Until You (17 page)

Conor had had a long talk with himself in the bathroom. The talk, and a sinkful of cold water, had cleared his head. He was good at what he did. His emotions didn't get in his way. Hell, according to the woman who'd once been his wife, his emotions
never
got in his way.

He'd let the water out of the sink, looked himself in the eye in the mirror, and told himself he was done behaving like an ass.

So why was he standing here now, looking at Miranda and wanting to—wanting to—

Hell, she was right. It
was
late.

"Okay," he said briskly. He tore his eyes from her face and began rolling down his sleeves. "We'll pick up tomorrow."

Miranda groaned. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes." He looked up. "You've got—you've got..."

"What?"

His eyes met hers. "You've got chocolate on your mouth."

It wasn't what he'd meant to say. What in hell was the matter with him?

She shot a guilt-filled look at the box in her hand, then dumped it on the sofa behind her while a rush of bright color climbed her cheeks.

"Is it gone?" she said, rubbing her hand over her lips.

He saw himself walking to where she stood. "No," he'd say, and before she could react he'd bend his head to hers, run the tip of his tongue over her mouth.

Heat raced through his blood. It took everything he had not to move.

"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Yeah, it's gone. Look, I'll come by tomorrow morning, tie this thing up, okay?"

"I suppose. But I don't know what questions you can ask that I haven't already answered."

"I'll think of something." He tried for a smile. "By morning, my brain ought to be functioning again."

He plucked his jacket from the back of the chair where he'd left it and started towards her, hoping she'd step aside before he reached her because he wasn't really sure what would happen if she didn't. But she didn't move, she just stood there looking soft and vulnerable and all at once he felt something give inside him.

"Hell," he said, and he reached out, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Miranda made a little sound of protest and tried to pull back, but Conor wouldn't let her. He drew her closer, kissed her harder.

She melted into him.

There was no other way to describe it. One second he was holding her, forcing her to suffer his kiss. The next, her arms were around his neck and her mouth was clinging to his.

They drew back at the same instant, both of them breathing hard.

"I'm not going to apologize," Conor said, "or to say I didn't know what I was doing—"

Her fist blurred through the air and slammed into his mouth.

"Get out," Miranda said, "get out and don't you ever touch me again. Do you understand me, O'Neil? Because if you do, if you do..."

Her voice shook, but hatred for him burned bright and steady in her eyes. There was nothing soft or vulnerable about her now. She looked tough and determined and when Conor touched his lip, he wasn't surprised to see a smear of bright red blood on his fingertip.

"Lock the door after me," he said, as calmly as if nothing had happened, "and put on the chain. Don't open the door for anybody, not even for Pretty Boy. Not that you have to worry. Whoever did this isn't going to put in a return appearance tonight. I'll arrange to have a new lock installed first thing in the morning."

"Do you really think I'm going to take orders from you?"

He put on his jacket and draped his raincoat over one shoulder.

"Yes," he said. "That's exactly what I think."

"Damn you, O'Neil! You can take your orders and—"

"Give it up," he said, very quietly. "That may have worked with Mama and Hoyt and all those fancy schools. But I promise you, Beckman, it sure as hell isn't going to work with me."

* * *

The street was dark, the night was cold.

It was very late but there were still taxis cruising the Rue de Rivoli. He stepped off the curb, started to signal for one, then changed his mind.

A long walk was just what he needed.

Conor turned up the collar of his coat and tucked his hands into his pockets. He needed to clear his head and think about the growing complexity of the Winthrop situation.

Instead, he thought about Miranda.

He'd kissed her and he wished he hadn't, but he didn't blame himself for it. He was a man, not a saint. Just this morning, she'd teased him almost beyond tolerance. In another time and place, a man would have done more than kiss a woman under such circumstances, no matter how unwilling she was.

But that was just the problem. She hadn't been unwilling.

Yes, she'd slapped his face. She told him what she'd do if he ever tried to touch her again, but that was after she'd given herself up to the kiss.

Had she done it deliberately? She might have. She was a woman who'd do anything to confuse a man.

But the kiss had seemed so real. As real as the photo he had in his wallet of Miranda under the dogwood tree.

Conor's jaw tightened. Forget it, he told himself. He'd kissed her and now it was over. He had to concentrate on what mattered. The note. The fact that someone seemed to have tossed her apartment. The wariness in Eva's eyes.

It worked, for a few minutes, but after a while, as he made his way along the dark streets of the sleeping city, Conor gave up trying to think about anything but the warm, silken magic of Miranda's mouth under his.

Chapter 7

Miranda was in the shower when the phone rang early the next morning.

Maybe it was Jean-Phillipe. She'd tried to reach him almost an hour ago but his voice mail had picked up and she'd ended up saying no more than "Hi, it's me, give me a call when you can."

It just hadn't seemed possible to tell a machine that your apartment had been broken into and that somebody had rifled through your clothing.

She grabbed for a towel, wrapped herself in it and raced for the phone.

