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It was surreal, sitting in the hotel room and holding
The Dark Lady
in her hands. She examined it carefully, noting where samples and scrapings had been taken, judging the weight, critiquing the style.

It was a beautiful and graceful piece of work, with the blue-green patina giving it the dignity of age.

She set it on the table beside the
David
.

“She's gorgeous,” Ryan commented as he puffed on his cigar. “Your sketch of her was very accurate. You didn't capture the spirit, but you certainly got the details. You'd be a better artist if you put some heart into your work.”

“I'm not an artist.” Her throat was dry as dust. “I'm a scientist, and this isn't the bronze I tested.”

He lifted a brow. “How do you know?”

She couldn't tell him it felt wrong. She couldn't even acknowledge to herself that it simply didn't give her the same tingle in her fingertips when she held it. So she gave him facts.

“It's very possible for someone with training to recognize the work of the twentieth century just by a visual exam.
In this case I certainly wouldn't depend on that alone. But I took scrapings. Here, and here.” She used a fingertip to point to the back of the calf, the curve of the shoulder. “There's no sign of them on this piece. Ponti's lab took scrapings from the back, and the base. Those aren't my marks. I need equipment and my notes to verify, but this isn't the bronze I worked on.”

Considering, Ryan tapped his cigar in an ashtray. “Let's verify it first.”

“No one will believe me. Even when I verify it, no one will believe this isn't the bronze.” She looked over at him. “Why should they?”

“They'll believe you when we have the original.”

“How—”

“One step at a time, Dr. Jones. You're going to want to change. Basic black works best for an entertaining evening of breaking and entering. I'll arrange for transportation.”

She moistened her lips. “We're going into Standjo.”

“That's the plan.” He sensed her waffling and leaned back in his chair. “Unless you want to call your mother, explain all this to her and ask her to give you a little lab time.”

Miranda's eyes cooled as she rose. “I'll change.”

The bedroom door didn't have a lock, so she dragged over the desk chair and lodged the back under the knob. It made her feel better. He was using her, was all she could think, as if she were just another tool. The idea of them being partners was an illusion. And now she'd helped him steal.

She was about to break into her family's business. And how would she stop him if he decided to do more than run a few basic tests?

She could hear him talking on the phone in the parlor, and took her time changing into a black shirt and slacks. She needed a plan of her own, needed to enlist someone she could trust.

“I've got to run down to the desk,” he called out. “Snap it up in there. I'll only be a minute, and I need to change too.”

“I'll be ready.” And the minute she heard the door shut, she was dragging the chair away from the door. “Be there, be there, be there,” she murmured frantically, as she yanked her address book out of her briefcase. Flipping through, she found the number and made the call.

“Pronto.”

“Giovanni, it's Miranda.”

“Miranda?” It wasn't pleasure in his voice, but caution. “Where are you? Your brother's been—”

“I'm in Florence,” she interrupted. “I need to see you right away. Please, Giovanni, meet me inside Santa Maria Novella. Ten minutes.”

“But—”

“Please, it's vital.” She hung up quickly, then moving fast, covered the bronzes sloppily in bubble wrap and stuffed them back in their bag. She grabbed the bag and her purse, and ran.

She took the stairs, hurrying down the carpeted treads with her heart banging in her chest, her arms straining against the weight of the bag. She pulled up short at the base, eased out.

She could see Ryan at the desk, chatting cheerfully with the clerk. She couldn't risk crossing the lobby, and tried to slide invisibly around the corner and jog through the lounge. She kept going, through the glass doors that led to the pretty courtyard, with its sparkling swimming pool and shady trees. Pigeons scattered as she raced through.

Though the bag weighed heavily, she didn't stop for breath until she'd circled the building and made it out to the street. Even then, she took only time enough to shift hands, readjust the weight, cast one nervous glance behind her. Then she headed straight for the church.

Santa Maria Novella, with its beguiling patterns of green and white marble, was just a short walk from the hotel.

Miranda controlled her need to run and walked into its cool, dim interior. Her legs wobbled as she headed down and found a seat near the left of the chancel. Once there, she tried to understand what the hell she was doing.

Ryan was going to be furious, and she couldn't be sure
just how much violence simmered under that elegant surface. But she was doing the right thing, the only logical thing.

Even the copy had to be protected until there was resolution. You couldn't trust a man who stole for a living.

Giovanni would come, she told herself. She'd known him for years. However flirtatious, however eccentric he might be, he was at heart a scientist. And he'd always been her friend.

