Page 36 of Homeport

“Dr. Jones’s office. May I help you?”

“I hope you can.” The wifty little voice of Miranda’s assistant made him grin. “Is Dr. Jones available? Ryan Boldari calling.”

“One moment, Mr. Boldari.”

Ryan stepped back out of the wind while he waited. He liked the look of downtown, he decided, the variety of architecture, the granite and the brick. He’d passed a dignified statue of Longfellow in his wanderings, and found that it and the other statues and monuments added to an interesting city.

Perhaps he preferred New York, the pace and the demand there. But he didn’t think he’d mind spending a bit more time right here. Some other time, of course. It was never wise to linger long after a job was completed.

“Ryan?” Her voice sounded slightly breathless. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

“I don’t mind. I’ve just taken a busman’s holiday and wandered through your galleries.” Best that she know, as it was likely they’d be reviewing tapes the following day.

“Oh. I wish you’d told me you were coming. I’d have taken you around myself.”

“I didn’t want to keep you from your work. But I wanted to tell you I believe my Vasaris are going to have a wonderful temporary home. You should come to New York and see where your Cellini will be staying.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. Damn it. He shifted the phone to his other hand, reminding himself some distance would be required for a time.

“I might do that. Would you like to come up? I can have you cleared.”

“I would but I have some appointments I couldn’t reschedule. I’d hoped to take you to lunch, but I can’t blow these meetings off. I’m going to be tied up the rest of the day, but wondered if you’d have lunch with me tomorrow.”

“I’m sure I can schedule it in. What time works for you?”

“The sooner the better. I want to see you, Miranda.” He could imagine her sitting in her office, perhaps wearing a lab coat over some bulky sweater. Oh yes, he wanted to see her, a great deal of her. “How about noon?”

He heard papers rustle. Checking her calendar, he thought, and for some reason found that delightful. “Yes, noon’s fine. Um, the documentation on your Vasaris just came across my desk. You work quickly.”

“Beautiful women shouldn’t have to wait. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll think of you tonight.”

He broke the connection and suffered a very rare sensation. He recognized it as guilt only because he couldn’t actually recall experiencing it before. Certainly not when it came to women or work.

“Can’t be helped,” he said softly, and replaced his cell phone. As he strode toward the parking lot, he took out his stopwatch. One hundred and ten seconds.

Time enough. More than time enough.

He glanced up toward the window where he knew Miranda’s office to be. There’d be time for that too. Eventually. But professional obligations came first. He was sure a woman of her practical nature would agree.

Ryan spent the next several hours locked in his suite. He’d ordered up a quick lunch, turned the stereo on to a classical station, and spread out his notes for review.

He had the blueprints for the Institute anchored on the conference table with the salt and pepper shakers and the tiny bottles of mustard and ketchup that had come on his room service tray.

The schematics of the security system were on the screen of his laptop. He nibbled on a french fry, sipped Evian, and studied.

The blueprints had been easy enough to access. Contacts and cash could access nearly everything. He was also very handy with a computer. It was a skill he’d developed and honed while still in high school.

His mother had insisted he learn how to type—because you just never knew—but he’d had more interesting things to do with a keyboard than hammer out correspondence.

He’d built the laptop he carried with him himself, and had added a number of bonuses that weren’t strictly legal. Then again, neither was his profession.

The Boldari Galleries were completely aboveboard, and were now self-financed and earned a nice, comfortable profit. But they had been built on funds he’d accumulated over the years, beginning as a nimble-fingered, fast-thinking boy on the streets of New York.

Some people were born artists, others were born accountants. Ryan had been born a thief.

Initially he’d picked pockets and lifted trinkets because money was tight. After all, art teachers weren’t raking in dough, and there were a lot of mouths to feed in the Boldari household.

Later, he shifted into second-story work because, well, he was good at it, and it was exciting. He could still remember his first foray into a dark, sleeping home. The quiet, the tension, the thrill of being somewhere he had no business being, the initial edginess that swam up with the possibility of being caught had added to the kick of it all.

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