Homeport

am.” For the first time that wicked smile flashed, reaching his eyes, turning them gold and amused. “And have been since my sainted mother named me thirty-two years ago in Brooklyn. And up to my association with you, that name has stood for something.” The smile vanished into a snarl. “Reliability, perfection. The goddamn bronze was a fake.”
    “The bronze?” The blood simply drained out of her face. She felt it go, drop by drop. “How do you know about the bronze?”
    “I know about it because I stole the worthless piece of shit.” And cocked his head. “Or maybe you’re thinking of the bronze in Florence, the other one you screwed up. I got wind of that yesterday—after my client reamed me out for passing him a forgery. A forgery, for sweet Christ’s sake.”
    Too incensed to sit, he sprang off the bed and began to pace the room. “Over twenty years without a blemish, and now this. And all because I trusted you.”
    “Trusted me.” She shoved up to her knees, teeth clenched. There was no room for fear or anxiety when temper percolated so hard and fast through the bloodstream. “You stole from me, you son of a bitch.”
    “So what? What I took’s worth maybe a hundred bucks as a paperweight.” He stepped closer again, annoyed that he found the hot gleam in her eyes and the angry color in her cheeks so appealing. “How many other pieces are you passing off in that museum of yours?”
    She didn’t think, she acted. She was off the bed like a bullet, launching herself at him. At five-eleven, she was no flyweight, and Ryan got the full impact of her well-toned body and well-oiled temper. It was an innate affection for women that had him shifting his body to break her fall—a gesture he instantly regretted as they hit the floor. To spare both of them, he rolled over and pinned her flat.
    “You stole from me.” She bucked, wriggled, and didn’t budge him an inch. “You used me. You son of a bitch, you came on to me.” Oh, and that was the worst of it. He’d flattered, romanced, and had her on the edge of slipping into temptation.
    “The last was a side benefit.” He clamped her wrists with his hands to keep her from pounding his face. “You’re very attractive. It was no trouble at all.”
    “You’re a thief. You’re nothing but a common thief.”
    “If you think that insults me, you’re off target. I’m a really good thief. Now we can sit down and work this out, or we can lie here and keep wrestling. But I’m going to warn you that even in those incredibly ugly pajamas, you’re an appealing handful. Up to you, Miranda.”
    She went very still, and he watched with reluctant admiration as her eyes went from fire to frost. “Get off me. Get the hell off me.”
    “Okay.” He eased off, then nimbly rocked up to his feet. Though he offered her a hand, she slapped it away, and pushed herself up.
    “If you’ve hurt Andrew—”
    “Why the hell should I hurt Andrew? You’re the one who documented the bronze.”
    “And you’re the one who stole it.” She snatched her robe from the foot of the bed. “What are you going to do now? Shoot me, then clean out the house?”
    “I don’t shoot people. I’m a thief, not a thug.”
    “Then you’re remarkably stupid. What do you think I’m going to do the moment you’re gone?” She tossed that over her shoulder as she tugged on the robe. “I’m going to pick up that phone, call Detective Cook, and tell him just who broke into the Institute.”
    He merely hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. The robe, he decided, was as amazingly unattractive as the pajamas. There was absolutely no reason why he should have to block an urge to start nibbling his way through all that flannel.
    “If you call the cops, you’ll look like a fool. First, because no one would believe you. I’m not even here, Miranda. I’m in New York.” His smile spread, cocky and sure. “And there are several people who’ll be more than happy to swear to it.”
    “Criminals.”
    “That’s no way to talk about my friends and family. Especially when you haven’t met them. Second,” he continued while she ground her teeth, “you’d have to explain to the police why the stolen item was insured for six figures and was worth pocket change.”
    “You’re lying. I authenticated that piece myself. It’s sixteenth century.”
    “Yeah, and the Fiesole bronze was cast by Michelangelo.” He smirked at her. “That shut you up. Now sit down, and