Homeport (5 page)

Considering, Elizabeth rose and turned to her window. She always thought more clearly when she looked out over the city. Florence was her home, had been her home since the first time she'd seen it. She'd been eighteen, a young college student with a desperate love for art and a secret thirst for adventure.

She'd fallen hopelessly in love with the city, with its red rooftops and majestic domes, its twisting streets and bustling piazzas.

And she'd fallen in love with a young sculptor who had charmingly lured her to bed, fed her pasta, and shown her her own heart.

Of course, he'd been unsuitable. Completely unsuitable. Poor and wildly passionate. Her parents had snapped her back to Boston the moment they'd learned of the affair.

And that, of course, had been the end of that.

She shook herself, annoyed that her mind had drifted there. She'd made her own choices, and they had been excellent ones.

Now she was the head of one of the largest and most respected research facilities for art in the world. Standjo might have been one of the arms of the Jones organization, but it was hers. Her name came first, and here, so did she.

She stood framed in the window, a trim, attractive woman of fifty-eight. Her hair was a quiet ash blond discreetly tinted by one of the top salons in Florence. Her impeccable taste was reflected in the perfectly cut Valentino suit she wore, the color a rich eggplant, with hammered-gold buttons. Her leather pumps matched the tone exactly.

Her complexion was clear, with good New England bone structure overcoming the few lines that dared show themselves. Her eyes were a sharp and ruthlessly intelligent blue. The image was one of a cool, fashionable, professional woman of wealth and position.

She would never have settled for less.

No, she thought, she would never settle for less than the absolute best.

“We'll wait for her,” she said, and turned back to Elise. “It's her field, her specialty. I'll contact the minister personally and explain the short delay.”

Elise smiled at her. “No one understands delays like the Italians.”

“True enough. We'll go over those reports later today, Elise. I want to make this call now.”

“You're the boss.”

“Yes, I am. Oh, John Carter will be coming in tomorrow. He'll be working on Miranda's team. Feel free to assign him another project in the meantime. There's no point in having him twiddle his thumbs.”

“John's coming? It'll be good to see him. We can always use him in the lab. I'll take care of it.”

“Thank you, Elise.”

When she was alone, Elizabeth sat at her desk again, studied the safe across the room. Considered what was inside.

Miranda would head the project. Her decision had been made the moment she'd seen the bronze. It would be a Standjo operation, with a Jones at the helm. That was what she had planned, what she expected.

And it was what she would have.

two

S
he was five
days late, so Miranda moved fast, pushing through the towering medieval doors of Standjo, Florence, and striding across the floor so that the clicks of her practical pumps were like rapid gunshots on the gleaming white marble.

She clipped the Standjo ID Elizabeth's assistant had overnighted her to the lapel of her jacket as she rounded an excellent bronze reproduction of Cellini's figure of Perseus displaying Medusa's severed head.

Miranda had often wondered just what the choice of art in the entrance lobby said about her mother. Defeat all enemies, she supposed, with one swift stroke.

She stopped at the lobby counter, swiveling the logbook around and dashing off her name, noting the time on her watch, then adding it.

She'd dressed carefully, even strategically, for the day, selecting a suit of royal-blue silk that was military and trim in style. Miranda considered it both dashing and powerful.

When you were to meet with the director of one of the top archeometry laboratories in the world, your appearance
was vitally important. Even if that director was your mother.

Especially, Miranda thought with the faintest of sneers, if that director was your mother.

She punched the button on the elevator and waited, impatience shimmering. Nerves were jumping gleefully in her stomach, tickling in her throat, buzzing in her head. But she didn't let them show.

The minute she stepped into the elevator, she flipped open her compact and freshened her lipstick. A single tube of color could last her a year, sometimes more. She only bothered with such small annoyances when they couldn't be avoided.

Satisfied she'd done her best, she replaced the compact, and ran a hand over the sophisticated French twist that had taken her entirely too much time and trouble to create. She jammed a few loosened pins back firmly in place just as the doors opened again.

She stepped out into the quiet, elegant lobby of what she thought of as the inner sanctum. The pearl-gray carpet and ivory walls, the stern-backed antique chairs, suited her mother, she thought. Lovely, tasteful, and detached. The sleek console where the receptionist worked with its top-grade computer and phone system was also all Elizabeth. Efficient, brisk, and state-of-the-art.

“Buon giorno.”
Miranda approached the desk and stated her business briefly and in flawless Italian.
“Sono la Dottoressa Jones. Ho un appuntamento con la Signora Standford-Jones.”

