Until You (45 page)

Miranda smiled and linked her arms loosely around his neck.

"So I hid in the closet and sure enough, in just a little while, Blakely came in and sat herself down at her desk. A couple of minutes later, one of the monitors who worked in the kitchen came trundling up the stairs, carrying a tray. She set it down in front of Blakely, whipped off the cover, and there it was."

"Lobster and pâté?"

"Better than that. Steak and a baked potato oozing with butter. Oh, I still drool when I think of it! The closest we'd come to meat in weeks was some slimy grey stuff."

"Mystery meat," Conor said, "yeah, we had that in the army."

"Is that where you broke your nose? In the army?"

Damn, what was the matter with him? He never so much as hinted at his background. It was right up there on his How to Survive list, not just professionally but personally. You didn't give pieces of yourself away; what was the point? Nobody gave a damn about anybody in this world, not really. Nobody cared what was your favorite color, or what kinds of books you preferred. He'd always known that; it was one of the things Jillian had thrown at him, when they'd split up, that he'd never let her in, and now here he was, dropping bits and pieces of information like a flower girl going up the aisle with a basket of rose petals on her arm, not just wanting to know everything there was to know about Miranda but, dammit, wanting her to know about him.

Wanting her to know the truth, that he'd lied to her from Day One, that he wished to God he hadn't, that she was becoming a part of his life he didn't want to think about ever losing...

"Conor?"

He blinked, forced himself to focus on her slightly puzzled smile.

"Yes," he said, catching a strand of her hair, letting it slip like silk through his fingers, "I was in the army. But it isn't where I broke my nose."

"I'll bet it was playing football, in high school."

He laughed. "Football heroes don't break their noses."

"Is that what you were?" Miranda planted a gentle kiss on his slightly bent nose. "A football hero?"

"Well, I would have been," he said modestly, "but I broke my leg taking a joyride on a Harley, and that was the end of me and football."

"Joyriding? As in borrowing?"

"Joyriding, as in borrowing without permission. Are you horrified?"

She laughed. "When you hear what I did to Blakely, you'll be sorry you asked that question. So, what was it? A sudden yen? A boyish prank?" She grasped the open collar of his shirt and tugged on it. "A fit of youthful rebellion?"

"All of that, I guess. The bike belonged to the guy who lived downstairs. He'd let me ride it a couple of times; I figured I'd take it out for half an hour, bring it back, and nobody'd be the wiser."

"But?"

"But, my old man caught me. He said what I'd done was a sure sign I was destined for a dissolute life."

Miranda's brows lifted. "You sure your father and my mother never met?"

Conor chuckled. "Not unless Eva put in some time down around the Magnificent Seventh."

"The Magnificent Seventh? What's that?"

"My old man's police precinct. He was a cop."

"A law-and-order type, hmm?"

Conor's smile tilted. "Yeah, you might say that."

He stood up, drew Miranda to her feet and put his arm around her. They strolled along a path bordered by bright yellow daffodils.

"Just look at the flowers," she said. Her smile lit his heart. "Aren't they beautiful?"

"Beautiful," Conor agreed, watching her.

She bent down to the daffodils and reached out as if to touch one but her fingers never quite reached the golden petals. Suddenly, Conor thought of the photo tucked inside his wallet, the one of Miranda sitting under a dogwood tree, smiling with the innocence of youth and holding a flower in her hand.

That's the sort of girl she was,
Agnes Foster had said coldly,
sitting on the grass when she knew it was forbidden, plucking blossoms. She would have been reprimanded for that.

He reached down, plucked a daff from the sea of gold and handed it to Miranda.

"It's okay," he said solemnly. "There's an old Irish proverb says you have to pick the first daffodil of the season or they won't bloom the next year."

A smile curved over her mouth. "You made that up."

"Yeah." He smiled, too, as he took the flower from her and tucked it in her hair. "But you have to admit it's a nice thought."

He slipped his arm around her again and they headed into the leafy coolness of the Ramble. "So," he said, clearing his throat, "you were telling me about the scam you pulled on old lady Blakely. Why'd you want to swap places with the kid on K.P. duty?"

Miranda laughed softly and ducked her head against his shoulder.

"Well, how else could I switch Blakely's dinner plate for one containing a dead mouse?"

Conor burst out laughing. Ahead, the graceful grey stone of Bow Bridge arched across Central Park lake.

"You didn't."

"I did. Poor little guy met his end in a trap in the stable but I gave him the closest thing I could to a big send-off. Oh, it was wonderful! Blakely whisked off the cover and there was Mickey, lying on a bed of watercress with his little feet pointing straight up."

The bridge was deserted and lit by the sun. When they reached the center of the span, Conor leaned back against the warm stone and put his arms around Miranda. She was still smiling but darkness was stealing into her eyes.

"Blakely knew, right away, that I'd done it. So she sent for Eva, told her what I'd done and said I was unfit to continue at the school."

"Did you tell Eva about the rotten food and that you'd tried to have it changed?"

"Remember your father's little speech to you? Eva's was pretty much the same. She said I'd been nothing but trouble all my life and that the next school she sent me to would know how to deal with 'problem girls' like me." She gave a soft, sad little laugh. "And I was on my way."

Conor took her face in his hands and kissed her.

"Nobody's allowed to feel sad on the first really nice spring day."

She smiled and lay her palms against his chest.

"Another old Irish proverb?"

