he midnight wind was bitter as a scorned woman and just as bad-tempered. Ryan didn't mind it. He found it invigorating as he walked the three crosstown blocks from where he'd parked his car.

Everything he needed was under his coat in pouches and pockets or in the small briefcase he carried. If the cops stopped him for some reason, and took a look, he'd be in a cage before he could exercise his civil right for a phone call. But that was just part of the thrill.

God, he would miss it, he thought, and strode along with the eager step of a man hurrying to meet a lover. The planning stage was over, and so was that aspect of his life. Now the execution was approaching, his last. He wanted to file every detail in his mind so that when he was a very old man with grandchildren at his feet, he could bring back this young and vital feeling of power.

He scanned the streets. The trees were bare and shivering in the wind, the traffic was spotty, the moon faded to a hint of shape by the city lights and the drifting clouds. He passed a bar where a blue neon martini glass winked in the window, and smiled. He might just slip in for a drink after work. A small toast to the end of an era seemed appropriate.

He crossed the street at the light, a law-abiding citizen who wouldn't dream of jaywalking. At least not when he was in possession of burglary tools.

He saw the Institute up ahead, a majestic silhouette of good Yankee granite. It pleased him that his last job would be to break into such a proud and dignified old building.

The windows were dark but for the glow of security lights in the lobby. He thought it was odd, and really rather sweet, that people left on lights to keep thieves at bay. A good one could steal in broad daylight as easily as under the cover of dark.

And he was very good.

His gaze swept up and down the street before he checked his watch. His stakeouts had given him the pattern of police cruisers in the area. Unless there was a call for one, he had a good fifteen minutes before a black-and-white would pass this way.

He crossed to the south side of the building, keeping his gait brisk but unhurried. His long coat gave him the illusion of bulk, the snappy fedora shadowed his face, and the hair beneath it was now a dignified and rather dapper steel gray.

Anyone taking notice of him would see a middle-aged businessman, slightly overweight.

He was still two yards from the door, and out of range of the camera, when he took his jammer out of his pocket and aimed it. He saw the red light blink off, and moved quickly.

His forged key card took some finesse, but the slot accepted and read it on the third try. Recalling the code from memory, he logged it in, and was inside the anteroom within forty-five seconds. He reset the camera—there was no use having some gung-ho guard come out to check—then closed the door, relocked it.

He took off his coat and hung it neatly beside the staff's soft-drink and snack machines. His black doeskin gloves went into the pocket. Beneath them he wore thin surgical gloves any honest man could buy by the box from a medical supply store. He covered his silver hair with a black cap.

Efficiently, he checked his tools one last time.

It was only then that he let himself pause, just for a moment, and enjoy.

He stood in the dark listening to the silence that wasn't really silence at all. Buildings had their language, and this one hummed and creaked. He could hear the whirl of the heat through the vents, the sighs of the wind pressing at the door behind him.

The guard and security rooms were a level above, and the floors were thick. He heard nothing from them, and they, he knew, heard nothing from him. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, he moved to the next door. It had a good police lock that required his picks, his penlight, which he clamped between his teeth, and approximately thirty seconds of his time to deal with.

He smiled at the music of tumblers clicking, then slipped through and into the hallway.

The first camera was at the end of the corridor where it split left and right. It didn't overly concern him. He was a shadow among shadows here, and the camera was aimed toward the gallery. He slid along the wall beneath it, out of range, and took the left fork.

Aladdin's Cave, he thought when he crouched just outside the South Gallery. The Tower of London, Blackbeard's Treasure, Wonderland. Such a place was all the fairy tales he'd read and been read as a child.

Glorious anticipation shimmered along his skin, tightened his muscles, churned like desire in his gut. His for the taking. It made him think how easily a professional could succumb to greed—and disaster.

Once more he checked his watch. The Yankee sensibility in such a place would mean guards still did rounds, though the cameras and sensors should have sufficed. Of course, he was proof they didn't, and if he was in charge of security, he'd have employed twice as many guards and doubled their rounds.