“Sì, Dottoressa. Un momento.”

In her head, Miranda shifted her feet, tugged at her jacket, rolled her shoulders. It sometimes helped her keep her body still and calm if she imagined twitching and shuffling. She was just finishing up some imaginary pacing when the receptionist smiled and gave her the go-ahead.

Miranda walked through the double glass doors to her left and down the cool white hallway that led to the office of the Signora Direttrice.

She knocked. One was always expected to knock on any
door of Elizabeth's. The responding
“Entri”
came immediately.

Elizabeth was at her desk, an elegant satinwood Hepplewhite that suited her aristocratic New England looks perfectly. Framed in the window behind her was Florence, in all its sunny splendor.

They faced each other across the room, both appraising swiftly.

Elizabeth spoke first. “How was your trip?”

“Uneventful.”

“Good.”

“You look well.”

“I am, quite well. And you?”

“Fine.” Miranda imagined herself doing a wild tap dance around the perfectly appointed office, and stood straight as a cadet at inspection.

“Would you like some coffee? Something cold?”

“No, thank you.” Miranda arched a brow. “You haven't asked about Andrew.”

Elizabeth waved toward a chair. “How's your brother?”

Miserable, Miranda thought. Drinking too much. Angry, depressed, bitter. “He's fine. He sends his best.” She lied without a qualm. “I assume you told Elise I was coming.”

“Of course.” Because Miranda had remained standing, Elizabeth rose. “All the department heads, and the appropriate staff members, are aware that you'll be working here temporarily. The Fiesole Bronze is a priority. Naturally you'll have full use of the labs and equipment, and the cooperation and assistance of any members of the team you choose.”

“I spoke with John yesterday. You haven't started any tests yet.”

“No. This delay has cost us time, and you'll be expected to begin immediately.”

“That's why I'm here.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “What happened to your leg? You're limping a bit.”

“I was mugged, remember?”

“You said you'd been robbed, you didn't say you'd been injured.”

“You didn't ask.”

Elizabeth let out what from anyone else Miranda would have considered a sigh. “You might have explained you'd been hurt during the incident.”

“I might have. I didn't. The priority was, after all, the loss of my documents and the delay that caused.” She inclined her head, in a mirror of Elizabeth's gesture. “That much was made very clear.”

“I assumed—” Elizabeth cut herself off, flung her hand in a gesture that might have been annoyance or defeat. “Why don't you sit down while I give you some background?”

So, the matter was to be tabled. Miranda had expected it. She sat, crossed her legs.

“The man who discovered the bronze—”

“The plumber.”

“Yes.” For the first time Elizabeth smiled, a quick curving of lips that was more an acknowledgment of the absurdity than genuine amusement. “Carlo Rinaldi. Apparently he's an artist at heart, if not in deed. He's never been able to make a living from his painting and his wife's father owns a plumbing business, so . . .”

Miranda's quick eyebrow flick was a measure of mild surprise. “Does his background matter?”

“Only insofar as his connection to the piece. There appears to be none. He, from all accounts, literally stumbled over it. He claims to have found it hidden under a broken step in the cellar of the Villa della Donna Oscura. And that, as far as has been verified, seems to be the case.”

“Was there some question of that? Is he suspected of fabricating the story—and the bronze?”

“If there was, the minister is satisfied with Rinaldi's story now.”

Elizabeth folded her perfectly manicured hands on the edge of the desk. Her New England spine was straight as a ruler. Unconsciously, Miranda shifted ever so slightly to level her own.

“The fact that he found it,” Elizabeth continued, “smuggled it out of the villa in his toolbox, then took his time reporting it through the proper channels caused some initial concern.”

Troubled, Miranda folded her hands to keep her fingers from tapping on her knee. It didn't occur to her that she now exactly mirrored her mother's pose. “How long did he have it?”

“Five days.”

“There was no damage? You've examined it?”

“I have. I'd rather not make any comments until you've seen it yourself.”

“Well then.” Miranda cocked her head. “Let's have a look.”

In answer, Elizabeth walked over to a cabinet, and opening the door, revealed a small steel safe.

“You're keeping it in here?”

“My security is more than adequate. A number of people have access to the vaults in the labs, and I preferred to limit that access in this case. And I thought it would be less distracting for you to do an initial exam here.”

With one coral-tipped finger, Elizabeth punched in a code, waited, then added another series of numbers. Opening the reinforced door, she took out a metal box. After setting it on her desk, she opened the lid and took out a bundle wrapped in faded velvet.

