here's only one bedroom." Miranda saw nothing of the lovely suite but the single bedroom with its gracious king-sized bed and elegant white coverlet.

In the parlor, Ryan opened the double doors and stepped out on an enormous terrace where the air was ripe with spring and the Italian sun shone cheerfully on the soft red rooftops.

"Check this view. This terrace is one of the reasons I wanted to book this room again. You could live out here."

"Good." She pushed open the doors from the bedroom and stepped out. "Why don't you plan to do just that?" She would not be charmed by the throat-aching view of the city, nor the cheerful geraniums that lined the boxes just under the stone parapet. Nor the man who leaned over them, looking as though he'd been born to stand in precisely that spot.

"There's only one bedroom," she repeated.

"We're married. Which reminds me, how about getting me a beer?"

"I'm sure there's a certain kind of woman who finds you irresistibly amusing, Boldari. I don't happen to be that certain kind." She stepped up to the rail. "There is only one bed in the only one bedroom."

"If you're shy, we can take turns on the parlor sofa. You first." He draped an arm over her shoulders and added a friendly squeeze. "Relax, Miranda. Getting you in the sack would be fun, but it's not my first priority. A view like this makes up for a long plane flight, doesn't it?"

"The view isn't my first priority."

"It's here, might as well appreciate it. There's a young couple who lives in that flat, there." He steered her over a bit and pointed to a top-floor window on a soft yellow building just to the left. "They'd work on the rooftop garden on Saturday mornings together. And one night they came out and made love there."

"You watched them?"

"Only until the intent was unmistakable. I'm not a pervert."

"The jury's still out on that one. You've been here before, then."

"Kevin O'Connell stayed here for a few days last year. Which is why we're using him again. In a well-run hotel like this, the staff tends to remember guests—more so if they tip well, and Kevin's a generous soul."

"Why were you here as Kevin O'Connell?"

"A little matter of a reliquary with a bone fragment of Giovanni Battista."

"You stole a relic? A relic! John the Baptist's bone?"

"A fragment thereof. Hell, pieces of him are scattered all over Italy—especially here, where he's patron saint." He couldn't help himself, he got a huge kick out of her staggered shock. "Very popular guy, old Johnny. Nobody's going to miss a splinter or two of bone."

"I don't have words," Miranda murmured.

"My client had cancer—convinced himself that the relic would cure him. Of course, he's dead, but he lived nine months longer than the doctors gave him. So who's to say? Let's get unpacked." He patted her arm. "I want a shower, then we'll get to work."

"Work?"

"I've got some shopping to do."

"I'm not spending the day looking for Ferragamos for your sister."

"That won't take long, and I'll need trinkets for the rest of the family."

"Look, Boldari, I think we have a higher priority than gathering souvenirs for your family."

He infuriated her by leaning over and kissing the tip of her nose. "Don't worry, darling. I'll buy you something too. Wear comfortable shoes," he advised her, and strolled back inside to shower.

He bought a fluid gold bracelet set with emerald cabochons in a shop on the Ponte Vecchio—his mother's birthday was coming up—and had it sent back to the hotel. Obviously enjoying the press of tourists and bargain hunters who swarmed the bridge over the placid Arno, he added gold chains in shimmering Italian gold, marcasite earrings, and Florentine-style brooches. For his sisters, he told Miranda as she waited impatiently and refused to be charmed by the tumbling glitter in display windows.

"Stand here long enough," he commented, "you can hear every language in the world."

"Have we stood here long enough?"

He slipped an arm around her shoulders, shaking his head as she stiffened. "Don't you ever let yourself fall into the moment, Dr. Jones? It's Florence, we're standing on the oldest of the city's bridges. The sun's shining. Take a breath," he suggested, "and drink it in."

She nearly did, nearly leaned into him and did just that. "We didn't come here for the atmosphere," she said, in what she hoped was a tone cool enough to dampen his enthusiasm and her own uncharacteristic urges.

"The atmosphere's still here. And so are we." Undaunted, he took her hand and pulled her along the bridge.

The little shops and stands appeared to delight him, Miranda noted, watching him bargain for leather bags and trinket boxes near the Piazza della Repubblica.

