don't see why we didn't just fly to Florence." Miranda was well past second thoughts and into third thoughts by the time Ryan took the wheel of a natty little BMW and navigated out of La Guardia. "If we're going to do something this insane, there's no point in taking a detour."

"It isn't a detour, it's a scheduled stop. I need my things."

"You could have bought clothes in Italy."

"I probably will. If the Italians dressed the world, it would be a much more attractive place. However, there are certain things I need that can't always be easily bought in the retail market."

"Your tools," she muttered. "Burglary tools."

"Among others."

"Fine, fine." She shifted in her seat, drummed her fingers on her knee. Somehow, she had to accept the fact that she was now working with a criminal. A thief, who by definition was without integrity.

Without his help, she saw no way she would ever see the bronze again—or the forgery. And there was a forgery, she assured herself. It was a logical theory, one that required more data and study in order to be proven.

If she swallowed her pride and took the theory to her mother? The idea nearly made Miranda laugh. Elizabeth would dismiss it, and her daughter, in a snap, putting it down to arrogance, stubbornness, and a bit of desperation.

And not entirely without cause, Miranda admitted.

The only one who was willing to listen, to explore the possibility, was a professional thief who was certainly working toward his own ends—and expected her to hand over the Donatello Venus as a consultant fee.

Well, they would see about that.

He was a factor in the equation, she reminded herself, nothing more. Finding and authenticating The Dark Lady was more important than the formula she used to gain that end.

"There's no reason to go into Brooklyn."

"Sure there is." Ryan thought he had a pretty good idea what was running around in that admirable brain of hers. She had a very expressive face—when she didn't know anyone was paying attention to her. "I miss my mother's cooking."

He beamed at her and zipped around a poky sedan. It was so easy to read her. She was hating every minute of this, juggling the pros and cons in her mind to try to find full justification for the choice she'd made. "And I have a couple of things to straighten out, familywise, before I go to Italy. My sister's going to want shoes," he muttered. "She always wants shoes. She's addicted to Ferragamo."

"You steal shoes for your sister?"

"Please." Genuinely insulted, he scowled at traffic. "I'm not a shoplifter."

"Excuse me, but stealing is stealing."

His scarred eyebrow arched wickedly. "Not by a long shot."

"And there's no reason for me to go to Brooklyn. Why don't you just drop me off at whatever hotel I'm staying in."

"First, you're not staying in a hotel. You're staying with me."

Her head whipped around, her eyes narrowed. "I certainly am not."

"And second, you're going to Brooklyn because, as you appear to have forgotten, we're joined at the hip until this is finished. Where I go you go… Dr. Jones."

"That's ridiculous." And inconvenient. She needed time alone, time completely to herself in order to put everything down on paper in an orderly fashion. To weigh and consider. He hadn't given her time to think. "You said yourself I'm too deeply involved to do anything but cooperate. If you don't trust me, it's only going to complicate matters."

"Trusting you would complicate matters," he corrected. "Your problem is you've got a conscience. It's going to kick in from time to time and tempt you to call some cop and confess all." He reached over to pat her hand. "Just consider me the bad angel on your shoulder, kicking the good angel in the face whenever he starts spouting about honesty and truth."

"I'm not staying with you. I have no intention of sleeping with you."

"Now you've done it. What's the point of living?"

The laughter in his voice put her teeth on edge so that she had no choice but to speak through them. "You know very well you want me to sleep with you."

"It's been my lifelong dream, and now it's crushed. I don't know how I'm going to go on."

"I despise you." She hissed it out, and when he laughed again, she did her ego and her temper the favor of staring out the side window and ignoring him for the rest of the drive.

She didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't the pretty two-level house with yellow trim in a quiet neighborhood.

"You grew up here?"

"Here? No."

He smiled at the shock in her voice. He imagined she'd expected him to take her to some nasty little slum where the sound of raised voices was as pervasive as the smell of garlic and garbage.