He would listen, he would assess. He would help.

Trying to calm herself, she shut her eyes.

There was something in the air of such places, temples of age and faith and power. Religion had always been, on some levels, about power. Here, that power had manifested itself in great art, so much of it paid for from the coffers of the Medicis.

Buying their souls? she wondered. Balancing out their misdeeds and sins by creating grandeur for a church? Lorenzo had betrayed his wife with the Dark Lady—however acceptable such affairs had been. And his greatest protégé had immortalized her in bronze.

Had he known?

No, no, she remembered, he'd been dead when the bronze was cast. She would have been making the transition to Piero, or one of the younger cousins.

She wouldn't have given up the power her beauty granted her by turning away a new protector. She was too smart for that, too practical. To prosper, or even to survive during that period, a woman needed the shield of a man, or her own wealth, a certain acceptable lineage.

Or great beauty with a cool mind and heart that knew how to wield it.

Giulietta had known.

Shivering, Miranda opened her eyes again. It was the bronze, she reminded herself, not the woman that mattered now. It was science, not speculation that would solve the puzzle.

She heard the rapid footsteps and tensed. He'd found her.
Oh God. She jumped up, whirled, and nearly wept with relief.

“Giovanni.” Her limbs went weak as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

“
Bella,
what are you doing here?” He returned the embrace with a combination of exasperation and affection. “Why do you call me with fear in your voice and ask me to meet you like a spy?” He glanced over at the high altar. “And in church.”

“It's quiet, it's safe. Sanctuary,” she said with a weak smile as she drew back. “I want to explain, but I don't know how much time I have. He knows I'm gone by now, and he'll be looking for me.”

“Who knows?”

“Too complicated. Sit down a minute.” Her voice was a whisper, as suited churches and conspiracies. “Giovanni, the bronze.
The Dark Lady
—it was a forgery.”

“Miranda, my English comes and goes, but to be a forgery makes it necessary to have something to forge. The bronze was a fake, a bad joke, a . . .” He groped for a word. “Bad luck,” he decided. “The authorities have questioned the plumber, but it appears he was no more than a dupe. Is this the word? Someone hoped to pass the statue off as genuine, and nearly succeeded.”

“It
was
genuine.”

He took her hands. “I know this is difficult for you.”

“You saw the test results.”

“
Sì,
but . . .”

It hurt, seeing both doubt and suspicion in the eyes of a friend. “Do you think I doctored them?”

“I think there were mistakes. We moved too fast, all of us. Miranda—”

“The pace doesn't alter the results. That bronze was real. This one is a forgery.” She reached down and brought the wrapped bronze to the top of the bag.

“What is this?”

“It's the copy. The one Ponti tested.”

“
Dio mio!
How did you get it?” His voice rose on the question, causing a few heads to turn. Wincing, he leaned
closer and whispered. “It was being held in the Bargello.”

“That's not important. What is important is that this is not the bronze we worked on. You'll be able to see that for yourself. Once you have it in the lab.”

“In the lab? Miranda, what madness is this?”

“This is sanity.” She had to cling to that. “I'm barred from Standjo. The records are all there, Giovanni, the equipment is there. I need your help. There's a bronze
David
in this bag as well. It's a forgery. I've already tested it. But I want you to take them both in, examine them, run what tests you can. You'll compare the results of the Fiesole Bronze with the ones that were run on the original. You'll prove it's not the same bronze.”

“Miranda, be sensible. Even if I do as you ask, I'll only prove you were wrong.”

“No. You get my notes, your own. Richard's. You run the tests, you compare. We couldn't all have been wrong, Giovanni. I'd do it myself, but there are complications.”

She thought of Ryan, furious, tearing the city apart to find her and the bronzes. “And running them myself won't convince anyone. It needs to be objective. I can't trust anyone but you.”

She squeezed his hands, knowing she played on his weakness for friendship. She could have stopped the tears that swam into her eyes, but they were genuine. “It's my reputation, Giovanni. It's my work. It's my life.”

He cursed softly, then winced when he remembered where he was, quickly added a prayer and the sign of the cross.

“This will only make you unhappy.”

“I can't be any more unhappy. For friendship, Giovanni. For me.”

“I'll do what you ask.”

She squeezed her eyes shut as her heart swelled with gratitude. “Tonight, right away.”

“The sooner it's done, the better. The lab, it's closed for a few days, so no one will know.”

“Closed, why?”

