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“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I
am
telling you.”

“Why the hell didn't you let me know this was going on all along?” The blank look she sent him had him getting to his feet so quickly he knocked the glass aside and sent it tumbling over the rocks. “It never occurred to you, did it? To tell me you were being stalked this way, frightened this way? Don't tell me you weren't frightened,” he tossed out before she could speak. “I can see it in your face.”

He saw, she thought, entirely too much, too easily. “What could you have done about it?”

He stared at her, eyes smoldering, then jamming his
hands in his pockets, turned away. “What do they say?”

“Various things. Some of them are very calm, short and subtly threatening. Others are more disjointed, rambles. They're more personal, they talk about things that happened or little events in my life.”

Because a hunted feeling crept up her spine, she got to her feet. “One came after Giovanni . . . after Giovanni,” she repeated. “It said his blood was on my hands.”

He had no choice but to put his own resentment and hurt aside. It surprised him how much there was of both that she hadn't trusted him. Hadn't counted on him. But now he turned back, looked her straight in the eye.

“If you believe that, if you let some anonymous bastard push you into believing that, you're a fool, and you're giving them exactly what they want.”

“I know that, Ryan. I understand that perfectly.” She thought she could say it calmly, but her voice broke. “I know it's someone who knows me well enough to use what would hurt me most.”

He moved to her, wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Hold on to me. Come on, hold on.” When her arms finally encircled him, he rubbed his cheek over her hair. “You're not alone, Miranda.”

But she had been, for so long. A man like him would never know what it was like to stand in a roomful of people and feel so alone. So alien. So unwanted.

“Giovanni—he was one of the few people who made me feel . . . normal. I know whoever killed him is sending me the message. I know that in my head, Ryan. But in my heart, I'll always be to blame. And they know it.”

“Then don't let them use you, or him, this way.”

She'd closed her eyes, so overwhelmed with the comfort he'd offered. Now she opened them, stared out toward the sea as his words struck home. “Using him,” she murmured. “You're right. I've been letting them use him to hurt me. Whoever it is hates me, and made certain I knew it in the fax that came today.”

“You have copies of them all?”

“Yes.”

“I want them.” When she started to pull away, he held her in place, stroked her hair. Didn't she feel herself trembling? he wondered. “The e-mail. Did you trace it?”

“I didn't have any luck. The user name doesn't show up on the server—it's the server we use here and at Standjo.”

“Did you keep it on your machine?”

“Yes.”

“Then we'll trace it.” Or Patrick would, he thought. “I'm sorry I wasn't here.” He drew back, framed her face. “I'm here now, Miranda, and no one's going to hurt you while I am.” When she didn't answer, he tightened his grip, looked carefully at her face. “I don't make promises lightly, because I don't break them once I do. I'm going to see this through with you, all the way. And I won't let anything happen to you.”

He paused, then took what he considered a dangerous step toward a nasty edge. “Do you still want to talk to Cook?”

She'd been so sure that was the right thing. So sure, until he'd looked at her and promised. Until by doing so, he'd made her believe, against all common sense, that she could trust him.

“We'll see it through, Ryan. I guess neither one of us could swallow anything less.”

 

“Put the base directly over the mark.” Miranda stood back, watching the two burly men from maintenance haul the three-foot marble stand to the exact center of the room. She knew it was the exact center, as she'd measured it three times personally. “Yes, perfect. Good.”

“Is that the last one, Dr. Jones?”

“In this area, yes, thank you.”

She narrowed her eyes, envisioning the Donatello bronze of Venus bathing in place on the column.

This gallery was devoted to works of the Early Renaissance. A prized Brunelleschi drawing was matted behind glass and two Masaccio paintings were ornately framed and already hung, along with a Botticelli that soared twelve feet and showed the majestic ascension of the Mother of God.
There was a Bellini that had once graced the wall of a Venetian villa.

