t was still shy of midnight when Carlo left the trattoria and began to walk home. He'd promised his wife he wouldn't be out late. The boundaries of their marriage included one evening a week for him to sit and drink and tell lies with his friends. Sofia had her evening as well, a gossipfest at her sister's, which he supposed amounted to the same thing.

Habitually he stayed till twelve, or a bit after, drawing the male oasis out, but just lately he'd been cutting it short. He'd been the butt of jokes since the papers had announced his Dark Lady was a hoax.

He didn't believe it, not for a minute. He'd held the statue in his hands, he'd felt the whisper of breath on his cheeks. An artist recognized art. But whenever he said so, his friends laughed.

The authorities had grilled him like a criminal. Dio mio, he'd done nothing but what was right. Perhaps he'd made a small error of judgment by taking the statue out of the villa.

But he had found her, after all. He had held her in his hands, looked at her face, felt her beauty and her power like wine in his blood. She had transfixed him, he thought now. Bewitched him. And still, in the end he'd done the right thing and given her up.

Now they tried to say she was nothing. A clever scheme to dupe the art world. He knew, in his heart, in his bones, that was a lie.

Sofia said she believed him, but he knew she didn't. She said it because she was loyal and loving, and because it caused less arguing in front of the children. The reporters he'd talked to had taken down all his statements, and had made him sound like a fool.

He'd tried to talk to the American woman, the one who ran the big laboratory where his lady had been taken. But she wouldn't listen. He'd lost his temper with her, demanded to speak to the Dr. Miranda Jones who had proven his lady was real.

The direttrice had called security and had him tossed out. It had been humiliating.

He should never have listened to Sofia, he thought now as he made his way down the quiet road outside the city toward home, stumbling a bit as the wine brooded in his head. He should have kept the lady for himself as he'd wanted to. He had found her, he had taken her out of the damp, dark cellar and brought her into the light. She belonged to him.

Now, even though they claimed she was worthless, they wouldn't give her back to him.

He wanted her back.

He'd called the lab in Rome and demanded the return of his property. He had shouted and raved and called them all liars and cheats. He'd even called America and left a desperate and rambling message on Miranda's office machine. He believed she was his link to his lady. She would help him, somehow.

He couldn't rest until he saw the lady again, held her in his hands.

He would hire a lawyer, he decided, inspired by wine and the humiliation of sly laughter. He would call the American woman again, the one in the place called Maine, and convince her it was all a plot, a conspiracy to steal the lady from him.

He remembered her picture from the papers. A strong face, an honest one. Yes, she would help.

Miranda Jones. She would listen to him.

He didn't glance behind him when he heard the oncoming car. The road was clear, and he was well onto the shoulder. He was concentrating on the face from the papers, on what he would say to this woman scientist.

It was Miranda and The Dark Lady who occupied his mind when the car struck him at full speed.

Standing on the terrace in the strong morning light, Miranda gazed out at the city. Perhaps for the first time she fully appreciated the beauty of it. The end of Giovanni's life had irrevocably changed hers. Somewhere inside her a dark place would remain, formed of guilt and sorrow. And yet, she sensed more light than she had ever known before. There was an urgency to grab hold, to take time, to savor details.

The quiet kiss of the breeze that fluttered over her cheeks, the flash of sun that shimmered over city and hill, the warm stone under her bare feet.

She wanted to go down, she realized. To get dressed and go out and walk the streets without destination, without some purpose driving every step. Just to look in store windows, to wander along the river. To feel alive.

"Miranda."

She drew in a breath, glanced over her shoulder and saw Ryan standing in the terrace doorway. "It's a beautiful morning. Spring, rebirth. I don't think I really appreciated that before."

He crossed the terrace, laid a hand over hers on the parapet. She might have smiled if she hadn't seen the look in his eye. "Oh God. What now? What happened?"

"The plumber. Carlo Rinaldi. He's dead. Hit-and-run, last night. I just heard it on the news." Her hand turned in his, gripped. "He was walking home near midnight. There weren't many more details." A cold fury worked through him. "He had three children, and another on the way."