He smiled for the first time. “Tomorrow, my lovely
pagan, is Good Friday.” And this was not the way he'd intended to spend his holiday weekend. He sighed, nudged the bag with his foot. “Where will I reach you when it's done?”

“I'll reach you.” She leaned forward to touch her lips to his. “
Grazie, Giovanni. Mille grazie
. I'll never be able to repay you for this.”

“An explanation when it's done would be a fine start.”

“A full one, I promise. Oh, I'm so glad to see you. I wish I could stay, but I have to get back, and . . . well, I suppose we'd say face the music. I'll find a way to call you in the morning. Take good care of them,” she added, and nudged the bag toward him with her foot. “Wait a minute or two before you leave, will you. Just in case.”

She kissed him again, warmly, then left him.

Because she looked neither right nor left, she didn't see the figure standing in the dimness, turned as if to contemplate the faded frescoes of Dante's Inferno.

She didn't feel the fury, or the threat.

It was as if a burden had been lifted, the weight that had pressed down on her head, her heart, her conscience. She stepped outside, into the gilded light from the sun that was melting into the west. On the off chance that Ryan was out on foot searching for her, she walked in the opposite direction of the hotel, toward the river.

It wouldn't do, she thought, to have him find her before she and Giovanni had plenty of distance between them.

It was a long walk, and gave her time to calm herself, time to think, and time, for once, to wonder about the couples who strolled along, hand in hand, who shared long looks or long embraces. Giovanni had once told her romance lived in Florentine air, and she had only to sniff at it.

It made her smile, then it made her sigh.

She simply wasn't fashioned for romance. And hadn't she proven it? The only man who'd ever stirred her to the point of aching was a thief with no more integrity than a mushroom.

She was better, much better off alone. As she'd always been.

She reached the river, watched the dying sun sprinkle its last lights on the water. When the roar of an engine sounded behind her, when that engine revved violently, impatiently, she knew he'd found her. She'd known he would.

“Get on.”

She glanced back, saw his furious face, the way that anger could turn those warm golden eyes to deadly ice. He was all in black now, as she was, and astride a blue motorbike. The wind had blown his hair into disorder. He looked dangerous, and absurdly sexy.

“I can walk, thanks.”

“Get on, Miranda. Because if I have to get off and put you on, it's going to hurt.”

Since the alternative was to run like a coward, and likely be run over for her trouble, she shrugged carelessly. She walked to the curb, swung a leg over to sit behind him. She gripped the back of the seat for balance.

But when he took off like a bullet, survival instinct took over and had her wrapping her arms tightly around him.

seventeen

“I
guess I
should have used the handcuffs after all.” After taking the narrow, winding streets with a reckless and risky speed that suited his mood, Ryan jerked the bike to a halt in the Piazzale Michelangelo.

It seemed apt, and it gave them a heart-shattering view of Florence, with the Tuscan hills rising beyond. As well as the privacy he wanted should he decide to commit violence.

It was nearly empty, with the vendors that crowded the area gone for the day and a broody storm gathering in the western sky, where the sun clung tenuously to the horizon.

“Off,” he ordered, and waited for her to pry her hands from their death grip around his waist. He'd given her a couple of good scares on the ride. He'd meant to.

“You drive like a lunatic.”

“Half Italian, half Irish. What do you expect?” He swung off himself, then dragged her to the wall, where Florence spread like an old jewel below. There were still a few tourists taking pictures of the grand fountain, but since they were Japanese he thought he could risk ripping into her in
either English or Italian. He chose the latter because he considered it more passionate.

“Where are they?”

“Safe.”

“I didn't ask how they were, but where. What have you done with the bronzes?”

“The sensible thing. It's going to storm,” she said as lightning licked the sky with the same edgy sizzle as the nerves riding in her stomach. “We should get inside somewhere.”

He simply pushed her back against the wall, and held her there, body against body. “I want the bronzes, Miranda.”

She kept her eyes on his. She wouldn't appeal to the handful of lingering tourists for help. This, she promised herself, she would deal with on her own. “They're worthless to you.”

“That's for me to decide. Damn it, I trusted you.”

Now her eyes fired back. “You mean you couldn't lock me into the suite the way you did in your apartment.” She kept her voice low, its already husky tone rough with temper. “You couldn't make me wait the way you did at the Bargello while you went ahead and acted without telling me what you planned to do. This time
I
went ahead.”

He put his arms around her so that they looked like desperate lovers too involved with each other to notice storm or city. His grip shortened her breath considerably. “Went ahead and what?”

“Made arrangements. You're hurting me.”