She ignored his suggestion that she treat herself to something, and giving her attention to the architecture, waited for him in simmering silence.

"Now, this is Robbie." He took a tot-sized black leather jacket with silver trim from a rack.

"Robbie?"

"My nephew. He's three. He'd get a big kick out of this."

It was beautifully made, undoubtedly expensive, and adorable enough to have her pressing her lips together to keep them from curving. "It's completely impractical for a three-year-old."

"It was made for a three-year-old," he corrected. "That's why it's little. Quanto?" he asked the hovering merchant, and the game was on.

When he'd finished the round, he headed west. But if he'd hoped to tempt her with the flawless fashions of the Via dei Tornabuoni, he underestimated her willpower.

He bought three pairs of shoes in Ferragamo's cathedral to footwear. She bought nothing—including a gorgeous pair of pearl-gray leather pumps that had caught her eye and stirred her desire.

The credit cards in her wallet, she reminded herself, weren't stamped with her name. She'd go barefoot before she used one.

"Most women," he observed as he walked toward the river, "would have a dozen bags and boxes by now."

"I'm not most women."

"So I've noticed. You'd look damn good in leather, though."

"In your pathetic fantasies, Boldari."

"There's nothing pathetic about my fantasies." He stepped to a storefront and opened a glass door.

"What now?"

"Can't come to Florence without buying some art."

"We didn't come here to buy anything. This is supposed to be business."

"Relax." He took her hand, bringing it up in a sweep to his lips. "Trust me."

"Those are two phrases that will never go together when applied to you."

The shop was crowded with marble and bronze reproductions. Gods and goddesses danced to lure tourists into plunking down their gold cards and purchasing a copy of a master's work or an offering by a new artist.

Patience straining, Miranda prepared to waste another precious hour while Ryan fulfilled his family obligations. But he surprised her by nodding toward a slender statue of Venus within five minutes.

"What do you think of her?"

Soberly, she stepped up, circled the polished bronze figure. "It's adequate, not particularly good, but if one of your legion of relatives is looking for some lawn art, it would do well enough."

"Yeah, I think she'll do well enough." He aimed a delighted smile toward the clerk, then made Miranda's brows draw together as he fumbled with guidebook Italian.

Throughout the shopping spree, he'd spoken the language fluidly, often peppering his speech with casual colloquialisms. Now he slaughtered the most basic of phrases with a miserable accent that had the clerk beaming at him.

"You're American. We can speak English."

"Yeah? Thank God." He laughed and tugged Miranda by the hand to bring her closer. "My wife and I want something special to take home. We really like this piece. It'll look great in the sunroom, won't it, Abby?"

Her answer was a "hmmm."

He didn't bargain well this time, either, just winced over the price, then pulled her away as if to hold a private consult.

"What's this all about?" She found herself whispering because his head was bent close to hers.

"I wouldn't want to buy it without being sure my wife approved."

"You're a jackass."

"That's what I get for being a considerate husband." He lowered his head, kissed her firmly on the mouth—and only by instinct avoided her teeth. "Promise me you'll try that again later."

Before she could retaliate, he turned back to the clerk. "We'll take her."

When the deal was made, the statue wrapped and boxed, he refused the offer to send it to their hotel.

"That's okay. We're about to head back anyway." He hefted the bag, then put an arm around Miranda, bumping her with one of the two cameras slung over his shoulders. "Let's get some of that ice cream on the way, Abby."

"I don't need any ice cream," she muttered when they stepped outside again.

"Sure you do. Gotta keep your energy up. We've got one more stop to make."

"Look, I'm tired, my feet hurt, and I don't care for shopping. I'll just meet you back at the hotel."

"And miss all the fun? We're going to the Bargello."

"Now?" What chased up her spine was a combination of dread and excitement. "We're going to do it now?"

"Now we're going to play tourist some more." He stepped off the curb, giving her room on the narrow sidewalk. "We'll check the place out, get a feel for things, take some pictures." He winked. "Case the joint, as they say in the movies."

"Case the joint," she murmured.