"The family moved here about ten years ago. Come on, they're expecting us, and Mama's likely got some antipasto ready."

"What do you mean expecting?"

"I called to let her know we were coming."

"You called? Who am I supposed to be?"

"That's a question everyone has to decide for themselves."

"What did you tell her?" Miranda demanded, and clung to the handle as he leaned across to open her door.

"That I was bringing a woman home to dinner." He stayed where he was a moment, his body angled and pressed to hers, his face close. "Don't be shy. They're very easy people."

"I'm not shy." But there was the faintly sick sensation in her stomach she experienced whenever she had to meet new people on a social level. In this case, she told herself, such things were absurd. "I just want to know how you've explained… Stop that," she demanded when his gaze lowered and lingered on her mouth.

"Hmm." He really wanted to take a slow, tasty bite of that stubborn bottom lip. "Sorry, I was distracted. You smell… interesting, Dr. Jones."

The moment called for action and movement—and not the ridiculous fantasy that leaped into her brain of grabbing two handfuls of his hair and yanking his mouth to hers. Instead she slapped one hand on his chest, yanked the door open with the other, and scooted out.

He chuckled a little—which helped relieve the ball of tension that had gathered low in his gut, and climbed out the opposite side. "Hey, Remo."

The big brown dog who'd been sleeping in the yard uncurled himself, let out one bark that echoed like a cannon blast, then jumped lovingly on Ryan. "I thought you were going to learn some manners." Grinning, he scratched the delighted dog's ears. "What happened to obedience school? You flunked out again, didn't you?" Ryan asked as they headed toward the door.

As if avoiding the question, the dog slid his eyes to the side and gazed at Miranda. His tongue lolled out in a canine grin.

"Not afraid of dogs, are you?"

"No, I like them," she replied as Ryan pushed open the front door. Through it emerged the sound of the evening news, voices, male and female, raised in what appeared to be a bitter and violent argument, delicious aroma of roasted garlic and spices, and a large spotted cat who dashed for freedom and began an immediate war with the dog.

"Home sweet home,"' Ryan murmured, and pulled her into the melee.

"If you can't behave like a decent human being, I don't want you to speak to any of my friends, ever again."

"All I did was mention that if she had some really basic plastic surgery, she would improve her looks, her self-esteem, and her sex life."

"You're a pig, Patrick."

"Yeah, well, your friend has a nose like a tail fin on a fifty-seven Chevy."

"Not only a pig, but a shallow, superficial asshole on top of it."

"I'm trying to hear the news, here. Take it outside until the sports are over, for sweet Christ's sake."

"This," Miranda said in prim and precise tones, "is obviously a bad time."

"No. this is normal," Ryan assured her, and dragged her into the spacious, cluttered, and noisy living room.

"Hey, Ry!"

The man—boy really, Miranda noted as he turned with a grin nearly as lethal as Ryan's—took a few gangly strides and punched Ryan in the shoulder. A sign, Miranda assumed, of affection.

His dark hair was curly, his eyes a glinting golden brown in a face that Miranda supposed had caused the girls in his high school to sigh into their pillows at night.

"Pat." With equal affection, Ryan caught him in a head-lock for the introduction. "My baby brother Patrick, Miranda Jones. Behave," he warned Patrick.

"Sure. Hey, Miranda, how's it going?"

Before she could answer, the young woman Patrick had been arguing with stepped up. She gave Miranda a long measuring look as she slipped her arms around Ryan and rubbed cheeks. "Missed you. Hello, Miranda, I'm Colleen." She didn't offer a hand, but kept her arms proprietarily around her brother.

She had the onyx and gold good looks of the Boldaris, and a sharp, assessing gleam in her eyes.

"It's nice to meet you, both." Miranda offered Colleen a cool smile, and let it warm a little for Patrick.

"You gonna leave the girl at the door all day, or you bringing her in so I can get a look at her?" This boomed out of the living room and had all three Boldaris grinning.

