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so far. You know the history of the villa.”
    â€œYes, of course. It was once the home of Giulietta Buonadoni, a mistress of Lorenzo the Magnificent known as the Dark Lady. After his death she’s believed to have become a companion of other Medicis. At one time or another every light of the Renaissance in or around Florence was welcomed into her home.”
    â€œSo, you understand the possibilities.”
    â€œI don’t deal in possibilities,” Miranda said curtly.
    â€œExactly. That’s why you’re here.”
    Gently, Miranda brushed a finger over the tattered velvet. “Is it?”
    â€œI wanted the best, and I’m in a position to access what I want. I also demand discretion. If news of this find leaks, the speculation will be wild. That is something Standjo can’t and won’t risk. The government wants no publicity, and no public speculation until the bronze is dated, and tests are complete.”
    â€œThe plumber’s probably already told all his drinking pals.”
    â€œI wouldn’t think so.” Again that small smile played around Elizabeth’s mouth. “He took the bronze out of a government-owned building. He’s quite aware, at this point, that if he doesn’t do precisely what he’s told, he could go to prison.”
    â€œFear is often an efficient gag.”
    â€œYes. But that isn’t our concern. We’ve been commissioned to test the bronze, and to provide the government with all the information science can offer. We require an objective eye, someone who believes in facts, not romance.”
    â€œThere’s no room for romance in science,” Miranda murmured, and carefully unwrapped the velvet.
    Her heart gave one hard thud against her ribs when the bronze lay naked. Her skilled and experienced eye recognized the brilliance of the workmanship, the glory of it. But she frowned, instinctively burying admiration under skepticism.
    â€œIt’s beautifully conceived and executed—certainly the style falls within the realm of the Renaissance.” She slipped her glasses out of the case in her pocket, put them on before she lifted the bronze. She judged the weight, turning it slowly.
    The proportions were perfect, the sensuality of the subject obvious. The smallest details—toenails, each tendril ofhair, the definition of calf muscles—were stunningly depicted.
    She was glorious, free, wonderfully aware of her own power. The long curvy body was arched back, the arms lifted up, not in prayer or supplication, Miranda noted. In triumph. The face wasn’t delicate, but stunning, the eyes half closed as if in pleasure, the mouth curved slyly in enjoyment of that pleasure.
    She was balanced on the balls of her feet, like a woman about to leap into a warm, scented pool. Or a lover’s arms.
    It was unashamedly sexual, and for one baffling instant, Miranda thought she could feel the heat of it. Like life.
    The patina indicated age, but such things were deceiving, she knew. Patinas could be created. The style of the artist was unmistakable. But such a thing was all but impossible. Styles could be mimicked.
    â€œIt’s the Dark Lady,” she said. “Giulietta Buonadoni. There’s no doubt about that. I’ve seen this face often enough in paintings and sculpture of the period. But I’ve never seen or heard of this bronze. I’ll do some research on it, but I doubt I’d have missed it.”
    Elizabeth studied Miranda’s face rather than the bronze. She’d seen that quick flicker of excitement, of delight, both of which had been quickly controlled. Exactly as she’d expected them to be.
    â€œBut you agree it is a bronze of Renaissance style.”
    â€œYes. That hardly makes it a lost piece from the fifteenth century.” Her eyes were narrowed as she slowly turned the bronze in her hands. “Any art student with a clever eye has sketched and copied her face over the