he false moustache itched and was probably unnecessary. As were the contacts that changed his eyes from brown to an indistinct hazel and the long blond wig he'd fashioned into a streaming ponytail. His face and any exposed skin had been carefully lightened, toning down the gold hue to the pale and pasty complexion of a man much happier out of the sun.

Three earrings glittered on his right earlobe, wire-framed glasses with tiny round rosy lenses were perched on his nose. He rather liked the bloom they gave everything.

He'd chosen his wardrobe with care. Tight, pegged red pants, a saffron silk shirt with flowing sleeves, black patent leather boots with small heels.

After all, he didn't want to be subtle.

He looked like a desperately fashionable, fanatically artsy type just skirting the edge of reasonable taste. He'd seen enough of the breed in his career to know the right moves, the right speech patterns.

He checked his face in the rearview mirror of the midsized sedan he'd chosen from Rent-A-Wreck. The car hadn't been a pleasure to drive, but it had gotten him the sixty-odd miles to Pine State Foundry. He had hopes it would get him back to the coast when he was finished.

He took his cheap, scarred faux-leather portfolio case out of the car with him. Inside were dozens of sketches—most of which he'd borrowed, so to speak, from Miranda.

The forgery of the David had to have been cast somewhere, he thought. Somewhere, due to time constraints, locally. And this was the closest foundry to the Institute. The one, his quick search of records indicated, the staff and students used habitually.

He took out a roll of peppermints and began chewing one as he studied the foundry. The place was a scar on the hillside, he decided. Ugly brick and metal jagging up, spreading out, with towers puffing smoke. He wondered how closely they skirted EPA regulations, then reminded himself that wasn't his problem, or his mission.

Tossing his ponytail behind his back, he slung the strap of the portfolio over his shoulder and headed in the direction of a low metal building with dusty windows.

In the heeled boots, adding a little swish was a matter of course.

Inside was a long counter with metal shelves behind, stuffed with fat ring binders, plastic tubs filled with hooks and screws, and large metal objects that defied description. At the counter on a high stool, a woman sat paging through a copy of Good Housekeeping.

She glanced up at Ryan. Her eyebrows shot up instantly, her gaze skimmed up and down. The slight smirk wasn't quite disguised. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Francis Kowowski, a student at the New England Institute of Art History."

Her tongue was in her cheek now. She caught the scent of him and thought of poppies. For God's sake, what kind of man wanted to smell like poppies? "Is that so?"

"Yes." He moved forward, letting eagerness come into his eyes. "Several of my classmates have had bronzes cast here. That's my art. I'm a sculptor. I've just transferred to the Institute."

"Aren't you a little old to be a student?"

He worked up a flush. "I've only recently been able to afford to pursue… Financially, you see." He looked miserable, embarrassed, and touched the clerk's heart.

"Yeah, it's rough. You got something you want cast?"

"I didn't bring the model, just sketches. I want to be sure it's forged just exactly to my specifications." As if gaining confidence, he briskly opened the portfolio. "One of the other students told me about a small bronze that was done here—but he couldn't remember who'd done the casting. This is a sketch of the piece. It's David."

"Like in Goliath, right?" She tilted her head, turning the sketch around. "This is really good. Did you draw it?"

"Yes." He beamed at her. "I was hoping to find out who did the casting on this so I could make arrangements for him to do my work. It was about three years ago, though, according to my friend."

"Three years?" She pursed her lips. "That's going back a ways."

"I know." He tried the puppy look again. "It's vitally important to me to find out. My friend said that the piece was beautifully done. The bronze was perfect—and whoever did the foundry work used a Renaissance formula, really knew his craft. The sculpture was like museum quality."

He took out another sketch, showed her The Dark Lady. "I've worked desperately hard on this piece. It's taken all my energies. Almost my life, if you can understand." His eyes began to shine as she studied it.

"She's great. Really great. You oughta be selling these drawings, kid. Seriously."

