Homeport

independent testing for individuals and for other museums.”
    She led him into an area much like Standjo, Florence, though on a smaller scale. Technicians worked at computers and microscopes or walked briskly into anterooms with a flap of their lab coat.
    She noted a staff member working with a crusted pot, and guided Ryan toward it. “Stanley, what can you tell us about this?”
    The tech scratched at his blond moustache, sucked air in through slightly bucked teeth. “Your father sent it from the dig in Utah, along with several other artifacts. This is probably Anasazi, twelfth century, and was used as a cooking vessel.”
    He cleared his throat, shooting Miranda a quick glance, and at her nod continued. “The beauty is it’s nearly intact, with only this small chip on the lip.”
    “Why a cooking vessel?” Ryan wanted to know, and Stanley blinked.
    “The shape, size, thickness.”
    “Thank you, Stanley.” Miranda turned back to Ryan, nearly bumped into him, as he’d moved closer when her back was turned. She shifted aside immediately, but not before noting that he had a good two inches on her in height. And that glint in his eyes of amused awareness took his face a step beyond sensual and straight into sexy.

    She heard the damn ping again.
    “We’re primarily an institute for art, but as my father’s interests are in archaeology, we have a section for artifact display, and do quite a bit of testing and dating in that area. It’s not my field. Now this . . .”
    She walked over to a cabinet, opened a drawer, and flipped through until she found a small brown bag. She transferred the tiny bits of paint inside onto a slide, then loaded it onto an unoccupied microscope.
    “Take a look,” she invited. “Tell me what you see.”
    He bent over, adjusted his focus. “Color, shape, interesting in its way—rather like a Pollock painting.” He straightened and fixed those brandy-colored eyes on hers. “What am I looking at, Dr. Jones?”
    “A scraping from a Bronzino we’re restoring. The paint is unquestionably sixteenth century. We take a sample for security both before we begin the work and after the work is completed. In this way there’s no doubt we’ve received an authentic work, and no doubt we return the same work to its owners upon completion.”
    “How do you know this is sixteenth-century paint?”
    “Do you want a science lesson, Mr. Boldari?”
    “Ryan—then I can say your name. Miranda’s such a lovely name.” His voice was like warm cream over whiskey and made her itchy. “And I might actually enjoy that science lesson with the right teacher.”
    “You’ll have to sign up for a class.”
    “Poor students do better with one-on-ones. Have dinner with me tonight.”
    “I’m a mediocre teacher.”
    “Have dinner with me anyway. We can discuss art and science, and I can tell you about the Vasaris.” He had an urge to lift his hand and play with the messy curls escaping their confinement. She’d jump like a rabbit, he decided. “We’ll call it business if it makes you more at ease.”
    “I’m not ill at ease.”
    “Well then. I’ll pick you up at seven. You know,” he continued, slipping his hand over hers again. “I’d love to see that Bronzino. I admire the formal purity in his work.”
    Before she could calculate how to free her hand, he’d tucked it comfortably through his arm and headed for the door.

six
    S he didn’t know why she’d agreed to dinner. Although, when she thought back over the conversation, she hadn’t actually agreed. Which didn’t explain why she was getting dressed to go out.
    He was an associate, she reminded herself. The Boldari Gallery had a glossy reputation for elegance and exclusivity. The single time she’d managed to carve out an hour when in New York to visit it, she’d been impressed with the understated grandeur of the building almost as much as the art itself.
    It would hardly hurt the Institute for her to help forge a relationship between one of the most glamorous galleries in the country and the Jones organization.
    He wanted to have dinner to discuss business. She’d make sure it stayed in the business arena. Even if that smile of his sent little sparks of undiluted lust straight to her gut.
    If he wanted to flirt with her, fine. Ping or no ping, flirting didn’t affect her. She wasn’t some impressionable mush brain, after all. Men who looked like Ryan Boldari were born with fully developed flirtation skills.

    She