“Not yet I'm not. You had to give them to someone. Your mother. No,” he decided when she continued to stare at him. “Not your mother. You're still hoping to make her grovel for doubting you. Got a boyfriend here in Florence, Dr. Jones, someone you could sweet-talk into tucking the bronzes away until you figure I'd give up? Now I want the bronzes—both of them.”

Thunder grumbled, rolled closer.

“I told you, they're safe. I made arrangements. I did what I thought best.”

“Do I look like I give a rat's ass what you think?”

“I want to prove they're copies. So do you. If I run the tests and the comparisons, it could be claimed I slanted them. We'd be no better off than we are now. It was your job to get the bronze from the Bargello, it's mine to determine how to prove it's a forgery.”

“You gave them to someone from Standjo.” He drew back only far enough to take her face in his hands. “What kind of idiot are you?”

“I gave them to someone I trust, to someone I've known for years.” She took a deep breath, hoping to trade temper for reason. “He'll do the work because I asked him. And tomorrow, I'll contact him and get the results.”

He had a vicious urge to bounce her head off the wall, just to see if it was really as hard as he suspected. “Follow this logic, Dr. Jones.
The Dark Lady
is a forgery. Therefore someone at Standjo made the copy. Someone who knows what the tests would show, how to make it look real enough to pass prelims, someone who likely has a source who'd pay some excellent lire for the real thing.”

“He wouldn't do that. His work's important to him.”

“Mine's important to me. Let's go.”

“Where?”

He was already dragging her across the plaza to the bike when the first fat drops of rain fell. “To the lab, sweetheart. We'll check up on your friend's progress.”

“Don't you understand? If we break into the lab, the tests will be moot. No one will believe me.”

“You forget. I already believe you. That's part of the problem. Now get on, or I leave you here and take care of business myself.”

She considered it, then decided the last thing Giovanni needed was a furious Ryan breaking into the lab. “Let him do the tests.” She pushed at her wet hair. “It's the only way they'll have validity.”

He simply gunned the engine. “Get on.”

She got on, and as he tore out of the plaza she tried to convince herself she'd make him see reason once they got to Standjo.

Half a block from Standjo he pulled the bike into a small
forest of others along the curbing. “Be quiet,” he said, jumping off to remove pouches from the saddlebags. “Do what you're told, and carry this.” He shoved one of the bags into her hands, then took her arm in a firm grip and led her down the street.

“We'll go in the back, just in case anyone's curious enough to be looking out into the rain. We'll cross directly over the photo lab to the stairs.”

“How do you know the setup?”

“I do my research. I've got blueprints of the whole facility on disk.” He drew her around the back of the building, then pulled out a pair of surgical gloves. “Put these on.”

“This isn't going to—”

“I said be quiet and do what you're told. You've already caused me more trouble than necessary. I'm going to disable the alarm in this sector, which means you don't go more than one foot away from me while we're inside.”

He pulled on his own gloves as he spoke, and thought nothing of the rain now pounding over them. “If we need to access another area of the building, I'll deal with the security from inside. It'll be easier. There're no guards, it's all electronic, so it's unlikely we'd run into anyone but your good pal over a holiday weekend.”

She started to protest again, then backed off. It occurred to her that once she was inside, she'd have Giovanni behind her. Surely the two of them could handle one irritating thief.

“If he's not inside, with the bronzes, I'm going to make you very sorry.”

“He's there. He gave me his word.”

“Yeah, like you gave me yours.” He approached the door, setting down his bag to prepare to work. Then his eyes narrowed as he studied the fixture beside the door. “Alarm's off,” he murmured. “Your friend's careless, Dr. Jones. He didn't reset the system from inside.”

She ignored the rippling chill over her skin. “I suppose he didn't think it necessary.”

“Um-hmm. Door's locked, though. That would be automatic once it was shut. We'll fix that.”

He unrolled a soft leather strip, using his body to shield
his tools as best he could. He'd have to wipe them down well later, he mused. Couldn't risk rust.

“This shouldn't take long, but keep your eye out anyway.”

He hummed lightly, a tune she recognized as a passage from
Aida
. She crossed her arms over her chest, turned her back to him, and stared into the driving rain.

Whoever had installed security hadn't wanted to deface the beautiful old door with dead bolts. The brass knobs were sad-faced cherubs that suited the medieval architecture and guarded a series of efficient but aesthetically discreet locks.

Ryan blinked rain out of his eyes and wished vaguely for an umbrella.

