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hands. Had she coveted them?
    Richard Hawthorne. Bookworm. Still waters often ran deep and often ran violent. He knew his history, knew how to research. His type was largely overlooked in favor of the more flamboyant, the more demanding. It could eat at a man.
    Vincente Morelli, longtime friend and associate. With a very young, very demanding wife. He’d given the Institute and Standjo years of his life, of his work, of his skills. Why not cash in on more than a paycheck and a pat on the back for services rendered?
    John Carter, with his worn shoes and ridiculous ties. Stable as granite. Why not just as hard? He’d been with the Institute for more than fifteen years, plodding his way along. Following orders, clinging to routines. Maybe he was still following orders.
    Any one of them could have planned it, he decided. But he didn’t believe any one of them could have executed two such flawless switches alone. There was teamwork here, gears meshing. And a cool and clever mind behind it all.

    He was going to need more than personnel records and time lines to uncover that mind.
    He watched a star fall, streaking toward the sea with an arc of light. And he began to plan.
     
    “What do you mean you’re going to call my mother?”
    “I’d call your father,” Ryan said, peeking over her shoulder to see what she was up to on the computer, “but I get the impression your mother’s more involved in the business. What are you doing there?”
    “Nothing. Why are you going to call my mother?”
    “What is that? A gardening web page?”
    “I need some data, that’s all.”
    “On flowers?”
    “Yes.” She’d already printed out several informative documents on soil treatments, perennials, and planting seasons, so closed the page. “My mother?”
    “In a minute. Why do you need data on flowers?”
    “Because I’m going to start a garden, and I know nothing about it.”
    “So you’re taking the scientific approach.” He bent down to kiss the top of her head. “You really are cute, Miranda.”
    She removed her glasses and put them on the desk. “I’m delighted I’ve amused you. Now will you answer my question?”
    “Your mother?” He sat on the desk, facing her. “I’m going to call her to tell her my conditions for the loan of the Vasaris, and a Raphael and Botticelli.”
    “Raphael and Botticelli? You never agreed to loan us anything but the Vasaris.”
    “New deal. Five paintings—and I may let her talk me into tossing in a Donatello sculpture—a three-month loan, with the Boldari Gallery suitably acknowledged in all advertising, with the proceeds from the fund-raiser going to the National Endowment for the Arts.”
    “Fund-raiser?”
    “I’ll get to that. The reason I’m choosing the New England Institute of Art History is because of its reputation, its dedication to not only displaying art but teaching, restoring, studying, and preserving it. I was very impressed when I was here a few weeks ago and was taken through the facility by Dr. Miranda Jones.”
    He tugged on her hair, sent it tumbling to her shoulders as he liked it best. And ignored her curse of annoyance. “I was particularly intrigued by her idea of creating a display of the history and progress,” he went on, “with its social, religious, and political underlayment, of the Italian Renaissance.”
    “Were you?” she murmured. “Were you really?”
    “I was riveted.” He picked up her hand to toy with her fingers and noted she’d taken off the ring he’d put there. The fact that the lack of it caused his brows to draw together in annoyance was something to ponder later. “I was struck by her vision of this showing, and by the idea of arranging a similar display, after the three-month period, in my own gallery in New York.”
    “I see. A partnership.”
    “Exactly. We were of one mind, and during the preliminary stages of discussion, you brought up the idea of holding a fund-raiser at the Institute, benefiting the NEA. As Boldari Galleries are staunch supporters of the organization, I was caught. It was very clever of you to dangle that lure.”
    “Yes,” she murmured, “wasn’t it?”
    “I’m ready to move forward on this mutual project at the earliest possible date, but having been told that Dr. Jones is on a leave of absence, I’m quite concerned. I can’t possibly work with anyone else. The delay has led me to consider working with the Art Institute in Chicago instead.”
    “She won’t care for