Until You (23 page)

It was a good story and nothing Conor hadn't already thought of by himself. Miranda had seduced de Lasserre, not just with her body but with every emotional trick in the book. Then, why was it so difficult to listen to this cool recitation? Why did he want to wrap his hands around the man's neck and squeeze?

"The man, fool that he is, believes her story. He accedes to her wishes. They elope. He flies her to Paris in a private jet bedecked with white flowers, carries her over the threshold of his ancestral home with love and pride in his heart. His staff greets her with the respect that should be accorded a new Countess. 'All of this is now yours,' the man tells her. He carries her to his rooms, his innocent young bride, and starts to make tender love to her... and she laughs in his face and tells him she is not a doll, she is a woman, that his lovemaking bores her and that she has been with boys who have made her feel more than he can ever hope to imagine."

De Lasserre's fists clenched. He trembled with emotion.

"Eva Winthrop appeared at the door the next morning. She was arrogant and rude, she did not even ask to hear my side of the story but immediately informed me that Miranda was a minor and that I had committed a criminal act. Miranda chimed in and said that I was a beast who had tricked her into marriage and forced her into bed. The two of them, mother and daughter, turned on me, called me names I will not, to this day, repeat."

"Are you saying that the money you got from Eva was money you more than deserved?"

"For God's sake, man, use your head! My name, my title, my home and my lands go back to the very beginning of my country. Look around you. Do I look as if I needed Eva's money?"

"I only know what Eva told me," Conor said, his eyes on de Lasserre's face. "She said she bought Miranda's freedom from you."

"That is ridiculous! I gave her the girl and our marriage license, both quite willingly. Oh, she tossed a handful of notes on the floor, as if I were a beggar, but—"

"A handful of notes?"

"The equivalent of five hundred of your dollars, perhaps. I didn't stop to count. I gathered it up and ran after her but she and Miranda were gone."

"Five hundred dollars," Conor said softly. "Well, who could blame you for keeping such a pittance?"

"I did not keep it! I took a taxi to the Gare d'Austerlitz. As always, there were half a dozen young
putains,
just about Miranda's age, plying their trade on the streets. Like an angel of mercy, I dispensed Eva Winthrop's leavings into their grubby hands until it was gone." He smiled coldly. "All things considered, it seemed a most appropriate charity."

A muscle knotted and unknotted in Conor's jaw. "You've been very forthcoming, Count."

"I see no reason to deny the truth."

"No. Neither do I. There's just one other thing I wanted to ask you."

"Yes?"

"How do you feel about underwear?"

"What?"

"Underwear. You know, panties. Camisoles. Maybe garter belts." Conor's smile curled at the edges. "Silk stuff, mostly, with a few pieces of lace mixed in."

De Lasserre's face was like a mask. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"I hope not."

"What are you saying, O'Neil?"

"Let me put it in words you'll understand." Conor's smile fled. "I'm telling you not to fuck with me."

Edouard de Lasserre stiffened. "Get out of my house!"

Conor nodded. "Don't bother seeing me out. I'll just keep going until the air starts smelling clean again."

The Count was still sputtering as Conor slammed the front door behind him.

* * *

It was a long drive back to Paris.

Snow had made the traffic heavier than usual and there was a fender-bender just outside the city. Cars and trucks were caught in a snarl so dense it would have done D.C. or even New York proud.

That was fine. It gave Conor plenty of time to think.

Miranda Beckman was a complete enigma.

Had she sent Eva that note? She had reason to want to upset her mother but so did Edouard de Lasserre. And it was a cinch to make a case for the sad, frumpy Amalie.

Traffic inched forward. A space opened in the next lane and Conor shot into it, ignoring the frantic horn blasts of the car he'd cut off.

Take the initiative, that was the key to survival in Parisian traffic.

In life.

And he was about to do just that.

He'd come to Paris to check on Miranda and he'd done it. Now, he wanted out.

Tonight, he'd order in a sandwich and a couple of bottles of ale—you could find ale at his hotel, it was one of the things that made the place civilized. And then he'd take out his Android, enter some notes and send everything straight to Harry Thurston's office.

Let Thurston give the mess to somebody else. The FBI. The CIA. The French police. Hell, Dick Tracy. Whatever, whoever, he didn't care.

He was taking himself out of the loop.

Harry would phone, try to talk him into hanging in. He'd refuse, head for the airport, buy a ticket on the next flight out and go home.

Maybe he'd give Mary Alice a call.

Maybe he'd try somebody new.

A taxi slipped into a space the size of a shoebox in front of him. Conor stood on the brakes and cursed while what sounded like a thousand tinny horns blared in fury.

He loosened his collar and tie.

Yes sir, he was going home.

No more crazy French traffic. No more smarmy French counts. No more death wishes for nicotine and tar.

And no more Miranda, to screw up his head.

He'd see her one last time, tell her to watch herself, that somebody would be in touch soon. Then he'd wave good-bye, and never look back.

* * *

It was a great plan.

A hell of a plan.

It held up all the way to Miranda's apartment.

