t was nearly dawn when Annie opened the door and found Andrew in the hall. He was sheet-pale, his eyes heavy with shadows. He was still in his tux, the tie loose around his neck, the first stud missing. The snowy shirt was marred by creases and blood.

"Elise?"

"She's going to be all right. They'll keep her for observation, but she was lucky. Concussion, a few stitches. There's no sign of intracranial bleeding."

"Come inside, Andrew. Sit down."

"I needed to come, to tell you."

"I know. Come on in. I've already made coffee."

She was bundled in a robe, and had washed the makeup from her face, but he saw how tired her eyes were. "Have you been to bed?"

"I gave it a shot. It didn't work. I'll make us some breakfast."

He closed the door, watched her walk the short distance to the kitchen and open the undersized refrigerator. She took out eggs, bacon, a frying pan. She poured coffee into two thick blue mugs.

The early light played through the narrow windows, made patterns on the floor. The room smelled of coffee and carnations.

Her feet were bare.

She laid bacon in the black iron skillet and soon the room was full of its scent and sound. Solid, Sunday morning sounds, he thought. Easy homey scents.

"Annie."

"Sit down, Andrew. You're asleep on your feet."

"Annie." He took her by the shoulders, turned her around. "I needed to go with Elise tonight."

"Of course you did."

"Don't interrupt. I needed to go, to make sure she was all right. She was my wife once, so I owed her that. I didn't handle the marriage well, and handled the divorce less well. I thought about that while I was waiting for the doctor to come out and tell us how she was. I thought about that and what I might have done differently to make it work between us. The answer is nothing."

He let out a short laugh, running his hands up and down her arms. "Nothing. It used to be realizing that made me feel like a failure. Now it just makes me understand the marriage failed. I didn't, she didn't. It did."

Almost absently, he bent to kiss the top of her head. "I waited until I was sure she was going to be all right, then I came here because I had to tell you."

"I know that, Andrew." In support, and with mild impatience, she patted his arm. "The bacon's going to burn."

"I haven't finished telling you. I haven't started to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"My name is Andrew, and I'm an alcoholic." He seemed to quiver once, then steady. "I've been sober for thirty days. I'm going to be sober for thirty-one. I sat in the hospital tonight and I thought about drinking. It just didn't seem to be the answer. Then I thought about you. You're the answer. I love you."

Her eyes went damp, but she shook her head. "I'm not your answer, Andrew. I can't be." She pulled away, started to turn the bacon, but he reached over and snapped off the flame.

"I love you." He cupped his hands over her face to hold her still. "Part of me always has. The rest of me had to grow up enough to see it. I know what I feel and I know what I want. If you don't have those same feelings for me, and don't want what I want, then you tell me. You tell me straight. It's not going to send me out looking for a bottle. But I need to know."

"What do you want me to say?" She rapped one frustrated fist against his chest. "You're a Ph.D. I'm GED. You're Andrew Jones of the Maine Joneses, and I'm Annie McLean from nowhere." She put her hands over his, but couldn't quite make herself draw his away from her face. "I run a bar, you run the Institute. Get a grip on yourself, Andrew."

"I'm not interested in your snobbery right now."

"Snobbery?" Her voice cracked with insult. "For God's sake—"

"You didn't answer my question." He tugged until she was on her toes. "What do you feel for me, and what do you want?"

"I'm in love with you, and I want a miracle."

His smile spread slowly, dimples deep in his cheeks. She was quivering under his hands, and his world had just gone rock steady. "I don't know if it'll qualify as a miracle. But I'll do my best." He picked her up.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking you to bed."

Panic fluttered in her throat and curled all the way down to her toes. "I didn't say I'd go to bed with you."

"You didn't say you wouldn't. I'm taking a big chance here."

She grabbed the doorjamb and clung for dear life. "Really? Is that so?"

"Damn right. You may not like my moves this time around. If not, you'll probably turn me down when I ask you to marry me."

Her fingers went limp as wax and slid off the wood.

"You—you could ask me now and save yourself the suspense."

"No." His eyes on hers, he laid her on the bed. "After. After, Annie," he murmured, and sank into her.

It was coming home, it was finding treasure. It was simple, and it was extraordinary.

They weren't innocent this time, weren't fumbling children, eager and curious. And all the years between then and now had given what was between them time to ripen.

Now was like decanting wine of a fine vintage.

Her arms came around him. He was so gentle, so careful, so gloriously thorough. His big hands smoothed over her, tracing her throat, her shoulders, paving the way for his lips.