"Where are the security cameras? How far from the main entrance is Michelangelo's Bacchus?" Though he knew, precisely. It wouldn't be his first trip, under any guise. "How far is it across the courtyard? How many steps to the first-floor loggia? When do the guards change shift? How many—"

"All right, all right, I get the point." She threw up her hands. "I don't know why we didn't go there in the first place."

"Everything in its time, honey. Abby and Kevin would want to see some of the city on their first day, wouldn't they?"

She imagined they looked exactly like American tourists—cameras, shopping bags, and guidebooks. He bought her an ice-cream cone as they walked. Because she decided it might help cool the hot ball of tension in her stomach, she licked at the tart, frothy lemon ice as he strolled along, pointing out buildings, statues, loitering at shop windows or over menus posted outside trattorias.

Perhaps there was a point to it all, she decided. No one would look twice at them, and if she concentrated, she could almost believe she was meandering through the city for the first time. It was a bit like being in a play, she thought. Abby and Kevin's Italian Vacation.

If only she weren't such a lousy actress.

"Fabulous, isn't it?" He paused, his fingers twining with hers as he studied the magnificent cathedral that dominated the city.

"Yes. Brunelleschi's dome was a revolutionary achievement. He didn't use scaffolding. Giotto designed the campanile, but didn't live to see it completed." She adjusted her sunglasses. "The neo-Gothic marble facade echoes his style, but was added in the nineteenth century."

She brushed at her hair and saw him smiling at her. "What?"

"You have a nice way with a history lesson, Dr. Jones." When her face went carefully blank, he framed it with his hands. "No, don't. That wasn't a dig, it was a compliment." His fingers brushed her cheekbones lightly. So many sensitive spots, he mused. "Tell me something else."

If he was laughing at her, he was doing a good job of disguising it. So she took a chance. "Michelangelo carved his David in the courtyard of the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo."

"Really?"

He said it so seriously her lips twitched. "Yes. He also copied Donatello's Saint John for his own Moses. It would have been a compliment. But the pride of the museum, I think, is his Pietà. The figure of Nicodemus is believed to be a self-portrait and is brilliantly done. But the figure of Mary Magdalene in the same sculpture is inferior, and obviously the work of one of his students. Don't kiss me, Ryan," she said it quickly, closing her eyes as his mouth hovered a breath from hers. "It complicates things."

"Do they have to be simple?"

"Yes." She opened her eyes again, looked into his. "In this case, yes."

"Normally I'd agree with you." Thoughtfully, he skimmed the pad of his thumb over her lips. "We're attracted to each other, and that should be simple. But it doesn't seem to be." He dropped his hands from her face to her shoulders, skimmed them down her arms to her wrists. Her pulse was rapid and thick, and should have pleased him.

But he stepped back. "Okay, let's keep it as simple as possible. Go stand over there."

"Why?"

"So I can take your picture, honey." He tipped his sunglasses down and winked at her. "We want to show all our friends back home, don't we, Abby?"

Though she considered it overkill, she posed in front of the grand Duomo with hundreds of other visitors and let him snap pictures of her with the magnificent white, green, and rose marble at her back.

"Now you take one of me." He walked over holding out his snazzy Nikon. "It's basically point-and-shoot. You just—"

"I know how to work a camera." She snatched it from him. "Kevin."

She moved back, blocked and focused. Maybe her heart tripped a little. He was such a staggering sight, tall and dark and grinning cockily at the camera.

"There. Satisfied now?"

"Almost." He snagged a couple of tourists who happily agreed to take a picture of the young Americans.

"This is ridiculous," Miranda muttered as she found herself posing once again, this time with Ryan's arm around her waist.

"It's for my mother," he said, then followed impulse and kissed her.

A flock of pigeons swarmed up with a rush of wings and a flutter of air. She had no time to resist, less to defend.

His mouth was warm, firm, sliding over hers as the arm around her waist angled her closer. The quiet sound she made had nothing to do with protest. The hand she lifted to his face had everything to do with holding him there.

The sun was white, the air full of sound. And her heart trembled on the edge of something extraordinary.

It was either pull away or sink, Ryan thought. He turned his lips into the palm of her hand. "Sorry," he said, and didn't smile—couldn't quite pull it off. "I guess I fell into the moment."

And leaving her there with her knees trembling, he retrieved his camera.