He had to work by feel alone. The pounding of the rain prevented him from hearing that faint and satisfying click of tumblers. But the sturdy British locks surrendered, degree by degree.

“Bring the bag,” he told her when he pulled the heavy door open.

He used his penlight to guide them to the stairs. “You explain to your friend that I'm helping you out, and I'll take it from there. That is, if he's here.”

“I said he'd be here. He promised me.”

“Then he must like to work in the dark.” He shined his light straight ahead. “That's your lab, right?”

“Yes.” Her brows drew together. It was black as pitch. “He just hasn't gotten here yet.”

“Who turned off the alarm?”

“I . . . He's probably in the chem lab. That's his field.”

“We'll check that out in a minute. Meanwhile we'll just see if your notes are still in your office. Through here?”

“Yes, through the doors and to the left. It was only my temporary office.”

“You put the data on your computer's hard drive?”

“Yes.”

“Then we'll get it.”

The doors were unlocked, which gave him an unhappy feeling. Deciding to err on the side of caution, he shut off his flashlight. “Stay behind me.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” He eased through the door, blocking her body with his. For several humming seconds he listened, and hearing nothing but the whoosh of air through the vents, reached over to turn on the lights.

“Oh God.” Instinctively, she gripped his shoulder. “Oh my God.”

“I thought scientists were tidy,” he murmured.

It looked as if someone had indulged in a vicious tantrum, or a hell of a party. Computers were smashed, and the glass from monitors and test tubes littered the floor. Worktables had been overturned, papers scattered. Stations that had been surgically ordered were now a jumble of wreckage. The stench of chemicals unwisely mixed smeared the air.

“I don't understand this. What's the point of this?”

“It wasn't burglary,” he said easily. “Not with all these computers busted instead of lifted. Looks to me, Dr. Jones, like your friend's come and gone.”

“Giovanni would never do this.” She pushed past Ryan to kick her way through the rubble. “It had to be vandals, kids on a rampage. All this equipment, all this data.” She mourned it even as she stormed through the room. “Destroyed, ruined.”

Vandals? He didn't think so. Where was the graffiti, where was the glee? This had been done in rage, and with purpose. And he had a hunch it was going to circle right around on them.

“Let's get out of here.”

“I have to check the other sections, see how extensive the damage is. If they got to the chem lab—”

She broke off, shoving her way through the mess with the terrible idea of a gang of young hoods with a volatile supply of stolen chemicals.

“You can't fix it,” he muttered under his breath, and started after her. When he caught up, she was standing in an open doorway, staring, swaying.

Giovanni had kept his promise, and he wasn't going anywhere. He lay on his back, his head twisted at an odd angle
and resting in a dark, glossy pool. His eyes, open and dull, were fixed on
The Dark Lady,
who lay with him, her graceful hands and smiling face covered with blood.

“Sweet Jesus.” It was as much prayer as oath as Ryan jerked her back, forced her around so that she stared into his eyes instead of at what lay in the room beyond. “Is that your friend?”

“I . . . Giovanni.” Her pupils had dilated with shock and her eyes were as black and lifeless as a doll's.

“Hold it together. You have to hold it together, Miranda, because we might not have much time. Our fingerprints are all over that bronze, do you understand?” And the bronze had recently graduated from forgery to murder weapon. “Those are the only ones the cops will find on it. We've been set up here.”

There was a roaring in her ears—the ocean rising up to strike rock. “Giovanni's dead.”

“Yeah, he is—now stand right here.” For expedience sake, he propped her against the wall. He stepped into the room, breathing through his teeth so as not to absorb the smell of death. The room reeked with it, and the smell was obscenely fresh. Though it made him grimace, he picked up the bronze, stuffed it into his bag. Doing his best to stop his gaze from locking on the face staring up at him, he did a quick search of the wrecked room.

The
David
had been heaved into a corner. The dent in the wall showed where it had struck.

Very smart, he thought as he pushed it into the bag. Very tidy. Leave both pieces and tie it together. Tie it right around Miranda's neck like a noose.

She was exactly as he'd left her, but now she was shaking and her skin was the color of paste.

“You can walk,” he said roughly. “You can run if you have to, because we've got to get out of here.”

“We can't—can't leave him. In there. Like this. Giovanni. He's dead.”

“And there's nothing you can do for him. We're going.”

“I can't leave him.”

Rather than wasting time arguing, he caught her up in a
fireman's carry. She didn't struggle, only hung limply and repeated the same words over and over like a chant. “I can't leave him. I can't leave him.”