Homeport

smug face while the guards scrambled. Instead, she tapped her key card lightly against her palm and waited for the buzzer to sound and the locks to open.
    Ryan opened the doors himself, laying one brotherly hand on her shoulder. He kept his head down, muttering to her as they walked in. “No detours, Dr. Jones. You don’t really want the trouble, or the publicity.”
    “What I want is the bronze.”
    “You’re about to get it. Temporarily at least.”
    He kept his hand on her shoulder, guiding her down the corridors, down the stairs, to the lab doors. Again, she keyed them in. “You won’t be walking out of here with my property.”
    He turned on the lights. “Run your tests,” he suggested, peeling out of his coat. “You’re wasting time.” He kept his gloves on to take out the bronze and hand it to her. “I do know something about authenticating, Dr. Jones, and I’ll be watching you closely.”
    And this, he told himself, was one of the biggest risks of his long career. Coming here, with her. He’d boxed himself in, and was damned if he could rationalize the reason. Oh, coming back was one thing, he thought as he watched her take a pair of wire-rim glasses out of a drawer and slip them on.
    He’d been right about that, he mused. The sexy scholar. Tucking that thought away, he made himself comfortable while she took the bronze to a workstation for an extraction.
    His reputation, his pride—which were one and the same—were at stake.
    The job, which should have been a nice, tidy, and uneventful close to his career, had ended up costing him a great deal of trouble, money, and loss of face.
    But what he should have done, and had intended to do, was confront her, threaten her, blackmail her into offsetting his losses, and walk away.
    He hadn’t been able to resist outwitting her. He had no doubt in his mind she intended to slant the tests in her favor, to try to convince him that the bronze was genuine. And when she did, it was going to cost her.
    He thought the Cellini would be fair payment for his indulgence. The Institute, he decided, slipping his hands in his pockets as he watched her work, was about to make a generous donation to the Boldari Gallery.
    It was going to kill her.
    Her brows were knit as she straightened from the microscope. There was a twist in her stomach that no longer had anything to do with anger or with irritated arousal. She didn’t speak at all, but made notes in a steady hand.
    She took another scraping from the bronze, both the patina and the metal now, put it on a slide and studied that in turn. Her face was pale and set as she placed the bronze on a scale, took additional notes.
    “I need to test the corrosion level, take X rays for the tool work.”
    “Fine. Let’s go.” He moved through the lab with her, imagining just where he would display the Cellini. The little bronze Venus she would give him would go into his own collection, but the Cellini was for the gallery, for the public, and would add a nice splash of prestige to his business.
    He pulled a slim cigar out of his pocket, reached for his lighter.
    “No smoking in here,” she snapped.
    He merely clamped it between his teeth and lighted it. “Call a cop,” he suggested. “How about some coffee?”

    “Leave me alone. Be quiet.”
    The twist in her stomach was sharper now, and spread like acid as the minutes ticked away. She followed procedure to the letter. But she already knew.
    She heated the clay, waiting, praying for the flash of light from the crystals. And had to bite her lip to hold back the gasp. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
    But when she held the X ray up, saw her instincts confirmed, her fingers were icy cold.
    “Well?” He arched a brow, and waited for the con.
    “This bronze is a forgery.” Because her legs were weak, she sat on a stool and missed the flicker of surprise in his eyes. “The formula, as far as I can tell with preliminary tests, is correct. The patina, however, has been recently applied, and the corrosion levels are inconsistent with those of a bronze of the sixteenth century. The tool work is wrong. It’s well done,” she continued, with one hand unconsciously pressed hard against her churning stomach. “But it’s not authentic.”
    “Well, well, Dr. Jones,” he murmured, “you surprise me.”
    “This is not the bronze I authenticated three years ago.”
    He tucked his thumbs in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “You screwed up, Miranda.