He murmured to her, wonderful foolishness, as he stripped out of his jacket, let her help him out of his shirt. Then his flesh cruised along hers and made them both sigh.

Dawn was breaking in the rosy red light that heralded storms. But there in the narrow bed was peace and patience. Each touch, each taste was taken, was given with quiet joy.

Even when she trembled, when the need began to build to an ache inside her, she smiled and brought his mouth to hers again.

He took his time, stroking her body to life, his own pacing it. And the first time she crested, arching up and up with a moan of delight, he rolled with her for the sheer joy of it.

He traced kisses down her back, over her shoulder blades, down to her hips, then shifted her over to nuzzle at her breasts. Her hands moved over him, exploring, testing, arousing. As breath thickened and the sun grew strong, he slipped inside her.

A slow and steady rhythm, savoring, prolonging. Belonging. She rose and fell with him, making the climb, twined with him as they reached the top, holding tight when they trembled there. Falling with him was like drifting out of the clouds.

Then he shifted his weight, drew her against his side, buried his face in her hair.

"I still like your moves, Andrew." She sighed against his shoulder. "I really like your moves."

He felt whole again, healed. "I like your tattoo, Annie. I really like your tattoo."

She winced. "Oh God, I forgot about it."

"I'm never going to look at a butterfly in quite the same way again." When she laughed and lifted her face, he continued to smile. "It's taken me a long time to figure out what I need, what makes me happy. Give me a chance to make you happy. I want to build a life and a family with you."

"We both really screwed up the first time."

"We weren't ready."

"No." She touched his face. "It feels like we are now."

"Belong to me." He pressed a kiss into her palm. "Let me belong to you. Will you, Annie?"

"Yes." She laid her hand over his heart. "Yes, Andrew. I will."

Ryan stood in Miranda's office, trying to picture it. Oh, he could still imagine clearly enough the way it had looked the night before. Such things plant themselves on the brain and are rarely rooted out even with great effort.

There was a nasty stain on the carpet, the windows were smeared, and the dust from the crime scene investigation coated every surface.

How far would the bullet have propelled Richard's body? he wondered. How close to each other had he and his killer been standing? Close enough, he thought, for the bullets to have left powder burns on the tuxedo shirt. Close enough for Hawthorne to have looked into his murderer's eyes and have seen his death there.

Ryan was damn sure of that.

He stepped back, moved to the doorway, scanned the room.

Desk, chairs, window, the lamp that had been switched on. Counter, file cabinets. He could see it all.

"You shouldn't be in here, Mr. Boldari."

"They've taken the tape down," Ryan said without turning. "It seems the investigators got all they could from this area."

"Better we keep it closed off a while yet." Cook waited until Ryan moved out of the doorway, then shut the door. "No need to have Dr. Jones see all that again, is there?"

"No, no need at all."

"But you wanted to see it again."

"I wanted to see if I could get it all clear in my mind."

"And have you?"

"Not entirely. There doesn't appear to be any sign of a struggle, does there, Detective?"

"No. Everything tidy—but for the desk."

"The victim and his killer would have been standing about as close as you and I are just now. Wouldn't you say?"

"Give or take a few inches. Yeah, he knew who pulled the trigger, Boldari. You'd met him, hadn't you?"

"Briefly, when he arrived Friday, and again on the night he died."

"Never met him before that?"

"No, I hadn't."

"I wondered about that, seeing as you're in art, he was in art."

"There are a great many people in various areas of the business I haven't met."

"Yeah, but you know, it's a small world. You move around this place pretty tame."

"As do you," Ryan murmured. "Do you think I came up here last night and put two bullets into Richard Hawthorne?"

"No, I don't. We've got several witnesses who put you downstairs when the shots were fired."

Ryan leaned back against the wall. His skin felt sticky, as if some of the nastiness in the next room had clung to him. "Lucky for me I'm a sociable guy."

"Yeah—of course a few of those people are related to you, but there were those who weren't. So I figure you're clear. Nobody can seem to say where Dr. Jones, Dr. Miranda Jones, was during the time in question."

Ryan came off the wall quickly, almost violently, before he controlled it. But the move had caused Cook's eyes to flicker. "You two have gotten very friendly."

"Friendly enough that I know Miranda's the last person who could kill."

Idly, Cook took out a stick of gum, offered it, then unwrapped it for himself when Ryan only continued to stare at him. "It's funny what people can do with the right motivation."

"And hers would be?"