"I make a little money doing portraits," he mumbled. "It's not what I want to do. It's just to eat."

"I bet you're going to be a big success."

"Thanks." Delighted with her, he let tears swim into his eyes. "It's been such a long haul already, so many disappointments. There are times you could just give up, just surrender, but somehow…"

He held up a hand as if overcome. Sympathetically, she popped a tissue out of a box and handed it to him.

"Thank you. I'm so sorry." He dabbed delicately under his tinted lenses. "But I know I can do this. I have to do this. And for this bronze, I need the best you've got. I've saved enough money to pay whatever you charge, extra if I have to."

"Don't worry about extra." She patted his hand, then turned to her computer terminal. "Three years back. Let's see what we can find out. Odds are it was Whitesmith. He gets a lot of the work from students."

She began to click and clack with inch-long red nails, and shot him a wink. "Let's see if we can get you an A."

"I appreciate this so much. When I was driving up here, I just knew this was going to be a special day for me. By the way, I just love your nails. That color is fabulous against your skin."

It took less than ten minutes.

"I bet this is the one. Pete Whitesmith, just like I figured. He's top of the line around here, and most anywhere else if you ask me. Did a job for this kid—I remember this kid. Harrison Mathers. He was pretty good too. Not as good as you," she added, sending Ryan a maternal smile.

"Did he get a lot of work done here? Harrison, I mean."

"Yeah, several pieces. Always hung around over Pete's shoulder. Nervous kid. Here it shows a small bronze nude of David with sling. That's the one."

"That's great. Amazing. Whitesmith. He still works here?"

"Sure, he's a cornerstone. You go on over to the foundry. Tell Pete Babs said to treat you right."

"I don't know how to thank you."

"How much would you charge to do a drawing of my kids?"

"For you, absolutely free." He shined a smile at her.

"Sure I remember it." Whitesmith mopped at his face under the bill of a stained blue cap. He had a face that should have been carved in granite, all blocky square and deep grooves. He was built like a bullet, broad at the base, narrow at the shoulders. His voice rose over the roar of furnaces, the hard clangs of metal.

"This was the piece?"

Whitesmith stared at the sketch Ryan showed him. "Yep. Harry was mighty particular about this one. Had the formula for the bronze written out—wanted me to add some lead so it'd cure faster, but otherwise it was an old formula. I'm coming up on break, let's take this outside."

Grateful, Ryan followed him out of the heat and noise.

"I've been casting for twenty-five years," Whitesmith said, lighting his break Camel and blowing the smoke into the lightly chilled air. "I gotta say, that piece was a little gem. Ayah. One of my favorites."

"You did others for him too?"

"Harry, sure. Four, maybe five in a couple-year period. This was the best of the lot, though. Knew we had something special when he brought in the mold and wax copy. Now that I think on it…" And he did, taking a long deep drag, blowing it out. "That was the last piece I did for him."

"Was it?"

"Ayah. I don't recollect seeing young Harry after that. Students at the Institute…" He shrugged his thin shoulders. "They come and they go."

"Did he work with anybody else?"

"No, far as I know, I did all Harry's casting. He was interested in the process. Not all the students give a hot damn about this end of it. Just what they think of as art." He sneered a little. "Lemme tell you, pal, what I do is goddamn art. A good foundryman is an artist."

"I couldn't agree more. That's why I was so desperate to find you—the artist who worked on this wonderful little David."

"Yeah, well." Obviously pleased, Whitesmith sucked in smoke. "Some of those artist types are snots, pure and simple sons of bitches. Figure a guy like me's just a tool. I gotta be an artist and a scientist. You get a prize winning sculpture outta here, you got me to thank for it. Most don't bother, though."

"I knew a foundryman in Toledo." Ryan sighed lustily. "I considered him a god. I hope Harrison was properly appreciative of your work."

"He was okay."