"It could have been an accident." She wanted to cling to that, thought she might have been able to if she hadn't looked into Ryan's eyes. "But it wasn't. Why would anyone kill him? He isn't connected to the lab. He can't know anything."

"He's been making a lot of noise. For all we know, he might have been in on the whole thing from the beginning. Either way, he found it, he had it for several days. He would have studied it. He was a loose end, Miranda, and loose ends get snipped."

"Like Giovanni." She moved away from him. She could live with it, she told herself. She had to. "Was there anything in the news about Giovanni?"

"No, but there will be. Get dressed. We're going out."

Out, she thought, but not to wander the streets, to stroll along the river, to just be. "All right."

"No arguments?" He raised an eyebrow. "No where, what, why?"

"Not this time." She stepped into the bedroom and closed the doors.

Thirty minutes later, they were at a phone booth and Ryan was doing something he'd avoided all of his life. He was calling the cops.

He pitched his voice toward the upper scale, used a nervous whisper and colloquial Italian to report a body in the second-floor lab at Standjo. He hung up on the rapid questions. "That should do it. Let's get moving in case the Italian police have caller-ID."

"Are we going back to the hotel?"

"No." He swung onto the bike. "We're going to your mother's. You navigate."

"My mother's?" Her vow not to question was swallowed up in shock. "Why? Are you crazy? I can't take you to my mother's."

"I figure there won't be a nice linguine and red sauce for lunch, but we'll catch a pizza on the way. That should give it enough time."

"For what?"

"For the cops to find the body, for her to hear about it. What do you figure she'll do when she does?"

"She'll go straight to the lab."

"That's what I'm counting on. That should give us a nice window to search her place."

"We're going to break into my mother's home?"

"Unless she leaves a spare key under the mat. Put this on." He pulled a ball cap out of the saddlebags. "The neighbors will spot that hair of yours a mile away."

"I don't see the point in this," Miranda said an hour later, sitting on the bike behind him half a block down from her mother's home. "I can't justify breaking into my mother's home, rummaging through her things."

"Any paperwork dealing with your tests that was kept at the lab is a loss. There's a chance she might have copies here."

"Why would she?"

"Because you're her daughter."

"It wouldn't matter to her."

But it matters to you, Ryan thought. "Maybe, maybe not. Is that her?"

Miranda looked back at the house, caught herself ducking behind Ryan like a schoolgirl playing hooky. "Yes, I guess you called this part of it."

"Attractive woman. You don't look much like her."

"Thank you so much."

He only chuckled and watched Elizabeth, ruthlessly groomed in a dark suit, unlock her car. "Keeps her cool," he noted. "You wouldn't know to look at her that she's just been told her business has been broken into, and one of her employees is dead."

"My mother isn't given to outward displays of emotion."

"Like I said, you're not much like her. Okay, we'll walk down from here. She won't be back for a couple of hours, but we'll do this in one to keep it simple."

"There's nothing simple here." She watched him sling his bag over his shoulder. Oh yes, she decided, her life would never be the same. She was a criminal now.

He walked right up to the front door and rang the bell. "She have a staff? A dog? A lover?"

"She has a housekeeper, I believe, but not a live-in. She doesn't care for pets." She tugged the ball cap more securely over her hair. "I don't know anything about her sex life."

He rang the bell again. There wasn't much more embarrassing to his mind than stepping into what you believed was an empty home to do your job, and discovering the owner was home sick with the flu.

He slipped out his picks and defeated the locks in little more time than if he'd used a key. "Alarm system?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"Okay, we'll deal with it." He stepped in, saw the panel on the wall, and the light indicating the system required a code. He had a minute, he concluded, and pulling out a screwdriver, removed the facing, snipped a couple of wires, and put it to rest.

Because the scientist in her couldn't help but admire his quick, economic efficiency, she made her voice bland. "You make me wonder why anyone bothers with this sort of thing. Why not just leave the doors and windows open?"

"My sentiments exactly." He winked at her, then scanned the foyer. "Nice place. Very appealing art—a bit on the static side but attractive. Where's her office?"

She only stared at him a moment, wondering why she found his casual critique of her mother's taste amusing. She should have been appalled. "Second floor, to the left I think. I haven't spent a great deal of time here."

