Page 89 of Homeport

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing if you can’t hold his eye for five minutes. Give me that long, ask him where the bathroom is, then head there. Meet me back in the courtyard in ten.”

“But—”

“Do it.” He snapped it out, with a flick of steel. “There’s just enough people in here that I should be able to pull this off.”

“Oh God. All right.” Her stomach tilted down toward her shaky knees as she turned away to approach the guard.

“Ah. . . scusi,” she began, giving the word a hard American accent. “Per favore . . . ” She watched the guard’s eyes dip to the opening of her blouse, then skim back up to her face with a smile. She swallowed hard, then spread her hands helplessly. “English?”

“Sì, signora, a little.”

“Oh, wonderful.” She experimented with fluttering her lashes and saw by the warming of the guard’s smile that such pitiful ploys actually worked. “I studied up on Italian before I left, but it just gets all jumbled up in my mind. Such a scatterbrain. It’s terrible, isn’t it, that Americans don’t speak a second language the way most Europeans do?”

The way his eyes were glazing, she deduced she was speaking much too quickly for him to follow. All the better. “Everything’s so beautiful here. I wonder if you could tell me anything about . . .” She chose a sculpture at random.

Ryan waited until he saw the guard’s focus fix on Miranda’s cleavage, then slipping back, he took a thin pick out of his pocket and went to work on a side door.

It was easy enough, even dealing with it behind his back. The museum hardly expected its visitors to come armed with lockpicks or to want entrance to locked rooms in broad daylight.

The floor plan of the museum was on a disk in his files. As were dozens of others. If his source was to be trusted, Ryan would find what he wanted beyond the door, in one of the jumbled storerooms on this level.

He kept one eye on the security camera, biding his time until a group of art lovers shuffled in front of him.

Before they’d gone by, he was through the door and closing it softly behind him.

He took one long breath of appreciation, tugged on the gloves he’d tucked in his pocket, then flexed his fingers. He couldn’t take much time.

It was a rabbit warren of little rooms crowded with statues and paintings, most of which were in desperate need of restoration. Generally, he knew, those who made their living through or around art weren’t the most organized of souls.

Several pieces caught his eye, including a sad-eyed Madonna with a broken shoulder. But he was looking for another type of lady altogether—

The sound of tuneless whistling and clicking footsteps sent him searching quickly for cover.

• • •

She waited the ten minutes, then fifteen. By twenty she was wringing her hands on the bench where she sat in the courtyard and imagining what it would be like to spend some time in an Italian prison.

Maybe the food would be good.

At least they didn’t kill thieves these days, and hang their corpses from the Bargello’s windows as a testament to rough justice.

Once again she checked her watch, rubbed her fingers over her mouth. He’d been caught, she was sure of it. Right now he was being interrogated inside some hot little room, and he’d give up her name without a qualm. The coward.

Then she saw him, strolling across the courtyard like a man without a care in the world and no shadow of larceny in his heart. Her relief was so great that she sprang up, threw her arms around him.

“Where have you been? I thought you’d been—”

He kissed her as much to stop her babbling as to take advantage of the situation. “Let’s go get a drink. We’ll talk about it,” he said against her mouth.

“How could you just leave me out here like this? You said ten minutes—it’s been nearly half an hour.”

“It took me a little longer.” They were still mouth to mouth, and he grinned at her. “Miss me?”

“No. I was wondering what was on the menu in jail tonight.”

“Have a little faith.” He clasped hands, swinging arms with her as they walked. “Some wine and cheese would be nice right now. The Piazza della Signoria isn’t as picturesque as others, but it’s close.”

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