"I've done a lot of thinking about that. There's the bronze, the one from here, the one that got lifted out of a display case very slick, very professional. I tracked a number of burglaries with that pattern. Somebody knows what they're doing, somebody's damn good at their job, somebody has connections."

"So now Miranda's a thief—an expert art burglar?"

"Or she knows one, is friendly enough with one," he added with a thin smile. "Funny how the paperwork on that piece went away too. Even funnier how I did some checking with a foundry this place uses, found out somebody else was doing some checking there. Somebody who claimed he was a student here at the Institute, gave a song and dance about checking on a bronze figure that was cast there about three years ago."

"And that would have exactly what to do with this?"

"The name he gave at the foundry doesn't check with the records here. And the bronze he was so interested in was a statue of David with sling. Seems he even had a sketch of it."

"Then that might have something to do with your burglary." Ryan inclined his head. "I'm delighted to know you're making some progress there."

"Oh, I plod right along. Seems Dr. Jones—Miranda Jones taught a class on Renaissance bronze figures."

"Being an expert in the field, I'm sure she's taught several on the subject, or related ones."

"One of her students used the foundry to cast a bronze David long after the missing bronze arrived for her to test."

"That's fascinating."

Cook ignored the mild sarcasm in Ryan's tone. "Yeah, it means there's lots of little dangles wanting to be tied up. The student, he dropped out right after that bronze was cast. And you know, somebody checked with his mother, said they were from here, wanted to get in touch with him. Kid moved to San Francisco. A couple nights ago, they fished him out of the bay."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"You've got family in San Francisco."

This time Ryan's eyes narrowed and sparked. "Be careful, Detective."

"Just making a comment. Kid was an artist, you got an art gallery out there. I figured you might have known him. Name was Mathers, Harrison Mathers."

"No, I don't know a Harrison Mathers, but I can check easily enough to see if we display any of his work."

"Might not be a bad idea."

"Is this Mathers what you'd call another dangle?"

"Oh yeah, just one of those things that make you scratch your head. Then I start thinking about that big-deal bronze in Florence, the one that turned out not to be such a big deal. I'd think Dr. Jones would be pretty upset about that, pretty pissed off at her mother too, for kicking her off the project. I found out somebody stole that piece, went right into the storage area at the National Museum over there and took it, slick as spit. Now why would somebody want to take something, risk that kind of theft for something that isn't worth more than the price of the metal?"

"Art's a subjective mystery, Detective. Maybe someone took a liking to it."

"Could be, but whoever did was a pro, not some half-ass thief. Pros don't waste their time, unless they've got good reason. You'd agree with that, wouldn't you, Mr. Boldari? Being a professional yourself."

"Certainly." Damned if he didn't like this cop, Ryan mused. "I detest wasting time."

"Exactly. Makes me wonder what that bronze is worth to somebody."

"If I see it, Detective, I'll do an appraisal and let you know. But I can tell you, if that bronze was real, if it was worth millions, Miranda wouldn't kill for it. And I think you agree," Ryan added. "Being a professional yourself."

Cook chuckled. Something wasn't square about the guy, he thought. But you had to like him. "No, I don't think she killed anybody, and I can't picture her dancing all over the world pinching pictures and statues. Woman's got integrity pasted on her forehead. That's why I know, in my gut, she's hiding something. She knows more than she's saying. And if you're friendly enough with her, Boldari, you'll convince her to tell me just what that is before somebody decides she's expendable."

She was asking herself just how much she could tell, how much she could risk telling. In the South Gallery, surrounded by the art of the masters, she sat with her hands over her face. And suffered.

She knew Cook was upstairs. She'd seen him come in, and like a child avoiding a lecture, had slipped behind a doorway until he'd passed by.

When her mother came in, she let her hands fall into her lap.

"I thought I might find you here."

"Oh yes." Miranda rose and picked up one of the champagne flutes from a huddle of them on a table. "Reliving past glories. Where else would I be? Where else would I go?"

"I haven't been able to find your brother."

"I hope he's sleeping. It was a difficult night." She didn't add that he hadn't been sleeping, at least not in his own bed, when she left the house that morning.

"Yes, for all of us. I'm going to the hospital. Your father's meeting me there. Hopefully Elise is up to visitors, and she'd hoped they would release her by this afternoon."

"Give her my best. I'll try to stop by later this evening, either the hospital, or the hotel if they've let her go. Please tell her she's welcome to stay at the house for as long as she likes."

"It would be awkward."

"Yes, but I'll make the offer nonetheless."

