Homeport

marks. I need equipment and my notes to verify, but this isn’t the bronze I worked on.”
    Considering, Ryan tapped his cigar in an ashtray. “Let’s verify it first.”
    “No one will believe me. Even when I verify it, no one will believe this isn’t the bronze.” She looked over at him. “Why should they?”
    “They’ll believe you when we have the original.”
    “How—”
    “One step at a time, Dr. Jones. You’re going to want to change. Basic black works best for an entertaining evening of breaking and entering. I’ll arrange for transportation.”
    She moistened her lips. “We’re going into Standjo.”
    “That’s the plan.” He sensed her waffling and leaned back in his chair. “Unless you want to call your mother, explain all this to her and ask her to give you a little lab time.”
    Miranda’s eyes cooled as she rose. “I’ll change.”
    The bedroom door didn’t have a lock, so she dragged over the desk chair and lodged the back under the knob. It made her feel better. He was using her, was all she could think, as if she were just another tool. The idea of them being partners was an illusion. And now she’d helped him steal.
    She was about to break into her family’s business. And how would she stop him if he decided to do more than run a few basic tests?
    She could hear him talking on the phone in the parlor, and took her time changing into a black shirt and slacks. She needed a plan of her own, needed to enlist someone she could trust.
    “I’ve got to run down to the desk,” he called out. “Snap it up in there. I’ll only be a minute, and I need to change too.”

    “I’ll be ready.” And the minute she heard the door shut, she was dragging the chair away from the door. “Be there, be there, be there,” she murmured frantically, as she yanked her address book out of her briefcase. Flipping through, she found the number and made the call.
    “Pronto.”
    “Giovanni, it’s Miranda.”
    “Miranda?” It wasn’t pleasure in his voice, but caution. “Where are you? Your brother’s been—”
    “I’m in Florence,” she interrupted. “I need to see you right away. Please, Giovanni, meet me inside Santa Maria Novella. Ten minutes.”
    “But—”
    “Please, it’s vital.” She hung up quickly, then moving fast, covered the bronzes sloppily in bubble wrap and stuffed them back in their bag. She grabbed the bag and her purse, and ran.
    She took the stairs, hurrying down the carpeted treads with her heart banging in her chest, her arms straining against the weight of the bag. She pulled up short at the base, eased out.
    She could see Ryan at the desk, chatting cheerfully with the clerk. She couldn’t risk crossing the lobby, and tried to slide invisibly around the corner and jog through the lounge. She kept going, through the glass doors that led to the pretty courtyard, with its sparkling swimming pool and shady trees. Pigeons scattered as she raced through.
    Though the bag weighed heavily, she didn’t stop for breath until she’d circled the building and made it out to the street. Even then, she took only time enough to shift hands, readjust the weight, cast one nervous glance behind her. Then she headed straight for the church.
    Santa Maria Novella, with its beguiling patterns of green and white marble, was just a short walk from the hotel.
    Miranda controlled her need to run and walked into its cool, dim interior. Her legs wobbled as she headed down and found a seat near the left of the chancel. Once there, she tried to understand what the hell she was doing.
    Ryan was going to be furious, and she couldn’t be sure just how much violence simmered under that elegant surface. But she was doing the right thing, the only logical thing.
    Even the copy had to be protected until there was resolution. You couldn’t trust a man who stole for a living.
    Giovanni would come, she told herself. She’d known him for years. However flirtatious, however eccentric he might be, he was at heart a scientist. And he’d always been her friend.
    He would listen, he would assess. He would help.
    Trying to calm herself, she shut her eyes.
    There was something in the air of such places, temples of age and faith and power. Religion had always been, on some levels, about power. Here, that power had manifested itself in great art, so much of it paid for from the coffers of the Medicis.
    Buying their souls? she wondered. Balancing out their misdeeds and sins by creating grandeur for a