But that wasn't his job.

He didn't use his light now, and didn't need it. Even the pinhole glow would set off the sensors. Using his measurements and excellent night vision, he moved to the corner of the gallery, aimed his jammer, and shut down the bothersome camera.

In one part of his brain he counted off seconds. The rest of him moved fast. By the time he crouched in front of the display, his glass cutter was in hand. He made a neat circle, slightly larger than his fist, suctioned it off with barely a tickle of sound, and set it neatly on the top of the cabinet.

He worked quickly, but with a smooth economy of motion that was as innate as the color of his eyes. He wasted no time in admiring his take, or considering the delight of taking more than what he'd come for. That was for amateurs. He simply reached in, picked up the bronze, and tucked it into the pouch on his belt.

Because he appreciated order, and irony, he Fitted the circle of glass back into place, then cat-footed it back to the corner. He turned the camera on again, and started back the way he came.

By his count it had taken him seventy-five seconds.

When he reached the anteroom, he transferred the bronze to the briefcase, snuggling it between two thick slabs of foam. He switched hats, stripped off the surgical gloves and rolled them neatly into his pocket.

He bundled into his coat, keyed himself out, locked up tidily behind him, and was a block away in less than ten minutes from the time he'd entered the building.

Smooth, slick, and neat, he thought. A good way to end a career. He eyed the bar again, nearly went inside. At the last minute he decided he'd go back to the hotel and order up a bottle of champagne instead.

Some toasts were private matters.

At six a.m., after a sleepless night, Miranda was shocked out of her first real doze by the ringing of the phone. Headachy, disoriented, she fumbled for the receiver.

"Dr. Jones. Pronto." No, not Italy. Maine. Home. "Hello?"

"Dr. Jones, this is Ken Scutter, security."

"Mr. Scutter." She got no image from the name and was too bleary to try for one. "What is it?"

"We've had an incident."

"An incident?" As her mind began to clear she pushed herself up in bed. The sheets and blankets were tangled around her like wrappings on a mummy, and she cursed under her breath as she fought her way free. "What sort of incident?"

"It wasn't noticed until the change of shifts, moments ago, but I wanted to contact you immediately. We've had a break-in."

"A break-in." She bolted up fully awake, the blood rushing into her head in a flood. "At the Institute?"

"Yes, ma'am. I thought you'd want to come right over."

"Was there damage? Was something stolen?"

"No real damage, Dr. Jones. One item is missing from the South Gallery display. Cataloguing indicates it's a fifteenth-century bronze, artist unknown, of David."

A bronze, she thought. She was suddenly plagued by bronzes. "I'm on my way."

She bolted out of bed, and without bothering with her robe, raced in her blue flannel pajamas to Andrew's room. She burst in, shot toward the mound in the bed, and shook viciously.

"Andrew, wake up. There's been a break-in."

"Huh? What?" He shoved at her hand, ran a tongue around his teeth, started to yawn. His jaw cracked as he shot up in bed. "What? Where? When?"

"At the Institute. There's a bronze missing from the South Gallery. Get dressed, let's move."

"A bronze?" He rubbed a hand over his face. "Miranda, were you dreaming?"

"Scutter from security just phoned," she snapped out. "I don't dream. Ten minutes, Andrew," she said over her shoulder as she hurried out.

Within forty, she was standing beside her brother in the South Gallery, staring down at the perfect circle in the glass, and the empty space behind it. Miranda's stomach rolled once, then dropped to her knees.

"Call the police, Mr. Scutter."

"Yes, ma'am." He signaled to one of his men. "I ordered a sweep of the building—it's still under way—but so far we've found nothing out of place, and nothing else missing."

Andrew nodded. "I'll want to review the security tapes for the last twenty-four hours."

"Yes, sir." Scutter heaved a sigh. "Dr. Jones, the night chief reported a small problem with two of the cameras."

