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“Yankee conservatism.”

“Don't knock a cornerstone.” She drew in a breath. “There's something else. I told him about Giovanni. He's made the connection.”

“What do you mean he's made the connection?”

“I mean for the past year or so he's been killing his brain cells, and I'd nearly forgotten how smart he is. He put it together in minutes. A connection between the break-in here, and the one there. He's going to talk to Detective Cook about it.”

“Great, bring in the cops.”

“It's the reasonable thing to do. It's too coincidental for Andrew.” Speaking quickly, she ran back over what her brother had said. “He'll explore this. I didn't tell him what I know or suspect. I can't risk his state of mind right now when he should be concentrating on recovery, but I can't go on lying to him either. Not for much longer.”

“Then we'll have to work faster.” He had no intention of playing team ball, or sharing the bronzes. Once he had them, he was keeping them. “The wind's picking up,” he commented, and draped an arm around her as they walked up the path. “I heard a rumor about meat loaf.”

“You'll get fed, Boldari. And I can promise my meat loaf is very passionate.”

“In some cultures meat loaf is considered an aphrodisiac.”

“Really? Odd that was never covered in any of my anthropology courses.”

“It only works if you serve it with mashed potatoes.”

“Well then, I guess we'll have to test that theory.”

“They can't be instant.”

“Please. Don't insult me.”

“I think I'm crazy about you, Dr. Jones.”

She laughed, but the soft center her brother had spoken of was laid bare.

P
ART
T
HREE
The Price

Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous; but
who is able to stand before envy?

 

—P
ROVERBS

twenty-two

T
he country quiet
kept Ryan awake, and made him think of New York. Of the comforting and continual buzz of traffic, of the pace that got into your blood so that you lengthened your stride to get to the next corner, beat the light, keep the clip steady.

Places this close to the ocean made you slow down. Once you slowed down, you could get settled in and rooted before you realized it was happening.

He needed to get back to New York, to his gallery, which he'd already left too long in other hands. Of course, he often did, but that was when he was traveling, moving from place to place. Not when he was . . . planted this way.

He needed to pull up stakes, and soon.

She was sleeping beside him, her breathing echoing the slow, steady ebb and flow of the sea outside. She didn't curl up against him, but maintained her own space and gave him his. He told himself he appreciated that. But he didn't. It irked him that she didn't cuddle and cling and at least pretend that she was trying to hold him down.

It would have been so much easier to resist staying if she did.

He couldn't concentrate this way. She was a constant distraction from the work at hand, just by being close enough to touch. She was an infinitely touchable woman if only because she was always vaguely surprised by little strokes and pats.

And because he wanted to do so, to nudge her awake and into arousal with little strokes and pats, with quiet sips and nibbles until she was hot and slippery and eager for him, he got out of bed.

Sex was supposed to be a simple form of entertainment, not an obsession, for God's sake.

He tugged on a pair of loose black pants, found a cigar and his lighter, and quietly opened her terrace doors and stepped out.

Breathing the air was like drinking a lightly chilled and mellow white, he decided. It could become a casual habit, one easily taken for granted. The height gave him a full view of the sea, of the ragged spit of land with the glowing spear of the lighthouse, and that spear's straight beaming lance.

It held a sense of age and tradition, of security again easily taken for granted by those who saw it day after day. Things changed slowly here, if they flexed their muscles and decided to change at all.

You would see the same view morning after morning, he decided. A similar scatter of boats over the same moody sea, and all with the beat and pulse of that sea as a backdrop. He could see the stars, brilliantly clear like bright studs pinned to velvet. The moon was waning, losing its edge.

He was afraid he was losing his.

Annoyed with himself, he lighted the cigar, blew a fume of smoke into the wind that never seemed to rest.

They were getting nowhere, he thought. Miranda could create her charts and graphs, calculate her time lines, and input her data until she generated reams of paperwork. None of it delved into the hearts and minds of the people involved. It couldn't touch on greed or anger, jealousy or
hate. A chart couldn't illustrate why one human took the life of another over a piece of metal.

He needed to know the players, to understand them, and he'd barely begun.