"I'm bringing her in, Papa. Let's have your coat."

She gave it up with some reluctance, heard the door close at her back with the enthusiasm of a woman hearing a cell snap shut.

Giorgio Boldari rose out of his easy chair and politely muted the television. Ryan hadn't gotten his build from his father, Miranda decided. The man who studied her was short, stocky, and sported a graying moustache over his unsmiling lips. He wore khakis, a neatly pressed shirt, scuffed Nikes, and a medallion of the Madonna on a chain around his neck.

No one spoke. Miranda's ears began to buzz with nerves.

"You're not Italian, are you?" he asked at length.

"No, I'm not."

Giorgio pursed his lips, let his gaze skim over her face. "Hair like that, you probably got some Irish in you."

"My father's mother was a Riley." Miranda fought back the urge to shift her feet and lifted a brow instead.

He smiled then, fast and bright as lightning. "This one's got a classy look to her, Ry. Get the girl some wine, for God's sake, Colleen. You gonna leave her standing here thirsty? Yankees blew it today. You follow baseball?"

"No, I—"

"Ought to. It's good for you." Then he turned to his son and enveloped Ryan in a fierce bear hug. "You should stay home more."

"I'm working on it. Mama in the kitchen?"

"Yeah, yeah. Maureen!" The shout could have cracked concrete. "Ryan's here with his girl. She's a looker too." He sent Miranda a wink. "How come you don't like baseball?"

"I don't dislike it, in particular. I just—"

"Ryan played third base—hot corner. He tell you that?"

"No, I—"

"Carried a four twenty-five batting average his senior year. Nobody stole more bases than my Ryan."

Miranda shifted her eyes to Ryan. "I bet."

"We got trophies. Ry, you show your girl your trophies."

"Later, Papa."

Colleen and Patrick went back to arguing, in hissy undertones, as she brought in a tray of glasses. The dog was barking incessantly at the front door, and Giorgio shouted again for his wife to come the hell out and meet Ryan's girl.

At least, Miranda thought, she wasn't going to be required to make a great deal of conversation. These people simply took over, carrying on as if there was no stranger in the house.

The house itself was cluttered, full of light and art. She saw Ryan had been right about his mother's watercolors. The three dreamy New York street scenes on the wall were lovely.

There was an odd and intriguing tall tangle of black metal—most likely his father's work—behind a couch with thick blue cushions peppered with dog hair.

There were trinkets and framed snapshots everywhere, a ratty knotted rope on the floor that showed evidence of Remo's teeth, and a scatter of newspapers and magazines on the coffee table.

No one scurried to pick them up, to make excuses for the clutter.

"Welcome to the Boldaris'." With a twinkle in his eye, Ryan took two glasses off the tray, handed her one, and toasted. "Your life may never be the same."

She was beginning to believe him.

Even as she took the first sip, a woman hurried into the room wiping her hands on an apron splattered with sauce. Maureen Boldari was a good three inches taller than her husband, slim as a willow, and possessed of striking black-Irish looks. Her glossy hair waved attractively around her strong face, and vivid blue eyes sparkled with pleasure as she opened her arms.

"There's my boy. Come kiss your mama."

Ryan obeyed, lifting her off her feet as he did so and making her let loose a rich, hearty laugh. "Patrick, Colleen, stop that bickering before I give the pair of you the back of my hand. We've got company. Giorgio, where are your manners? Turn that television off. Remo, stop that barking."

And as it was all done, quickly and without comment, Miranda got a solid clue as to who ran the household.

"Ryan, introduce me to your young lady."

"Yes, ma'am. Maureen Boldari, the love of my life, meet Dr. Miranda Jones. Pretty, isn't she, Mama?"

"Yes, she is. Welcome to our home, Miranda."

"It's very kind of you to have me, Mrs. Boldari."

"Good manners," Maureen said with a brisk nod. "Patrick, bring out the antipasto, and we'll get acquainted. Ryan, show Miranda where she can freshen up."

