The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 2 Read online

  She awoke with a jolt, a gloved hand hard over her mouth, another clamped firmly at her throat, and a man’s voice softly threatening in her ear.

  “I could strangle you.”

  PART TWO

  The Thief

  All men love to appropriate the belongings

  of others. It is a universal desire; only the

  manner of doing it differs.

  —ALAIN RENÉ LESAGE

  eleven

  H er mind simply froze. The knife. For a hideous moment she would have sworn she felt the prick of a blade at her throat rather than the smooth grip of hands, and her body went lax with terror.

  Dreaming, she must be dreaming. But she could smell leather and man, she could feel the pressure on her throat that forced her to dig deep for air, and the hand that covered her mouth to block any sound. She could see a faint outline, the shape of a head, the breadth of shoulders.

  All of that blipped into her stunned brain and was processed in seconds that seemed like hours.

  Not again, she promised herself. Never again.

  In instinctive reaction, her right hand balled into a fist, and came off the mattress in a snap of movement. He was either faster, or a mind reader, as he shifted an instant before the blow landed. Her fist bounced harmlessly off his biceps.

  “Lie still and keep quiet.” He hissed the order and added a convincing little shake. “However much I’d like to hurt you, I won’t. Your brother’s snoring at the other end of the house, so it’s unlikely he’ll hear you if you scream. Besides, you won’t scream, will you?” His fingers gentled on her throat, with a shivering caress of thumb. “It’d bruise your Yankee pride.”

  She muttered something against his gloved hand. He removed it, but kept the other on her throat. “What do you want?”

  “I want to kick your excellent ass from here to Chicago. Damn it, Dr. Jones, you fucked up.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was hard to keep her breathing under control, but she managed it. That too was pride. “Let go of me. I won’t scream.”

  She wouldn’t because Andrew might hear, and might come roaring in. And whoever was currently pinning her to the bed was probably armed.

  Well, she thought, this time so was she. If she could manage to get into her nightstand drawer and grab her gun.

  In response, he sat on the bed beside her, and still holding her in place, reached out for the switch on the bedside lamp. She blinked rapidly against the flash of light, then stared wide-eyed, slack-jawed.

  “Ryan?”

  “How could you make such a stupid, sloppy, unprofessional mistake?”

  He was dressed in black, snug jeans, boots, a turtleneck and bomber jacket. His face was as strikingly handsome as ever, but his eyes weren’t warm and appealing as she remembered. They were hot, impatient, and unmistakably dangerous.

  “Ryan,” she managed again. “What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to clean up the mess you made.”

  “I see.” Perhaps he’d had some sort of . . . breakdown. It was vital to remain calm, she reminded herself, and not to alarm him. Slowly, she put a hand on his wrist and nudged his hand away from her throat. She sat up instinctively, and primly, tugging at the collar of her pajamas.

  “Ryan.” She even worked up what she thought was a soothing smile. “You’re in my bedroom, in the middle of the night. How did you get in?”

  “The way I usually get into houses that aren’t my own. I picked your locks. You really ought to have better.”

  “You picked the locks.” She blinked, blinked again. He simply didn’t look like a man in the middle of a mental crisis, but one who was simmering with barely suppressed temper. “You broke into my house?” And the phrase had a ridiculous notion popping into her head. “You broke in,” she repeated.

  “That’s right.” He toyed with the hair that tumbled over her shoulder. He was absolutely crazy about her hair. “It’s what I do.”

  “But you’re a businessman, you’re an art patron. You’re—why, you’re not Ryan Boldari at all, are you?”

  “I certainly 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 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 absurdity of the statement had stemmed the tide of tears. “All right, Mr. Boldari. Business. You say the bronze is a fake. I say it’s not. You say I won’t report this to the police. I say I will. What are you going to do about it?”

  He studied her a moment. In his line of work—both of them—he had to be a quick and accurate judge of people. It was easy to see that she would stand by her testing, and that she’d call the police. The second part didn’t worry him overmuch, but it would cause some inconvenience.

