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And Miranda had taught the course.

He hadn't figured that, he realized. He'd wanted to see another name. Carter's, Andrew's, anyone he could concentrate on uncovering. Then he realized he should have expected it. The
David
had been hers,
The Dark Lady
had been hers. She was the key, the core, and he was beginning to believe she was the reason.

One of her students had cast a bronze
David. The
bronze
David,
Ryan had no doubt.

He skimmed further, calling up final grades. She was tough, he thought with a smile. Miranda didn't hand out A's like candy. Only four out of her twenty students had rated one, with the edge slanted heavily toward B's, a scatter of C's.

And one Incomplete.

Harrison K. Mathers. Incomplete, no final project. Class dropped.

Now why would you do that, Harrison K., Ryan wondered, when you went to the trouble to have a bronze figure cast ten days before the due date, unless you'd never intended to worry about the grade?

He looked up Mathers's records, noted that he'd attended twelve classes at the Institute over a two-year period. His grades were admirable . . . until the last semester, when they took a sharp nosedive.

Taking out his cell phone, he dialed the number listed under Harrison's personal information.

“Hello?”

“Yes, this is Dennis Seaworth in student records from the New England Institute. I'm trying to reach Harrison Mathers.”

“This is Mrs. Mathers, his mother. Harry doesn't live here anymore.”

“Oh, I see. We're doing an update on our students, trying
to gather input for next year's classes. I wonder if you could put me in touch with him.”

“He moved out to California.” She sounded weary. “He never finished his classes at the Institute.”

“Yes, we have those records. We're hoping to discover if and why any of our former students were dissatisfied with the program here.”

“If you find out, tell me. He was doing so well there. He loved it.”

“That's good to know. If I could talk to him?”

“Sure.” She recited a number with a San Francisco area code.

Ryan dialed the West Coast number and was told by a recording the number had been disconnected.

Well, he thought, a trip to California would give him a chance to see his brother Michael.

 

“Harrison Mathers.”

With the most recent plans for the exhibit still crowded in her head, Miranda frowned at Ryan. “Yes?”

“Harrison Mathers,” he repeated. “Tell me about him.”

She slipped out of her jacket, hung it in the foyer closet. “Do I know a Harrison Mathers?”

“He was a student of yours a few years ago.”

“You'll have to give me more than a name, Ryan. I've had hundreds of students.”

“You taught him a course on Renaissance bronzes three years ago. He got an Incomplete.”

“An Incomplete?” She struggled to reorder her thoughts. “Harry.” It came back to her with both pleasure and regret. “Yes, he took that course. He'd been studying at the Institute for several years, I think. He was talented, very bright. He started out with me very well, both in papers and in sketching.”

She circled her neck as she walked into the parlor. “I remember he started to miss class, or come in looking as if he'd been up all night. He was distracted, his work suffered.”

“Drugs?”

“I don't know. Drugs, family problems, a girl.” She moved her shoulders dismissively. “He was only nineteen or twenty, it could have been a dozen things. I did talk to him, warn him that he needed to concentrate on his work. It improved, but not a great deal. Then he stopped coming in, just before the end of the course. He never turned in his final project.”

“He had one cast. At the Pine State Foundry the second week in May. A bronze figure.”

She stared, then lowered herself into a chair. “Are you trying to tell me he's involved in this?”

“I'm telling you he had a figure cast, a figure of David with sling. A project he never turned in. He was there while the
David
was being tested, and he dropped out shortly after. Was he ever in the lab?”

The sick and uneasy rolling was back in her stomach. She remembered Harry Mathers. Not well, not clearly, but well enough for it to hurt. “The entire class would have been taken through the lab. Any student is taken through the labs, restoration, research. It's part of the program.”

“Who'd he hang with?”

“I don't know. I don't get involved in my students' personal lives. I only remember him as clearly as I do because he had genuine talent and he seemed to waste it at the end.”

She felt the beginnings of a headache creep in behind her eyes. Oddly enough, for hours that day she'd forgotten everything but the exhibit—the thrill of the planning. “Ryan, he was a boy. He couldn't have been behind a forgery like this.”

“When I was twenty I stole a thirteenth-century Madonna mosaic from a private collection in Westchester, then went out and had pizza with Alice Mary Grimaldi.”

“How can you possibly brag about something like that?”

“I'm not bragging, Miranda. I'm stating a fact, and pointing out that age has nothing to do with certain types of behavior. Now if I wanted to brag, I'd tell you about the T'ang horse I stole from the Met a few years back. But I won't,” he added. “Because it upsets you.”

She only stared at him. “Is that your way of trying to lighten the mood?”

“Didn't work, did it?” And because she suddenly looked so tired, he walked over to take the bottle of white wine he'd already opened, and poured her a glass. “Try this instead.”

Instead of drinking, she passed the glass from hand to hand. “How did you find out about Harry?”

“Just basic research, a short field trip.” The unhappy look that came into her eyes distracted him. He sat on the arm of the chair and began to rub her neck and shoulders. “I've got to go out of town for a few days.”

“What? Where?”

“New York. There are some details I have to deal with, several of which involve the transport of the pieces for this exhibit. I also need to go out to San Francisco and find your young Harry.”

“He's in San Francisco?”

“According to his mama, but his phone's been disconnected.”

“You found all this out today?”

“You've got your work, I've got mine. How's yours coming?”

She ran her hands nervously through her hair. Those thief's fingers were magic and were loosening muscles she hadn't realized were knotted. “I—I chose some fabric for drapings, and worked with the carpenter on some platforms. The invitations came in today. I approved them.”

“Good, we're on schedule.”

“When are you leaving?”

“First thing in the morning. I'll be back in a week or so. And I'll keep in touch.” Because he could feel her begin to relax, he played with her hair. “You might want to see if Andrew will move back in so you're not alone.”

