Homeport (55 page)

“Now the other one. I need both your hands.”

“Oh God, Ryan.” Blind now, she let go.

When her full weight locked his arms, he thought they might both go over. He inched back, cursing the rain that made their hands slip, that seemed to turn the rock into sheer glass. But she was helping him, boosting herself with her feet, her breath hissing with the effort as they worked.

She used her elbows on the ledge, pressing down, scraping them raw as he dragged her the last few inches over the top.

When she collapsed on him, he wrapped her in his arms, cradled her on his lap and rocked them both in the rain.

“I saw you go over. I thought you were dead.”

“I would have been.” Her face was buried against his chest where his heart beat in hard, jerky pulses. From somewhere in the distance came the high pitched whine of sirens. “If you hadn't come. I couldn't have held on much longer.”

“You'd have held on.” He tipped her head back, looked into her eyes. There was blood on her face. “You'd have held on,” he repeated. “Now you can hold on to me.” He picked her up to carry her into the house.

“Don't let go for a while.”

“I won't.”

epilogue

B
ut he did.
She should have known he would. The thieving son of a bitch.

Trust me, he said. And she had. He'd saved her life, only to carelessly leave it in shambles.

Oh, he'd waited, Miranda thought as she paced her bedroom. He'd stuck by her until her cuts and bruises were treated. He'd stayed by her side until they were sure Andrew was out of danger.

His arms had been around her, protective, supportive, when she related the nightmare she'd been through with Elise.

He'd even held her hand while they gave Cook Ryan's slightly edited version of events. And she'd let him. She corroborated everything he said, amended pertinent details to keep him out of a prison cell.

He'd saved her life after all. The worm.

Then he'd vanished, without a word, without a warning. He'd packed up and left.

She knew just where he'd gone. He was the only other person who knew about the storage garage. He'd gone after
The Dark Lady.
She didn't doubt he had it by now, that
and the
David.
He'd probably already passed them along to one of his clients for a fat fee and was basking on some beach in the tropics, sipping rum punch and oiling some blonde's butt.

If she ever saw him again. . .but of course, she wouldn't. All the business they had—the legal end of business—was being handled by his gallery manager. The exhibit was a raging success. He'd benefited from that, and from his involvement in helping to solve several murders.

She had her reputation. The international press was raving about her. The brave and brilliant Dr. Jones.

Elise had wanted to destroy her, and in the end, had made her.

But she didn't have the bronze, and she didn't have Ryan.

She had to accept she would never have either.

Now she was alone in a big, empty house, with Andrew being fussed over by his fiancée as he recovered. He was happy and healing, and she was glad of it. And she was miserably envious.

She had her reputation all right, she thought. She had the Institute, and perhaps finally, the full knowledge of her parents' respect if not their love.

She had no life whatsoever.

So, she would make a new one. She dragged an impatient hand through her hair. She would take the advice everyone was peppering her with and go on a long, well-deserved vacation. She'd buy a bikini, get a tan, and have a fling.

Oh yes, that's going to happen, she thought with a scowl, and shoved open her terrace doors to step out into the warm spring night.

The flowers she'd planted in big stone urns filled the air with scent. The sweetness of stock, the spice of dianthus, the charm of verbena. Yes, she was learning about some small and lovely things, taking the time to learn. To enjoy.

To fall into the moment.

White and full, the moon rose over the sea, cruised among the stars, and gave the seascape she loved a mystic,
intimate glow. The sea sang its rough song with an arrogance that made her yearn.

He'd been gone for two weeks. She knew he wasn't coming back. In the end it was as it had always been. There was something more important than Miranda.

Still, she'd get over it. She was already on her way. She would take that vacation, but she'd use the time right here. It was here she needed to be. Home, making the home she had never been given. She'd finish the garden, she'd have the house painted. She'd buy new curtains.

And while she would never trust another man in this lifetime, at least she knew she could trust herself.

“This moment would be more atmospheric if you were wearing a long, flowing robe.”

She didn't whirl. She still had enough control for that. She turned slowly.