"Problem." Miranda turned. She remembered Scutter now. He was a short, barrel-shaped man, a former cop who'd decided to trade the streets for private security. His record was spotless. Andrew had interviewed and hired him personally.

"This camera." Scutter shifted, gestured up. "It blanked for about ninety seconds yesterday morning. No one thought much of it, though the standard diagnostic was run. Last night, at about midnight, the exterior camera on the south entrance failed for just under a minute. There were high winds, and the glitch was attributed to weather. This interior camera also went off, for about eighty seconds between midnight and one. The exact times will be stamped on the tapes."

"I see." Andrew stuck his hands in his pockets and balled them into fists. "Opinion, Mr. Scutter?"

"My take would be the burglar's a pro, with a knowledge of security and electronics. He got in through the south side, bypassed the alarm, and the camera. He knew what he was after, didn't piss around—excuse me, Dr. Jones," he muttered with an apologetic nod toward Miranda. "It tells me he knows the museum, the setup."

"And he waltzes in," Miranda said with barely suppressed fury, "takes what he wants, then waltzes out—despite a complex and expensive security system, and half a dozen armed guards."

"Yes, ma'am." Scutter's lips thinned as he pressed them together. "That pretty much sums it up."

"Thank you. Will you go out in the lobby and wait for the police, please?" She waited until his footsteps receded; then because she was alone with Andrew, she allowed the steam to show.

"Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch, Andrew." She stalked in a straight line to the camera in question, scowled at it, then stalked back. "That man wants us to believe that someone can override the security, slide in here, and steal one specific piece of art in less than ten minutes."

"That's the most likely theory, unless you think the guards have a conspiracy going, and the lot of them suddenly developed an obsession for small, naked Italian boys cast in bronze."

He was sick inside. He'd loved that piece, the vitality and the pure arrogance of it. "It could have been a hell of a lot worse, Miranda."

"Our security failed, our property was taken. How could it be worse?"

"From the looks of it, this guy could have loaded up a Santa sack and cleaned out half this area."

"One piece or a dozen, we've still been violated. God." She covered her face with her hands. "Nothing's been taken from the Institute since the six paintings in the fifties, and four of them were recovered."

"Then maybe we were due," he said wearily.

"Bullshit." She spun on her heel. "We protected our property, sparing no expense with security."

"No motion detectors," he murmured.

"You wanted them."

"The system I wanted would have meant taking up the floor." He looked down at the thick and lovely marble. "The brass wouldn't go for it."

By brass he meant their parents. His father had been appalled at the idea of destroying the floor, and nearly as appalled by the estimated cost of the proposed system.

"Probably wouldn't have mattered," he said with a shrug. "Just as likely he'd have found a way to get past that too. Damn it, Miranda, security's my responsibility."

"This is not your fault."

He sighed and desperately, viciously, wanted a drink. "It's always somebody's fault. I'll have to tell them. I don't even know how to contact the old man in Utah."

"She'll know, but let's not move too fast. Let me think a minute." She closed her eyes and stood still. "As you said, it could have been much worse. We only lost one piece—and we may very well recover it. Meanwhile, it's insured and the police are on their way. Everything's being done. We have to let the police do their job."

"I have to do mine, Miranda. I have to call Florence." He worked up a weak smile. "Look at it this way—our little incident might push your problem with her to the back burner for a while."

She snorted. "If I thought that would happen, I might have stolen the damn thing myself."

"Dr. Jones." A man stepped into the room, his cheeks red with cold, his eyes of pale green narrowly focused under heavy graying brows. "And Dr. Jones. Detective Cook." He held up a gold shield. "Word is you've lost something."

By nine, Miranda's head was pounding violently enough for her to give in and lay it down on her desk. She had her door closed, had barely resisted the urge to lock it, and was allowing herself ten minutes to indulge in despair and self-pity.