He strapped it back on, picked up the shopping bag, then with his eyes on hers, held out a hand. "Let's go."

She'd almost forgotten the purpose, almost forgotten the plan. With a nod, she fell into step with him.

When they reached the gates of the old palace, he tugged the guidebook out of his back pocket, like a good tourist.

"It was built in 1255," he told her. "From the sixteenth to the mid-nineteenth century it was a prison. Executions were carried out in the courtyard."

"Apt under the circumstances," she muttered. "And I know the history."

"Dr. Jones knows the history." He gave her butt an affectionate pat. "Abby, honey."

The minute they were inside the principal ground-floor room, he dug out his video camera. "Great place, isn't it, Abby? Look at this guy—he's knocked back a few, huh?"

He aimed the camera at the glorious bronze of the drunken Bacchus, then began to slowly pan the room. "Wait until Jack and Sally see these. They'll be green."

He swung the camera toward a doorway where a guard sat keeping an eye on the visitors. "Wander around," he told her under his breath. "Look awed and middle-class."

Her palms were sweating. It was ridiculous, of course. They had a perfect right to be here. No one could possibly know what was going on inside her head. But her heart pounded painfully in her throat as she circled the room.

"Wonderfully awful, isn't it?"

She jolted a little when he came up beside her as she pretended to study Bandinelli's Adam and Eve. "It's an important piece of the era."

"Only because it's old. It looks like a couple of suburbanites who hang out at a nudist colony every other weekend. Let's go see Giambologna's birds in the loggia."

After an hour, Miranda began to suspect that a great deal of criminal activity involved the tedious. They went into every public room, capturing every inch and angle on camera. Still, she'd forgotten that the Sala dei Bronzettí held Italy's finest collection of small Renaissance bronzes. Because it made her think of the David, her nerves began to twitch again.

"Haven't you got enough yet?"

"Nearly. Go flirt with the guard over there."

"I beg your pardon."

"Get his attention." Ryan lowered the camera and briskly undid the top two buttons on Miranda's crisp cotton blouse.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Making sure his attention's focused on you, cara. Ask him some questions, use bad guidebook Italian, bat your eyes and make him feel important."

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing if you can't hold his eye for five minutes. Give me that long, ask him where the bathroom is, then head there. Meet me back in the courtyard in ten."

"But—"

"Do it." He snapped it out, with a flick of steel. "There's just enough people in here that I should be able to pull this off."

"Oh God. All right." Her stomach tilted down toward her shaky knees as she turned away to approach the guard.

" Ah… scusi," she began, giving the word a hard American accent. "Per favore…" She watched the guard's eyes dip to the opening of her blouse, then skim back up to her face with a smile. She swallowed hard, then spread her hands helplessly. "English?"

"Si, signora, a little."

"Oh, wonderful." She experimented with fluttering her lashes and saw by the warming of the guard's smile that such pitiful ploys actually worked. "I studied up on Italian before I left, but it just gets all jumbled up in my mind. Such a scatterbrain. It's terrible, isn't it, that Americans don't speak a second language the way most Europeans do?"

The way his eyes were glazing, she deduced she was speaking much too quickly for him to follow. All the better. "Everything's so beautiful here. I wonder if you could tell me anything about…" She chose a sculpture at random.

Ryan waited until he saw the guard's focus fix on Miranda's cleavage, then slipping back, he took a thin pick out of his pocket and went to work on a side door.

It was easy enough, even dealing with it behind his back. The museum hardly expected its visitors to come armed with lockpicks or to want entrance to locked rooms in broad daylight.

The floor plan of the museum was on a disk in his files. As were dozens of others. If his source was to be trusted, Ryan would find what he wanted beyond the door, in one of the jumbled storerooms on this level.

He kept one eye on the security camera, biding his time until a group of art lovers shuffled in front of him.

Before they'd gone by, he was through the door and closing it softly behind him.

He took one long breath of appreciation, tugged on the gloves he'd tucked in his pocket, then flexed his fingers. He couldn't take much time.

It was a rabbit warren of little rooms crowded with statues and paintings, most of which were in desperate need of restoration. Generally, he knew, those who made their living through or around art weren't the most organized of souls.