"I guess he used a flexible mold for the David."

"Yeah, silicon. You gotta be careful there." Whitesmith jabbed with his cigarette for emphasis, then nipped it between his thumb and forefingers and flicked it away in a long, high arch. "You can get distortions, shrinkage. But the kid knew his stuff. He went with the lost-wax method for the model. Me, I can work with all of them, wax, sand, plaster investment. Do the finishing and tool work if the client wants. And I stick with my work, all the way. Don't like being rushed, either."

"Oh, did Harry rush you?"

"On that last piece he was a pain in the ass sideways." Whitesmith snorted through his nose. "You'da thought he was Leonardo da fucking Vinci on deadline." Then he shrugged. "Kid was okay. Had talent."

Though it was a long shot, Ryan took out the sketch of The Dark Lady. "What do you think of her?"

Whitesmith pursed his lips. "Well now, that's a sexy broad. Wouldn't mind casting her. What are you using for her?"

A little knowledge, Ryan thought, could be a dangerous thing. Or it could be just enough. "Wax with a plaster investment."

"Good. We can work fine with that. Fire the plaster right here too. You don't want air bubbles in that wax, ace."

"No indeed." Ryan slipped the sketch away again. The man was too solid, he thought, too cooperative to be involved. "So did Harry ever come around with anyone?"

"Not that I recollect." Whitesmith's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Oh, I just wondered if the friend who told me about the piece, and you, ever came by with him. He spoke so highly of your work."

"Ayah, and who'd that be?"

"James Crispin," Ryan improvised. "He's a painter, so he wouldn't have come around unless he was hanging with Harry. I've researched the formula," he added. "If I bring it in along with the wax cast and mold, you'll do the work?"

"That's what we're here for."

"I appreciate it." Ryan held out a hand. "And I'll be in touch."

"I like the look of your lady there," Whitesmith added, with a nod toward Ryan's portfolio as he turned back to the foundry door. "Don't get the chance to work on anything that classy often. I'll treat her right."

"Thanks." Whistling lightly, Ryan walked back toward the car. He was congratulating himself on an easy and successful morning's work when another car pulled into the lot.

Cook got out, stretched his back, gave Ryan a mild stare.

"Morning."

Ryan nodded, adjusted his pretty rose-colored glasses and slid behind the wheel of his rented car while Cook walked to the offices.

Close, very close, Ryan thought. But there'd been no flicker of recognition in those cop eyes. For now, he was still one short step ahead.

Once he was back in the house by the cliffs, he removed the moustache, took off the wig, gratefully blinked out the contacts. The precaution had been necessary after all, he thought as he happily removed the ridiculous shirt.

Apparently Cook had forgery on the brain.

That was fine. When the job was over, having Cook's investigation slanted toward most of the truth would be an advantage.

Now it was only mildly unnerving.

He removed the makeup from his face, throat, and hands, brewed a pot of coffee, and settled down to work.

There were eight students who'd used the foundry in those critical two weeks. He'd already eliminated three off the top, as their projects had been too large.

Now thanks to good old Babs and Pete, he had the one he wanted. It didn't take much time to go back into the records he'd already accessed from the Institute. And there he found Harry's class during that final semester. Renaissance Bronzes, The Human Form.

And Miranda had taught the course.

He hadn't figured that, he realized. He'd wanted to see another name. Carter's, Andrew's, anyone he could concentrate on uncovering. Then he realized he should have expected it. The David had been hers, The Dark Lady had been hers. She was the key, the core, and he was beginning to believe she was the reason.

One of her students had cast a bronze David. The bronze David, Ryan had no doubt.

He skimmed further, calling up final grades. She was tough, he thought with a smile. Miranda didn't hand out A's like candy. Only four out of her twenty students had rated one, with the edge slanted heavily toward B's, a scatter of C's.

And one Incomplete.

Harrison K. Mathers. Incomplete, no final project. Class dropped.

