made, undoubtedly expensive, and adorable enough to have her pressing her lips together to keep them from curving. “It's completely impractical for a three-year-old.”

“It was made for a three-year-old,” he corrected. “That's why it's little.
Quanto?
” he asked the hovering merchant, and the game was on.

When he'd finished the round, he headed west. But if he'd hoped to tempt her with the flawless fashions of the Via dei Tornabuoni, he underestimated her willpower.

He bought three pairs of shoes in Ferragamo's cathedral to footwear. She bought nothing—including a gorgeous pair of pearl-gray leather pumps that had caught her eye and stirred her desire.

The credit cards in her wallet, she reminded herself, weren't stamped with her name. She'd go barefoot before she used one.

“Most women,” he observed as he walked toward the river, “would have a dozen bags and boxes by now.”

“I'm not most women.”

“So I've noticed. You'd look damn good in leather, though.”

“In your pathetic fantasies, Boldari.”

“There's nothing pathetic about my fantasies.” He stepped to a storefront and opened a glass door.

“What now?”

“Can't come to Florence without buying some art.”

“We didn't come here to buy anything. This is supposed to be business.”

“Relax.” He took her hand, bringing it up in a sweep to his lips. “Trust me.”

“Those are two phrases that will never go together when applied to you.”

The shop was crowded with marble and bronze reproductions. Gods and goddesses danced to lure tourists into plunking down their gold cards and purchasing a copy of a master's work or an offering by a new artist.

Patience straining, Miranda prepared to waste another precious hour while Ryan fulfilled his family obligations. But he surprised her by nodding toward a slender statue of Venus within five minutes.

“What do you think of her?”

Soberly, she stepped up, circled the polished bronze figure. “It's adequate, not particularly good, but if one of your legion of relatives is looking for some lawn art, it would do well enough.”

“Yeah, I think she'll do well enough.” He aimed a delighted smile toward the clerk, then made Miranda's brows draw together as he fumbled with guidebook Italian.

Throughout the shopping spree, he'd spoken the language fluidly, often peppering his speech with casual colloquialisms. Now he slaughtered the most basic of phrases with a miserable accent that had the clerk beaming at him.

“You're American. We can speak English.”

“Yeah? Thank God.” He laughed and tugged Miranda by the hand to bring her closer. “My wife and I want something special to take home. We really like this piece. It'll look great in the sunroom, won't it, Abby?”

Her answer was a “hmmm.”

He didn't bargain well this time, either, just winced over the price, then pulled her away as if to hold a private consult.

“What's this all about?” She found herself whispering because his head was bent close to hers.

“I wouldn't want to buy it without being sure my wife approved.”

“You're a jackass.”

“That's what I get for being a considerate husband.” He lowered his head, kissed her firmly on the mouth—and only
by instinct avoided her teeth. “Promise me you'll try that again later.”

Before she could retaliate, he turned back to the clerk. “We'll take her.”

When the deal was made, the statue wrapped and boxed, he refused the offer to send it to their hotel.

“That's okay. We're about to head back anyway.” He hefted the bag, then put an arm around Miranda, bumping her with one of the two cameras slung over his shoulders. “Let's get some of that ice cream on the way, Abby.”

“I don't need any ice cream,” she muttered when they stepped outside again.

“Sure you do. Gotta keep your energy up. We've got one more stop to make.”

“Look, I'm tired, my feet hurt, and I don't care for shopping. I'll just meet you back at the hotel.”

“And miss all the fun? We're going to the Bargello.”

“Now?” What chased up her spine was a combination of dread and excitement. “We're going to do it now?”

“Now we're going to play tourist some more.” He stepped off the curb, giving her room on the narrow sidewalk. “We'll check the place out, get a feel for things, take some pictures.” He winked. “Case the joint, as they say in the movies.”

“Case the joint,” she murmured.

“Where are the security cameras? How far from the main entrance is Michelangelo's
Bacchus
?” Though he knew, precisely. It wouldn't be his first trip, under any guise. “How far is it across the courtyard? How many steps to the first-floor loggia? When do the guards change shift? How many—”

“All right, all right, I get the point.” She threw up her hands. “I don't know why we didn't go there in the first place.”

“Everything in its time, honey. Abby and Kevin would want to see some of the city on their first day, wouldn't they?”

She imagined they looked exactly like American tourists—cameras, shopping bags, and guidebooks. He bought
her an ice-cream cone as they walked. Because she decided it might help cool the hot ball of tension in her stomach, she licked at the tart, frothy lemon ice as he strolled along, pointing out buildings, statues, loitering at shop windows or over menus posted outside trattorias.

Perhaps there was a point to it all, she decided. No one would look twice at them, and if she concentrated, she could almost believe she was meandering through the city for the first time. It was a bit like being in a play, she thought.
Abby and Kevin's Italian Vacation
.

If only she weren't such a lousy actress.

“Fabulous, isn't it?” He paused, his fingers twining with hers as he studied the magnificent cathedral that dominated the city.

“Yes. Brunelleschi's dome was a revolutionary achievement. He didn't use scaffolding. Giotto designed the campanile, but didn't live to see it completed.” She adjusted her sunglasses. “The neo-Gothic marble facade echoes his style, but was added in the nineteenth century.”

She brushed at her hair and saw him smiling at her. “What?”

“You have a nice way with a history lesson, Dr. Jones.” When her face went carefully blank, he framed it with his hands. “No, don't. That wasn't a dig, it was a compliment.” His fingers brushed her cheekbones lightly. So many sensitive spots, he mused. “Tell me something else.”

If he was laughing at her, he was doing a good job of disguising it. So she took a chance. “Michelangelo carved his
David
in the courtyard of the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo.”

“Really?”

He said it so seriously her lips twitched. “Yes. He also copied Donatello's
Saint John
for his own
Moses
. It would have been a compliment. But the pride of the museum, I think, is his
Pieta`
 . The figure of Nicodemus is believed to be a self-portrait and is brilliantly done. But the figure of Mary Magdalene in the same sculpture is inferior, and obviously the work of one of his students. Don't kiss me, Ryan,” she said it quickly, closing her eyes as his mouth
hovered a breath from hers. “It complicates things.”

“Do they have to be simple?”

“Yes.” She opened her eyes again, looked into his. “In this case, yes.”

“Normally I'd agree with you.” Thoughtfully, he skimmed the pad of his thumb over her lips. “We're attracted to each other, and that should be simple. But it doesn't seem to be.” He dropped his hands from her face to her shoulders, skimmed them down her arms to her wrists. Her pulse was rapid and thick, and should have pleased him.