He thought he'd come to know her. She was an efficient woman with a practical shell, an aloof nature that could, with the proper key, be unlocked to expose the warmth and needs under the surface. Her upbringing had been privileged and cold. She'd reacted to that by distancing herself from people, honing her mind, fixing her goals and setting along a straight, linear path to achieving them.

Her weakness was her brother.

They'd stuck together, bonding initially out of defense or rebellion or genuine affection. It didn't matter what had forged that bond; it existed, it was real and strong and unified them. What came out of it was loyalty and love. He'd seen for himself what Andrew's drinking, his unpredictability, had done to her. It left her shaken and angry and baffled.

And he'd seen the hope and the happiness in her eyes during the dinner they'd shared that evening. She believed he was climbing back toward the brother she'd known. She needed that belief, that faith. He couldn't stand the idea of shattering it.

So he would keep his suspicions to himself. He knew just what addictions, any kind of addictions, could do to warp a man. To make him consider and to make him commit acts he would never have considered or committed otherwise.

Andrew headed the Institute, he had power, the ease of motion within the organization to have managed the switch of the first bronze. The motive could have been money, or a simple lust to own, or the surrendering to blackmail. No one was in a better position to have orchestrated the thefts and the forgeries than one of the Joneses.

He considered Charles Jones. He'd been the one to discover the
David
. It wasn't unreasonable to theorize that he'd wanted it for himself. He would have needed help. Andrew?
Possibly. Giovanni, just as possibly. Or any of the most trusted staff.

Elizabeth Jones. Proud, cold, driven. She'd based her life on art, the science of it rather than the beauty. She, like her husband, had put their family in the shadows in order to concentrate energy and time and effort on gaining prestige. Their own. Wouldn't a priceless statue make the perfect trophy for a lifetime of work?

Giovanni. A trusted employee. A brilliant scientist or he would never have been a part of Miranda's team. Charming, by her account. A single man who enjoyed flirting with women. Maybe he'd flirted with the wrong one, or had craved more than his position at Standjo offered.

Elise. Ex-wife. Ex-wives were often vengeful. She'd transferred from the Institute to Standjo, Florence. She was in a position of trust and power. She might have used Andrew, then discarded him. As lab manager, she'd be privy to all data. She would have held both bronzes in her hands. Had she coveted them?

Richard Hawthorne. Bookworm. Still waters often ran deep and often ran violent. He knew his history, knew how to research. His type was largely overlooked in favor of the more flamboyant, the more demanding. It could eat at a man.

Vincente Morelli, longtime friend and associate. With a very young, very demanding wife. He'd given the Institute and Standjo years of his life, of his work, of his skills. Why not cash in on more than a paycheck and a pat on the back for services rendered?

John Carter, with his worn shoes and ridiculous ties. Stable as granite. Why not just as hard? He'd been with the Institute for more than fifteen years, plodding his way along. Following orders, clinging to routines. Maybe he was still following orders.

Any one of them could have planned it, he decided. But he didn't believe any one of them could have executed two such flawless switches alone. There was teamwork here, gears meshing. And a cool and clever mind behind it all.

He was going to need more than personnel records and time lines to uncover that mind.

He watched a star fall, streaking toward the sea with an arc of light. And he began to plan.

 

“What do you mean you're going to call my mother?”

“I'd call your father,” Ryan said, peeking over her shoulder to see what she was up to on the computer, “but I get the impression your mother's more involved in the business. What are you doing there?”

“Nothing. Why are you going to call my mother?”

“What is that? A gardening web page?”

“I need some data, that's all.”

“On flowers?”

“Yes.” She'd already printed out several informative documents on soil treatments, perennials, and planting seasons, so closed the page. “My mother?”

“In a minute. Why do you need data on flowers?”

“Because I'm going to start a garden, and I know nothing about it.”

“So you're taking the scientific approach.” He bent down to kiss the top of her head. “You really are cute, Miranda.”

She removed her glasses and put them on the desk. “I'm delighted I've amused you. Now will you answer my question?”