With the Donatello as the central point, the display showcased the first true burst of artistic innovation that was not simply the foundation for the brilliance of the sixteenth century, but a period of great art in itself.

True, she considered the style of the period less emotional, less passionate. The figural representation even in Masaccio's work was somewhat static, the human emotions more stylized than real.

But the miracle was that such things existed, and could be studied, analyzed centuries after their execution.

Tapping her finger to her lips, she studied the rest of the room. She'd had the tall windows draped in deep blue fabric that was shot with gold. Tables of varying heights were also spread with it, and on the glittering fabric were the tools of artists of that era. The chisels and palettes, the calipers and brushes. She'd chosen each one herself from the museum display.

It was a pity they had to be closed under glass, but even with such a rich and sophisticated crowd, fingers could become sticky.

On an enormous carved wooden stand a huge Bible sat open to pages painstakingly printed in glorious script by ancient monks. Still other tables were strewn with the jewelry favored by both men and women of the period. There were embroidered slippers, a comb, a woman's ivory trinket box, each piece carefully chosen for just that spot. Huge iron candle stands flanked the archway.

“Very impressive.” Ryan stepped between them.

“Nearly perfect. Art, with its social, economic, political, and religious foundations. The mid–fourteen hundreds. The birth of Lorenzo the Magnificent, the Peace of Lodi, and the resulting balance, however precarious, of the chief Italian states.”

She gestured to a large map, dated 1454, on the wall. “Florence, Milan, Naples, Venice, and of course, the papacy. The birth too of a new school of thought in art—humanism. Rational inquiry was the key.”

“Art's never rational.”

“Of course it is.”

He only shook his head. “You're too busy looking into the work to look at it. Beauty,” he said, gesturing to the serene face of the Madonna, “is a most irrational thing. You're nervous,” he added when he took her hands and felt the chill on her skin.

“Anxious,” she corrected. “Have you seen the other areas?”

“I thought you'd walk me through.”

“All right, but I don't have much time. I'm expecting my mother within the hour. I want everything in place when she gets here.”

She walked with him through the room. “I've left wide traffic patterns, putting the sculptures—with the Donatello bronze as the centerpiece—out into the room for a full circling view. People should be free to wander, then to move through this egress into the next gallery, the largest, which represents the High Renaissance.”

She stepped through. “We'll continue the theme here of showing not only the art itself, but what surrounded it, underlay it, inspired it. I've used more gold in here, and red. For power, for the church, royalty.”

Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she circled, studying details, looking for any slight adjustment that needed to be made. “This era was richer and had more drama. So much energy. It couldn't last, but during its brief crest, it produced the most important works of any era before or since.”

“Saints and sinners?”

“I'm sorry?”

“The most popular models of art, saints and sinners. The raw yet elegant sexuality and selfishness of the gods and goddesses, juxtaposed with the brutality of war and cheek by jowl with the grand suffering of the martyr.”

He studied the beatific if somewhat baffled face of Saint Sebastian, who was about lanced through with arrows. “I never got martyrs. I mean, what was the point?”

“Their faith would be the obvious answer.”

“No one can steal your faith, but they can sure as hell take your life—and in nasty, inventive ways.” He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “Arrows for the ever popular Sebastian, roasting alive for good old Saint Lorenzo. Crucifixions, body parts lopped off with glee and abandon. Lions, tigers, and bears. Oh my.”

She chuckled in spite of herself. “That is why they're martyrs.”

“Exactly.” He turned away from Sebastian and beamed at her. “So you're faced with the pagan horde and their primitive yet hideously efficient implements of torture. Why not just say, ‘Sure, no problem, boys and girls. What god would you prefer I worship today?' What you say doesn't change what you think or what you believe, but they can certainly change your status of living.”

He jerked a thumb toward the canvas. “Just ask poor beleaguered Sebastian.”

“I can see you'd have prospered during persecutions.”

“Damn right.”

