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 Hepple-white 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."

"Fine." Miranda fixed a polite smile on her face as Elise turned from a microscope and started toward them.

"Miranda, welcome to Florence." Elise's voice was quiet, not quite breathy, but with the promise it could be if she were properly aroused.

"It's nice to be back. How are you?"

"Fine. Busy." She flashed a hundred-watt smile and took Miranda's hand. "How's Drew?"

"Not quite so fine—but busy." She lifted a brow when Elise squeezed her hand.

"I'm sorry."

"It's none of my business."

"I'm still sorry." She released Miranda's hand and turned to Elizabeth. "Will you head the tour, or shall I?"

"I don't need a tour," Miranda said before her mother could speak. "I need a lab coat, a microscope, a computer. I'll want to take photos, and X rays, of course."

"There you are." John Carter loped his way over. Miranda's lab manager looked endearingly rumpled in the midst of ruthless efficiency and style. His tie with silly grinning cows grazing was already askew. He'd snagged the pocket of his lab coat on something so that it flapped from loose threads. There was a nick on his chin where he'd cut himself shaving, a thumb-sized stub of a pencil behind his ear, and smudges on the lenses of his glasses.

He made Miranda feel cozily at home.

"You okay?" He patted her arm in three bouncing strokes, then: "How's the knee? Andrew told me the guy who mugged you tossed you around."

"Tossed you around?" Elise looked over quickly. "We didn't know you were hurt."

"Just shaken up. It's all right. I'm fine."

"He held a knife to her throat," Carter announced.

"A knife." Elise put a hand to her own throat. "That's horrible. It's—"

"It's all right," Miranda said again. "He just wanted money." She turned, meeting her mother's eyes. "And I think he's cost us enough valuable time."

For a moment Elizabeth said nothing. There was challenge in Miranda's gaze, and she decided the time for sympathy had passed.

"Then I'll let Elise set you up. Your ID and security cards are in here." Elizabeth handed Miranda an envelope. "Elise should be able to handle any of your questions or needs. Or you can contact me." She glanced at the slim watch on her wrist. "I have another meeting shortly, so I'll let you get started. I hope to have a preliminary report by end of day."

"You will," Miranda murmured as her mother walked away.

"She doesn't waste time." With another smile, Elise gestured. "I'm so sorry you had to go through such a terrible ordeal, but the work here should help you keep it off your mind. I have an office set up for you. The Fiesole Bronze is a top priority. You're authorized to pick your team from any of the A security staff."

"Miranda!" There was a wealth of pleasure in the word, and it was delivered with the heavy and exotic tones of Italy. Miranda felt herself smiling even before she turned and had her hands taken and lavishly kissed.

"Giovanni. You don't change." Indeed, the chemistry technician was as outrageously handsome as Miranda remembered. Dark and sleek, with eyes like melted chocolate and a smile that radiated charm. He stood an inch or so below her and still managed to make her feel feminine and tiny. He wore his glossy black hair in a ponytail—an affectation Elizabeth permitted only because besides being beautiful to look at, Giovanni Beredonno was a genius.

"But you change, bella donna. You're even more lovely. But what is this about being hurt?" He fluttered his fingers over her face.

"It's nothing, just a memory."

"Do you want me to go break someone in half for you?" He kissed her gently, one cheek, then the other.

"Can I get back to you on that?"

"Giovanni, Miranda has work."

"Yes, yes." He brushed off Elise's stiff and disapproving words with a careless gesture—another reason for Miranda to smile. "I know all about it. A big project, very hush-hush." He wiggled his expressive eyebrows. "When the direttrice sends to America for an expert, it is no small thing. So, bellissima, can you use me?"

"You're first on my list."

He tucked her hand through his arm, ignoring the tightening of Elise's lips. "When do we start?"

"Today," Miranda told him as Elise gestured toward a doorway. "I'll want tests run on the corrosion layers and the metal right away."

"I think Richard Hawthorne would be helpful to you." Elise tapped the shoulder of a man hunkered over the keyboard on a computer.

"Dr. Hawthorne." Miranda watched the balding man blink owlishly through his glasses, then fumble them off. There was something vaguely familiar about him, and she struggled to place him.

"Dr. Jones." He gave her a shy smile that added appeal to his face. His chin was short, his eyes a distracted and pale blue, but the smile was sweet as a boy's. "It's nice to see you again. We're, ah, happy to have you here. I read your paper on early Florentine humanism. It was quite brilliant."

"Thank you." Oh, yes, she remembered. He'd done a stint at the Institute a few years earlier. After a moment's hesitation, which Miranda knew came only because Elise had recommended him, she relented. "Elise has an office for me. Could you join us for a moment? I'd like to show you what I have."

"I'd be delighted." He fumbled with his glasses again, hit a series of keys that saved his work.

"It's not a large space." Elise began with an apology as she ushered Miranda through a door. "I've set it up with what I thought you'd need. Of course you can requisition anything you like."

Miranda took a quick scan. The computer station appeared efficient and neat. A wide white counter held microscopes, slides, and the small hand tools of her trade. A tape recorder had been provided for detailing notes. There was no window, only the one door, and with the four of them inside, barely room to turn around.

But there was a chair, a phone, and the pencils were sharpened. It would do, she thought, very well.

She set her briefcase on the counter, then the metal box. Carefully, she removed the wrapped bronze. "I'd like your opinion, Dr. Hawthorne. Just on a visual examination of the bronze."

"Of course, I'd be delighted."