He was grinning at her. Dressed in thief's black and standing in her bedroom grinning.

“Jeans and a T-shirt,” he continued. “Though you fill them out nicely, they lack the romance of a silk robe the breeze could flutter around you.” He stepped out on the terrace. “Hello, Dr. Jones.”

She stared, felt his fingertips brush her cheek where a bruise had yet to fade. “You son of a bitch,” she said, and rammed her fist full out into his face.

It knocked him back several steps, had his vision wavering. But his balance was good. He shifted his jaw gingerly, dabbed at the blood on his mouth. “Well, that's one way to say hello. Obviously, you're not entirely pleased to see me.”

“The only way I'd be pleased to see you is through steel bars, you bastard. You used me, you lied to me. Trust me, you said, and all the time you were after the bronze.”

He worked his tongue over his gums, tasted blood. Damn, the woman had a straight-on right jab. “That's not entirely accurate.”

She balled her fist, more than ready to use it again. “You went to Florence, didn't you? You walked out of here, got on a plane, and went to Florence for the statues.”

“Of course. I told you I was going to.”

“Miserable thief.”

“I'm an excellent thief. Even Cook thought so—though he'll never prove it.” He smiled again, combed his fingers through the thick, dark hair the breeze blew into sexy disorder. “Now I'm a retired thief.”

She folded her arms. Her left shoulder was still sore from the night on the cliffs, and the ache eased when she supported it. “I imagine you can live very well in retirement for what you sold the bronzes for.”

“A man wouldn't have to work again, in several lifetimes, for what the Michelangelo is worth.” While she clenched her fists, he watched her warily as he took out a cigar. “She's the most exquisite thing I've ever seen. The copy was good, it hinted at the power of her. But it couldn't capture her heart, her mind, her essence. I'm amazed anyone who'd seen both could mistake one for the other.
The Dark Lady
sings, Miranda. She is incomparable.”

“She belongs to the Italian people. She belongs in a museum where she can be seen and studied.”

“You know, that's the first time you've referred to her that way. Before you always said ‘it,' or ‘the bronze,' but never
‘her.”
'

She turned to look out over the lawn, where the garden—hers now—was glowing in the moonlight. “I'm not going to discuss pronouns.”

“It's more than that, and you know it. You've learned something you neglected all these years in your quest for knowledge. Art lives.”

He blew out a stream of smoke. “How's Andrew?”

“Now you want to discuss my family. Fine. He's doing very well. So are Elizabeth and Charles.” It was how she thought of them now. “They're back to their separate lives, and though Elizabeth mourns the loss of
The Dark Lady,
she's well enough. Elise hurt her more. The breach of trust and affection.” She turned away. “I know how she feels. I know exactly what it is to be used and discarded like that.”

He started to step forward, then changed his mind and
leaned back against the wall. Seductions, apologies, cooing words weren't the way with Miranda in her current mood.

“We used each other,” he corrected. “And did a damn good job of it.”

“And now we're done,” she said flatly. “What do you want here?”

“I came to offer you a deal.”

“Did you really? Why would I deal with you?”

“Several reasons come to mind. Tell me this first. Why haven't you given me up to the police?”

“Because I keep my word.”

“Is that it?” When she didn't answer he shrugged, but it bothered him. “Okay then, on to business. I have something you'd like to see.”

After tossing the cigar high over the rail, he turned back into the bedroom. He brought out his bag, took out the carefully wrapped contents. Even before he uncovered it, she knew, and was too stunned to speak.

“Gorgeous, isn't she?” He held the figure as a man holds a lover, with great care and possessiveness. “It was love at first sight for me. She's a woman who brings men to their knees, and knows it. She isn't always kind, but she fascinates. It's no wonder murder was done for her.”

He looked over at Miranda, studied the way she looked with the moonlight sprinkling over her hair and shoulders. “Do you know, when I found her, stored in a metal box, locked into a chest in that dusty garage—where Elise's car was hidden, by the way—when I took her out and held her like this for the first time, I would have sworn I heard harpsong. Do you believe in such things, Dr. Jones?”