"It's generous of you. She—It was fortunate she wasn't hurt more seriously. It could have been… We might have found her like Richard."

"I know you're very fond of her." Miranda set down the glass in the precise spot where it had been. She was careful to make certain the stem of the glass fit exactly on the outline it had left on the cloth. "Fonder, I think, than you ever were of your own children."

"This is hardly the occasion for pettiness, Miranda."

She looked up then. "Do you hate me?"

"What a ridiculous thing to say, and what an inappropriate time to say it."

"When would be an appropriate time for me to ask my mother if she hates me?"

"If this stems from the business in Florence—"

"Oh, it goes back much farther, in much deeper than what happened in Florence, but that'll do for now. You didn't stand by me. You never have. All of my life I've waited for it, that moment when you'd finally be there. Why the hell weren't you ever there for me?"

"I refuse to indulge you in this behavior." With an icy stare, Elizabeth turned and started out.

She'd never know what prompted her to ignore a lifetime of training, but Miranda was across the room, grabbing Elizabeth's arm, whirling her around with a violence that stunned both of them. "You will not walk out on me until I have an answer. I'm sick to death of having you walk literally and figuratively away from me. Why couldn't you ever be a mother to me?"

"Because you're not my daughter." Elizabeth snapped it out, her eyes flaring to a blue burn. "You were never mine." She wrenched her arm free, her breath coming fast and hard as control frayed. "Don't you dare stand there and demand from me after all I've sacrificed, all I've endured because your father elected to pass his bastard off as mine."

"Bastard?" Her world, already shaky, tilted away under her feet. "I'm not your daughter?"

"No, you are not. I gave my word that I would never tell you." Infuriated that she'd allowed temper and fatigue to undermine her control, Elizabeth strode to the window, stared out. "Well, you're a grown woman, and perhaps you have a right to know."

"I—" Miranda pressed a hand to her heart because she wasn't sure it continued to beat. She could only stare at the rigid back of the woman who'd so suddenly become a stranger. "Who is my mother? Where is she?"

"She died several years ago. She was no one," Elizabeth added, turning back. The sun wasn't kind to women of a certain age. In its glare Miranda saw that Elizabeth looked haggard, almost ill. Then a cloud rolled over the sun and the moment was gone. "One of your father's… short-term interests."

"He had an affair."

"His name is Jones, isn't it?" Elizabeth said bitterly, then waved a hand as if annoyed. "In this case, he was careless and the woman became pregnant. She was not, apparently, as easily shaken off as most. Charles had no intention of marrying her, of course, and when she realized that, she insisted he deal with the child. It was a difficult situation."

A quick, nasty stab of pain lanced through the shock. "She didn't want me either."

With the faintest of shrugs, Elizabeth walked back and sat. "I have no idea what the woman wanted. But what she chose to do was demand that Charles raise you. He came to me and outlined the problem. My choices were to divorce him, live with the scandal, lose what I had begun to build here at the Institute, and give up my plans for my own facility. Or—"

"You stayed with him." Beneath the shock, the hot edge of hurt, was a simmering outrage. "After a betrayal like that, you stayed with him."

"I had a choice. I made the one that was best for me. It was not without sacrifice. I had to go into seclusion, lose months while I waited for you to be born." The memory of that could still swim to the surface like acid. "When you were, I had to present you as mine. I resented the fact of you, Miranda," she said evenly. "Perhaps that's unfair, but it's accurate."

"Yes, let's be accurate." Unable to bear it, she turned away. "Let's stick with the facts."

"I'm not a maternal woman nor do I pretend to be." Elizabeth gestured again, with some impatience in her voice. "After Andrew was born, I had no intention of having another child. Ever. Then through circumstances that were none of my doing, I was given the responsibility of raising my husband's child as my own. You were a reminder of his carelessness to me, of his lack of marital integrity. For Charles you were a reminder of a serious miscalculation."

"Miscalculation," Miranda said quietly. "Yes, I suppose that's accurate too. It's hardly a mystery now why neither one of you could ever love me—love at all if it comes to that. You don't have it inside you."

"You were well taken care of, given a good home, a fine education."

"And never a moment of true affection," Miranda finished, turning back. What she saw was a woman of rigid control, towering ambition, who had traded emotion for advancement. "I beat myself up all of my life to be worthy of your affection. I was wasting my time."

Elizabeth sighed, got to her feet. "I'm not a monster. You were never harmed, never neglected."

"Never held."