"The project's been the hot topic around here for the last day or two," Giovanni put in as Miranda began to unwrap the velvet. "Ah." He let out a sigh as she set the undraped bronze on the counter. "Bella, molto bella."

"A fine execution." Richard pushed his glasses back into place and squinted at the bronze. "Simple. Fluid. Wonderful form and details. Perspective."

"Sensual," Giovanni said, bending to look closely. "The arrogance and the allure of the female."

Miranda cocked a brow at Giovanni before giving her attention back to Richard. "Do you recognize her?"

"It's the Dark Lady of the Medicis."

"That's my opinion as well. And the style?"

"Renaissance, unquestionably." Richard reached out with a tentative finger to stroke the left cheekbone. "I wouldn't say the model was used to represent a mythical or religious figure, but herself."

"Yes, the lady as the lady," Miranda agreed. "The artist portrayed her, I'd guess, as she was. From an artist's standpoint, I would say he knew her, personally. I'll need to do a search for documents. Your help would be invaluable there."

"I'd be happy to help. If this can be authenticated as a major piece from the Renaissance period, it will be quite a coup for Standjo. And for you, Dr. Jones."

She'd thought of it. Indeed, she'd thought of it. But she smiled coolly. "I don't count my chickens. If she spent any amount of time in the environment in which she was found—and it appears she did—the corrosion growth would have been affected. I'll want the results of that, of course," she added to Giovanni, "but I can't depend on it for true accuracy."

"You'll run relative comparisons, thermoluminescence."

"Yes." She smiled at Richard again. "We'll also be testing the cloth, and the wood from the stair tread. But the documentation will make it all the more conclusive."

Miranda leaned a hip on the corner of the small pickled-oak desk. "She was found in the cellar of the Villa della Donna Oscura, secreted under the bottom tread of the stairs. I'll have a report on the details we know at this point for the three of you. The three of you and Vincente only," she added. "Security is one of the director's top concerns. Whoever you require to assist you must have A-grade clearance, and the data you give them must be kept to a minimum until we've completed all tests."

"So, for now she's ours." Giovanni winked at her.

"She's mine," Miranda corrected with a slow, serious smile. "I need any and all information on the villa itself, on the woman. I want to know her."

Richard nodded. "I'll start right away."

Miranda turned back to the bronze. "Let's see what she's made of," she murmured.

A few hours later, Miranda rolled her shoulders and eased back in her chair. The bronze stood before her, smiling slyly. There were no signs of brass or silicon bronze, no platinum, none of the metals or materials that weren't used in the Renaissance in the sliver of patina and metal she'd extracted. The bronze had a clay core, just as a piece of that era should have. The early testing of the corrosion levels indicated late fifteenth century.

Don't be hasty, she ordered herself. Preliminary tests weren't enough. So far she was working in the negative. There was nothing out of place, no alloy that didn't belong, no sign of tool work that didn't jibe with the era in her visual exam, but she had yet to determine the positive.

Was the lady true or false?

She took time for one cup of coffee and some of the pretty crackers and cheese Elise had provided for her in lieu of lunch. Jet lag was threatening, and she refused to acknowledge it. The coffee, strong, black, and potent as only the Italians could brew, pumped through her system, providing a caffeine mask over fatigue. She'd crash eventually, Miranda knew, but not for a little while yet.

Placing her hands over the keyboard, she began hammering out the preliminary report for her mother. It was as strict and dry as a maiden aunt, thus far devoid of speculation and with very little personality. She may have thought of the bronze as a puzzle, a mystery to be solved, but none of the romance of that found its way into her report.

She sent the report via e-mail, saved it on the hard drive under her password, then took the bronze with her for the last test of the day.

The technician had little English and entirely too much awe for the daughter of the direttrice for Miranda to find comfortable. Miranda conjured up an errand, and sent her off for more coffee. Alone, she began the thermoluminescence process.

Ionizing radiation would trap electrons in higher-energy states in the clay core of a bronze. When heated, the crystals in the clay would give off bursts of light. Miranda set the equipment, taking quick notes on each step and result in a notebook. She took the measurements of those bursts, logging them in, adding them to her notes as well as for backup. She increased the radiation, heated the clay again, to measure how susceptible it was to electron trapping. Those measurements were carefully logged in turn.

The next step was to test the radiation levels from the location where the bronze had been discovered. She tested both the dirt samples and the wood.

It was a matter of math now. Though the accuracy of the method was hardly foolproof, it was one more weight to add to the whole.

Late fifteenth century. She had no doubt of it.

Savonarola had been preaching against luxury and pagan art during that period, Miranda mused. The piece was a glorious kick in the ass to that narrow-minded view. The Medicis were in control of Florence, with the incompetent Piero the Unfortunate taking the helm for a short period before he was expelled from the city by King Charles VIII of France.

The Renaissance was moving from its early glory, when the architect Brunelleschi, the sculptor Donatello, and the painter Masaccio revolutionized the conception, and the functions, of art.

Coming from that, the next generation and the dawn of the sixteenth century—Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael, nonconformists searching for pure originality.

She knew the artist. Knew in her heart, her gut. There was nothing he had created that she hadn't studied as intensely and completely as a woman studies the face of her lover.

But the lab wasn't the place for heart, she reminded herself, or gut instinct. She would run all the tests again. And a third time. She would compare the known formula for bronzes of that era and check and recheck every ingredient and alloy in the statue. She would dog Richard Hawthorne for documentation.

And she'd find the answers.