Ryan led her out of the living room, down a short hall, and into a small pink and white powder room. She grabbed his shirt in her fist.

"You told them we were involved."

"We are involved."

"You know what I mean," she said in the same furious whisper. "Your girl? That's ridiculous."

"I didn't tell them you were my girl." Because it amused him, he lowered his voice to a whisper as well. "I'm thirty-two, they want me married and making babies. They assume."

"Why didn't you make it clear we were business associates?"

"You're beautiful, you're single, you're female. They wouldn't have believed we were just business associates. What's the big deal?"

"For one, your sister looked at me as if she'd pop me in the nose if I didn't adore you enough—for another, it's just deceitful. Not that such niceties as honesty matter to you."

"I'm always honest with my family."

"Sure you are. Undoubtedly your mother is very proud of her son the thief."

"Of course she is."

She stuttered, losing whatever it was she'd planned to say. "Are you trying to convince me that she knows you steal?"

"Sure she does. Does she look stupid?" He shook his head. "I don't lie to my mother. Now, hurry up in there, will you?" He gave her a nudge into the powder room when she only gaped at him. "I'm hungry."

He wasn't hungry for long. No one could have been. There was, in short order, enough food being offered to feed a small and starving Third World army.

Because there was company, they had the meal in the dining room, with its attractive striped walls and handsome mahogany table. There was good china, the glint of crystal, and enough wine to float a battleship.

Conversation never lagged. In fact, if you didn't heave your words out fast and furiously, there was no room for them. When she noted that the level of her wineglass rose back up to the rim whenever she sipped, Miranda left it alone and concentrated on the food.

Ryan had been right about one thing. She loved his mother's linguine.

She was brought up-to-date on the family. Michael, the second son, ran Boldari Gallery, San Francisco. He was married to his college sweetheart and had two children. The last tidbit of info was delivered by the proud grandpa with a meaningful look at Ryan and an eyebrow-wiggling grin for Miranda.

"You like children?" Maureen asked her.

"Um, yes." In a vague and cautious manner, Miranda thought.

"Center your life, children do. Give you real purpose, and celebrate the love that brings a man and woman together." Maureen passed a basket of irresistible bread to Miranda.

"I'm sure you're right."

"Take my Mary Jo."

And Miranda was treated to the virtues of her eldest daughter, who owned a boutique in Manhattan, and had three children.

Then there was Bridgit, who'd taken a sabbatical from a career in publishing in order to stay at home with her baby daughter.

"You must be very proud of them."

"They're good kids. Educated." She beamed at Ryan as she said it. "All my children went to college. Patrick's a freshman. He knows all about computers."

"Really." It seemed a much safer topic, so Miranda smiled at him. "It's a fascinating field."

"It's like playing games for a living. Oh, Ry, I've got some of the data you asked me to access."

"Great."

"What data?" Colleen stopped eyeing Miranda and narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Ryan.

"Just cleaning up a little business, baby." He gave her hand a casual squeeze. "Mama, you outdid yourself tonight."

"Don't change the subject, Ryan."

"Colleen." Maureen's voice was mild, with honed steel beneath. "We have company. Help me clear the table. I made tiramisu, your favorite, Ry."

"We're going to discuss this," Colleen said between her teeth, but rose obediently to clear plates.

"Let me help." Miranda started to rise and was waved back by her hostess.

"Guests don't clear. You sit."

"Don't worry about Colleen," Patrick said the moment she was out of earshot. "We'll handle her."

"Shut up, Patrick." Though Ryan smiled over at Miranda, she caught a glint of discomfort in his eyes. "I don't think we mentioned what Colleen does."

"No, you didn't."

"She's a cop." With a sigh, he rose. "I'll give them a hand with the coffee."

"Oh, wonderful." Blindly, Miranda reached for her wine.

