Page 87 of Homeport

When the deal was made, the statue wrapped and boxed, he refused the offer to send it to their hotel.

“That’s okay. We’re about to head back anyway.” He hefted the bag, then put an arm around Miranda, bumping her with one of the two cameras slung over his shoulders. “Let’s get some of that ice cream on the way, Abby.”

“I don’t need any ice cream,” she muttered when they stepped outside again.

“Sure you do. Gotta keep your energy up. We’ve got one more stop to make.”

“Look, I’m tired, my feet hurt, and I don’t care for shopping. I’ll just meet you back at the hotel.”

“And miss all the fun? We’re going to the Bargello.”

“Now?” What chased up her spine was a combination of dread and excitement. “We’re going to do it now?”

“Now we’re going to play tourist some more.” He stepped off the curb, giving her room on the narrow sidewalk. “We’ll check the place out, get a feel for things, take some pictures.” He winked. “Case the joint, as they say in the movies.”

“Case the joint,” she murmured.

“Where are the security cameras? How far from the main entrance is Michelangelo’s Bacchus?” Though he knew, precisely. It wouldn’t be his first trip, under any guise. “How far is it across the courtyard? How many steps to the first-floor loggia? When do the guards change shift? How many—”

“All right, all right, I get the point.” She threw up her hands. “I don’t know why we didn’t go there in the first place.”

“Everything in its time, honey. Abby and Kevin would want to see some of the city on their first day, wouldn’t they?”

She imagined they looked exactly like American tourists—cameras, shopping bags, and guidebooks. He bought her an ice-cream cone as they walked. Because she decided it might help cool the hot ball of tension in her stomach, she licked at the tart, frothy lemon ice as he strolled along, pointing out buildings, statues, loitering at shop windows or over menus posted outside trattorias.

Perhaps there was a point to it all, she decided. No one would look twice at them, and if she concentrated, she could almost believe she was meandering through the city for the first time. It was a bit like being in a play, she thought. Abby and Kevin’s Italian Vacation.

If only she weren’t such a lousy actress.

“Fabulous, isn’t it?” He paused, his fingers twining with hers as he studied the magnificent cathedral that dominated the city.

“Yes. Brunelleschi’s dome was a revolutionary achievement. He didn’t use scaffolding. Giotto designed the campanile, but didn’t live to see it completed.” She adjusted her sunglasses. “The neo-Gothic marble facade echoes his style, but was added in the nineteenth century.”

She brushed at her hair and saw him smiling at her. “What?”

“You have a nice way with a history lesson, Dr. Jones.” When her face went carefully blank, he framed it with his hands. “No, don’t. That wasn’t a dig, it was a compliment.” His fingers brushed her cheekbones lightly. So many sensitive spots, he mused. “Tell me something else.”

If he was laughing at her, he was doing a good job of disguising it. So she took a chance. “Michelangelo carved his David in the courtyard of the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo.”

“Really?”

He said it so seriously her lips twitched. “Yes. He also copied Donatello’s Saint John for his own Moses. It would have been a compliment. But the pride of the museum, I think, is his Pieta` . The figure of Nicodemus is believed to be a self-portrait and is brilliantly done. But the figure of Mary Magdalene in the same sculpture is inferior, and obviously the work of one of his students. Don’t kiss me, Ryan,” she said it quickly, closing her eyes as his mouth hovered a breath from hers. “It complicates things.”

“Do they have to be simple?”

“Yes.” She opened her eyes again, looked into his. “In this case, yes.”

“Normally I’d agree with you.” Thoughtfully, he skimmed the pad of his thumb over her lips. “We’re attracted to each other, and that should be simple. But it doesn’t seem to be.” He dropped his hands from her face to her shoulders, skimmed them down her arms to her wrists. Her pulse was rapid and thick, and should have pleased him.

But he stepped back. “Okay, let’s keep it as simple as possible. Go stand over there.”

“Why?”

“So I can take your picture, honey.” He tipped his sunglasses down and winked at her. “We want to show all our friends back home, don’t we, Abby?”

Though she considered it overkill, she posed in front of the grand Duomo with hundreds of other visitors and let him snap pictures of her with the magnificent white, green, and rose marble at her back.

“Now you take one of me.” He walked over holding out his snazzy Nikon. “It’s basically point-and-shoot. You just—”

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