Page 28 of Homeport

“The shape, size, thickness.”

“Thank you, Stanley.” Miranda turned back to Ryan, nearly bumped into him, as he’d moved closer when her back was turned. She shifted aside immediately, but not before noting that he had a good two inches on her in height. And that glint in his eyes of amused awareness took his face a step beyond sensual and straight into sexy.

She heard the damn ping again.

“We’re primarily an institute for art, but as my father’s interests are in archaeology, we have a section for artifact display, and do quite a bit of testing and dating in that area. It’s not my field. Now this . . .”

She walked over to a cabinet, opened a drawer, and flipped through until she found a small brown bag. She transferred the tiny bits of paint inside onto a slide, then loaded it onto an unoccupied microscope.

“Take a look,” she invited. “Tell me what you see.”

He bent over, adjusted his focus. “Color, shape, interesting in its way—rather like a Pollock painting.” He straightened and fixed those brandy-colored eyes on hers. “What am I looking at, Dr. Jones?”

“A scraping from a Bronzino we’re restoring. The paint is unquestionably sixteenth century. We take a sample for security both before we begin the work and after the work is completed. In this way there’s no doubt we’ve received an authentic work, and no doubt we return the same work to its owners upon completion.”

“How do you know this is sixteenth-century paint?”

“Do you want a science lesson, Mr. Boldari?”

“Ryan—then I can say your name. Miranda’s such a lovely name.” His voice was like warm cream over whiskey and made her itchy. “And I might actually enjoy that science lesson with the right teacher.”

“You’ll have to sign up for a class.”

“Poor students do better with one-on-ones. Have dinner with me tonight.”

“I’m a mediocre teacher.”

“Have dinner with me anyway. We can discuss art and science, and I can tell you about the Vasaris.” He had an urge to lift his hand and play with the messy curls escaping their confinement. She’d jump like a rabbit, he decided. “We’ll call it business if it makes you more at ease.”

“I’m not ill at ease.”

“Well then. I’ll pick you up at seven. You know,” he continued, slipping his hand over hers again. “I’d love to see that Bronzino. I admire the formal purity in his work.”

Before she could calculate how to free her hand, he’d tucked it comfortably through his arm and headed for the door.

six

She didn’t know why she’d agreed to dinner. Although, when she thought back over the conversation, she hadn’t actually agreed. Which didn’t explain why she was getting dressed to go out.

He was an associate, she reminded herself. The Boldari Gallery had a glossy reputation for elegance and exclusivity. The single time she’d managed to carve out an hour when in New York to visit it, she’d been impressed with the understated grandeur of the building almost as much as the art itself.

It would hardly hurt the Institute for her to help forge a relationship between one of the most glamorous galleries in the country and the Jones organization.

He wanted to have dinner to discuss business. She’d make sure it stayed in the business arena. Even if that smile of his sent little sparks of undiluted lust straight to her gut.

If he wanted to flirt with her, fine. Ping or no ping, flirting didn’t affect her. She wasn’t some impressionable mush brain, after all. Men who looked like Ryan Boldari were born with fully developed flirtation skills.

She liked to think she’d been born with an innate immunity to such shallow talents.

He had the most incredible eyes. Eyes that looked at you as if everything but you had simply melted away.

When she realized she’d sighed and closed her own, she muttered under her breath and yanked up the zipper in the back of her dress.

It was only a matter of pride and professional courtesy that she chose to be particular about her appearance this evening. The first time she saw him she’d resembled a scruffy student. Tonight he would see she was a mature, sophisticated woman who’d have no problem handling a man over a meal.

She’d selected a black dress in thin, soft wool scooped low at the bodice, low enough so that the swell of her breasts rose firmly over the straight edge neckline. The sleeves were long and snug, the skirt narrow and fluid to the ankles. She added an excellent, and unquestionably sexy, reproduction of a Byzantine cross. Its ornate vertical stem rested cozily at the hollow of her breasts.

She yanked her hair up, jamming in pins at random. The result was, if she said so herself, carelessly sexy.

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