—Alain René Lesage

Her mind simply froze. The knife. For a hideous moment she would have sworn she felt the prick of a blade at her throat rather than the smooth grip of hands, and her body went lax with terror.

Dreaming, she must be dreaming. But she could smell leather and man, she could feel the pressure on her throat that forced her to dig deep for air, and the hand that covered her mouth to block any sound. She could see a faint outline, the shape of a head, the breadth of shoulders.

All of that blipped into her stunned brain and was processed in seconds that seemed like hours.

Not again, she promised herself. Never again.

In instinctive reaction, her right hand balled into a fist, and came off the mattress in a snap of movement. He was either faster, or a mind reader, as he shifted an instant before the blow landed. Her fist bounced harmlessly off his biceps.

"Lie still and keep quiet." He hissed the order and added a convincing little shake. "However much I'd like to hurt you, I won't. Your brother's snoring at the other end of the house, so it's unlikely he'll hear you if you scream. Besides, you won't scream, will you?" His fingers gentled on her throat, with a shivering caress of thumb. "It'd bruise your Yankee pride."

She muttered something against his gloved hand. He removed it, but kept the other on her throat. "What do you want?"

"I want to kick your excellent ass from here to Chicago. Damn it, Dr. Jones, you fucked up."

"I don't know what you're talking about." It was hard to keep her breathing under control, but she managed it. That too was pride. "Let go of me. I won't scream."

She wouldn't because Andrew might hear, and might come roaring in. And whoever was currently pinning her to the bed was probably armed.

Well, she thought, this time so was she. If she could manage to get into her nightstand drawer and grab her gun.

In response, he sat on the bed beside her, and still holding her in place, reached out for the switch on the bedside lamp. She blinked rapidly against the flash of light, then stared wide-eyed, slack-jawed.

"Ryan?"

"How could you make such a stupid, sloppy, unprofessional mistake?"

He was dressed in black, snug jeans, boots, a turtleneck and bomber jacket. His face was as strikingly handsome as ever, but his eyes weren't warm and appealing as she remembered. They were hot, impatient, and unmistakably dangerous.

"Ryan," she managed again. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to clean up the mess you made."

"I see." Perhaps he'd had some sort of… breakdown. It was vital to remain calm, she reminded herself, and not to alarm him. Slowly, she put a hand on his wrist and nudged his hand away from her throat. She sat up instinctively, and primly, tugging at the collar of her pajamas.

"Ryan." She even worked up what she thought was a soothing smile. "You're in my bedroom, in the middle of the night. How did you get in?"

"The way I usually get into houses that aren't my own. I picked your locks. You really ought to have better."

"You picked the locks." She blinked, blinked again. He simply didn't look like a man in the middle of a mental crisis, but one who was simmering with barely suppressed temper. "You broke into my house?" And the phrase had a ridiculous notion popping into her head. "You broke in," she repeated.

"That's right." He toyed with the hair that tumbled over her shoulder. He was absolutely crazy about her hair. "It's what I do."

"But you're a businessman, you're an art patron. You're—why, you're not Ryan Boldari at all, are you?"

"I certainly am." For the first time that wicked smile flashed, reaching his eyes, turning them gold and amused. "And have been since my sainted mother named me thirty-two years ago in Brooklyn. And up to my association with you, that name has stood for something." The smile vanished into a snarl. "Reliability, perfection. The goddamn bronze was a fake."

"The bronze?" The blood simply drained out of her face. She felt it go, drop by drop. "How do you know about the bronze?"

"I know about it because I stole the worthless piece of shit." And cocked his head. "Or maybe you're thinking of the bronze in Florence, the other one you screwed up. I got wind of that yesterday—after my client reamed me out for passing him a forgery. A forgery, for sweet Christ's sake."

Too incensed to sit, he sprang off the bed and began to pace the room. "Over twenty years without a blemish, and now this. And all because I trusted you."

"Trusted me." She shoved up to her knees, teeth clenched. There was no room for fear or anxiety when temper percolated so hard and fast through the bloodstream. "You stole from me, you son of a bitch."