Several pieces caught his eye, including a sad-eyed Madonna with a broken shoulder. But he was looking for another type of lady altogether—

The sound of tuneless whistling and clicking footsteps sent him searching quickly for cover.

She waited the ten minutes, then fifteen. By twenty she was wringing her hands on the bench where she sat in the courtyard and imagining what it would be like to spend some time in an Italian prison.

Maybe the food would be good.

At least they didn't kill thieves these days, and hang their corpses from the Bargello's windows as a testament to rough justice.

Once again she checked her watch, rubbed her fingers over her mouth. He'd been caught, she was sure of it. Right now he was being interrogated inside some hot little room, and he'd give up her name without a qualm. The coward.

Then she saw him, strolling across the courtyard like a man without a care in the world and no shadow of larceny in his heart. Her relief was so great that she sprang up, threw her arms around him.

"Where have you been? I thought you'd been—"

He kissed her as much to stop her babbling as to take advantage of the situation. "Let's go get a drink. We'll talk about it," he said against her mouth.

"How could you just leave me out here like this? You said ten minutes—it's been nearly half an hour."

"It took me a little longer." They were still mouth to mouth, and he grinned at her. "Miss me?"

"No. I was wondering what was on the menu in jail tonight."

"Have a little faith." He clasped hands, swinging arms with her as they walked. "Some wine and cheese would be nice right now. The Piazza della Signoria isn't as picturesque as others, but it's close."

"Where did you go?" she demanded. "I fiddled around with the guard as long as I could, and when I looked around, you were gone."

"I wanted to see what was behind door number three. That place might have been a palace once, and a cop shop later, but the interior doors are child's play."

"How could you take a chance like that, breaking into an off-limits area with a guard not three yards away?"

"Usually that's the best time." He glanced in a shop window as they passed and reminded himself to carve out some more time for shopping. "I found our lady," he said casually.

"It's irresponsible, foolish, and nothing more than an egocentric… What?"

"I found her." His grin flashed like the Tuscan sun. "And I don't think she's too happy being tucked away in the dark to gather dust. Patience," he told her before she could question him. "I'm thirsty."

"You're thirsty? How can you think about wine and cheese, for God's sake? We should be doing something. Planning out our next step. We can't just sit under an awning and drink Chianti."

"That's just what we're going to do—and stop looking over your shoulder as if the polizia were on our tail."

He pulled her toward one of those wide awnings in front of a bustling trattoria, maneuvered her through the tables to an empty one.

"You're out of your mind. Shopping, buying souvenirs, scouting out leather jackets for toddlers, wandering around the Bargello as if you've never been there before. And now—"

She broke off, shocked, when he pushed her into a chair. His hand closed hard over hers as he leaned across the table. The smile he sent her was as tough and chilly as his voice.

"Now, we're just going to sit here awhile, and you're not going to give me any trouble."

"No trouble at all." The smile turned easy as he glanced up at the waiter. Since the cover seemed absurd at the moment, he rattled off a request for a bottle of local wine and a selection of cheeses in perfect Italian.

"I'm not tolerating your feeble attempts at bullying me."

"Sweetheart, you're going to tolerate what I tell you to tolerate. I've got the lady."

"You're laboring under—What?" The color that had rushed into her face faded again. "What do you mean you've got the lady?"

"She's sitting under the table."

"Under the—" When she would have scraped her chair back and dived under, he simply tightened his grip on her hand until she had to muffle a yelp.

"Look at me, cara, and pretend you're in love." He brought her bruised fingers to his lips.

"Are you telling me that you walked into a museum in broad daylight and walked out with the bronze?"

"I'm good. I told you."

"But just now? Now? You were only gone for thirty minutes."

"If a guard hadn't wandered into the storage area to sneak a wine break, I'd have cut that in half."

"But you said we had to check the place out, to tape it, to take measurements, get the feel."

He kissed her fingers again. "I lied." He kept her hand in his, kept his eyes dreamily on hers while the waiter set their wine and cheese on the table. Recognizing lovers, the waiter smiled indulgently and left them alone.

"You lied."

"If I'd told you I was going in to get it, you'd have been nervous, jumpy, and very likely have screwed things up." He poured wine for both of them, sampled and approved. "The wine from this region is exceptional. Aren't you going to try it?"