  “Okay, get dressed.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ll go to the lab—you can test it again, in front of me, satisfy the first level of business.”

  “It’s two in the morning.”

  “So we won’t be interrupted. Unless you want to go in your pajamas, get some clothes on.”

  “I can’t test what I don’t have.”

  “I have it.” He gestured toward the leather bag he’d set just inside the door. “I brought it with me, with the idea of ramming it down your throat. But reason prevailed. Dress warm,” he suggested, and sat comfortably in her armchair. “The temperature’s dropped.”

  “I’m not taking you into the Institute.”

  “You’re a logical woman. Be logical. I have the bronze and your reputation in my hands. You want a chance of getting the first back and salvaging the second. I’m giving it to you.” He waited a moment to let that sink in. “I’ll give you the time to test it, but I’m going to be right there, breathing down your neck when you do. That’s the deal, Dr. Jones. Be smart. Take the deal.”

  She needed to know, didn’t she? To be sure. And once she was sure, she would toss him to the police before he could blink those pretty eyes of his.

  She could handle him, she decided. The fact was, her pride demanded she take the opportunity to do just that. “I’m not going to change clothes in front of you.”

  “Dr. Jones, if I had sex on my mind, we’d have dealt with that when we were on the floor. Business,” he said again. “And you’re not getting out of my sight until we’ve concluded it.”

  “I really hate you.” She said it with such loathing he saw no cause to doubt her word. But he smiled to himself as she shut herself into the closet and hangers began to rattle.

  She was a scientist, an educated woman with unimpeachable breeding and an unblemished reputation. She had had papers published in a dozen important science and art journals. Newsweek had done an article on her. She’d lectured at Harvard and had spent three months as a guest professor at Oxford.

  It wasn’t possible that she was driving through the chilly Maine night with a thief, intending to break into her own lab and conduct clandestine tests on a stolen bronze.

  She hit the brakes and swung her car to the shoulder of the road. “I can’t do this. It’s ridiculous, not to mention illegal. I’m calling the police.”

  “Fine.” Ryan merely shrugged as she reached for her car phone. “You do that, sweetheart. And you explain to them what you’re doing with a worthless hunk of metal you tri
ed to pass off as a work of art. Then you can explain to the insurance company—you’ve already made a claim, haven’t you?—how it happens you expected them to pay you five hundred grand for a fake. One you authenticated, personally.”

  “It’s not a fake,” she said between her teeth, but she didn’t punch in 911.

  “Prove it.” His grin flashed in the dark. “To me, Dr. Jones, and to yourself. If you do . . . we’ll negotiate.”

  “Negotiate, my ass. You’re going to jail,” she told him, and shifted in her seat so they were face-to-face. “I’m going to see to it.”

  “First things first.” Amused, he reached out and gave her chin a friendly pinch. “Call your security. Tell them you and your brother are coming in to do some work in the lab.”

  “I’m not involving Andrew.”

  “Andrew’s already involved. Just make the call. Use whatever excuse you like. You couldn’t sleep, so you decided to get some work done while it’s quiet. Go on, Miranda. You want to know the truth, don’t you?”

  “I know the truth. You wouldn’t know it if it jumped up and bit you.”

  “You lose a little of that high-society cool when you’re pissed off.” He leaned forward, kissed her lightly before she could shove him back. “I like it.”

  “Keep your hands off me.”

  “That wasn’t my hands.” He took her shoulders, caressed. “Those were my hands. Make the call.”

  She elbowed him aside, and jabbed in the number. The cameras would be on, she thought. He’d never pass as Andrew, so they were finished before they began. Her security chief, if he had any sense at all, would call the police. All she’d have to do was tell her story, and Ryan Boldari would be cuffed and penned and out of her life.

  “This is Dr. Miranda Jones,” she slapped out as Ryan patted her knee in approval. “My brother and I are on our way in. Yes, to work. With all the confusion of the last few days, I’m behind in my lab work. We should be there in about ten minutes. We’ll use the main door. Thank you.”