“Your mother?” He sat on the desk, facing her. “I'm going to call her to tell her my conditions for the loan of the Vasaris, and a Raphael and Botticelli.”

“Raphael and Botticelli? You never agreed to loan us anything but the Vasaris.”

“New deal. Five paintings—and I may let her talk me into tossing in a Donatello sculpture—a three-month loan, with the Boldari Gallery suitably acknowledged in all advertising, with the proceeds from the fund-raiser going to the National Endowment for the Arts.”

“Fund-raiser?”

“I'll get to that. The reason I'm choosing the New England Institute of Art History is because of its reputation,
its dedication to not only displaying art but teaching, restoring, studying, and preserving it. I was very impressed when I was here a few weeks ago and was taken through the facility by Dr. Miranda Jones.”

He tugged on her hair, sent it tumbling to her shoulders as he liked it best. And ignored her curse of annoyance. “I was particularly intrigued by her idea of creating a display of the history and progress,” he went on, “with its social, religious, and political underlayment, of the Italian Renaissance.”

“Were you?” she murmured. “Were you really?”

“I was riveted.” He picked up her hand to toy with her fingers and noted she'd taken off the ring he'd put there. The fact that the lack of it caused his brows to draw together in annoyance was something to ponder later. “I was struck by her vision of this showing, and by the idea of arranging a similar display, after the three-month period, in my own gallery in New York.”

“I see. A partnership.”

“Exactly. We were of one mind, and during the preliminary stages of discussion, you brought up the idea of holding a fund-raiser at the Institute, benefiting the NEA. As Boldari Galleries are staunch supporters of the organization, I was caught. It was very clever of you to dangle that lure.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “wasn't it?”

“I'm ready to move forward on this mutual project at the earliest possible date, but having been told that Dr. Jones is on a leave of absence, I'm quite concerned. I can't possibly work with anyone else. The delay has led me to consider working with the Art Institute in Chicago instead.”

“She won't care for that.”

“I didn't think she would.” He nipped the pins out of her hand before she could bundle her hair back up, and carelessly tossed them over his shoulder.

“Damn it, Ryan—”

“Don't interrupt. We need you back inside the Institute. We need whoever's behind the forgeries to know you're back on the job. Then once we've got everything in place,
we need everyone who was connected to the two bronzes here, together, in one spot.”

“You may very well be able to manage the first. A display such as the one you're describing would be very prestigious.”

She would have gotten up to retrieve the pins, but he was playing with her hair again, watching her face as he gathered it, twined it. “Um. My mother appreciates the power of prestige. Obviously the second part would be a given after that. But I don't know how you expect to manage the last of it.”

“I'll tell you.” He grinned and leaned over to flick a finger down her cheek. “We're going to throw a hell of a party.”

“A party? The fund-raiser?”

“That's right.” He rose and began poking around on her shelves, in her drawers. “And we're going to have it in Giovanni's name, a kind of memorial.”

“Giovanni.” It turned her blood cold. “You'd use him for this? He's dead.”

“You can't change that, Miranda. But we'll arrange it so that whoever killed him comes. And we'll be one step closer to the bronzes.”

“I don't understand you.”

“I'm working out the details. Don't you have a sketch pad?”

“Yes, of course.” Wavering between irritation and confusion, she rose and took one from a filing cabinet.

“I should have known. Well, bring it along, get yourself a couple of pencils.”

“Bring it along where?”

“To the back porch. You can sit and sketch your garden while I make some phone calls.”

“You expect me to sketch a garden while all this is going on?”

“It'll relax you.” He chose some pencils from her desk, tucked them in his shirt pocket, picked up her glasses, tucked them in hers. “And you'll plant a better one if you know
what you want to look at.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the room.

“When did you come up with all this?”

“Last night. Couldn't sleep. We're spinning wheels, when we need action. We've been letting someone else run the show, and we've got to start pushing the buttons.”

“That's all very interesting and metaphorical, Ryan, but holding a fund-raiser in Giovanni's name won't guarantee his killer will show. And it certainly doesn't put the bronzes in our hands.”

“One step at a time, baby. You going to be warm enough?”