She kept out of the way, obeying the house rules by retiring to the living room after coffee and dessert. Since Giorgio was busy grilling her on what she did, why she wasn't married, her mind was well engaged. No one seemed bothered by the angry words coming out of the kitchen.

When Colleen stormed out, Patrick only rolled his eyes. "Here she goes again."

"You promised, Ry. You gave your word."

"I'm keeping it." Obviously frustrated, he dragged a hand through his hair. "I'm just finishing what I started, baby. Then it's done."

"And what does she have to do with it?" She jabbed a finger at Miranda.

"Colleen, it's not polite to point," Giorgio told her.

"Oh hell." And tossing something uncomplimentary in Italian over her shoulder, Colleen strode out of the house.

"Damn it." Ryan blew out a breath, offered Miranda an apologetic smile. "Be right back."

"Um…" She sat another moment, nearly squirming as Giorgio and Patrick stared at her. "I'll go see if Mrs. Boldari needs any help after all."

She escaped into what she hoped was some area of sanity. The kitchen was big and airy and carried the warm, friendly smells of the meal. With its bright counters and sparkling white floor, it was a picture out of a grocery store checkout magazine.

Dozens of incomprehensible pictures executed with crayon crowded the front of the refrigerator. There was a bowl of fresh fruit on the table, and cafe curtains at the windows.

Normality, Miranda decided.

"I hoped you'd bend your rule and let me give you a hand."

"Sit." Maureen gestured to the table. "Have coffee. They'll finish arguing soon. I should wallop them both for making a scene in front of company. My kids." She turned to an efficient home cappuccino maker and began to fix a cup. "They got passion, good brains, and wide stubborn streaks. Take after their father."

"Do you think so? I see a lot of you in Ryan."

It was exactly the right thing to say. Maureen's eyes turned warm and loving. "The firstborn. No matter how many you have, there's only one first. You love them all—so much it's a wonder your heart doesn't break from it. But there's only one first. You'll know, one day."

"Hmmm." Miranda declined to comment as Maureen frothed the milk. "It must be a little worrying, having a child go into law enforcement."

"Colleen, she knows what she wants. Never goes any way but forward, that girl. One day, she'll be a captain. You'll see. She's mad at Ryan," she continued conversationally, as she set the cup in front of Miranda. "He'll charm her out of it."

"I'm sure he will. He's very charming."

"Girls always chased after him. But my Ryan's very particular. He's got his eye on you."

It was time, Miranda decided, to put the record straight. "Mrs. Boldari, I don't think Ryan was completely clear about this. We're just business associates."

"You think so?" Maureen said placidly, and turned back to load the dishwasher. "He doesn't look good enough to you?"

"He looks very good, but—"

"Maybe because he comes from Brooklyn and not Park Avenue he isn't classy enough for a Ph.D.?"

"No, not at all. It's simply… It's simply that we're business associates."

"He doesn't kiss you?"

"He—I…" For God's sake, was all she could think, and filled her mouth with hot foamy coffee to shut it up.

"I thought so. I'd worry about that boy if he didn't kiss a woman who looks like you. He likes brains too. He's not shallow. But maybe you don't like the way he kisses. It matters," she added while Miranda stared into her coffee. "A man doesn't get your blood up with his kisses, you aren't going to have a happy relationship. Sex is important. Anybody who says different never had good sex."

"Oh my," was all she could think of.

"What? You don't think I know my boy has sex? You think I have brain damage?"

"I haven't had sex with Ryan."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" Miranda could only blink as Maureen tidily closed the dishwasher and began to fill the sink to wash the pots. "I barely know him." She couldn't believe she was having this conversation. "I don't just have sex with every attractive man I meet."

"Good. I don't want my boy going around with easy women."

"Mrs. Boldari." She wondered if it would help to bang her head on the table. "We're not going around. Our relationship is strictly a business one."

"Ryan doesn't bring business associates home to eat my linguine."

Since she had no comment for that, Miranda shut her mouth again. She glanced up with relief as Ryan and his sister came through the archway.