"Let's try it." He climbed up a graceful set of stairs. Place could have done with a bit more color, he thought, a few surprises. Everything was as perfect as a model home and had the same unoccupied feel. It was certainly classy, but he much preferred his own apartment in New York or Miranda's elegantly shabby house in Maine.

He found the office feminine but not fussy, polished but efficient, cool but not quite brittle. He wondered if it reflected the occupant, and thought it likely.

"Safe?"

"I wouldn't know."

"So, look around," he suggested, and began to do so by tipping forward the backs of paintings. "Here it is, behind this very nice Renoir print. I'll deal with this, you go through the desk."

She hesitated. Even as a child she'd known better than to enter any room of her mother's without permission. She would never have strolled in and borrowed earrings or copped a spritz of perfume. And she certainly would never have touched the contents of her mother's desk.

It appeared she was about to make up for lost time.

She shoved aside the conditioning of a lifetime and dived in, with a great deal more enthusiasm than she'd ever admit.

"There are a lot of files here," she told Ryan while she flipped through. "Most seem to be personal. Insurance, receipts, correspondence."

"Keep looking."

She sat in the desk chair—another first—and pawed through another drawer. Excitement was bubbling in her belly now, guilty, shameful excitement.

"Copies of contracts," she murmured, "and reports. I guess she does some work here. Oh." Her fingers froze. "The Fiesole Bronze. She has a file."

"Take it. We'll look through it later." He listened to the last tumbler click into place. "Now I have you, my little beauty. Very nice, very nice," he whispered, opening a velvet case and examining a double rope of pearls. "Heirlooms—they'd suit you."

"Put those back."

"I'm not stealing them. I don't do jewelry." But he opened another box and hmmed at the glitter of diamonds. "Very classy earrings, about three carats each, square-cut, looks like Russian whites, probably first water."

"I thought you didn't do jewelry."

"Doesn't mean I don't have an interest. These would be killers with your ring."

"It's not my ring," she said primly, but her gaze shifted to the diamond winking on her finger. "It's window dressing."

"Right. Look at this." He pulled out a thin plastic holder. "Look familiar?"

"The X rays." She was away from the desk and grabbing for them in two thumping heartbeats. "The computer printouts. Look, look at them. It's there. You can see it. The corrosion level. Just look. It's there. It's real."

Suddenly swamped with emotion, she pressed the heel of her hand to her brow and squeezed her eyes shut. "It's there. I wasn't wrong. I didn't make a mistake."

"I never thought you did."

She opened her eyes again, smiled. "Liar. You broke into my bedroom and threatened to strangle me."

"I said I could strangle you." He circled her throat with his hands again. "And that was before I knew you. Tidy up, honey. We've got enough to keep us busy for a while."

They spent the next several hours in the hotel suite, with Miranda going over the copies of her reports line by line and Ryan huddled at his computer.

"It's all here. Everything I did, stage by stage. Every test, every result. Admittedly, it's light on documentation, but it stands. Why didn't she see that?"

"Take a look at this and see if I've got it right."

"What?"

"I've done a cross-check." He motioned her over. "These are the names I come up with. People who had access to both bronzes. There's probably more, but these are the key players."

She rose and read over his shoulder. She only set her teeth when she noted her name topped the list. Her mother was there, as was her father, Andrew, Giovanni, Elise, Carter, Hawthorne, Vincente.

"Andrew didn't have access to The Dark Lady."

A tendril of the hair she'd pinned up fell and tickled his cheek. The immediate tightening of his loins had him letting out a long quiet breath. If nothing else, he thought, her hair was going to drive him to drink before they were done.

"He's connected to you, your mother, and Elise. Close enough."

She sniffed and shoved her glasses more securely on her nose. "That's insulting."

"I want to know how accurate it is. Save the comments."

"It's fairly complete, and insulting."

Oh yeah, there was that prissy tone of voice too. It just destroyed him with wanting to turn it into moans. "Was Hawthorne's wife with him in Florence?"

"No."

"Richard's divorced." What the hell, he thought, and tortured himself by turning his head just enough to get a good solid sniff of her hair. "Was he a couple when he did his stint in Maine?"