Now why would you do that, Harrison K., Ryan wondered, when you went to the trouble to have a bronze figure cast ten days before the due date, unless you'd never intended to worry about the grade?

He looked up Mathers's records, noted that he'd attended twelve classes at the Institute over a two-year period. His grades were admirable… until the last semester, when they took a sharp nosedive.

Taking out his cell phone, he dialed the number listed under Harrison's personal information.

"Hello?"

"Yes, this is Dennis Seaworth in student records from the New England Institute. I'm trying to reach Harrison Mathers."

"This is Mrs. Mathers, his mother. Harry doesn't live here anymore."

"Oh, I see. We're doing an update on our students, trying to gather input for next year's classes. I wonder if you could put me in touch with him."

"He moved out to California." She sounded weary. "He never finished his classes at the Institute."

"Yes, we have those records. We're hoping to discover if and why any of our former students were dissatisfied with the program here."

"If you find out, tell me. He was doing so well there. He loved it."

"That's good to know. If I could talk to him?"

"Sure." She recited a number with a San Francisco area code.

Ryan dialed the West Coast number and was told by a recording the number had been disconnected.

Well, he thought, a trip to California would give him a chance to see his brother Michael.

"Harrison Mathers."

With the most recent plans for the exhibit still crowded in her head, Miranda frowned at Ryan. "Yes?"

"Harrison Mathers," he repeated. "Tell me about him."

She slipped out of her jacket, hung it in the foyer closet. "Do I know a Harrison Mathers?"

"He was a student of yours a few years ago."

"You'll have to give me more than a name, Ryan. I've had hundreds of students."

"You taught him a course on Renaissance bronzes three years ago. He got an Incomplete."

"An Incomplete?" She struggled to reorder her thoughts. "Harry." It came back to her with both pleasure and regret. "Yes, he took that course. He'd been studying at the Institute for several years, I think. He was talented, very bright. He started out with me very well, both in papers and in sketching."

She circled her neck as she walked into the parlor. "I remember he started to miss class, or come in looking as if he'd been up all night. He was distracted, his work suffered."

"Drugs?"

"I don't know. Drugs, family problems, a girl." She moved her shoulders dismissively. "He was only nineteen or twenty, it could have been a dozen things. I did talk to him, warn him that he needed to concentrate on his work. It improved, but not a great deal. Then he stopped coming in, just before the end of the course. He never turned in his final project."

"He had one cast. At the Pine State Foundry the second week in May. A bronze figure."

She stared, then lowered herself into a chair. "Are you trying to tell me he's involved in this?"

"I'm telling you he had a figure cast, a figure of David with sling. A project he never turned in. He was there while the David was being tested, and he dropped out shortly after. Was he ever in the lab?"

The sick and uneasy rolling was back in her stomach. She remembered Harry Mathers. Not well, not clearly, but well enough for it to hurt. "The entire class would have been taken through the lab. Any student is taken through the labs, restoration, research. It's part of the program."

"Who'd he hang with?"

"I don't know. I don't get involved in my students' personal lives. I only remember him as clearly as I do because he had genuine talent and he seemed to waste it at the end."

She felt the beginnings of a headache creep in behind her eyes. Oddly enough, for hours that day she'd forgotten everything but the exhibit—the thrill of the planning. "Ryan, he was a boy. He couldn't have been behind a forgery like this."

"When I was twenty I stole a thirteenth-century Madonna mosaic from a private collection in Westchester, then went out and had pizza with Alice Mary Grimaldi."

"How can you possibly brag about something like that?"

"I'm not bragging, Miranda. I'm stating a fact, and pointing out that age has nothing to do with certain types of behavior. Now if I wanted to brag, I'd tell you about the T'ang horse I stole from the Met a few years back. But I won't," he added. "Because it upsets you."

She only stared at him. "Is that your way of trying to lighten the mood?"