As expected, he'd charmed Colleen out of her snit. The two of them, Miranda noted, were smiling, their arms around each other's waists. For the first time, Colleen sent Miranda a friendly look.

"Sorry about that. Just a few things we needed to straighten out."

"No problem."

"So…" Colleen sat at the table, rested her feet on the opposite chair. "Do you have any solid feeling for who might have stolen the original bronze?"

Miranda just blinked at her. "Excuse me?"

"Ryan filled me in. Maybe I can help you sort it out."

"Six months out of the academy and she's Sherlock Holmes." Ryan bent over, kissed her hair. "Want me to dry the pots, Mama?"

"No, it's Patrick's turn." She glanced around. "Somebody steal something from your lady?"

"I did," he said easily, and joined the women at the table. "It turned out to be a forgery. We're straightening it out."

"Good."

"Wait. Wait just a minute." Miranda lifted both hands. "Good? Is that what you said? Good? You're telling me you know your son's a thief?"

"What, am I a moron?" Maureen neatly wiped her hands before fisting them on her hips. "Of course I know."

"I told you she knew," Ryan pointed out.

"Yes, but—" She simply hadn't believed it. Baffled, she shifted, studied Maureen's pretty face. "And that's just dandy with you? That's just fine? And you—" She pointed at Colleen. "You're a police officer. Your brother steals. How do you resolve the two?"

"He's retiring." Colleen lifted her shoulders. "A little behind schedule."

"I don't understand." She pressed her lifted hands to her head. "You're his mother. How can you encourage him to break the law?"

"Encourage?" Maureen gave that rich laugh again. "Who had to encourage him?" Deciding to give her guest the courtesy of an explanation, she set down her dishcloth. "Do you believe in God?"

"What? What does that have to do with this?"

"Don't argue, just answer. Do you believe in God?"

Beside Miranda, Ryan grinned. She couldn't know it, but when his mother used that tone it meant she'd decided she liked you.

"All right, yes."

"When God gives you a gift, it's a sin not to use it."

Miranda closed her eyes a moment. "You're saying that God gave Ryan a talent, and that it would be a sin for him not to break into buildings and steal?"

"God could've given him a gift for music, like He did my Mary Jo, who plays the piano like an angel. God gave him this gift instead."

"Mrs. Boldari—"

"Don't argue," Ryan murmured. "You'll just give yourself a headache."

She scowled at him. "Mrs. Boldari," she tried again, "I appreciate your loyalty to your son, but—"

"Do you know what he does with this gift?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"He buys this house for his family because the old neighborhood isn't safe anymore." She opened her arms to encompass the lovely kitchen, then wagged a finger. "He sees that his brothers and sisters get a college education. None of this would be. However hard Giorgio and I worked, you can't send six kids to college on teachers' salaries. God gave him a gift," she said again, and rested her hand on Ryan's shoulder. "You going to argue with God?"

Ryan was right again. She did have a headache. She nursed it with silence during the drive to Manhattan. She wasn't sure which baffled her more just then, the stand Maureen had taken to defend her son's choice of career, or the warm hugs she'd been given by each family member before they left.

Ryan let her have her quiet. When he pulled up in front of his building, he gave the keys to the doorman. "Hi, Jack. Arrange to have this rental returned to the airport, would you, and send Dr. Jones's bags—they're in the trunk—up to my apartment."

"Sure thing, Mr. Boldari. Welcome home." The twenty that slipped discreetly from palm to palm had Jack's smile widening. "Have a nice evening."

"I don't understand your life," Miranda began as he escorted her through an elegant lobby decked out with glossy antiques and attractive art.

"That's all right. I don't understand yours either." He stepped into an elevator and used a key to access the top floor. "You must be worn out. Jack'll have your things up in a minute. You can get comfortable."

"Your mother wanted to know why I wasn't having sex with you."

"I wonder the same thing all the time." The elevator opened into a spacious living area done in bold blues and greens. Wide terrace windows offered a pricey view of New York.