"So what? What I took's worth maybe a hundred bucks as a paperweight." He stepped closer again, annoyed that he found the hot gleam in her eyes and the angry color in her cheeks so appealing. "How many other pieces are you passing off in that museum of yours?"

She didn't think, she acted. She was off the bed like a bullet, launching herself at him. At five-eleven, she was no flyweight, and Ryan got the full impact of her well-toned body and well-oiled temper. It was an innate affection for women that had him shifting his body to break her fall—a gesture he instantly regretted as they hit the floor. To spare both of them, he rolled over and pinned her flat.

"You stole from me." She bucked, wriggled, and didn't budge him an inch. "You used me. You son of a bitch, you came on to me." Oh, and that was the worst of it. He'd flattered, romanced, and had her on the edge of slipping into temptation.

"The last was a side benefit." He clamped her wrists with his hands to keep her from pounding his face. "You're very attractive. It was no trouble at all."

"You're a thief. You're nothing but a common thief."

"If you think that insults me, you're off target. I'm a really good thief. Now we can sit down and work this out, or we can lie here and keep wrestling. But I'm going to warn you that even in those incredibly ugly pajamas, you're an appealing handful. Up to you, Miranda."

She went very still, and he watched with reluctant admiration as her eyes went from fire to frost. "Get off me. Get the hell off me."

"Okay." He eased off, then nimbly rocked up to his feet. Though he offered her a hand, she slapped it away, and pushed herself up.

"If you've hurt Andrew—"

"Why the hell should I hurt Andrew? You're the one who documented the bronze."

"And you're the one who stole it." She snatched her robe from the foot of the bed. "What are you going to do now? Shoot me, then clean out the house?"

"I don't shoot people. I'm a thief, not a thug."

"Then you're remarkably stupid. What do you think I'm going to do the moment you're gone?" She tossed that over her shoulder as she tugged on the robe. "I'm going to pick up that phone, call Detective Cook, and tell him just who broke into the Institute."

He merely hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. The robe, he decided, was as amazingly unattractive as the pajamas. There was absolutely no reason why he should have to block an urge to start nibbling his way through all that flannel.

"If you call the cops, you'll look like a fool. First, because no one would believe you. I'm not even here, Miranda. I'm in New York." His smile spread, cocky and sure. "And there are several people who'll be more than happy to swear to it."

"Criminals."

"That's no way to talk about my friends and family. Especially when you haven't met them. Second," he continued while she ground her teeth, "you'd have to explain to the police why the stolen item was insured for six figures and was worth pocket change."

"You're lying. I authenticated that piece myself. It's sixteenth century."

"Yeah, and the Fiesole bronze was cast by Michelangelo." He smirked at her. "That shut you up. Now sit down, and I'll tell you just how we're going to handle this."

"I want you out of here." She tossed up her chin. "I want you to leave this house immediately."

"Or what?"

It was impulse, a wild one, but for once she followed the primal instinct. She made a dive, had the drawer open, and the gun at her fingertips. His hand closed over her wrist, and he cursed lightly as he yanked the gun free. With his other hand he shoved her back onto the bed.

"Do you know how many accidental shootings happen in the home because people keep loaded guns?"

He was stronger than she'd estimated. And faster. "This wouldn't have been an accident."

"You could hurt yourself," he muttered, and neatly removed the clip. He pocketed it and tossed the gun back in her drawer. "Now—"

She made a move to get up and he placed his spread hand on her face and pushed her back.

"Sit. Stay. Listen. You owe me, Miranda."

"I—" She almost choked. "I owe you?"

"I had a spotless record. Every time I took on a job, I satisfied the client. And this was my last one, damn it. I can't believe I'd get to the end and have some brainy redhead sully my reputation. I had to give my client a piece out of my private collection, and refund his fee in order to satisfy our contract."

"Record? Client? Contract?" She barely resisted tearing at her hair and screaming. "You're a thief, for God's sake, not an art dealer."

"I'm not going to argue semantics with you." He spoke calmly, a man totally in charge. "I want the little Venus, the Donatello."

"Excuse me, you want what?"