"I don't know. I barely met him. In fact, I didn't remember him until he reminded me we'd met." Annoyed, she turned her head, found her eyes locked on his—and something in his wasn't focused on work. Her heart did a quick cartwheel and shot little springs of lust into her belly. "Why does it matter?"

"Why does what matter?" He wanted that mouth. Goddamn it, he was entitled to that mouth.

"The, uh… Richard being divorced."

"Because people tell their lovers and spouses all kinds of confidential things. Sex," he murmured, and wrapped that loose tendril around his finger, "is a great communicator."

One tug, he thought, one little tug and her mouth would be on his. He'd have all that hair in his hands, all the wild, curling mass of it. He'd have her naked in five minutes. Except for the glasses.

He was starting to have incredible fantasies about Miranda wearing only her glasses.

It was with real regret that he didn't tug, but unwound her hair, turned, and scowled at the screen.

"We need to go through the worker bees too, but we need a break."

"A break?" There wasn't a single organized thought in her mind. Her nerves were sizzling along the surface of her skin like little licks of lightning.

If he touched her now, if he kissed her now, she knew she'd go off like a rocket. She straightened, closed her eyes. And yearned.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Let's put this away, and go have a meal."

Her eyes popped open again. "A what?"

"Food, Dr. Jones." He tapped keys, concentrating, and didn't see her scrub her hands over her face behind his back.

"Yes, food." Her voice shook slightly—laughter or despair, she couldn't be sure. "Good idea."

"What would you like for your last night in Florence?"

"The last night?"

"Things might get sticky here. We're better off working on home ground."

"But if The Dark Lady is here—"

"We'll come back for her." He shut off his machine, pushed away from the little desk. "Florence isn't a big city, Dr. Jones. Sooner or later, someone you know is going to spot you." He flicked a finger over her hair. "You just don't blend. Now, fast, fancy, or rowdy?"

Home. She discovered she very much wanted to go home, to see it with these new eyes. "I think I'd like rowdy for a change."

"Excellent choice. I know just the place."

It was loud, it was crowded, and the harsh lights bounced off the unapologetically garish paintings that crowded the wall. They suited the hanks of hanging sausages and whole smoked hams that were the restaurant's primary decor. Tables were pushed together so that diners—friends and strangers alike—ate the hearty portions of meat and pasta elbow to elbow.

They were wedged in a corner by a round man with a stained apron who took Ryan's order for a bottle of local red with a nod. At Miranda's left was one half of a gay American couple who were touring Europe. They shared a basket of bread while Ryan engaged them in conversation with an ease and openness Miranda admired.

She would never have talked to strangers in a restaurant except in the most limited fashion. But by the time the wine was set on the table and poured, she knew they were from New York, ran a restaurant in the Village, and had been together for ten years. It was, they said, their anniversary trip.

"It's our second honeymoon." Enjoying himself, Ryan picked up Miranda's hand and kissed it. "Right, Abby darling?"

At sea, she stared at him, then responded to his light kick under the table. "Oh, yes. Um… we couldn't afford a honeymoon when we were first married. Kevin was just getting started and I was… only a junior exec at the agency. Now we're treating ourselves before kids come along."

Stunned at herself, she gulped down wine while Ryan beamed at her. "It was worth the wait. You breathe romance with every inhale in Florence."

Defying every law of physics, the waiter pushed his way through the excuse for space between the tables and demanded what they wanted.

Less than an hour later, Miranda wanted more wine. "It's wonderful. It's a wonderful place." She shifted in her chair to smile affectionately at a table of Brits who chatted in polite voices while a table of Germans beside them downed local beer and sang. "I never go to places like this." It all spun in her head, scents, voices, wine. "I wonder why."

"Want some dessert?"

"Sure I do. Eat, drink, and be merry." She poured another glass of wine and grinned tipsily at him. "I love it here."

"Yes, I can see that." He nudged the bottle farther out of her reach and signaled the waiter.

"Weren't they a nice couple?" She smiled sentimentally at the space their table companions had recently vacated. "They were really in love. We're going to look 'em up, right, when we get home? No, when they get home. We're going home tomorrow."

"We'll try the zabaglione," Ryan told the waiter, eyeing Miranda under lifted brows as she began to hum along with the drunk Germans. "And cappuccino."