"Didn't work, did it?" And because she suddenly looked so tired, he walked over to take the bottle of white wine he'd already opened, and poured her a glass. "Try this instead."

Instead of drinking, she passed the glass from hand to hand. "How did you find out about Harry?"

"Just basic research, a short field trip." The unhappy look that came into her eyes distracted him. He sat on the arm of the chair and began to rub her neck and shoulders. "I've got to go out of town for a few days."

"What? Where?"

"New York. There are some details I have to deal with, several of which involve the transport of the pieces for this exhibit. I also need to go out to San Francisco and find your young Harry."

"He's in San Francisco?"

"According to his mama, but his phone's been disconnected."

"You found all this out today?"

"You've got your work, I've got mine. How's yours coming?"

She ran her hands nervously through her hair. Those thief's fingers were magic and were loosening muscles she hadn't realized were knotted. "I—I chose some fabric for drapings, and worked with the carpenter on some platforms. The invitations came in today. I approved them."

"Good, we're on schedule."

"When are you leaving?"

"First thing in the morning. I'll be back in a week or so. And I'll keep in touch." Because he could feel her begin to relax, he played with her hair. "You might want to see if Andrew will move back in so you're not alone."

"I don't mind being alone."

"I mind." He picked her up, slid into the chair, and settled her on his lap. Since she wasn't going to drink it, he took the glass of wine out of her hand and set it aside. "But since he's not here at the moment…" He cupped the back of her neck and brought her mouth to his.

He'd meant to leave it at that, a kiss, a nuzzle, a quiet moment. But the taste of her was warmer than he'd expected. The morning-in-the-woods scent of her skin more provocative than it should have been. He found himself nipping his teeth into that soft lower lip, licking at the little ache as she shivered once.

And when her arms tightened around him and her mouth moved urgently under his, he lost himself, slipped into her, surrounded himself with her.

Curves, lines, scent, flavors.

His busy hands unfastened the buttons of her blouse, skimmed under to bare those shoulders, to trace hypnotically over the swell of her breasts.

Sighs, moans, shudders.

"I can't get enough of you." His words were more irritated than pleased. "I always think I have, then I only have to see you to want you."

And no one had ever wanted her like this. She felt herself falling, deep, deeper, into the rippling warm waters of a wide well of sensation. Just feelings, no thoughts, no reason. Just needs, basic as breath.

His fingers played over her breasts, silky bird wings of motion. His tongue followed them as he shifted her, nudging her up until his mouth could close hotly over her so that the echoing tug low in her belly mirrored the aches. He caught her nipple in his teeth, a light bite, a small exquisite pain.

Willing, eager, she arched back, giving herself to him, to the moment, delighting in his single focus.

To feed on her.

Just as intent, she took her hands over him, stroking, sliding, seeking, finding her way under his shirt to flesh. Sampling that flesh and feeding herself as they rolled from the chair to the rug.

Her legs parted, trapping him in that erotic V, her hips arched so that heat pressed against heat, each movement tormenting them both.

He needed to be in her, to fill her, to bury himself in her.

The primal need to possess, to be possessed, had them both grappling with clothes, gasping for air as they tumbled over the floor.

Then she was astride him, her body bent forward, her palms pressed to his chest so their mouths could tangle again. Slowly, slowly, he lifted her hips. Their eyes locked, both dark and glazed. Finally, finally, she lowered herself to him, took him in, held him there with muscles clamped and trembling.

Then she rode, body arched back, hair flowing like wild red rain over her shoulders, her eyes narrowed to slits as pleasure overwhelmed. Speed ruled now. Here was energy, electric waves of power that swam into the blood, whipped at the heart, fueled the body to bursting.

Faster, harder, deeper, with his fingers digging desperately into her hips, her breath expelling in harsh sobs. The orgasm lanced through her, the desperate edge of it racking her, wrecking her.