"The small Venus that was in the display with your forged David. I could go back and take it, but that wouldn't square the deal. I want you to get it, give it to me, and if it's authentic, we'll consider this matter closed."

No amount of willpower could stop her from gaping. "You're out of your mind."

"If you don't, I'll arrange for the David to find its way on the market again. When the insurance company recovers it—and has it tested, as is routine—your incompetence will be uncovered." He angled his head and saw by the way her brow creased that she was following the path very well. "That, on top of your recent disaster in Florence, would put a snug, and unattractive, cap on your career, Dr. Jones. I'd like to spare you that embarrassment, though I have no idea why."

"Don't do me any favors. You're not blackmailing me into giving you a Donatello, or anything else. The bronze is not a fake, and you're going to prison."

"Just can't admit you made a mistake, can you?"

You were so sure, weren't you? It appears you were wrong. How will you explain it? She shuddered once before she could control it. "When I make one, I will."

"The way you did in Florence?" he countered, and watched her eyes flicker. "News of that blunder's trickling through the art world. Opinions are about fifty-fifty as to whether you doctored the tests or were just incompetent."

"I don't care what the opinions are." But the statement was weak and she began to rub her arms for warmth.

"If I'd heard about it a few days earlier, I wouldn't have risked lifting something you'd authenticated."

"I couldn't have made a mistake." She closed her eyes because suddenly the thought of that was worse, much worse, than knowing he'd used her to steal. "Not that kind of a mistake. I couldn't have."

The quiet despair in her voice had him tucking his hands in his pockets. She looked fragile suddenly, and unbearably weary.

"Everybody makes them, Miranda. It's part of the human condition."

"Not in my work." There were tears in her throat as she opened her eyes to stare at him. "I don't make them in my work. I'm too careful. I don't jump to conclusions. I follow procedure. I…" Her voice began to hitch, her chest to heave. She pressed her crossed hands between her breasts to try to control the hot tears that rose inside her like a tide.

"Okay, hold on. Let's not get emotional."

"I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry." She repeated it over and over, like a mantra.

"There's good news. This is business, Miranda." Those big blue eyes were wet and brilliant. And distracting. "Let's keep it on that level, and we'll both be happier."

"Business." She rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth, relieved that the absurdity of the statement had stemmed the tide of tears. "All right, Mr. Boldari. Business. You say the bronze is a fake. I say it's not. You say I won't report this to the police. I say I will. What are you going to do about it?"

He studied her a moment. In his line of work—both of them—he had to be a quick and accurate judge of people. It was easy to see that she would stand by her testing, and that she'd call the police. The second part didn't worry him overmuch, but it would cause some inconvenience.

"Okay, get dressed."

"Why?"

"We'll go to the lab—you can test it again, in front of me, satisfy the first level of business."

"It's two in the morning."

"So we won't be interrupted. Unless you want to go in your pajamas, get some clothes on."

"I can't test what I don't have."

"I have it." He gestured toward the leather bag he'd set just inside the door. "I brought it with me, with the idea of ramming it down your throat. But reason prevailed. Dress warm," he suggested, and sat comfortably in her armchair. "The temperature's dropped."

"I'm not taking you into the Institute."

"You're a logical woman. Be logical. I have the bronze and your reputation in my hands. You want a chance of getting the first back and salvaging the second. I'm giving it to you." He waited a moment to let that sink in. "I'll give you the time to test it, but I'm going to be right there, breathing down your neck when you do. That's the deal, Dr. Jones. Be smart. Take the deal."

She needed to know, didn't she? To be sure. And once she was sure, she would toss him to the police before he could blink those pretty eyes of his.

She could handle him, she decided. The fact was, her pride demanded she take the opportunity to do just that. "I'm not going to change clothes in front of you."

"Dr. Jones, if I had sex on my mind, we'd have dealt with that when we were on the floor. Business," he said again. "And you're not getting out of my sight until we've concluded it."

"I really hate you." She said it with such loathing he saw no cause to doubt her word. But he smiled to himself as she shut herself into the closet and hangers began to rattle.

