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the manner of a prude, the fashion sense of a refugee, and a very appealing hint of shyness around those hot blue eyes.
    He kept his eyes locked on hers, delighted when faint and flattering color bloomed in her cheeks. In his opinion, women didn’t blush nearly often enough these days.
    He wondered how she looked in those wire-framed glasses that were hooked in the neck of her sweater.
    Scholarly sexy.
    “I met your brother a few months ago when we were both in D.C. for the Women in the Arts benefit. I believe he went in your stead.”
    “Yes, I couldn’t get away.”
    “Miranda was hip-deep in the lab.” Andrew grinned. “I’m more easily dispensable.” He leaned back in his own chair. “Ryan’s interested in our Cellini Madonna.”
    Miranda arched a brow. “It’s one of our prizes.”
    “Yes, I’ve just seen it. Glorious. Your brother and I discussed a trade.”
    “The Cellini.” Her gaze whipped to her brother. “Andrew.”
    “Not permanent,” Ryan said quickly, and didn’t bother to disguise the chuckle at her quick distress. “A three-month exchange—to our mutual benefit. I’m planning on doing a Cellini exhibit in our New York gallery, and the loan of your Madonna would be a coup for me. In exchange, I’m willing to lend the Institute all three of my Vasaris for the same span of time.”
    “You could do the three-styles-of-the-Renaissance exhibit you’ve muttered about for years,” Andrew pointed out.
    It was one of her dreams, a full-scale exhibit showcasing the full scope of her field of interest. Art, artifacts, history, documents, all on display, precisely as she chose.
    She kept her hands neatly folded to stop herself from pumping a triumphant fist in the air.
    “Yes, I suppose I could.” She felt the quick churn of excitement in her gut, but turned placidly to Ryan. “The Vasaris have been authenticated.”
    Ryan inclined his head, and both of them pretended not to hear Andrew’s low moan. “Yes, of course. I’ll see that you get copies of the documents before we draft the agreement. And you’ll do the same for me, on the Cellini.”
    “I can have them for you today. My assistant can have them messengered to your hotel.”
    “Good. I’d appreciate it.”
    “Well, I’ll leave you to work out the details.”
    But when she rose, he rose with her, and took her hand again. “I wonder if I can impose on you to show me around a bit. Andrew tells me that the labs and restoration facilities are your milieu. I’d very much like to see them.”
    “I—”
    Before she could excuse herself, Andrew was up and giving her a none too subtle jab in the ribs. “You couldn’t be in better hands. I’ll see you back here in a couple hours, Ryan. Then we’ll check out that clam chowder I promised you.”
    “Looking forward to it. . . . My galleries are for the display of art,” he began, keeping Miranda’s hand casually in his as she strode down the corridor to the next wing. “I know next to nothing about the science of it. Do you ever find yourself at odds merging the two?”
    “No, without one there wouldn’t be the other.” Realizing her answer had been abrupt, she drew a careful breath. The man made her nervous, nervous enough to show. That would never do. “The Institute was built to house both, you might say celebrate both. As a scientist who studies art, I appreciate that.”
    “I was a miserable student of science,” he said, with such a charming smile her lips curved in response.
    “I’m sure you had other strong points.”
    “I like to think so.”
    He was an observant man, and noted carefully the flow of space between wings, the position of the stairs, offices, storerooms, windows. And of course, the security cameras. It was exactly as his information had indicated. Still, he would transcribe the observations into detailed notes later. But for now he simply filed them neatly in his mind while he enjoyed the subtle fragrance of Miranda’s perfume.
    Nothing overt for Dr. Jones, he thought. Nothing obviously female. And the woodsy scent he imagined came from soap rather than a delicate bottle suited her, he decided, perfectly.
    At the end of a corridor, she turned right, then stopped to slide her key card into a slot beside a gray metal door. A buzzer sounded, locks clicked. Ryan flicked a mild glance upward at the camera.
    “Our internal security is tight,” she began. “No one passes into this department without a key or an escort. We often do