Still he drove into her, his grip locking her to him as he pushed her higher with strong, steady thrusts.

A roaring filled her head, like a sea warring with a gale, and the next wave was scorching, tossing her up on one long, hot sweep.

She thought she heard someone scream.

And he saw her, in that mindless moment, hair tumbled, body arched, arms lifted, her eyes half closed, her lips curved in a smile of sly female awareness.

She was as priceless, as alluring and magnificent as The Dark Lady, and just as powerful. As his own release burst through him, he had one clear thought.

Here was his destiny.

Then his mind was wiped clean as the same wave caught him and flipped him over the edge.

"Good God." It was the best he could do. Never before had he lost himself so utterly in a woman or felt so bound to one. Though she still shuddered, she seemed to melt onto him, her body sliding down until her gasps were muffled against his throat.

"Miranda." He said her name once, stroking a hand down her back, up again. "Christ, I'm going to miss you." She kept her eyes closed, said nothing at all. But she let herself sink in, let herself go, because a part of her didn't believe he'd come back.

He was gone when she awoke in the morning, leaving only a note on the pillow beside her.!!!Good morning, Dr. Jones. I made coffee. It'll be fresh enough unless you oversleep. You're out of eggs. I'll be in touch.

Though it made her feel foolish as a lovesick teenager, she read it half a dozen times, then got up to tuck it like a declaration of undying devotion in her jewelry case.

The ring he'd pushed onto her finger, the ring she'd kept foolishly in a velvet-lined square box in the case, was gone.

His plane landed at nine-thirty and Ryan was uptown at his gallery by eleven. It was a fraction of the size of the Institute, more like a sumptuous private home than a gallery.

The ceilings soared, the archways were wide, and the stairs curved, giving the space an airy and fluid feel. The carpets he'd chosen to scatter over the marble and hardwood floors were as much works of art as the paintings and sculptures.

His office there was on the fourth level. He'd kept it small in order to devote every available space to public areas. But it was well and carefully appointed and lacked no comfort.

He spent three hours at his desk catching up on work with his assistant, in meetings with his gallery director approving sales and acquisitions, and arranging for the necessary security and transportation for the pieces to be shipped to Maine.

He took time to schedule interviews with the press regarding the upcoming exhibit and fund-raiser, decided to shuffle in a fitting for a new tux, and called his mother to tell her to buy a new dress.

He was sending the whole family to Maine for the gala.

Next on the schedule was a call to his travel agent cousin.

"Joey, it's Ry."

"Hey, my favorite traveling man. How's it going?"

"Well enough. I need a flight to San Francisco, day after tomorrow, open-end return."

"No problemo. What name you want to use?"

"Mine."

"There's a change. Okay, I'll get you booked and fax you the itinerary. Where you at?"

"Home. You can book flights for my family, going to Maine." He gave his cousin the dates.

"Got it. All first-class, right?"

"Naturally."

"Always a pleasure doing business with you, Ry."

"Well, that's nice to hear because I have a favor to ask."

"Shoot."

"I'm going to give you a list of names. I need to find out what kind of traveling these people have been doing. For the last three and a half years."

"Three and a half years! Jesus Christ, Ry."

"Concentrate on international flights, to and from Italy in particular. Ready for the names?"

"Look, Ry, I love you like a brother. This kind of thing'll take days, maybe weeks, and it's dicey. You don't just punch a few buttons and get that kind of info. Airlines aren't supposed to give it out."

It was a song and dance he'd heard before. "I've got season tickets to the Yankees. VIP lounge with locker room passes."

There was a short silence. "Give me the names."

"I knew I could count on you, Joey."

When he was done, he kicked back in his chair. He took the ring he'd given Miranda out of his pocket, watched it shine in the light coming through the filtered glass at his back.

He thought he would have his friend the jeweler pop the stones and make them into earrings for her. Earrings were safer than a ring. Women, even bright, practical women, could get the wrong idea about a ring.