But when she opened the door, raised a tear-stained face to his and sobbed, "Oh, O'Neil," as if his name was a prayer, when his arms closed around her and he felt her tremble as he drew her close...

When that happened, Conor knew he wasn't going anywhere until he'd solved a puzzle named Miranda.

Chapter 9

Conor was here.

He was here, and his arms were around her, and she was safe.

Miranda burrowed against him like a frightened animal, letting his heat, his scent, the hardness of his body encompass her. The coppery taste of fear was still in her mouth but she knew she was safe. Safe, because Conor had come.

It was crazy and she knew it, but it was his name she'd invoked moments ago, when she'd come home and found the horror that awaited her.

"Conor," she'd cried, closing her eyes to the scraps of paper that had fallen to the floor, and then the doorbell had rung and, like the answer to a prayer, he was there.

It made no sense but then, after last night, nothing made sense. An icy chill ran through her blood as she imagined the unknown hands that had gone through her clothes, the unseen head that had left its imprint on her pillow. And now there was this, the hideous picture and the sickening note...

A whimper rose in her throat, and Conor's arms tightened around her.

"Miranda, what is it? What's happened?"

She wanted to tell him but she couldn't. Her teeth were chattering and if he let go of her, she knew she would collapse. Her legs felt as if somebody had stripped out the bones and muscle and left behind nothing but jelly. The only thing she was capable of was clinging to him while the breath shuddered in and out of her lungs.

"Talk to me, dammit!"

His voice was rough. He clasped her shoulders, tried to hold her out at arm's length and look at her, but she wouldn't let him. She shook her head, tightened her hold on the lapels of his jacket and dug in harder.

"Hold me," she whispered, "just hold me. Please."

He hesitated, and then his arms folded around her again. She gave a long sigh and slumped against him.

* * *

God, what was this all about?

Conor had seen fear before, even terror, but nothing that came close to this. Miranda was shaking from head to toe. Her heart was racing so fast against his it felt as if it might burst from her chest. Her skin was icy cold and her face, in the quick glimpse he'd gotten, was the sickly white that warned of shock.

His jaw clenched. If someone had touched her, if the sick-ass son of a bitch who'd gone through her underwear had so much as laid a finger on her, he'd—he'd—

He blanked his mind to the pictures racing through his head. He had to keep his cool and restore hers before he could figure out what to do next but hell, he'd never known how to deal with crying women. His ex-wife had been a weeper. Every time they'd tried to sort things out, every time the sorting-out had ended in a blank wall, Jillian had wept buckets while she accused him of being heartless but the truth was, her sobbing was beyond him to comprehend.

His mother had never cried. Kathleen Margaret O'Neil had dealt with every emotion, from joy to sorrow, by assuming a stiff-lipped countenance and hurrying off to St. Michael's to light candles to her favorite saints and yet here he stood, his arms filled with a bawling female who wanted his comfort, not her God's, and who was clinging to him as if he was a rock set in the middle of a storm-tossed sea.

Conor shut his eyes. Slowly, his hand lifted. He stroked it down Miranda's hair, then over her shoulder.

"It's okay," he said, "it's all right."

He went on stroking her, whispering to her, saying whatever came into his head, and after a while she wasn't shaking as hard and her heart slowed to something approximating normal. Still, she stayed where she was, in his arms, her face buried in his throat, and it was amazing, how good it felt to have her there.

She must have been out in the snow because her hair was damp and cool. And it smelled of something soft and feminine, violets maybe, or roses. He wasn't very good with flowers and he'd never paid attention to perfume except to know that you could always send a woman a bottle of Chanel if you wanted to say an easy good-bye but whatever it was Miranda smelled of, was wonderful.

She felt wonderful, too, all warm and soft in his arms. Her breasts were pressed to his chest so that he could feel their rounded firmness. Her impossibly long legs and sweetly rounded hips were snug against his. Her waist, under his hands, was slender. Her back was long and straight and each time he stroked the length of it, he became aware of the almost imperceptible tilt of her pelvis.

Conor shut his eyes.
Damn you, O'Neil, don't get a hard-on now!
But he would. He would, if he held her much longer, if she went on nuzzling his throat, breathing her warm breath against his skin, clinging to him as if he were the only man in the world and she the only woman.

"Shh," he said, "it's all right, baby, it's all right."

* * *

Baby? Had he really called her baby?

It was such a silly word, an affectation, really; she'd never liked hearing men call women baby, not even in those old Humphrey Bogart-Lauren Bacall movies Jean-Phillipe was so fond of.

And yet, when Conor said it, it sounded altogether different. It sounded like a word of comfort, a reminder that she was a woman and he was a man and that he would protect her. Which was ridiculous. Stupid, really. She didn't want looking after, didn't need it.

Certainly not.

She shuddered, took a step back, and Conor's hands wrapped around her shoulders. He moved back, too, and looked down at her.

"Better?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Tell me what happened."

His tone was calm and reassuring, but there was an intensity about him that was almost palpable. His eyes were dark, the pupils so enlarged that for one absurd moment, she wondered if she might fall into them and drown as she almost had last night, in the heat of his kiss.

"Miranda?"

She took a deep breath and returned to reality. "Someone sent me something."