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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.

twenty-five
    “S o, have you heard from Ryan?”
    Miranda checked off items on the list fixed to her clipboard as she supervised the maintenance crew in the removal of selected paintings from the wall in the South Gallery.
    “Yes, his office faxed the details of the transportation schedule. All items will arrive next Wednesday. I’m having a team of our security meet their security at the airport.”
    Andrew studied her profile for