She was a scientist, an educated woman with unimpeachable breeding and an unblemished reputation. She had had papers published in a dozen important science and art journals. Newsweek had done an article on her. She'd lectured at Harvard and had spent three months as a guest professor at Oxford.

It wasn't possible that she was driving through the chilly Maine night with a thief, intending to break into her own lab and conduct clandestine tests on a stolen bronze.

She hit the brakes and swung her car to the shoulder of the road. "I can't do this. It's ridiculous, not to mention illegal. I'm calling the police."

"Fine." Ryan merely shrugged as she reached for her car phone. "You do that, sweetheart. And you explain to them what you're doing with a worthless hunk of metal you tried to pass off as a work of art. Then you can explain to the insurance company—you've already made a claim, haven't you?—how it happens you expected them to pay you five hundred grand for a fake. One you authenticated, personally."

"It's not a fake," she said between her teeth, but she didn't punch in 911.

"Prove it." His grin flashed in the dark. "To me, Dr. Jones, and to yourself. If you do… we'll negotiate."

"Negotiate, my ass. You're going to jail," she told him, and shifted in her seat so they were face-to-face. "I'm going to see to it."

"First things first." Amused, he reached out and gave her chin a friendly pinch. "Call your security. Tell them you and your brother are coming in to do some work in the lab."

"I'm not involving Andrew."

"Andrew's already involved. Just make the call. Use whatever excuse you like. You couldn't sleep, so you decided to get some work done while it's quiet. Go on, Miranda. You want to know the truth, don't you?"

"I know the truth. You wouldn't know it if it jumped up and bit you."

"You lose a little of that high-society cool when you're pissed off." He leaned forward, kissed her lightly before she could shove him back. "I like it."

"Keep your hands off me."

"That wasn't my hands." He took her shoulders, caressed. "Those were my hands. Make the call."

She elbowed him aside, and jabbed in the number. The cameras would be on, she thought. He'd never pass as Andrew, so they were finished before they began. Her security chief, if he had any sense at all, would call the police. All she'd have to do was tell her story, and Ryan Boldari would be cuffed and penned and out of her life.

"This is Dr. Miranda Jones," she slapped out as Ryan patted her knee in approval. "My brother and I are on our way in. Yes, to work. With all the confusion of the last few days, I'm behind in my lab work. We should be there in about ten minutes. We'll use the main door. Thank you."

She disconnected, sniffed. She had him now, she decided, and he'd turned the key himself. "They're expecting me, and will switch off the alarm when I get there."

"Fine." He stretched out his legs as she pulled onto the road again. "I'm doing this for you, you know."

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

"No thanks necessary." He waved them away, grinning while she snarled. "Really. Despite all the trouble you've caused me, I like you."

"Why, I'm all aflutter."

"See? You've got style—not to mention a mouth that just begs to be savored over long hours in the dark. I really regretted not having more time with that mouth of yours."

Her hands tightened on the wheel. The hitch in her breathing was fury. She wouldn't allow it to be anything else. "You'll have more time, Ryan," she said sweetly. "This mouth of mine is going to chew you up and spit you out before we're done."

"I look forward to it. This is a nice area." He made the comment conversationally as she followed the coast road into town. "Windswept, dramatic, lonely, but with culture and civilization close at hand. It suits you. The house came down through your family, I take it."

She didn't answer. However ludicrous her actions, she wasn't about to add to them by holding a conversation with him.

"It's enviable," he continued, unoffended. "The heritage, and the money, of course. But beyond the privilege it's the name, you know? The Joneses of Maine. Just reeks of class."

"Unlike the Boldaris of Brooklyn," she muttered, but that only made him laugh.

"Oh, we reek of other things. You'd like my family. It's impossible not to. And what, I wonder, would they make of you, Dr. Jones?"

"Perhaps we'll meet at your trial."

"Still determined to bring me to justice." He appreciated her profile almost as much as the shadows of ragged rocks, the quick glimpses of dark sea. "I've been in this game for twenty years, darling. I've no intention of making a misstep on the eve of my retirement."

"Once a thief, always a thief."