She'd only managed five when her intercom buzzed. "Miranda, I'm sorry." There was both concern and hesitation in Lori's voice. "Dr. Standford-Jones in on line one. Do you want me to tell her you're unavailable?"

Oh, it was tempting. But she drew a deep breath, straightened her spine. "No, I'll take it. Thank you, Lori." Because her voice sounded rusty, she cleared it, then punched line one. "Hello, Mother."

"The testing on the Fiesole Bronze has been completed," Elizabeth said without preamble.

"I see."

"Your findings were inaccurate."

"I don't believe they were."

"Whatever you insist on believing, they have been disproved. The bronze is nothing more than a clever and well-executed attempt to mimic Renaissance style and materials. The authorities are investigating Carlo Rinaldi, the man who claimed to have found the piece."

"I want to see the results of the second test."

"That is not an option."

"You can arrange it. I'm entitled to—"

"You're entitled to nothing, Miranda. Let's understand each other. My priority at this point is to prevent this damage from spreading. We've already had two government projects canceled. Your reputation, and as a result, my own, is under attack. There are some who believe you purposely doctored tests and results in order to take credit for a find."

With slow care, Miranda wiped away the ring of moisture that a teacup had left on her desk. "Is that what you believe?"

The hesitation spoke more clearly than the words that followed it. "I believe you allowed ambition, haste, and enthusiasm to cloud judgment, logic, and efficiency. I take the responsibility, as I involved you."

"I'm responsible for myself. Thank you for your support."

"Sarcasm is unbecoming. I'm sure the media will attempt to contact you over the next few days. You'll be unavailable for comment."

"I have plenty of comments."

"Which you'll keep to yourself. It would be best if you took a leave of absence."

"Would it?" Her hand was starting to tremble, so she balled it into a fist. "That's a passive admission of guilt, and I won't do it. I want to see those results. If I made a mistake, at least I need to know where and how."

"It's out of my hands."

"Fine. I'll find a way around you." She glanced over in irritation as her fax rang and whined. "I'll contact Pond myself."

"I've already spoken to him. He has no interest in you. The matter is closed. Transfer me to Andrew's office."

"Oh, I'll be delighted to. He has some news for you." Furious, she jabbed the hold button and buzzed Lori.

"Transfer this call to Andrew," she ordered, then shoved away from her desk.

She took a deep breath first. She would give Andrew a few moments, then go in to him. She would be calm when she did. Calm and supportive. To manage that, she had to push her own problem aside for a while, and concentrate on the break-in.

To distract herself, she walked over and snagged the page from the fax tray.

And her blood iced over.!!!You were so sure, weren't you? It appears you were wrong. How will you explain it?!!!What's left for you now, Miranda, now that your reputation is in tatters? Nothing. That's all you were, a reputation, a name, a chestful of degrees.!!!Now you're just pitiful. Now you have nothing.!!!Now I have everything.!!!How does it feel, Miranda, to be exposed as a fraud, to be found incompetent? To be a failure?

She clutched one hand between her breasts as she read it through. Her ragged, rapid breathing made her head go light so that she staggered back, leaned heavily on the desk to steady herself.

"Who are you?" Anger leaked through, balancing her again. "Who the hell are you?"

It doesn't matter, she told herself. She wouldn't let these mean, petty messages affect her. They meant nothing.

But she slipped the fax into the drawer with the other, and locked it.

She'd find out eventually. There was always a way to find out. Putting her hands to her cheeks, she pressed to bring the blood back into her face. And when she found out, she promised herself, she would deal with it.

Now wasn't the time to concern herself with nasty little taunts. She drew in air, exhaled, rubbed her hands together until they were warm again.

Andrew needed her. The Institute needed her. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut as the pressure in her chest built into pain. She wasn't just a name, a collection of degrees.

She was more than that. She intended to prove it.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched out of her office with the intention of marching into Andrew's.

At least two members of the family would stand by each other.

Detective Cook stood by Lori's desk. "Another moment of your time, Dr. Jones."