Still staring at him, she lifted her glass and downed the contents in several long swallows. She was now an accessory to theft.

"If you're going to drink like that, you better soak some of it up." He sliced off some cheese, offered it. "Here."

She pushed his hand away and reached for the bottle. "You knew going in that you were going to do this."

"I knew going in that if the opportunity presented itself, I'd make the switch."

"What switch?"

"The bronze we bought earlier. I put that in her place. I told you, most people see what they expect to see. There's a bronze statue of a woman sitting in the storeroom. Odds are no one's going to notice it's the wrong bronze for a bit."

He sampled some cheese, approved, and built some onto a cracker. "When they do, they'll look for the right one, likely figure it was moved. And when they don't find her, they won't be able to pinpoint when she was taken. If our luck holds, we'll be back in the States by that time anyway."

"I need to see it."

"There's time for that. I gotta tell you, knowingly stealing a forgery… it just doesn't give you that rush."

"Doesn't it?" she murmured.

"Nope. And I'm going to miss that rush when I'm fully retired. You did a good job, by the way."

"Oh." She didn't feel a rush at all, just a sinking sensation in her stomach.

"Distracting the guard. Better fortify yourself." He offered cheese again. "We've still got work to do."

It was surreal, sitting in the hotel room and holding The Dark Lady in her hands. She examined it carefully, noting where samples and scrapings had been taken, judging the weight, critiquing the style.

It was a beautiful and graceful piece of work, with the blue-green patina giving it the dignity of age.

She set it on the table beside the David.

"She's gorgeous," Ryan commented as he puffed on his cigar. "Your sketch of her was very accurate. You didn't capture the spirit, but you certainly got the details. You'd be a better artist if you put some heart into your work."

"I'm not an artist." Her throat was dry as dust. "I'm a scientist, and this isn't the bronze I tested."

He lifted a brow. "How do you know?"

She couldn't tell him it felt wrong. She couldn't even acknowledge to herself that it simply didn't give her the same tingle in her fingertips when she held it. So she gave him facts.

"It's very possible for someone with training to recognize the work of the twentieth century just by a visual exam. In this case I certainly wouldn't depend on that alone. But I took scrapings. Here, and here." She used a fingertip to point to the back of the calf, the curve of the shoulder. "There's no sign of them on this piece. Ponti's lab took scrapings from the back, and the base. Those aren't my marks. I need equipment and my notes to verify, but this isn't the bronze I worked on."

Considering, Ryan tapped his cigar in an ashtray. "Let's verify it first."

"No one will believe me. Even when I verify it, no one will believe this isn't the bronze." She looked over at him. "Why should they?"

"They'll believe you when we have the original."

"How—"

"One step at a time, Dr. Jones. You're going to want to change. Basic black works best for an entertaining evening of breaking and entering. I'll arrange for transportation."

She moistened her lips. "We're going into Standjo."

"That's the plan." He sensed her waffling and leaned back in his chair. "Unless you want to call your mother, explain all this to her and ask her to give you a little lab time."

Miranda's eyes cooled as she rose. "I'll change."

The bedroom door didn't have a lock, so she dragged over the desk chair and lodged the back under the knob. It made her feel better. He was using her, was all she could think, as if she were just another tool. The idea of them being partners was an illusion. And now she'd helped him steal.

She was about to break into her family's business. And how would she stop him if he decided to do more than run a few basic tests?

She could hear him talking on the phone in the parlor, and took her time changing into a black shirt and slacks. She needed a plan of her own, needed to enlist someone she could trust.

"I've got to run down to the desk," he called out. "Snap it up in there. I'll only be a minute, and I need to change too."

"I'll be ready." And the minute she heard the door shut, she was dragging the chair away from the door. "Be there, be there, be there," she murmured frantically, as she yanked her address book out of her briefcase. Flipping through, she found the number and made the call.

"Pronto."

"Giovanni, it's Miranda."

"Miranda?" It wasn't pleasure in his voice, but caution. "Where are you? Your brother's been—"

"I'm in Florence," she interrupted. "I need to see you right away. Please, Giovanni, meet me inside Santa Maria Novella. Ten minutes."

