Homeport by Nora Roberts Page A

rubbing a hand up and down her arm to warm it as she read the message. Though she made herself stop, the chill remained.
    There was no name, no return number.

    It read like a sly chuckle, she thought. The tone taunting and eerily threatening. But why, and who?
    Her mother? It shamed her that Elizabeth’s name was the first to form in her mind. But surely a woman of Elizabeth’s power, personality, and position wouldn’t stoop to cryptic and anonymous messages.
    She’d already hurt Miranda in the most direct way possible.
    It was more likely a disgruntled employee at either Standjo or the Institute, someone who felt she’d been unfair in her policy or work assignments.
    Of course, that was it, she decided and tried to breathe clearly again. A technician she’d reprimanded or a student who was unhappy with a grade. This was only meant to unsettle her, and she wouldn’t allow it to work.
    But rather than discarding it, she slipped it into her bottom drawer and turned the key in the lock.
    Putting it out of her mind, she sat to outline her day on paper. By the time she’d completed the first tasks on her list—reading her mail and memos, organizing her phone messages—the sun was up and streaming in bands through the slats of her blinds.
    “Miranda?” A quick rap on the door jolted her.
    “Yes, come in.” She glanced at the clock, noting her assistant was punctual, as always.
    “I saw your car in the lot. Didn’t know you were coming back today.”
    “No, it was . . . unscheduled.”
    “So how was Florence?” Lori moved briskly around the room, checking for messages, adjusting the slant of the blinds.
    “Warm, sunny.”
    “Sounds wonderful.” Satisfied all was in its proper place, Lori sat and perched her notebook on her knee. She was a pretty blonde with a Kewpie doll mouth, a voice like Betty Boop, and an edge of efficiency sharp as a honed razor. “It’s nice to have you back,” she said with a smile.
    “Thanks.” Because the welcome was sincere, Miranda smiled in return. “It’s nice to be back. I’ve got a lot to catch up on. Right now I need updates on the Carbello Nude and the Bronzino restoration.”
    The routine was soothing, so much so that Miranda forgot everything but the matters at hand for the next two hours. Leaving Lori to set up appointments and meetings, she headed out to check in with the lab.
    Because she was thinking of Andrew, Miranda decided to detour by his office before heading down. His domain was in the opposite wing, closer to the public areas. The galleries, acquisitions, and displays were his province, while Miranda preferred working mainly behind the scenes.
    She strode down the corridors, her practical boots treading over marble. Here and there the wide square windows allowed streams of pale light to streak over the floor, offered the muffled sound of street traffic, glimpses of buildings and bare trees.
    Office doors were discreetly closed. The occasional sound of phones or the whine of faxes echoed dully. A secretary carried a ream of paper out of the supply room and shot Miranda a startled-rabbit look, before murmuring a “Good morning, Dr. Jones,” then scurrying on.
    Was she that intimidating? Miranda thought. That unfriendly? Because it made her think of the fax, she narrowed her eyes at the woman’s back as she scooted through a door and closed it behind her.
    Maybe she wasn’t outgoing, maybe the staff didn’t have the same easy affection for her that they seemed to have for Andrew, but she wasn’t . . . hard. Was she?
    It disturbed her to think so, to wonder if her innate reserve was perceived as coldness.
    Like her mother.
    No, she didn’t want to believe that. Those who knew her wouldn’t think so. She had a solid relationship with Lori, an easy camaraderie with John Carter. She didn’t run the lab here like a boot camp where no one could speak their mind or tell a joke.
    Though no one joked with her, she thought.
    She was in charge, she