"I did my best by you, and gave you every opportunity to prove yourself in your field. Up to and including the Fiesole Bronze." She hesitated, then rose to open one of the bottles of water the cleaning staff had yet to clear.

"I took your reports, the X rays, the documents home. After I'd calmed down, after the worst of the embarrassment faded, I wasn't quite sure you could have made such blatant mistakes, or that you would skew test results. Honesty has never been something I doubted in you."

"Oh, thank you very much," Miranda said dryly.

"The reports, the documents were stolen out of my home safe. I might not have known, but I wanted something before I left to come here. And I saw they were gone."

She poured water into a glass, recapped the bottle, then sipped. "I wanted to get your grandmother's pearls, to bring them here and put them in the safe-deposit box I keep at the local bank. I was going to give them to you before I left."

"Why?"

"Perhaps because while you were never mine, you were always hers." She set the glass aside. "I won't apologize for what I've done or the choices I've made. I don't ask you to understand me, any more than I have ever been able to understand you."

"So, I just live with it?" Miranda demanded, and Elizabeth lifted a brow.

"I have. I will ask you to keep what we've spoken of in this room. You are a Jones, and as such have a responsibility to uphold the family name."

"Oh yes, one hell of a name it is." But she shook her head. "I know my duties."

"Yes, I'm sure you do. I have to meet your father." She picked up her bag. "I will discuss this with him if you like."

"For what purpose?" Suddenly Miranda was weary, too weary to worry, to wonder, or to care. "Nothing's really changed at all, has it?"

"No."

When she was gone, Miranda let out a half-laugh and walked to the window. The storm that had been threatening all day was rolling in on a blistered sky.

"You okay?"

She leaned back as Ryan laid his hands on her shoulder. "How much did you hear?"

"Most of it."

"Eavesdropping again," she murmured, "sneaking in on little cat's paws. I don't know how to feel."

"Whatever you feel, it's right. You're your own woman, Miranda. You always have been."

"I guess I have to be."

"Will you talk to your father about this?"

"What would be the point? He's never seen me. He's never heard me. And now I know why." She closed her eyes, turned her cheek into his hand. "What kind of people are they, Ryan, that I come from? My father, Elizabeth, the woman who gave me to them?"

"I don't know them." Gently, he turned her until they were face-to-face. "But I know you."

"I feel…" She drew a long breath, and let it come. "Relieved. For as long as I can remember, I've been afraid I was like her, had no real choice about being like her. But I'm not. I'm not."

Shuddering once, she laid her head on his shoulder. "I don't ever have to worry about that again."

"I'm sorry for her," he murmured. "For closing herself off to you. To love."

Miranda knew what love was now, the terror and thrill of it. Whatever happened, she was grateful that part of herself had been opened. Even if the lock had been picked by a thief.

"Yes, so am I." She held on, one last moment, then drew away to stand on her own. "I'm going to go to Cook with Richard's book."

"Give me time to get to Florence. I didn't want to leave today, not when you had all this on your mind. I'll leave tonight if I can manage it, or first thing in the morning. We'll cut it back to thirty-six hours. That should do it."

"I can't give you more than that. I need this to be over."

"It will be."

She smiled, found it easier than she'd imagined. "And no sneaking into bedrooms, no riffling through jewelry boxes or safes."

"Absolutely not. As soon as I'm finished with the Carters."

"Oh, for God's sake."

"I won't steal a thing. Didn't I resist those pearls of your grandmother's? All that lovely Italian gold of Elise's? Even the pretty little locket I could have given one of my nieces? I'd have been a hero."

"Your nieces are too young for lockets." She let out a sigh and leaned her head on his shoulder again. "I didn't get mine until I was sixteen. My grandmother gave me a very pretty heart-shaped one that her mother had given to her."

"And you put a lock of your boyfriend's hair in it."

"Hardly. I didn't have boyfriends. She'd already put her picture in it anyway, and my grandfather's. It was to help me remember my roots."

"Did it?"

"Of course. Good New England stock always remembers roots. I'm a Jones," she said quietly. "And Elizabeth was right. I might never have been hers, but I was always my grandmother's."

"You'll have her pearls now."

"Yes, and I'll treasure them. I lost the locket a few years ago. Broke my heart." Feeling better, she straightened. "I need to get maintenance in here. We have to put this place back in order. I'm hoping we can open the exhibit to the public tomorrow."

"You do that," he murmured. "I'll meet you back at the house later. Go straight there, will you, so I don't have to search you out."

"Where else would I go?"