“We'll date the cloth as well, and the wood from the step.”

“Naturally.” Though her fingers itched, Miranda rose and stepped forward slowly when Elizabeth set the bundle on her spotless white blotter. “There are no documents, correct?”

“None, so far. You know the history of the villa.”

“Yes, of course. It was once the home of Giulietta Buonadoni, a mistress of Lorenzo the Magnificent known as the Dark Lady. After his death she's believed to have become a companion of other Medicis. At one time or another every light of the Renaissance in or around Florence was welcomed into her home.”

“So, you understand the possibilities.”

“I don't deal in possibilities,” Miranda said curtly.

“Exactly. That's why you're here.”

Gently, Miranda brushed a finger over the tattered velvet. “Is it?”

“I wanted the best, and I'm in a position to access what I want. I also demand discretion. If news of this find leaks, the speculation will be wild. That is something Standjo can't and won't risk. The government wants no publicity, and no public speculation until the bronze is dated, and tests are complete.”

“The plumber's probably already told all his drinking pals.”

“I wouldn't think so.” Again that small smile played around Elizabeth's mouth. “He took the bronze out of a government-owned building. He's quite aware, at this point, that if he doesn't do precisely what he's told, he could go to prison.”

“Fear is often an efficient gag.”

“Yes. But that isn't our concern. We've been commissioned to test the bronze, and to provide the government with all the information science can offer. We require an objective eye, someone who believes in facts, not romance.”

“There's no room for romance in science,” Miranda murmured, and carefully unwrapped the velvet.

Her heart gave one hard thud against her ribs when the bronze lay naked. Her skilled and experienced eye recognized the brilliance of the workmanship, the glory of it. But she frowned, instinctively burying admiration under skepticism.

“It's beautifully conceived and executed—certainly the style falls within the realm of the Renaissance.” She slipped her glasses out of the case in her pocket, put them on before she lifted the bronze. She judged the weight, turning it slowly.

The proportions were perfect, the sensuality of the subject obvious. The smallest details—toenails, each tendril of
hair, the definition of calf muscles—were stunningly depicted.

She was glorious, free, wonderfully aware of her own power. The long curvy body was arched back, the arms lifted up, not in prayer or supplication, Miranda noted. In triumph. The face wasn't delicate, but stunning, the eyes half closed as if in pleasure, the mouth curved slyly in enjoyment of that pleasure.

She was balanced on the balls of her feet, like a woman about to leap into a warm, scented pool. Or a lover's arms.

It was unashamedly sexual, and for one baffling instant, Miranda thought she could feel the heat of it. Like life.

The patina indicated age, but such things were deceiving, she knew. Patinas could be created. The style of the artist was unmistakable. But such a thing was all but impossible. Styles could be mimicked.

“It's the Dark Lady,” she said. “Giulietta Buonadoni. There's no doubt about that. I've seen this face often enough in paintings and sculpture of the period. But I've never seen or heard of this bronze. I'll do some research on it, but I doubt I'd have missed it.”

Elizabeth studied Miranda's face rather than the bronze. She'd seen that quick flicker of excitement, of delight, both of which had been quickly controlled. Exactly as she'd expected them to be.

“But you agree it is a bronze of Renaissance style.”

“Yes. That hardly makes it a lost piece from the fifteenth century.” Her eyes were narrowed as she slowly turned the bronze in her hands. “Any art student with a clever eye has sketched and copied her face over the years. I've done so myself.” Idly, she scraped a bit at the blue-green patina with her thumbnail. The surface corrosion was visibly thick, but she needed more, much more.

“I'll start right away.”

 

Vivaldi played lightly in the air of the lab. The walls were a pale hospital green, the floor a spotlessly white linoleum. Each station was militarily neat, fitted with microscopes, computer terminals, vials or tubes or sample bags. There
were no personal items, no pretty framed family pictures, no mascots or souvenirs.

The men wore ties, the women skirts, and over all were the crisp white lab coats with the Standjo logo stitched in black on the breast pocket.

Conversation was muted and minimal, and equipment hummed like well-oiled clocks.

Elizabeth expected a tight ship, and her former daughter-in-law knew how to run one.

The house in Maine where Miranda had grown up had presented precisely the same atmosphere. It made for a cold home, Miranda thought as she scanned the area, but an efficient workplace.

“It's been some time since you were here,” Elizabeth began. “But Elise will refresh your memory as to the setup. You'll have free access to all areas, of course. I have your security card and your codes.”