Homeport by Nora Roberts Page A

proud.
    But beneath that long-legged stride was the arrogant and unwitting sexuality of a woman who believed herself a step beyond the physical need for men. It was a swinging, aloof gait.
    Even in the dim light, he recognized her. She was, he thought with a slow smile, a hard woman not to notice.
    He’d been sitting there for nearly an hour now, entertaining himself with various arias from Carmen, La Bohème, The Marriage of Figaro . Really, he had all he needed for now, and had done what he needed to do, but he was grateful he’d loitered long enough to see her arrive.
    An early riser, he decided, a woman who liked her work well enough to face it on a cold, snowy morning before most of the city stirred. He appreciated a person who enjoyed their work. God knew, he loved his.
    But what to do about Dr. Miranda Jones? he wondered. He imagined she was using the side entrance, even now sliding her key card through the slot, adding her code on the number pad. No doubt she would carefully reset the security alarms once she was inside.
    All reports indicated she was a practical and careful woman. He appreciated practical women. It was such a joy to corrupt them.
    He could work around her, or he could use her. Either way, he would get the job done. But using her would be so much more. . . entertaining. Since this would be his last job, it seemed only fair it include some entertainment in addition to the thrill and the profit.
    He thought it would be worth his while to get to know Miranda Jones, to indulge himself with her. Before he stole from her.
    He saw the light flick on in a window on the third floor of the sprawling granite building. Straight to work, hemused, smiling again as he caught the shadow of movement behind the window.
    It was about time he got to work himself. He started the car, pulled away from the curve, and drove off to dress for the next part of his day.
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    The New England Institute of Art History had been built by Miranda’s great-grandfather. But it was her grandfather, Andrew Jones, who had expanded it to its full potential. He’d always had a keen interest in the arts, and had even fancied himself a painter. He’d been at least good enough to convince a number of healthy young models to take off their clothes and pose for him.
    He’d enjoyed socializing with artists, entertaining them, acting as patron when one—particularly an attractive female one—caught his eye. A ladies’ man and enthusiastic drinker he might have been, but he’d also been generous, imaginative, and had never been afraid to put his money where his heart lay.
    The building was a strong gray granite, spreading over a full block, with its towering columns, its wings and squared-off archways. The original structure had been a museum with carefully tended grounds, huge old shade trees, and a quiet, rather stern-faced dignity.
    Andrew had wanted more. He’d seen the Institute as a showcase for art and for artists, as an arena where art was displayed, restored, taught, and analyzed. So he had cut down the trees, slabbed over the grounds, and erected the graceful and somewhat fanciful additions to the original structure.
    There were classrooms with high light-filled windows, carefully designed laboratories, lofty storerooms, and a beehive of offices. Gallery space had been more than tripled.
    Students who wished to study there were taken on merit. Those who could afford to pay paid dearly for the privilege. Those who couldn’t, and were deemed worthy, were subsidized.
    Art was holy at the Institute, and science was its deity.
    Carved in a stone lintel above the main entrance were the words of Longfellow.
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    ART IS LONG, AND TIME IS FLEETING
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    Studying, preserving, and displaying that art was how the Institute spent its time.
    It remained basically true to Andrew’s conception fifty years later with his grandchildren at the helm.
    The museum galleries it held were arguably