She'd appreciate the gesture, he thought. And he was going to owe her something, after all. He'd have the earrings made, then have them shipped to her when he—and the bronzes—were a comfortable distance away.

He imagined, once she had a chance to think it through, she'd conclude that he'd acted in the only logical fashion. No one could expect him to come out of his last job empty-handed.

He put the ring back in his pocket so he'd stop imagining what it had looked like on her hand.

She was going to get what she needed, he reminded himself, and when he rose his fingers were still toying with the ring. They would prove her bronze had been genuine, they'd uncover a forger, a murderer, and she'd be haloed in the spotlight with her reputation glinting like gold.

He had several clients who would pay a delightful fee for a prize like The Dark Lady. He had only to choose the lucky winner. And that fee would cover his time, his expenses, his aggravation, with a nice little bonus like cream over the top.

Unless he decided to keep it for himself. She would be, without question, the prize of his private collection.

But… business was business. If he found the right client—and gained the right fee—he could start a new gallery in Chicago or Atlanta or… Maine.

No, he'd have to stay clear of Maine after this was done.

A pity, he thought. He'd come to love it there, near the sea, near the cliffs, catching scents of water and pine. He'd miss it.

He'd miss her.

It couldn't be helped, he told himself. He had to neatly close out one area of his life and start a new one. As a completely legitimate art broker. He'd keep his word to his family, and he'd have kept his word to Miranda. More or less.

Everyone would go back where they belonged.

It was his own fault if he'd let his feelings get a little too tangled up. Most of that, he was sure, was due to the fact they'd been virtually living together for weeks now.

He liked waking up beside her, a little too much. He enjoyed standing with her on the cliffs, listening to that husky voice, nudging one of those rare smiles out of her. The ones that reached her eyes and took that sad look out of them.

The fact was—the very worrying fact was—there was nothing about her that didn't appeal to him.

It was a good thing they had their own spaces back for a while. They would put it all back in perspective with a little distance.

But he wondered why, as he nearly convinced himself this was true, he felt a nasty little ache around his heart.

She tried not to think about him. To wonder if he thought of her. It was more productive, she told herself, to focus entirely, exclusively, on her work.

It would very likely be all she had left before much longer.

She nearly succeeded. Through most of the day she had dozens of details demanding her skill and attention. If her mind wandered once or twice, she was disciplined enough to steer it back to the task at hand.

If a new level of loneliness had been reached in only a single day, she would learn to adjust.

She would have to.

Miranda was about to shut down for the day and take the rest of her work home when her computer signaled an incoming e-mail. She finished her long, detailed post to the decorator she'd contracted regarding the lengths of fabrics required, copying both Andrew and the proper procurement clerk in requisitions.

She scanned the post, made a few minor adjustments, then clicked to both send and receive. Her incoming mail flashed on-screen under the header a death in the family.

Uneasy, she clicked on read.!!!You have the False Lady. There's blood on her hands. She wants it to be yours. Admit your mistake, pay the price and live. Go on as you are, and nothing will stop her.!!!Killing becomes her.

Miranda stared at the message, reading each word over and over until she realized she was curled in the chair, rocking.

They wanted her to be afraid, to be terrified. And oh God, she was.

They knew she had the forgery. It could only mean someone had seen her with Giovanni, or that he had told someone. Someone who had killed him, and wished her dead.

Struggling for control, she studied the return address. Lost1. Who was Lost1? The url was the standard route all Standjo organizations used for electronic mail. She did a quick name search, but found nothing, then hit the reply button.!!!Who are you?

She left it at that and sent. In took only seconds for the message to flash across her screen denying her. Not a known user.

He'd been quick, she decided. But he had taken a chance sending her the post. What could be sent could surely be traced. She printed out a hard copy, saved the post to a file.

A glance at her watch told her it was nearly six. There was no one to help her now. No one was waiting for her.

She was alone.