He'd obviously indulged himself in his affection for the finer things, she decided with a quick scan. Art Deco lamps, Chippendale tables, Baccarat crystal.

She wondered how much of it he'd stolen.

"All purchased legitimately," he said, reading her perfectly. "Well, that Erté lamp was hot, but I couldn't resist it. Want a nightcap?"

"No, no I don't."

The floor was glossy honey-toned wood accented with one of the most beautiful Orientals she'd ever seen. Art on the walls ranged from a misty Corot to a soft, lovely watercolor of what she recognized as the Irish countryside.

"Your mother's work."

"Yes, she's good, isn't she?"

"Very. Confusing, but very good."

"She likes you."

With a sigh, Miranda wandered to the window. "I like her too, for some reason."

Her own mother had never hugged her that way, with a good, solid squeeze that communicated approval and affection. Her own father had never grinned at her with that lively twinkle in his eyes, as Ryan's father had.

She wondered how, despite it all, his family had seemed so much more blissfully normal than her own.

"That'll be your bags." When the buzzer sounded, Ryan moved over to check the intercom, then released the elevator. The delivery was made quickly, with another exchange of bills. When the elevator whispered closed again, Ryan left her bags where they were and crossed to her.

"You're tense," he murmured after he began kneading her shoulders. "I'd hoped an evening with my family would relax you."

"How does anyone relax with all that energy around them?" She arched back against his hands before she could stop herself. "You must have had an interesting childhood."

"I had a terrific childhood." Far from the privileged one she'd known, and from all appearances, a great deal more loving. "Long day," he murmured, and because he knew she was beginning to relax, bent down to nibble at her neck.

"Yes, very. Don't."

"I was about to work my way around…here." He turned her, covered her mouth with his and stole her breath.

His mother had said kisses should get the blood up. Hers was up, bubbling close under her skin, swimming in her head, pumping much too hard and fast through her veins.

"Don't," she said again, but it was a weak protest, easily ignored by both of them.

He could feel the need simmering inside her. It didn't matter that it wasn't for him in particular. He wouldn't let it matter. He wanted her, wanted to be the one to crack through the shield and discover the volcano he was sure was inside of her.

Something about her pulled at him with a slow and steady strength that refused to be ignored.

"Let me touch you." Even as he asked, he took, his hands running up her sides to skim her breasts. "Let me have you."

Oh, yes. The sigh of it circled around in her cloudy brain as if searching for a place to land. Touch me. Have me. God, please don't let me think.

"No." It was a shock to hear herself say it. To realize she was pulling away even as she yearned to strain closer. "This won't work."

"It was working just fine for me." He hooked his hand in the waistband of her trousers and gave her a yank. "And I'd say it was working just fine for you too."

"I won't be seduced, Ryan." She concentrated on the annoyed flash in his eyes and ignored the screams of her own system for the release his mouth had promised. "I won't be had. If we're going to finish this arrangement successfully, it has to be on a business level. And only that level."

"I don't like that level."

"That's the deal, and it's nonnegotiable."

"Your tongue ever get frostbite when you use that tone?" He jammed his hands in his pocket as she studied him balefully. "Okay, Dr. Jones, it's all business. I'll show you your room."

He walked back to pick up her suitcases and carried them up a fluid curve of metal stairs with a soft green patina. Then, setting her bags down just inside the door, he nodded. "You should find this comfortable enough, and private. We're booked out tomorrow evening. That'll give me time to tie up a few loose ends here. Sleep well," he added, and shut the door in her face before she had the chance to shut it in his.

She started to shrug, then her eyes widened when she heard the click of a lock. In one leap she was at the door rattling the knob.

"You son of a bitch. You can't lock me in here."

"An ounce of prevention, Dr. Jones." His voice was soft as silk through the door. "Just to make sure you stay where I put you until tomorrow."

He walked away whistling while she pounded and promised vengeance.