Until You (54 page)

"Even that Miranda was his," Conor said softly.

"It would have been better if she had been born dead," Eva said bitterly.

"Jesus Christ, do you hear what you're saying? She's your daughter!"

"She is no good."

"And what are you?" Conor's mouth twisted. "You lied your way into marriage, cheated your way into this country, found that pig, Winthrop, molesting your very own flesh and blood, and you did nothing except punish the girl by sending her away."

"Ah, I see. You have chosen to believe Miranda's version of the story."

"She told me what happened."

"She is a liar and a tramp!" Spittle formed in the corners of Eva's mouth. "She is the one who lured Hoyt to her bed."

Conor's laugh was brutal. "You can't really believe that."

"Why would I not believe my husband? The blood in his veins is as blue as the sky."

"And the blood in Miranda's veins is yours." A muscle knotted in Conor's jaw. "That's why you didn't believe her, isn't it? You believe in the sins of the fathers... only in this case, it's the sins of the mothers."

"What I think is none of your concern, Mr. O'Neil."

She was right. His only concern was Miranda's safety.

"Tell me why Edouard de Lasserre's been threatening Miranda," he said.

"Because I would not do as he demanded."

"Which was?"

"Do you know anything about the manufacture of cosmetics, Mr. O'Neil?"

"No."

"Papillon makes perfumes, colognes, lotions and sprays which contain fragrances. To make them, we import huge quantities of fresh flowers." She smiled a little. "Colombia does not only export drugs. It exports magnificent flowers. The flowers must be hurried through customs or they wilt and die. Because of our reputation and my husband's connections, Papillon has been granted something called a 'line release.' It means shipments we receive from Colombia may come into the United States without being searched by U.S. Customs."

"And?" Conor said, wanting to hear it from her lips, even though the picture was coming together with breathtaking swiftness.

"And, de Lasserre wanted me to permit him to use our shipments to smuggle in cocaine. He said it would be profitable for us both."

"But you didn't want to risk it."

"Certainly not. I have everything I could possibly want. A successful business, a magnificent home, a husband with a fine old name."

"And a daughter you don't give a crap about," Conor said through his teeth.

"If you think to shame me," Eva said coldly, "I assure you, you cannot. Miranda is the one mistake of my life."

"What you mean is that she's the reminder of who you really are, Mrs. Winthrop." Conor smiled tightly. "Go on. De Lasserre asked you to smuggle drugs and you said no. What happened next?"

"You know what happened next. He sent me a threatening note and then he began sending notes to Miranda. He thought he could make me change my mind, you see." She shrugged her shoulders. "The man is a fool."

Conor's hands fisted. He jammed them deep into his pockets.

"Let me be sure I understand this. He's threatening Miranda to get at you."

"Yes. He assumed that since I had bought him off when he married the girl, I could be coerced into giving him what he wanted again."

"Five hundred dollars," Conor said, very softly. "You really put a high price on her, didn't you?"

"It was not five hundred, it was twenty-five thousand. I am not without feeling," Eva said stiffly. "Besides, I knew the marriage was an error."

"For Miranda, or for you? It wouldn't have done much for your reputation, would it, if word got out that she'd run off with a piece of sleaze like de Lasserre?"

At the other end of the room, the door eased slowly open.

"I tell you again, this is not your concern, Mr. O'Neil. Your only business is to see to it that my husband gets his appointment. That was the reason you were sent to Paris, the reason you forced my daughter to return to the States. It is why you reentered her life, because it was your obligation to do whatever was necessary on behalf of my husband and me. Now, all that remains is to stop de Lasserre from ruining everything for us. We cannot afford any scandalous headlines, do you understand?"

Conor could feel his rage building with every beat of his heart. He wanted to grab Eva Winthrop, shake her until her bones rattled, tell her that she was a poisonous harpy who ought to be on her knees, thanking whatever gods existed for having let her give life to the miracle that was Miranda.

But things were moving too quickly now. Eva had said no to Edouard de Lasserre, and he wasn't a man you said no to without paying the consequences. Eva was safe, but Miranda was all too vulnerable.

So he took a deep breath, fixed a smile to his lips, and looked at Eva Winthrop in a way that made it clear they were in this together.

"Making sure you and your husband get what's coming to you is all I'm interested in," he said.

"I'm pleased to hear it." Eva was almost her old self now, standing straight and tall, a look of elegant
hauteur
on her face. "I'll wager this has been a far better assignment than most that have come your way."

At the far end of the room, the door flew open and hit the wall. Conor spun around, in a crouch—and saw Miranda, standing in the doorway.

His heart dropped when he saw the look on her face. "Baby," he said quickly, "it's not what you think!"

"Yes, it is," she said, giving him the same smile that Hoyt had captured in the painting that had hung in the foyer, a smile that spoke of pain and betrayal. "It's exactly what I think."

"Miranda." He moved towards her, his face grim. "Goddammit, I told you to stay put."

She laughed, a long trilling sound that was as phony as her smile.

"I don't ever do what I'm told. Just ask my dear mother. Besides, then I'd have missed your wonderful chat with Eva."

"Miranda," he said, reaching out to her, "sweetheart..."