"But—"

"Please, it's vital." She hung up quickly, then moving fast, covered the bronzes sloppily in bubble wrap and stuffed them back in their bag. She grabbed the bag and her purse, and ran.

She took the stairs, hurrying down the carpeted treads with her heart banging in her chest, her arms straining against the weight of the bag. She pulled up short at the base, eased out.

She could see Ryan at the desk, chatting cheerfully with the clerk. She couldn't risk crossing the lobby, and tried to slide invisibly around the corner and jog through the lounge. She kept going, through the glass doors that led to the pretty courtyard, with its sparkling swimming pool and shady trees. Pigeons scattered as she raced through.

Though the bag weighed heavily, she didn't stop for breath until she'd circled the building and made it out to the street. Even then, she took only time enough to shift hands, readjust the weight, cast one nervous glance behind her. Then she headed straight for the church.

Santa Maria Novella, with its beguiling patterns of green and white marble, was just a short walk from the hotel.

Miranda controlled her need to run and walked into its cool, dim interior. Her legs wobbled as she headed down and found a seat near the left of the chancel. Once there, she tried to understand what the hell she was doing.

Ryan was going to be furious, and she couldn't be sure just how much violence simmered under that elegant surface. But she was doing the right thing, the only logical thing.

Even the copy had to be protected until there was resolution. You couldn't trust a man who stole for a living.

Giovanni would come, she told herself. She'd known him for years. However flirtatious, however eccentric he might be, he was at heart a scientist. And he'd always been her friend.

He would listen, he would assess. He would help.

Trying to calm herself, she shut her eyes.

There was something in the air of such places, temples of age and faith and power. Religion had always been, on some levels, about power. Here, that power had manifested itself in great art, so much of it paid for from the coffers of the Medicis.

Buying their souls? she wondered. Balancing out their misdeeds and sins by creating grandeur for a church? Lorenzo had betrayed his wife with the Dark Lady—however acceptable such affairs had been. And his greatest protege had immortalized her in bronze.

Had he known?

No, no, she remembered, he'd been dead when the bronze was cast. She would have been making the transition to Piero, or one of the younger cousins.

She wouldn't have given up the power her beauty granted her by turning away a new protector. She was too smart for that, too practical. To prosper, or even to survive during that period, a woman needed the shield of a man, or her own wealth, a certain acceptable lineage.

Or great beauty with a cool mind and heart that knew how to wield it.

Giulietta had known.

Shivering, Miranda opened her eyes again. It was the bronze, she reminded herself, not the woman that mattered now. It was science, not speculation that would solve the puzzle.

She heard the rapid footsteps and tensed. He'd found her.

Oh God. She jumped up, whirled, and nearly wept with relief.

"Giovanni." Her limbs went weak as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

"Bella, what are you doing here?" He returned the embrace with a combination of exasperation and affection. "Why do you call me with fear in your voice and ask me to meet you like a spy?" He glanced over at the high altar. "And in church."

"It's quiet, it's safe. Sanctuary," she said with a weak smile as she drew back. "I want to explain, but I don't know how much time I have. He knows I'm gone by now, and he'll be looking for me."

"Who knows?"

"Too complicated. Sit down a minute." Her voice was a whisper, as suited churches and conspiracies. "Giovanni, the bronze. The Dark Lady—it was a forgery."

"Miranda, my English comes and goes, but to be a forgery makes it necessary to have something to forge. The bronze was a fake, a bad joke, a…" He groped for a word. "Bad luck," he decided. "The authorities have questioned the plumber, but it appears he was no more than a dupe. Is this the word? Someone hoped to pass the statue off as genuine, and nearly succeeded."

"It was genuine."

He took her hands. "I know this is difficult for you."

"You saw the test results."

"Si, but…"

It hurt, seeing both doubt and suspicion in the eyes of a friend. "Do you think I doctored them?"

"I think there were mistakes. We moved too fast, all of us. Miranda—"

"The pace doesn't alter the results. That bronze was real. This one is a forgery." She reached down and brought the wrapped bronze to the top of the bag.

"What is this?"

"It's the copy. The one Ponti tested."