"Of course." Even as her stomach dipped, she composed her features and gestured. "Please come in and sit down. Lori, hold my calls please. Can I get you coffee, Detective?"

"No, thanks. I'm cutting back. Caffeine and tobacco, they're real killers." He settled into a chair, took out his notebook. "Dr. Jones—Dr. Andrew Jones tells me that the piece that was taken was insured."

"The Institute is fully insured against theft, and fire."

"Five hundred thousand dollars. Isn't that a lot for a little piece like that? It wasn't signed or anything either, is that right?"

"The artist was unknown, but believed to be a student of Leonardo da Vinci." She longed to nurse the nagging ache in her temple, but kept her hands still. "It was an excellent study of David, circa 1524."

She'd tested it herself, she thought sourly. And no one had questioned her findings.

"Five hundred thousand is well within the range should the piece have been auctioned or sold to a collector," she added.

"You do that kind of thing here?" Cook pursed his lips. "Sell off?"

"Occasionally. We also acquire. It's part of our purpose."

He let his gaze skim around her office. Efficient, neat, with high-end equipment and a desk that was probably worth a small fortune as well. "It takes a lot of money to run a place like this."

"Yes, it does. The fees we generate for classes, consulting work, and admissions cover a large part of it. There's also a trust fund set up by my grandfather. In addition patrons often donate funds or collections." Though it flickered through her mind that it might be wise to call their lawyer, she leaned forward. "Detective Cook, we don't need five hundred thousand dollars in insurance money to run the Institute."

"I guess it's a drop in the bucket. Of course, for some people it's a nice chunk of change. Especially if they gamble or have debts, or just want to buy a fancy car."

However tight her neck and shoulders were now, she met his gaze levelly. "I don't gamble, I don't have any difficult debts, and I have a car."

"If you'll excuse me saying so, Dr. Jones, you don't seem particularly upset about this loss."

"Is my being upset going to help you recover the bronze?"

He clucked his tongue. "You got a point. Your brother now, he's pretty shaken up."

Because her eyes clouded, she dropped her gaze and stared into the remains of her tea. "He feels responsible. He takes things to heart."

"And you don't?"

"Feel responsible, or take things to heart?" she countered, then lifted her hands a few inches off the desk. "In this case, neither."

"Just for my notes, would you mind going over your evening for me?"

"All right." Her muscles had bunched up again, but she spoke calmly. "Andrew and I both worked until around seven. I sent my assistant home just after six. I had a longdistance call shortly after."

"From?"

"Florence, Italy. An associate of mine." Distress burned under her breastbone like an ulcer. "I imagine we were on the phone for ten minutes, maybe a little less. Andrew dropped by here a bit after that. We had a discussion, and left together right around seven."

"Do you usually come and go to work together?"

"No, we don't. Our hours don't always coincide. I wasn't feeling well last night, so he took me home. We share the house our grandmother left us. We had a little dinner. I went upstairs around nine."

"And stayed in the rest of the night?"

"Yes, as I said, I wasn't feeling very well."

"And your brother was at home all night."

She had no idea. "Yes, he was. I woke him right after I got the call from Mr. Scutter in security, just after six this morning. We came in together, assessed the situation, and ordered Mr. Scutter to call the police."

"That little bronze…" Cook rested his pad on his knee. "You've got pieces in that gallery worth a lot more, I'd guess. Funny he only took that piece—only one piece after he'd gone to all the trouble to get inside."

"Yes," she said evenly. "I thought the same myself. How would you explain that, Detective?"

He had to smile. It was a good comeback. "I'd have to say he wanted it. There's nothing else missing?"

"The gallery spaces are being checked thoroughly. Nothing else appears to be missing. I don't know what else I can tell you."

"That should do it for now." He rose, tucked his notebook away. "We'll be interviewing your staff, and it's likely I'll need to talk to you again."

"We're more than willing to cooperate." She rose as well. She wanted him out. "You can contact me here, or at home," she continued as she walked to the door. When she opened it, she saw Ryan pacing the outer office.