“I don't mind being alone.”

“I mind.” He picked her up, slid into the chair, and settled her on his lap. Since she wasn't going to drink it, he took the glass of wine out of her hand and set it aside. “But since he's not here at the moment . . .” He cupped
the back of her neck and brought her mouth to his.

He'd meant to leave it at that, a kiss, a nuzzle, a quiet moment. But the taste of her was warmer than he'd expected. The morning-in-the-woods scent of her skin more provocative than it should have been. He found himself nipping his teeth into that soft lower lip, licking at the little ache as she shivered once.

And when her arms tightened around him and her mouth moved urgently under his, he lost himself, slipped into her, surrounded himself with her.

Curves, lines, scent, flavors.

His busy hands unfastened the buttons of her blouse, skimmed under to bare those shoulders, to trace hypnotically over the swell of her breasts.

Sighs, moans, shudders.

“I can't get enough of you.” His words were more irritated than pleased. “I always think I have, then I only have to see you to want you.”

And no one had ever wanted her like this. She felt herself falling, deep, deeper, into the rippling warm waters of a wide well of sensation. Just feelings, no thoughts, no reason. Just needs, basic as breath.

His fingers played over her breasts, silky bird wings of motion. His tongue followed them as he shifted her, nudging her up until his mouth could close hotly over her so that the echoing tug low in her belly mirrored the aches. He caught her nipple in his teeth, a light bite, a small exquisite pain.

Willing, eager, she arched back, giving herself to him, to the moment, delighting in his single focus.

To feed on her.

Just as intent, she took her hands over him, stroking, sliding, seeking, finding her way under his shirt to flesh. Sampling that flesh and feeding herself as they rolled from the chair to the rug.

Her legs parted, trapping him in that erotic V, her hips arched so that heat pressed against heat, each movement tormenting them both.

He needed to be in her, to fill her, to bury himself in her.
The primal need to possess, to be possessed, had them both grappling with clothes, gasping for air as they tumbled over the floor.

Then she was astride him, her body bent forward, her palms pressed to his chest so their mouths could tangle again. Slowly, slowly, he lifted her hips. Their eyes locked, both dark and glazed. Finally, finally, she lowered herself to him, took him in, held him there with muscles clamped and trembling.

Then she rode, body arched back, hair flowing like wild red rain over her shoulders, her eyes narrowed to slits as pleasure overwhelmed. Speed ruled now. Here was energy, electric waves of power that swam into the blood, whipped at the heart, fueled the body to bursting.

Faster, harder, deeper, with his fingers digging desperately into her hips, her breath expelling in harsh sobs. The orgasm lanced through her, the desperate edge of it racking her, wrecking her.

Still he drove into her, his grip locking her to him as he pushed her higher with strong, steady thrusts.

A roaring filled her head, like a sea warring with a gale, and the next wave was scorching, tossing her up on one long, hot sweep.

She thought she heard someone scream.

And he saw her, in that mindless moment, hair tumbled, body arched, arms lifted, her eyes half closed, her lips curved in a smile of sly female awareness.

She was as priceless, as alluring and magnificent as
The Dark Lady,
and just as powerful. As his own release burst through him, he had one clear thought.

Here was his destiny.

Then his mind was wiped clean as the same wave caught him and flipped him over the edge.

“Good God.” It was the best he could do. Never before had he lost himself so utterly in a woman or felt so bound to one. Though she still shuddered, she seemed to melt onto him, her body sliding down until her gasps were muffled against his throat.

“Miranda.” He said her name once, stroking a hand
down her back, up again. “Christ, I'm going to miss you.”

She kept her eyes closed, said nothing at all. But she let herself sink in, let herself go, because a part of her didn't believe he'd come back.

 

He was gone when she awoke in the morning, leaving only a note on the pillow beside her.

Good morning, Dr. Jones. I made coffee. It'll be fresh enough unless you oversleep. You're out of eggs. I'll be in touch.

Though it made her feel foolish as a lovesick teenager, she read it half a dozen times, then got up to tuck it like a declaration of undying devotion in her jewelry case.

The ring he'd pushed onto her finger, the ring she'd kept foolishly in a velvet-lined square box in the case, was gone.

 

His plane landed at nine-thirty and Ryan was uptown at his gallery by eleven. It was a fraction of the size of the Institute, more like a sumptuous private home than a gallery.

The ceilings soared, the archways were wide, and the stairs curved, giving the space an airy and fluid feel. The carpets he'd chosen to scatter over the marble and hardwood floors were as much works of art as the paintings and sculptures.

His office there was on the fourth level. He'd kept it small in order to devote every available space to public areas. But it was well and carefully appointed and lacked no comfort.

He spent three hours at his desk catching up on work with his assistant, in meetings with his gallery director approving sales and acquisitions, and arranging for the necessary security and transportation for the pieces to be shipped to Maine.

He took time to schedule interviews with the press regarding the upcoming exhibit and fund-raiser, decided to shuffle in a fitting for a new tux, and called his mother to tell her to buy a new dress.

He was sending the whole family to Maine for the gala.

Next on the schedule was a call to his travel agent cousin.

“Joey, it's Ry.”

“Hey, my favorite traveling man. How's it going?”

“Well enough. I need a flight to San Francisco, day after tomorrow, open-end return.”

“No problemo. What name you want to use?”

“Mine.”

“There's a change. Okay, I'll get you booked and fax you the itinerary. Where you at?”

“Home. You can book flights for my family, going to Maine.” He gave his cousin the dates.

“Got it. All first-class, right?”

“Naturally.”

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Ry.”

“Well, that's nice to hear because I have a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“I'm going to give you a list of names. I need to find out what kind of traveling these people have been doing. For the last three and a half years.”