She slapped his hand away before he could touch her, and now he could see the glitter of tears on her lashes.

"Was it?" she said, in a gravelly whisper. "Was it what she said, Conor? A better assignment than you're used to getting?"

"No!"

"It wasn't? You mean, it was just run of the mill, what we had? What I thought we had?" Her voice broke and tears rolled down her cheeks. "Goddamn you," she said, "goddamn you to hell, O'Neil."

Her hand flashed through the air and slammed against his cheek. It was a hard blow that stung his flesh and rocked him back on his heels, but it felt as if it had penetrated straight into his heart.

She'd misinterpreted what she'd heard but whose fault was that? He'd lied to her, time after time; he deserved the blow and more, and when she pulled back her hand to hit him again, he didn't try to stop her. But she didn't hit him. A cry ripped from her throat and she turned and ran from the room.

"Miranda!" He started after her, but Eva flung herself in front of him.

"Just a minute, Mr. O'Neil. I want to know what you intend to do next. You promised me you would take care of Edouard de Lasserre."

"Get out of my way, damn you!"

"Not until you've answered my questions."

Conor cursed, grabbed Eva Winthrop by the shoulders and shoved her aside.

"Miranda," he yelled, as he ran into the hall.

Where was she? The hall was empty. So was the foyer. He raced to the front door, yanked it open—and almost collided with Hank Levy.

"Where is she?" Conor snarled.

Hank's jowly face was gray. "I'm sorry, O'Neil. Hell, it all happened so fast—"

Conor grabbed him by the shoulders. "Where the hell is she?"

"She went running out of her apartment. So I followed her. I left Scotti back at the building, to keep an eye on things, just in case."

"Dammit, man, just tell me!"

"I was across the street here, watching the front door. Somebody came out of the side entrance. Jesus, I didn't realize it was the girl."

"You lost her?"

"A car came up, black Mercedes, tinted glass so I couldn't see inside. The door opened. I yelled..." Hank gave a wheezing sigh. "Hell, Conor, somebody snatched her."

Chapter 20

Flying. Miranda was flying, soaring though the skies.

And she was blind.

No, not blind. Blindfolded, that was it. There was a cloth tied around her eyes. She couldn't see, but she knew she was in an airplane. She could hear the low rumble of its engines, feel their vibration resonating in her body.

She didn't remember getting onto a plane. A car. She remembered that. She'd heard Conor and Eva, talking about her as if she were a problem they'd been coping with, and she'd run blindly from the house while Conor pounded after her.

The car had come out of nowhere, running up onto the sidewalk, the door opening.

"Hello, pussycat," somebody had whispered, and a hand clamped around her wrist.

After that there were only her screams and a rag jammed over her mouth and nose and the smell of something sweet and awful.

Then there was darkness.

How long had she been unconscious? An hour? A day? Terror swept through her and with it, a wave of nausea. She moaned, tried to gasp for air, but there was a gag in her mouth. Her hands were bound, too, and angled painfully behind her.

The terror rose again and ripped from her throat in a silent scream.

Behind her, she heard the whisper of laughter.

"Easy, pussycat. We don't want you should hurt yourself."

Hot breath feathered against the back of her neck. Miranda froze; her heart was the only part of her that was moving as it banged erratically against her ribs.

"That's it," the voice whispered.

Leather creaked. Whispers floated on the air. Someone eased into the seat beside her.

"We was wonderin' how long it would take you to wake up and join the party."

Don't move, she told herself frantically, oh, don't move. Just sit still and don't let him see how frightened you are.

A hand stroked lightly over her face. She couldn't help it; all her promises fled at the feel of those unseen fingers moving on her skin like the soft brush of tiny spiders. She bucked back against her seat, twisting in a desperate attempt to escape, but it was useless.

The man next to her laughed, and she felt him lean closer.

"Now, pussycat, this ain't no way to make friends." A hand touched her thigh, eased up over her belly. "It'll go better for you if you act nice, you know that."

Miranda sobbed against the gag in her mouth as the man cupped first one breast and then the other.

"Nice. Real nice. I'm a tit man, myself. 'Course, my pal, here, he ain't so specialized, you know what I mean? He likes tits, ass, everythin'. Ain't that right, Vince?"

Vince? Vince?
Bile flooded her mouth. No, she thought, no, please, no...

"Hello, darling."

God. Oh God. It was him. It was Vincent Moratelli.

"Come on, Joey."

He sounded civil. Polite. As if they were back at the party, where they'd met.

"Don't monopolize the lady's time. It isn't nice. Tell you what. You go sit in the back, read
Penthouse
or something. I'll sit here with our guest and entertain her."

"Aw, Vince. I was just havin' some fun."

"Who's in charge here, Joey? You? Or me?"

"You, but—"

"Get moving!"

Joey let out a sigh that stank of decay.

"See you later, pussycat."

"Joey," Vince said in a warning tone.

"Yeah, I'm goin'." Joey chuckled and leaned closer. "You got a knight in shinin' armor to protect you, pussycat. Ain't that nice?"

Vincent Moratelli, protecting her? Miranda stiffened as leather creaked again and he settled into the seat beside her. Moratelli had sent her that hideous picture, said those hideous things, and now he'd helped kidnap her.