Page 148 of Homeport

When he was done, he kicked back in his chair. He took the ring he’d given Miranda out of his pocket, watched it shine in the light coming through the filtered glass at his back.

He thought he would have his friend the jeweler pop the stones and make them into earrings for her. Earrings were safer than a ring. Women, even bright, practical women, could get the wrong idea about a ring.

She’d appreciate the gesture, he thought. And he was going to owe her something, after all. He’d have the earrings made, then have them shipped to her when he—and the bronzes—were a comfortable distance away.

He imagined, once she had a chance to think it through, she’d conclude that he’d acted in the only logical fashion. No one could expect him to come out of his last job empty-handed.

He put the ring back in his pocket so he’d stop imagining what it had looked like on her hand.

She was going to get what she needed, he reminded himself, and when he rose his fingers were still toying with the ring. They would prove her bronze had been genuine, they’d uncover a forger, a murderer, and she’d be haloed in the spotlight with her reputation glinting like gold.

He had several clients who would pay a delightful fee for a prize like The Dark Lady. He had only to choose the lucky winner. And that fee would cover his time, his expenses, his aggravation, with a nice little bonus like cream over the top.

Unless he decided to keep it for himself. She would be, without question, the prize of his private collection.

But . . . business was business. If he found the right client—and gained the right fee—he could start a new gallery in Chicago or Atlanta or . . . Maine.

No, he’d have to stay clear of Maine after this was done.

A pity, he thought. He’d come to love it there, near the sea, near the cliffs, catching scents of water and pine. He’d miss it.

He’d miss her.

It couldn’t be helped, he told himself. He had to neatly close out one area of his life and start a new one. As a completely legitimate art broker. He’d keep his word to his family, and he’d have kept his word to Miranda. More or less.

Everyone would go back where they belonged.

It was his own fault if he’d let his feelings get a little too tangled up. Most of that, he was sure, was due to the fact they’d been virtually living together for weeks now.

He liked waking up beside her, a little too much. He enjoyed standing with her on the cliffs, listening to that husky voice, nudging one of those rare smiles out of her. The ones that reached her eyes and took that sad look out of them.

The fact was—the very worrying fact was—there was nothing about her that didn’t appeal to him.

It was a good thing they had their own spaces back for a while. They would put it all back in perspective with a little distance.

But he wondered why, as he nearly convinced himself this was true, he felt a nasty little ache around his heart.

She tried not to think about him. To wonder if he thought of her. It was more productive, she told herself, to focus entirely, exclusively, on her work.

It would very likely be all she had left before much longer.

She nearly succeeded. Through most of the day she had dozens of details demanding her skill and attention. If her mind wandered once or twice, she was disciplined enough to steer it back to the task at hand.

If a new level of loneliness had been reached in only a single day, she would learn to adjust.

She would have to.

Miranda was about to shut down for the day and take the rest of her work home when her computer signaled an incoming e-mail. She finished her long, detailed post to the decorator she’d contracted regarding the lengths of fabrics required, copying both Andrew and the proper procurement clerk in requisitions.

She scanned the post, made a few minor adjustments, then clicked to both send and receive. Her incoming mail flashed on-screen under the header A DEATH IN THE FAMILY.

Uneasy, she clicked on read.

You have the False Lady. There’s blood on her hands. She wants it to be yours. Admit your mistake, pay the price and live. Go on as you are, and nothing will stop her.

Killing becomes her.

Miranda stared at the message, reading each word over and over until she realized she was curled in the chair, rocking.

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