"Hello," she said, sitting down on the edge of her bed, "oh, I'm so glad you got my message!"

"Did you leave a message for me, darling?" Conor purred. "I'm really touched."

Miranda stiffened. "O'Neil?"

"I take it you were expecting somebody else."

"What do you want?"

"A bright and cheerful good-morning would do for starters."

"Listen, I was taking a shower when the phone rang and now I'm dripping puddles all over the place. Just tell me what you want, okay?"

You, Conor thought, with water beading on your shoulders and the smell of soap rising from your skin...

"O'Neil? Why did you call?"

"Just checking," he said, and cleared his throat. "Any problems during the night?"

The question made her want to laugh. Did half-jumping out of your skin at every little creak of the building constitute a problem? How about trying to sleep on the living room sofa because you couldn't stand the thought of going into your bedroom? Did you categorize that as a problem?

"No," she said easily, "none at all."

She sounded almost bored, as if she'd all but forgotten the break-in. Conor almost laughed. It was a good thing she couldn't know that he'd spent the night wondering if he'd been stupid to have left her alone and the other half telling himself he'd have been even stupider to have stayed.

"Is that all, O'Neil?"

"No," he said curtly, "it's not. There'll be a locksmith at your door in half an hour."

"A locksmith?"

"That's what I said."

"Thank you, but if I need a locksmith, I'll make my own arrangements."

"You need one. And I'm making the arrangements."

"I didn't authorize you to—"

"No. You didn't. On the other hand, if you know some guy who can be trusted to install a pick-proof lock on the door of the apartment of the famous Miranda Beckman without being tempted to blab about it over a glass of
vin ordinaire
down at the local
cafe
a couple of hours later, be my guest." He paused. "Unless, of course, you want that kind of publicity."

She didn't, and he knew it. Miranda sighed and gave in to the inevitable.

"All right. Tell your locksmith to come over."

"I already did. His name is Pete Cochran. He's tall and skinny and he's got hair so red it can stop traffic. He'll have an ID card with an embassy stamp on it. Ask him to show you the card before you let him in."

"The American Embassy?"

"Yes."

Miranda's brows lifted. "You have friends in high places, O'Neil."

"Yeah, my connections are impressive," Conor said smoothly. "It's one of the reasons your mother hired me. I'm probably the only guy you'll ever meet in Paris who's owed a favor by somebody used to make his living breaking into the homes of the rich and infamous."

"I'm sure you only move in the finest social circles," Miranda said sweetly.

"Half an hour, Beckman. And try and be dressed by the time Cochran gets there, will you? He's got a wife and four kids and, for all I know, a weak heart."

"Don't tempt me, O'Neil. I've always wanted to add a married, red-headed thief to my list of conquests and here you are, serving him up for breakfast." Her voice hardened. "Have a nice day," she said, and slammed down the phone.

Conor glared at his telephone, mouthed a couple of very creative obscenities and then headed for the bathroom to shave.

* * *

Half an hour later, Miranda's intercom rang.

It was Madame Delain calling to say that there was a gentleman called Monsieur Cochran—she pronounced it Cookrain—in the lobby.

"He says," madame said with obvious displeasure, "that he is expected."

"Yes, that's right. Send him up, please."

Madame sniffed and broke the connection. Miranda knew she'd expected an explanation of why Monsieur Cookrain was expected but she offered none. The
concierge
was discreet but her husband was not and, as Conor had said, she didn't want the story of the break-in getting around.

When the bell rang, she started to reach for the doorknob. Then she remembered Conor's warning. It seemed stupid to ask for the locksmith's ID when madame had just rung to say he was on his way, but she decided to go along with it.

"Yes," she said, "who is it?"

"Pete Cochran."

He held his card to the peep-hole. Miranda looked at it, then looked at Cochran's pleasant, mid-Western American face.

"Okay," she said, and let him in.

Except for the bright red hair, Cochran was a nondescript-looking man carrying an equally nondescript canvas satchel that looked as if it had seen better days. He shut the door, put down the satchel, and gave her an appraising look followed by an easy smile.

"Nice."

Miranda didn't return the smile. "You're here to change the door lock, Mr. Cochran," she said coolly.

Cochran grinned. "That's what I meant," he said, running his hand over the door. "It's nice wood. Mahogany."

After that, he was all business, working methodically and neatly, but that didn't surprise her. For all his swagger, it was the way Conor worked, too. The people he relied on would do the same.

Miranda leaned back against a small, marble-topped table—a find she'd picked up during one of her forays to the flea market—and folded her arms.

"So," she said, "you and O'Neil are old friends, hmm?"

Cochran picked up a small drill and plugged its cord into the nearest outlet.

"Old acquaintances, you might say."

"Have you known each other long?"

"Long enough, you might say."

The drill whirred as he turned it on and attacked the screws that held the old lock in place.

"Where did you meet?" Miranda asked, raising her voice over the sound of the drill. "In New York?"

Cochran looked up at her and smiled. "You might say."