"I'd rather have more wine."

"Not a good idea."

"Why not?" Filled with love for her fellowman, she picked up her glass and drained it. "I like it."

"It's your head," he said with a shrug when she snagged the bottle again. "Keep it up, and you're not going to have a pleasant flight home."

"I'm a very good flier." Eyes narrowed, she poured until the wine was precisely a half-inch from the rim of the glass. "See that, steady as a rock. Dr. Jones is always steady." She giggled and leaned forward conspiratorially. "But Abby's a lush."

"Kevin is more than a little concerned that she's going to pass out at the table so that he has to carry her home."

"Nah." She rubbed the back of her hand over her nose. "Dr. Jones wouldn't permit that. Too embarrassing. Let's walk down by the river. I want to walk by the river in the moonlight. Abby'll let you kiss her."

"That's an interesting offer, but I think we'd better get you home."

"I love Maine." She leaned back, swinging the glass in her hand. "I love the cliffs and the fog and the waves crashing and the lobster boats. I'm going to plant a garden. This year I'm really going to do it. Mmmm." This was her opinion of the creamy dessert set in front of her. "I like indulging." She set the glass down long enough to dive a spoon in. "I never knew that about me," she said with her mouth full.

"Try the coffee," he suggested.

"I want the wine." But when she grabbed for it, he snatched it up.

"Can I interest you in something else?"

She studied him thoughtfully, then grinned. "Bring me the head of the Baptist," she ordered, then collapsed into giggles. "Did you really steal his bones? I just can't understand a man who'd steal the bones of a saint. But it's fascinating."

Time to go, Ryan decided, and quickly dug out more than enough lire to cover the tab. "Let's take that walk, honey."

"Okay." She popped up, then had to brace a hand against the wall. "Oh my, there's quite a bit of gravity in here."

"Maybe there's not as much outside." He scooped an arm around her waist and pulled her through the restaurant, laughing himself as she called cheerful goodbyes.

"You're a handful, Dr. Jones."

"What was the name of that wine? It was lovely wine. I want to buy a case of it."

"You were doing a good job of working your way through a case." He guided her along the uneven sidewalk, across the quiet street, grateful they'd opted to walk rather than take the scooter. He'd have had to tie her on.

"I'm going to paint my shutters."

"Good idea."

"Your mother has yellow shutters. So cheerful. Everyone in your family is so cheerful." Wrapping an arm around his waist in turn, she led him in a wide, drunken circle. "But I think a nice bright blue would suit my house. A nice bright blue, and I'll put a rocker on the front porch."

"Nothing like a porch rocker. Watch your step, up the curb. Atta girl."

"I broke into my mother's house today."

"I heard that somewhere."

"I'm sharing a hotel suite with a thief and I broke into my mother's house. Coulda robbed her blind."

"You only had to ask. Left turn, that's the way. Almost there."

"It was great."

"What was?"

"The breaking in. I didn't want to say so at the time, but it was great." She threw up her arms and caught him neatly on the chin. "Maybe you could teach me how to pick locks. Wouldya do that, Ryan?"

"Oh yeah, that's going to happen." He wiggled his jaw and steered her toward the front entrance of the hotel.

"I could seduce it out of you." She turned, plowing into him at the edge of the elegant lobby carpet, and crushed her mouth against his before he could gain his balance. This time his head spun as she sucked the blood right out of it.

"Miranda—"

"That's Abby to you, pal," she murmured as the desk clerk discreetly averted his eyes. "So how about it?"

"Let's talk upstairs." He dragged her toward the elevator and out of sight.

"Don't want to talk." She plastered herself against him and attacked his earlobe with her teeth. "I want wild, crazy sex. Right now."

"Who doesn't?" said the male half of a formally dressed couple who stepped off the elevator.

"See?" Miranda pointed out as Ryan yanked her into the car. "He agrees with me. I wanted to jump you ever since I saw you and heard the ping."

"Ping." He was becoming breathless trying to unwind her from around him.

"I hear pings with you. My head's just full of pings right now. Kiss me again, Ryan. You know you want to."