"Oh, in the heart, I agree with you. But indeed…" He sighed. "Once I clear my record, I'm done. If you hadn't messed things up, I'd be taking a well-deserved vacation on St. Bart's right now."

"How tragic for you."

"Yeah, well." He moved his shoulders again. "I can still salvage a few days." He unhooked his seat belt, and turned to reach into the backseat for the bag he'd tossed there.

"What are you doing?"

"Nearly there." He whistled lightly as he took out a ski cap and pulled it down low over his head until his hair was concealed. Next came a long black scarf of cashmere that he wrapped around his neck and over the lower part of his face.

"You can try to alert the guards," he began, flipping down the visor to check the result in the vanity mirror. "But if you do you won't see the bronze, or me again. You play it straight, go in, head to the lab just like you would normally, and we'll be fine. Andrew's a little taller than I am," he considered as he unrolled a long, dark coat. "Shouldn't matter. They'll see what they expect to see. People always do."

When she pulled into the parking lot, she had to admit he was right. He was so anonymous in the cold weather gear that no one would look twice at him. More, when they got out of the car and started toward the main entrance, she realized she might have taken him for Andrew herself.

The body language, the gait, the slight hunch in the shoulders were perfect.

She yanked her card through the slot with one irritable flick of the wrist. After a pause, she punched in her code. She imagined herself making wild faces at the camera, tackling Ryan and pounding her fists into his smug face while the guards scrambled. Instead, she tapped her key card lightly against her palm and waited for the buzzer to sound and the locks to open.

Ryan opened the doors himself, laying one brotherly hand on her shoulder. He kept his head down, muttering to her as they walked in. "No detours, Dr. Jones. You don't really want the trouble, or the publicity."

"What I want is the bronze."

"You're about to get it. Temporarily at least."

He kept his hand on her shoulder, guiding her down the corridors, down the stairs, to the lab doors. Again, she keyed them in. "You won't be walking out of here with my property."

He turned on the lights. "Run your tests," he suggested, peeling out of his coat. "You're wasting time." He kept his gloves on to take out the bronze and hand it to her. "I do know something about authenticating, Dr. Jones, and I'll be watching you closely."

And this, he told himself, was one of the biggest risks of his long career. Coming here, with her. He'd boxed himself in, and was damned if he could rationalize the reason. Oh, coming back was one thing, he thought as he watched her take a pair of wire-rim glasses out of a drawer and slip them on.

He'd been right about that, he mused. The sexy scholar. Tucking that thought away, he made himself comfortable while she took the bronze to a workstation for an extraction.

His reputation, his pride—which were one and the same—were at stake.

The job, which should have been a nice, tidy, and uneventful close to his career, had ended up costing him a great deal of trouble, money, and loss of face.

But what he should have done, and had intended to do, was confront her, threaten her, blackmail her into offsetting his losses, and walk away.

He hadn't been able to resist outwitting her. He had no doubt in his mind she intended to slant the tests in her favor, to try to convince him that the bronze was genuine. And when she did, it was going to cost her.

He thought the Cellini would be fair payment for his indulgence. The Institute, he decided, slipping his hands in his pockets as he watched her work, was about to make a generous donation to the Boldari Gallery.

It was going to kill her.

Her brows were knit as she straightened from the microscope. There was a twist in her stomach that no longer had anything to do with anger or with irritated arousal. She didn't speak at all, but made notes in a steady hand.

She took another scraping from the bronze, both the patina and the metal now, put it on a slide and studied that in turn. Her face was pale and set as she placed the bronze on a scale, took additional notes.

"I need to test the corrosion level, take X rays for the tool work."

"Fine. Let's go." He moved through the lab with her, imagining just where he would display the Cellini. The little bronze Venus she would give him would go into his own collection, but the Cellini was for the gallery, for the public, and would add a nice splash of prestige to his business.

He pulled a slim cigar out of his pocket, reached for his lighter.

"No smoking in here," she snapped.

He merely clamped it between his teeth and lighted it. "Call a cop," he suggested. "How about some coffee?"

"Leave me alone. Be quiet."