“What about words like courage, conviction, integrity?”

“Why die for a cause? Better to live for it.”

While she pondered his philosophy and searched for the flaws in it, he strolled over to study a table artfully crowded with religious artifacts. Silver crucifixes, chalices, relics.

“You've done an amazing job here, Dr. Jones.”

“I think it works very well. The Titians will be the major focal point of this room, along with your Raphael. It's a magnificent piece, Ryan.”

“Yes, I like it quite a lot. Want to buy it?” He turned to grin at her. “The beauty of my business, Dr. Jones, is that everything has a price. Meet it, and it's yours.”

“If you're serious about selling the Raphael, I'll work up a proposal. A great many of our pieces, however, are donated or on permanent loan.”

“Not even for you, darling.”

She only moved her shoulders. She hadn't expected anything else. “I'd put
The Dark Lady
there,” she said suddenly. “Every time I imagined this room, worked on the angles, the flow, the theme, I'd see it standing on a white
column with grapevines twining down. Right here.” She stepped forward. “Under the light here. Where everyone could see it. Where I could see it.”

“We'll get it back, Miranda.”

She said nothing, annoyed with herself for daydreaming. “Do you want to see the next room? We have your Vasaris up.”

“Later.” He stepped to her. It had to be done. He'd intended to tell her immediately, but he hadn't been able to face putting that haunted look back into her eyes. “Miranda, I got a call from my brother in San Francisco. From Michael. A body was pulled out of the bay last night. It was Harry Mathers.”

She only stared, her eyes locked on his for a long silent moment before she simply closed them and turned away. “It wasn't an accident. It wasn't random.”

“The news reports my brother's heard don't give many details. Just that he was killed before he was dumped in the water.”

His throat had been slit, Ryan thought, but there was no reason to add that detail. She already knew the who and why. What good would it do for her to know the how?

“Three people now. Three people dead. And for what?” With her back still to him she stared up at the glorious face of the Madonna. “For money, for art, for ego? Maybe all three.”

“Or maybe none of those, not really. Maybe it's you.”

The quick stabbing pain in her heart had her shuddering once before she turned back. He saw the fear in her eyes, and knew that fear wasn't for herself. “Because of me? Someone could hate me that much? Why? I can't think of anyone I've had that kind of impact on, anyone I've hurt so deeply they would murder to protect a lie that ruins my professional reputation. For God's sake, Ryan, Harry was only a boy.”

Her voice was grim now, sharp with the fury that rolled in behind the fear. “Just a boy,” she repeated, “and he was snipped off like a loose thread. Just as carelessly as that. Who could I matter to so much they would have a boy
killed that way? I've never mattered to anyone.”

That, he thought, was the saddest thing he'd ever heard anyone say. Sadder still was the fact that she believed it. “You make more of an impact than you realize, Miranda. You're strong, you're successful. You're focused on what you want and where you want to go. And you get there.”

“I haven't stepped over anyone on the way.”

“Maybe you didn't see them. Patrick's been working on tracing that e-mail you received.”

“Yes.” She pushed a hand through her hair. Didn't see them? she wondered. Could she be that self-absorbed, that remote, that cold? “Did he manage it? It's been more than a week now. I thought he must have given up.”

“He never does when he has his teeth into a computer puzzle.”

“What is it? What are you trying not to tell me?”

“The user name was attached very briefly to an account. Put on and taken off, and buried under a great deal of computer jargon.”

She felt the cold ball form in her stomach. It would be bad, she knew. Very bad. “What was the account?”

He laid his hands on her shoulders. “It was your mother's.”

“That's not possible.”

“The message was routed out of Florence, on that area code, and under the account registered to Elizabeth Standford-Jones, and under her password. I'm sorry.”

“It can't be.” She pulled away from him. “No matter how much—how little—no matter what,” she managed. “She couldn't do this. She couldn't hate me this much. I can't accept that.”