"A rule," he said solemnly. "Besides, you haven't finished your story. What part did poor Beryl What's-Her-Name get to play in all this?"

"Beryl Goodman. Poor Beryl is right. All she'd done was watch the door while I made the switch but Blakely chewed her out and sent for her parents. Beryl cried and cried. I felt awful about it, but..." She made a face. "Come on, O'Neil, that's enough about me. You haven't finished your story. Was that how you broke your nose? In the motorcycle accident?"

"Actually," he said, with a little smile, "my old man did it."

Her face paled. "What?"

"He beat the crap out of me for taking the bike. Hey, I had it coming."

"Nobody has that coming," Miranda said furiously. "What kind of a man would do such a thing to his son?"

"He was a hard-liner, I guess. You know, spare the rod, spoil the child, that kind of stuff." Conor took her hand and brought it to his mouth. "If it makes you feel any better, I hated him for it for a long, long time."

"It doesn't make me feel a bit better, O'Neil, and don't you patronize me!"

"Whoa, take it easy. I'm not trying to—"

"A boy shouldn't have to hate his father, dammit. No child should have to hate a parent." Her voice broke as Conor gathered her against him. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't usually waste time feeling sorry for myself. It's just that I've never been able to figure out why a child wouldn't be loved."

"Maybe there is no why," he said softly, stroking her hair. "Nobody ever said life was perfect."

Miranda smiled, framed his face with her hands and brought his mouth to hers.

"Until now," she said, kissing him, and the knowledge that he was deceiving her rose within him until it felt as if it might stop his breath.

* * *

He told himself he wasn't violating her confidence, that he was only doing his job when he telephoned Thurston.

"Check out a Beryl Goodman for me, Harry. She attended a place called the Jefferson Academy with Miranda fourteen, fifteen years ago."

"A kook?"

"Probably not. Look, just check, okay? It's not much but it's something."

Harry told him the lab people had finished going over every inch of the box Bob Breverman had intercepted, as well as its ghoulish contents.

"Nothing," Harry said glumly. "Not a print, not a smudge, not a clue. Any leads on your end?"

"No."

"Nobody with reason to come after the girl?"

Conor rubbed his forehead. "Not as far as I know. Any more notes delivered to Eva?"

"No. Eva's not the key to this, Conor, I'm certain of it. The Beckman girl is. Find out what you can about her, anything she's kept hidden in her past."

"I'm here to protect her," Conor said angrily.

"You're there to do a job," Thurston said, and broke the connection.

* * *

Conor told himself not to think about the deception.

There was no reason to think about it. He could protect Miranda and love her at the same time. He didn't have to let his thoughts revolve around what a conniving bastard he was. As for learning about her past... she was more than willing to talk about herself, and he loved to listen.

It was easy to let himself think they were like any other couple, exploring the city while spring overtook the grey canyons. They did the things lovers do, strolling through the South Street Seaport, riding the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building, dining on pushcart hot dogs or in pricey restaurants as the spirit moved them.

Early one evening, they sat at a table at a rooftop bar, she sipping a glass of white wine and he drinking an ale, with the city far below.

"We could have dinner here," Conor said.

"Or?"

He smiled. "How'd you know there was an
or?"

Miranda grinned, put her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands.

"Innate genius," she said. "So, what's the
or?"

"We could go to this place I know in Chinatown."

"That sounds good. I like Chinese food."

"Szechuan?"

"Is it really, really hot?"

"Guaranteed to make your eyes water and your ears turn red."

"In that case, what are we waiting for?"

"You had me worried there, Beckman. That was a test and for a couple of seconds, I wasn't sure you were going to pass."

"And?" She smiled. "If I hadn't?"

"If you'd turned up your nose at Szechuan, you mean?" He shook his head. "I guess I'd have been forced into rethinking this whole arrangement."

Miranda looked at him over the rim of the glass, her smile suddenly soft and vulnerable.

"Is that what we have?" she asked. "An arrangement?"

It was such a cool, businesslike term but the way she said it and the way she looked at him, made it anything but cool or businesslike.

"Yeah," he said gruffly, and reached for her hand, "I think we do. Is that okay with you?"

Her eyes glowed.

"It's wonderful with me," she said.

Conor leaned across the table and kissed her.

* * *

They took a taxi to the restaurant. Conor asked for a corner booth and ordered for both of them.

It had always bothered her, the easy way some men had of taking over as if the female of the species were incapable of making decisions, but it was different with Conor. He made her feel safe in a way she never had before, not just from physical danger but from the things she'd feared for as long as she could remember.

Love and desire, and, most of all, trust.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she awakened in his arms and wondered how such a miracle could have happened. Nita had once called her a cynic where men were concerned, but she wasn't, she was just a pragmatist and anyway, despite their closeness, there were things about her Nita didn't know, things she'd never told anyone, not even Jean-Phillipe.

Things that might change the way Conor felt about her.

"Miranda?"

She started. Conor was watching her, a puzzled smile on his face.

"Don't you like the hot and sour soup?"

She looked down at the table. A bowl of steaming soup had appeared before her but she had no idea when.

"Because if you don't, that's okay. We can order something else."

"Conor." Miranda folded her hands in her lap. "You've never asked me—you've never asked me why I married Edouard."

Conor put down his spoon. "No," he said carefully, "I didn't. You married him and that's that. You don't owe me any explanations."

"I know that. But I want you to know. There are things about me..."