"Miranda." He came straight to her, took both of her hands. "I just heard."

For some reason tears swam close again, and were battled back. "Bad day," she managed.

"I'm so sorry. How much was taken? Do the police have any leads?"

"I—Ryan, this is Detective Cook. He's in charge. Detective, this is Ryan Boldari, an associate."

"Detective." Ryan could have spotted him as a cop from six blocks at a dead run in the opposite direction.

"Mr. Boldari. You work here?"

"No, I own galleries in New York and San Francisco. I'm here on business for a few days. Miranda, what can I do to help?"

"There's nothing. I don't know." It hit her again, like a wave, and made her hands tremble in his.

"You should sit down, you're upset."

"Mr. Boldari?" Cook held up a finger as Ryan turned to nudge Miranda back into her office. "What are the names of your galleries?"

"Boldari," he said with an arch of brow. "The Boldari Gallery." He slipped out a hammered-silver case and removed a business card. "The addresses for both are there. Excuse me, Detective. Dr. Jones needs a moment."

It gave him a quiet satisfaction to shut the door in Cook's face. "Sit down, Miranda. Tell me what happened."

She did as he asked, grateful now for the firm grip of his hand on hers.

"Only one piece," Ryan said when she'd finished. "Odd."

"He had to be a stupid thief," she said with some spirit. "He could have cleaned out that display without much more time and no more effort."

Ryan tucked his tongue in his cheek and reminded himself not to be offended. "Apparently he was selective, but stupid? Difficult to believe a stupid man—or woman for that matter—could get past your security with such apparent ease and speed."

"Well, he might know electronics, but he doesn't know art." Unable to sit, she rose and flipped on her coffeepot. "The David was a lovely little piece, but hardly the best we have. Oh it doesn't matter," she muttered, dragging a hand through her hair. "I sound as though I'm annoyed he didn't take more or choose better. I'm just so angry that he got in at all."

"As I would be." He walked over to kiss the top of her head. "I'm sure the police will find him, and David. Cook struck me as an efficient type."

"I suppose—once he eliminates Andrew and me from his list of suspects and can concentrate on finding the real thief."

"That would be typical, I'd imagine." The little worm of guilt wriggled again as he turned her to face him. "You're not worried about that part, are you?"

"No, not really. Annoyed, but not worried. I appreciate you coming by, Ryan, I—Oh, lunch," she remembered. "I'm not going to be able to make it."

"Don't give it a thought. We'll reschedule when I make my next trip in."

"Next trip?"

"I have to leave this evening. I'd hoped to stay another day or two… for personal reasons. But I need to get back tonight."

"Oh." She hadn't thought it possible to be any more unhappy.

He lifted her hands to his lips. Sad eyes, he thought, were so compelling. "It wouldn't hurt to miss me. It might help take your mind off all this."

"I have a feeling I'm going to be busy for the next few days. But I'm sorry you can't stay longer. This won't—This problem isn't going to change your mind about the exchange, is it?"

"Miranda." He enjoyed the moment, playing the stalwart and supporting hero. "Don't be foolish. The Vasaris will be in your hands within the month."

"Thank you. After the morning I've had, I appreciate the confidence more than I can tell you."

"And you'll miss me."

Her lips curved. "I think I will."

"Now say goodbye."

She began to, but he stopped her mouth with his. Indulged himself by taking it deep, sliding past her initial surprise, her initial resistance, like the thief he was.

It would be, he knew, a considerable amount of time before he saw her again—if he ever did. Their lives separated here, but he wanted to take something with him.

So he took the sweetness he'd just begun to sense under the strength, and the passion he'd just begun to stir under the control.

He eased her back, studied her face, let his hands stroke once up her arms, down again until the touch lingered just on fingertips.

"Goodbye, Miranda," he said, with more regret than was comfortable. And left her, certain she would deal with the small inconvenience he'd caused in her life.