Page 92 of Homeport

“I’ve got to run down to the desk,” he called out. “Snap it up in there. I’ll only be a minute, and I need to change too.”

“I’ll be ready.” And the minute she heard the door shut, she was dragging the chair away from the door. “Be there, be there, be there,” she murmured frantically, as she yanked her address book out of her briefcase. Flipping through, she found the number and made the call.

“Pronto.”

“Giovanni, it’s Miranda.”

“Miranda?” It wasn’t pleasure in his voice, but caution. “Where are you? Your brother’s been—”

“I’m in Florence,” she interrupted. “I need to see you right away. Please, Giovanni, meet me inside Santa Maria Novella. Ten minutes.”

“But—”

“Please, it’s vital.” She hung up quickly, then moving fast, covered the bronzes sloppily in bubble wrap and stuffed them back in their bag. She grabbed the bag and her purse, and ran.

She took the stairs, hurrying down the carpeted treads with her heart banging in her chest, her arms straining against the weight of the bag. She pulled up short at the base, eased out.

She could see Ryan at the desk, chatting cheerfully with the clerk. She couldn’t risk crossing the lobby, and tried to slide invisibly around the corner and jog through the lounge. She kept going, through the glass doors that led to the pretty courtyard, with its sparkling swimming pool and shady trees. Pigeons scattered as she raced through.

Though the bag weighed heavily, she didn’t stop for breath until she’d circled the building and made it out to the street. Even then, she took only time enough to shift hands, readjust the weight, cast one nervous glance behind her. Then she headed straight for the church.

Santa Maria Novella, with its beguiling patterns of green and white marble, was just a short walk from the hotel.

Miranda controlled her need to run and walked into its cool, dim interior. Her legs wobbled as she headed down and found a seat near the left of the chancel. Once there, she tried to understand what the hell she was doing.

Ryan was going to be furious, and she couldn’t be sure just how much violence simmered under that elegant surface. But she was doing the right thing, the only logical thing.

Even the copy had to be protected until there was resolution. You couldn’t trust a man who stole for a living.

Giovanni would come, she told herself. She’d known him for years. However flirtatious, however eccentric he might be, he was at heart a scientist. And he’d always been her friend.

He would listen, he would assess. He would help.

Trying to calm herself, she shut her eyes.

There was something in the air of such places, temples of age and faith and power. Religion had always been, on some levels, about power. Here, that power had manifested itself in great art, so much of it paid for from the coffers of the Medicis.

Buying their souls? she wondered. Balancing out their misdeeds and sins by creating grandeur for a church? Lorenzo had betrayed his wife with the Dark Lady—however acceptable such affairs had been. And his greatest protégé had immortalized her in bronze.

Had he known?

No, no, she remembered, he’d been dead when the bronze was cast. She would have been making the transition to Piero, or one of the younger cousins.

She wouldn’t have given up the power her beauty granted her by turning away a new protector. She was too smart for that, too practical. To prosper, or even to survive during that period, a woman needed the shield of a man, or her own wealth, a certain acceptable lineage.

Or great beauty with a cool mind and heart that knew how to wield it.

Giulietta had known.

Shivering, Miranda opened her eyes again. It was the bronze, she reminded herself, not the woman that mattered now. It was science, not speculation that would solve the puzzle.

She heard the rapid footsteps and tensed. He’d found her. Oh God. She jumped up, whirled, and nearly wept with relief.

“Giovanni.” Her limbs went weak as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

“Bella, what are you doing here?” He returned the embrace with a combination of exasperation and affection. “Why do you call me with fear in your voice and ask me to meet you like a spy?” He glanced over at the high altar. “And in church.”

“It’s quiet, it’s safe. Sanctuary,” she said with a weak smile as she drew back. “I want to explain, but I don’t know how much time I have. He knows I’m gone by now, and he’ll be looking for me.”

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