She could almost hear it herself, as she had in her dreams. “Why did you bring her here?”

“I imagined you'd want to see her again. You'd want to be sure I had her.”

“I knew you had her.” She couldn't help herself. Moving closer, she ran a fingertip over the smiling face. “I've known for two weeks. As soon as I realized you'd gone, I knew.” She lifted her gaze from the bronze to his face. His
beautiful, treacherous face. “I didn't expect you to come back.”

“Actually, to be honest, neither did I.” He set the bronze on the stone table. “We'd both gotten what we'd wanted. You've got your reputation. You're quite a celebrity these days. You've been vindicated. More than vindicated, you've been lauded. I imagine you've had offers from book publishers and Hollywood to sell your story.”

She had, and it continued to embarrass her. “You haven't answered the question.”

“I'm getting to it,” he muttered. “I kept the deal. I never agreed to give the
David
back, and as to her—I never agreed to anything but to find her. I found her, and now she's mine, so there's a new deal on the table. How bad do you want her?”

It took all her willpower not to gape. “You mean to sell her to me? You want me to buy stolen property?”

“Actually, I was thinking of a trade.”

“A trade?” She thought of the Cellini he coveted. And the Donatello. Her palms began to itch. “What do you want for her?”

“You.”

Her rapid thoughts screeched to a halt. “Excuse me?”

“A lady for a lady. It seems fair.”

She paced to the end of the terrace, back again. Oh, he was worse than a worm, she decided. “You expect me to have sex with you in exchange for a Michelangelo.”

“Don't be stupid. You're good, but nobody's that good. I want the whole package. She's mine, Miranda. I might even be able to claim finder's privilege, though it's dicey. But I have her, and you don't. In the past few days it occurred to me, much to my discomfort, that I want you more than I want her.”

“I'm not following you.”

“Yes, you are. You're too bright not to. You can have her. You can put her on the mantel or give her back to Florence. You can use her for a doorstop, I won't give a damn. But you'll have to give me what I want for her. I've got a yen to live in this house.”

There was such a terrible pressure in her chest. “You want to live here?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You know, Dr. Jones, I don't think you're pretending to be thick. You just don't get it. Yes, I want to live in this house. It's a good spot to raise children. Look at that, you went white as a ghost. God, that's one of the things I love about you. You're always so shocked when someone interrupts the logic. And I love you, Miranda, beyond sense.”

She made some sound, it couldn't be construed as words, as her heart staggered in her chest. Stumbled. Fell.

He crossed to her, amused now rather than panicked. She hadn't moved a muscle. “I really have to insist on children, Miranda. I'm Irish and Italian. What else would you expect?”

“You're asking me to marry you?”

“I'm working my way up to it. It might surprise you that it's not any easier for me than it is for you. I said I love you.”

“I heard you.”

“Damn, stubborn—” He cut himself off, inhaled sharply. “You want the bronze, don't you?” Before she could answer he caught her chin in his hand. “You're in love with me.” When her brows came together, he grinned. “Don't bother to deny it. If you weren't you'd have turned me over in a heartbeat when you realized I'd gone after her for myself.”

“I've gotten over it.”

“Liar.” He lowered his mouth, just to nibble at hers. “Take the deal, Miranda. You won't regret it.”

“You're a thief.”

“Retired.” He molded her hip with one hand, reached into his pocket with the other. “Here, let's make it official.”

She struggled out of the kiss and jerked her hand free when he started to slip the ring onto it. The ring, she noted with surprise and delight, he'd given her once before.

“Don't be so pigheaded.” He took her hand, uncurled her fingers and pushed the ring into place. “Take the deal.”

Now she recognized the pressure in her chest. It was her heart beating again. “Did you pay for the ring?”

“Jesus. Yes, I paid for the ring.”

She let herself consider it, watched it wink and sparkle. And let him sweat, she thought. She hoped. “I'll give her back to Italy. Explanations of how I came by her might be awkward.”