Homeport

I’ll tell you just how we’re going to handle this.”
    “I want you out of here.” She tossed up her chin. “I want you to leave this house immediately.”
    “Or what?”
    It was impulse, a wild one, but for once she followed the primal instinct. She made a dive, had the drawer open, and the gun at her fingertips. His hand closed over her wrist, and he cursed lightly as he yanked the gun free. With his other hand he shoved her back onto the bed.
    “Do you know how many accidental shootings happen in the home because people keep loaded guns?”
    He was stronger than she’d estimated. And faster. “This wouldn’t have been an accident.”
    “You could hurt yourself,” he muttered, and neatly removed the clip. He pocketed it and tossed the gun back in her drawer. “Now—”

    She made a move to get up and he placed his spread hand on her face and pushed her back.
    “Sit. Stay. Listen. You owe me, Miranda.”
    “I—” She almost choked. “I owe you?”
    “I had a spotless record. Every time I took on a job, I satisfied the client. And this was my last one, damn it. I can’t believe I’d get to the end and have some brainy redhead sully my reputation. I had to give my client a piece out of my private collection, and refund his fee in order to satisfy our contract.”
    “Record? Client? Contract?” She barely resisted tearing at her hair and screaming. “You’re a thief, for God’s sake, not an art dealer.”
    “I’m not going to argue semantics with you.” He spoke calmly, a man totally in charge. “I want the little Venus, the Donatello.”
    “Excuse me, you want what?”
    “The small Venus that was in the display with your forged David. I could go back and take it, but that wouldn’t square the deal. I want you to get it, give it to me, and if it’s authentic, we’ll consider this matter closed.”
    No amount of willpower could stop her from gaping. “You’re out of your mind.”
    “If you don’t, I’ll arrange for the David to find its way on the market again. When the insurance company recovers it—and has it tested, as is routine—your incompetence will be uncovered.” He angled his head and saw by the way her brow creased that she was following the path very well. “That, on top of your recent disaster in Florence, would put a snug, and unattractive, cap on your career, Dr. Jones. I’d like to spare you that embarrassment, though I have no idea why.”
    “Don’t do me any favors. You’re not blackmailing me into giving you a Donatello, or anything else. The bronze is not a fake, and you’re going to prison.”
    “Just can’t admit you made a mistake, can you?”
    You were so sure, weren’t you? It appears you were wrong. How will you explain it? She shuddered once before she could control it. “When I make one, I will.”

    “The way you did in Florence?” he countered, and watched her eyes flicker. “News of that blunder’s trickling through the art world. Opinions are about fifty-fifty as to whether you doctored the tests or were just incompetent.”
    “I don’t care what the opinions are.” But the statement was weak and she began to rub her arms for warmth.
    “If I’d heard about it a few days earlier, I wouldn’t have risked lifting something you’d authenticated.”
    “I couldn’t have made a mistake.” She closed her eyes because suddenly the thought of that was worse, much worse, than knowing he’d used her to steal. “Not that kind of a mistake. I couldn’t have.”
    The quiet despair in her voice had him tucking his hands in his pockets. She looked fragile suddenly, and unbearably weary.
    “Everybody makes them, Miranda. It’s part of the human condition.”
    “Not in my work.” There were tears in her throat as she opened her eyes to stare at him. “I don’t make them in my work. I’m too careful. I don’t jump to conclusions. I follow procedure. I . . .” Her voice began to hitch, her chest to heave. She pressed her crossed hands between her breasts to try to control the hot tears that rose inside her like a tide.
    “Okay, hold on. Let’s not get emotional.”
    “I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.” She repeated it over and over, like a mantra.
    “There’s good news. This is business, Miranda.” Those big blue eyes were wet and brilliant. And distracting. “Let’s keep it on that level, and we’ll both be happier.”
    “Business.” She rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth, relieved that the