"Dio mio! How did you get it?" His voice rose on the question, causing a few heads to turn. Wincing, he leaned closer and whispered. "It was being held in the Bargello."

"That's not important. What is important is that this is not the bronze we worked on. You'll be able to see that for yourself. Once you have it in the lab."

"In the lab? Miranda, what madness is this?"

"This is sanity." She had to cling to that. "I'm barred from Standjo. The records are all there, Giovanni, the equipment is there. I need your help. There's a bronze David in this bag as well. It's a forgery. I've already tested it. But I want you to take them both in, examine them, run what tests you can. You'll compare the results of the Fiesole Bronze with the ones that were run on the original. You'll prove it's not the same bronze."

"Miranda, be sensible. Even if I do as you ask, I'll only prove you were wrong."

"No. You get my notes, your own. Richard's. You run the tests, you compare. We couldn't all have been wrong, Giovanni. I'd do it myself, but there are complications."

She thought of Ryan, furious, tearing the city apart to find her and the bronzes. "And running them myself won't convince anyone. It needs to be objective. I can't trust anyone but you."

She squeezed his hands, knowing she played on his weakness for friendship. She could have stopped the tears that swam into her eyes, but they were genuine. "It's my reputation, Giovanni. It's my work. It's my life."

He cursed softly, then winced when he remembered where he was, quickly added a prayer and the sign of the cross.

"This will only make you unhappy."

"I can't be any more unhappy. For friendship, Giovanni. For me."

"I'll do what you ask."

She squeezed her eyes shut as her heart swelled with gratitude. "Tonight, right away."

"The sooner it's done, the better. The lab, it's closed for a few days, so no one will know."

"Closed, why?"

He smiled for the first time. "Tomorrow, my lovely pagan, is Good Friday." And this was not the way he'd intended to spend his holiday weekend. He sighed, nudged the bag with his foot. "Where will I reach you when it's done?"

"I'll reach you." She leaned forward to touch her lips to his. "Grazzie, Giovanni. Mille grazie. I'll never be able to repay you for this."

"An explanation when it's done would be a fine start."

"A full one, I promise. Oh, I'm so glad to see you. I wish I could stay, but I have to get back, and… well, I suppose we'd say face the music. I'll find a way to call you in the morning. Take good care of them," she added, and nudged the bag toward him with her foot. "Wait a minute or two before you leave, will you. Just in case."

She kissed him again, warmly, then left him.

Because she looked neither right nor left, she didn't see the figure standing in the dimness, turned as if to contemplate the faded frescoes of Dante's Inferno.

She didn't feel the fury, or the threat.

It was as if a burden had been lifted, the weight that had pressed down on her head, her heart, her conscience. She stepped outside, into the gilded light from the sun that was melting into the west. On the off chance that Ryan was out on foot searching for her, she walked in the opposite direction of the hotel, toward the river.

It wouldn't do, she thought, to have him find her before she and Giovanni had plenty of distance between them.

It was a long walk, and gave her time to calm herself, time to think, and time, for once, to wonder about the couples who strolled along, hand in hand, who shared long looks or long embraces. Giovanni had once told her romance lived in Florentine air, and she had only to sniff at it.

It made her smile, then it made her sigh.

She simply wasn't fashioned for romance. And hadn't she proven it? The only man who'd ever stirred her to the point of aching was a thief with no more integrity than a mushroom.

She was better, much better off alone. As she'd always been.

She reached the river, watched the dying sun sprinkle its last lights on the water. When the roar of an engine sounded behind her, when that engine revved violently, impatiently, she knew he'd found her. She'd known he would.

"Get on."

She glanced back, saw his furious face, the way that anger could turn those warm golden eyes to deadly ice. He was all in black now, as she was, and astride a blue motorbike. The wind had blown his hair into disorder. He looked dangerous, and absurdly sexy.

"I can walk, thanks."

"Get on, Miranda. Because if I have to get off and put you on, it's going to hurt."

Since the alternative was to run like a coward, and likely be run over for her trouble, she shrugged carelessly. She walked to the curb, swung a leg over to sit behind him. She gripped the back of the seat for balance.

But when he took off like a bullet, survival instinct took over and had her wrapping her arms tightly around him.