The twist in her stomach was sharper now, and spread like acid as the minutes ticked away. She followed procedure to the letter. But she already knew.

She heated the clay, waiting, praying for the flash of light from the crystals. And had to bite her lip to hold back the gasp. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

But when she held the X ray up, saw her instincts confirmed, her fingers were icy cold.

"Well?" He arched a brow, and waited for the con.

"This bronze is a forgery." Because her legs were weak, she sat on a stool and missed the flicker of surprise in his eyes. "The formula, as far as I can tell with preliminary tests, is correct. The patina, however, has been recently applied, and the corrosion levels are inconsistent with those of a bronze of the sixteenth century. The tool work is wrong. It's well done," she continued, with one hand unconsciously pressed hard against her churning stomach. "But it's not authentic."

"Well, well, Dr. Jones," he murmured, "you surprise me."

"This is not the bronze I authenticated three years ago."

He tucked his thumbs in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "You screwed up, Miranda. You're going to have to face it."

"This is not the bronze," she repeated, and her spine snapped straight as she pushed off the stool. "I don't know what you thought you could prove, bringing me this forgery, taking us through this ridiculous charade."

"That's the bronze I took from the South Gallery," he said evenly, "and one I took on your reputation, Doctor. So let's cut the bullshit, and deal."

"I'm not dealing with you." She snatched up the bronze and shoved it at him. "You think you can break in my home, then try to pass this obvious fake off as my property so that I'll give you something else? You're a lunatic."

"I stole this bronze in good faith."

"Oh for God's sake—I'm calling security."

He grabbed her arm, shoved her roughly against the counter. "Look, sweetheart. I went through this little game against my better judgment. Now it's done. Maybe you weren't trying to pass anything off. Maybe it was an honest mistake, but—"

"I didn't make a mistake. I don't make mistakes."

"Does the name Fiesole ring a bell?"

The angry flush died out of her cheeks. Her eyes unfocused, went glassy. For a moment he thought she'd slip through his hold like water. If she was feigning distress, he realized he'd underestimated her.

"I didn't make a mistake," she repeated, but now her voice shook. "I can prove it. I have the records, my notes, the X rays and results for the tests on the original bronze."

The vulnerability got to him, enough for him to let her go as she twisted. He shook his head and followed her into a room lined with file cabinets.

"The weight was wrong," she said quickly, as she fumbled with keys to unlock a drawer. "The scraping I took didn't jibe, but the weight—I knew it was wrong as soon as I picked it up. It was too heavy but—Where the hell is the file?"

"Miranda—"

"It was too heavy, just slightly too heavy, and the patina, it's close but it's not right. It's just not right. Even if you'd miss that, you couldn't possibly mistake the corrosion levels. You can't mistake them."

Babbling now, she slammed the drawer shut, unlocked another, then another.

"It's not here. The files aren't here. They're missing." Fighting for calm, she closed the drawer. "The pictures, the notes, the reports, everything on the bronze David is missing. You took them."

"To what purpose?" he asked, with what he considered saintly patience. "Look, if I could get in here and take a fake, I could have taken anything I wanted. What would be the point in going through this routine, Miranda?"

"I have to think. Just be quiet. I have to think." She pressed her hands to her mouth and paced. Logical, be logical, she ordered herself. Deal with the facts.

He'd stolen the bronze, and the bronze was fake. What was the point in stealing a fake, then bringing it back? None, none at all. If it had been genuine, why would he be here? He wouldn't. Therefore, the story he'd told her, however absurd, was true.

She'd tested it, and agreed with his conclusions.

Had she made a mistake? Oh God, had she made a mistake?

No. Logic, not emotion, she reminded herself. She made herself stop her erratic movements and stand perfectly still.

Logic, when properly applied, was amazingly simple.

"Someone beat you to it," she said quietly. "Someone beat you to it and replaced it with a forgery."

She turned to him, seeing by the considering look on his face that he was likely reaching the same conclusion.

"Well, Dr. Jones, it looks like we've both gotten that kick in the ass." He angled his head to study her. "What are we going to do about it?"