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unwanted.
    “Giovanni—he was one of the few people who made me feel . . . normal. I know whoever killed him is sending me the message. I know that in my head, Ryan. But in my heart, I’ll always be to blame. And they know it.”
    “Then don’t let them use you, or him, this way.”
    She’d closed her eyes, so overwhelmed with the comfort he’d offered. Now she opened them, stared out toward the sea as his words struck home. “Using him,” she murmured. “You’re right. I’ve been letting them use him to hurt me. Whoever it is hates me, and made certain I knew it in the fax that came today.”
    “You have copies of them all?”
    “Yes.”

    “I want them.” When she started to pull away, he held her in place, stroked her hair. Didn’t she feel herself trembling? he wondered. “The e-mail. Did you trace it?”
    “I didn’t have any luck. The user name doesn’t show up on the server—it’s the server we use here and at Standjo.”
    “Did you keep it on your machine?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then we’ll trace it.” Or Patrick would, he thought. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He drew back, framed her face. “I’m here now, Miranda, and no one’s going to hurt you while I am.” When she didn’t answer, he tightened his grip, looked carefully at her face. “I don’t make promises lightly, because I don’t break them once I do. I’m going to see this through with you, all the way. And I won’t let anything happen to you.”
    He paused, then took what he considered a dangerous step toward a nasty edge. “Do you still want to talk to Cook?”
    She’d been so sure that was the right thing. So sure, until he’d looked at her and promised. Until by doing so, he’d made her believe, against all common sense, that she could trust him.
    “We’ll see it through, Ryan. I guess neither one of us could swallow anything less.”
     
    “Put the base directly over the mark.” Miranda stood back, watching the two burly men from maintenance haul the three-foot marble stand to the exact center of the room. She knew it was the exact center, as she’d measured it three times personally. “Yes, perfect. Good.”
    “Is that the last one, Dr. Jones?”
    “In this area, yes, thank you.”
    She narrowed her eyes, envisioning the Donatello bronze of Venus bathing in place on the column.
    This gallery was devoted to works of the Early Renaissance. A prized Brunelleschi drawing was matted behind glass and two Masaccio paintings were ornately framed and already hung, along with a Botticelli that soared twelve feet and showed the majestic ascension of the Mother of God. There was a Bellini that had once graced the wall of a Venetian villa.
    With the Donatello as the central point, the display showcased the first true burst of artistic innovation that was not simply the foundation for the brilliance of the sixteenth century, but a period of great art in itself.
    True, she considered the style of the period less emotional, less passionate. The figural representation even in Masaccio’s work was somewhat static, the human emotions more stylized than real.
    But the miracle was that such things existed, and could be studied, analyzed centuries after their execution.
    Tapping her finger to her lips, she studied the rest of the room. She’d had the tall windows draped in deep blue fabric that was shot with gold. Tables of varying heights were also spread with it, and on the glittering fabric were the tools of artists of that era. The chisels and palettes, the calipers and brushes. She’d chosen each one herself from the museum display.
    It was a pity they had to be closed under glass, but even with such a rich and sophisticated crowd, fingers could become sticky.
    On an enormous carved wooden stand a huge Bible sat open to pages painstakingly printed in glorious script by ancient monks. Still other tables were strewn with the jewelry favored by both men and women of the period. There were embroidered slippers, a comb, a woman’s ivory trinket box, each piece carefully chosen for just that spot. Huge iron candle stands flanked the archway.
    “Very impressive.” Ryan stepped between them.
    “Nearly perfect. Art, with its social, economic, political, and religious foundations. The mid–fourteen hundreds. The birth of Lorenzo the Magnificent, the Peace of Lodi, and the resulting balance, however precarious, of the chief Italian states.”
    She gestured to a large map, dated 1454, on the wall. “Florence,