"Cut it out." A little desperately, he shoved at her hands before they could unbutton his shirt. "You're hammered."

"What do you care?" She threw back her head and laughed. "You've been trying to get me into bed all along. Now's your chance."

"There are rules," he muttered, lurching like a drunk as she draped herself over him. One of them, he thought, needed a cold shower.

"Oh, now there're rules." Laughing, she tugged his shirt free of his slacks. As her hands streaked over his back, around to his belly, he fought to shoot the key into the lock.

"God help me. Miranda—Jesus Christ." Those busy hands had worked their way down. "Look, I said no." His eyes were crossed when they stumbled inside together. "Get ahold of yourself."

"Can't. Got ahold of you." She released him only long enough to bounce up, wrap her legs around his waist, fist her hands in his hair, and fuse her mouth to his. "I want you. Oh I want you." Her breath came fast as her lips raced over his face. "Make love with me. Touch me. I want your hands on me."

They already were. He couldn't stop them from molding that tight lovely bottom. His blood was screaming for her, his tongue tangling with hers. The little beam of sanity that remained in his mind was growing dimmer.

"You're going to hate both of us in the morning."

"So what?" She laughed again, and her eyes were wildly blue as they looked into his. She shook back her hair, turning his system into one pulsing gland. "This is now. Fall into the moment with me, Ryan. I don't want to go there alone."

Their gazes remained locked as he carried her through the doorway into the bedroom. "Then let's see how long now can last. And remember, Dr. Jones." He caught her bottom lip in his teeth, bit, tugged, released. "You asked for it."

They fell on the bed together, with the moonlight streaming through the doors and shadows dancing in the corners. The weight of him thrilled her, the hard lines of his body pressing hers onto the mattress. Their mouths met again in a kiss that was near violent with greed, then went on and on with tongues hotly tangled, teeth nipping.

She wanted all, then more. Everything, then the impossible. And knew with him she'd find it.

She molded herself to him, unwilling to take the passive role now. The rough movements made her head spin, her breath come out on moaning laughter. Oh God, she was free. And alive, so alive. In her rush to feel flesh, she tugged at his shirt, popping buttons off the elegant silk.

"Oh yes," she whispered when he ripped the sleeve of her blouse. "Hurry."

He couldn't have slowed the pace any more than he could stop time. His quick and clever hands were rough as they yanked off her bra, then filled themselves with her breasts.

White as marble, soft as water.

When touch wasn't enough, he twisted her under him again and devoured.

She cried out, arching as his lips and teeth and tongue laid siege to her. Her nails dug into his back, scraped along the tensed ridge of muscle as shock waves of pleasure swarmed through her body. Sensations slammed into her in a riotous confusion of glorious aches and dark delights and raw nerves.

"Now. Now. Right now."

But his mouth streaked down her torso. Not yet. Not nearly yet.

He yanked the neat cotton slacks down her hips and plunged his tongue into the center of that driving heat. She came instantly, violently, all but paralyzing them both with the glory of it. She sobbed out his name, her fingers tangling in his hair as release built back to need, and need ground desperately toward demand.

Her body was a miracle, a work of art, with long legs and torso, milk-pale skin, quivering muscles. He wanted to savor it, to lick his way up, then down again. He wanted to bury his face in that free fall of hair until he was deaf and blind.

But the animal inside him clawed frantically for freedom.

They rolled again, wrestling over the bed and tormenting each other with nips and gropes.

Vision blurred, lungs burned as another orgasm erupted, raging through her system, spiking it with outrageous energy. Her breath was a series of short screams burning in her chest, her body unbearably awake to every touch, every taste.

His face seemed to swim over hers, then came into focus, every feature distinct as if etched with a diamond on glass. Their breath mingled, her hips arched up. And he drove into her.

All movement stopped for one humming and timeless instant. Joined, with him buried deep inside her, they watched each other. Slowly, in one long stroke, she took her hands down his back, then gripped his hips.

Together, they began to move, the speed building and rising, bodies slick with sweat sliding, pleasure tumbling over pleasure until it battered the system and overpowered the mind.

All, and then more, she thought dizzily as she climbed toward the peak. Everything, then the impossible. She found it as she clamped herself around him and shattered.