Until You (34 page)

There was a small
patisserie
just ahead. Customers were hurrying in and out, clutching their morning coffee in white Styrofoam cups, but he could see a cluster of small tables through the steamy window.

"In there," he said.

"In where? Dammit, I'm not going anywhere with you!"

She tried to pull away but he tightened his hold on her arm, quick-marching her to the bakery, through the door and to a table as far from the others as he could manage. She sputtered and threatened him with mayhem but he ignored her, shoved her into a chair and leaned over her, his hands flat on the tabletop, his body blocking her escape.

"Here's the deal," he said, his eyes level with hers and his voice so quiet she had to lean towards him to hear it. "We do this the easy way, meaning coffee and a few of minutes of civilized conversation, or the hard way, where I toss you over my shoulder, take you someplace quiet and hold you down until you listen."

He'd do it, too, she knew; she could see it in his face. God, he was crazy!

"You're crazy," she said, "you know that?"

He smiled thinly. "An astute observation, maybe, but hardly original. Now, what's it going to be? Coffee, or a quick round of 'I'm bigger and meaner than you are?'"

"You're a nasty son of a bitch, too," Miranda said, her voice quavering with barely suppressed fury, "but I'm sure that's not original, either."

"It's all part of my boyish charm, Beckman. You want something with your coffee?"

"Yes. Strychnine, to put into yours."

She sat stiffly, watching as he made his way to the counter at the front of the shop. What did he want from her now? Whatever it was, he had five minutes. After that, let him try carrying her off. She'd sink her teeth into him and bite down until she drew blood.

And probably end up with rabies.

The thought made her smile.

Conor plunked two cups of
cafe au lait
on the table.

"What's so funny?" he said, slipping into the chair opposite hers.

"Listen, O'Neil, let's get something straight. I'm a big girl. Just because you work for my mother doesn't mean I'm going to let you push me around."

Conor thought of telling her he wouldn't work for Eva if his life depended on it and that he'd do more than push her around if she didn't shut up, behave herself and pay attention. He'd put in a long, miserable night, first the call to Harry Thurston, then a call from Harry to him to tell him he'd spoken with Eva and that he'd checked out Moratelli, who'd come up on the computer as a small-time hood with nothing on his record that would even suggest he'd get into something like this.

And then there'd been more calls, to Hoyt Winthrop and to Eva, to God only knew how many other people, until he'd finally ended up with what just might be a workable plan—assuming he had to put it in motion, assuming Miranda would refuse to do the logical thing he was going to ask her to do.

Of course, she'd refuse. He looked at her as he took a fortifying swallow of his coffee. She was just what Eva had said she was, a stubborn, spoiled, self-involved brat—but there was no denying that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. The face of an angel, he thought, with the morals of a hooker, although there'd been a time last night, when she'd been in his arms that he'd thought—that he'd almost thought...

"Did you hear me, O'Neil? I'm not going to let you bully me."

Conor nodded. He put his cup on the table, folded his hands around it, and leaned forward.

"You're right," he said pleasantly, "you don't have to let me do anything, not even save your ass. Still, I'm going to do my best to try. Now, do you want me to tell you what was in Eva's note or do you want to go on detailing the flaws in my personality?"

Miranda glared at him. There was no winning an argument with a man like this.

"I left one out," she said coldly. She pushed her cup of coffee to the center of the table. "You're arrogant. Did it ever occur to you to ask me how I take my morning coffee?"

"This is France." Conor tore open two packets of brown sugar and dumped the contents into his cup. "It's unpatriotic not to drink hot milk in your coffee in the morning."

"You forget, I'm not French."

"You're the next best thing, Beckman. You live here, you work for a bunch of pansy European designers, you sleep with an ooh-la-la movie star." He shrugged his shoulders. "I figured you'd forgotten that you started life as an all-American girl."

"Is that why you shanghaied me this morning? So you could run up the stars and stripes and check to see if my passport still says 'born in the USA?'"

Conor gave her a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile.

"Your work permit says it, too."

"What?"

"I said—"

"I know what you said."
Why was he smiling?
"What does my work permit have to do with this conversation?"

He shrugged again, lifted his cup and took a mouthful of the steaming liquid.

"Maybe nothing," he said, and looked at her. "Do you do it often?"

"Do I do what often? O'Neil, if you're going to talk in riddles..."

"Sleep with other men instead of Frenchy. I meant to ask last night but I just never got around to it."

"That's none of your business."

"It's very much my business. I'll need a list of your lovers, so I can check them out."

"For what?" she said. She smiled, but her eyes looked like chips of ice. "I'm a big girl. Trust me, I'm perfectly healthy. I do my own checking."

"Do you," he said sarcastically.

She lifted her chin defiantly. "Yes."

Yes, he thought, dammit to hell, yes. She just sat there, watching him with those big, innocent eyes, giving him that little Mona Lisa smile, acting as if they were discussing a walk in the country, for God's sake, instead of her sex life.

Conor felt his muscles tense. He wanted to grab her, shake her until her teeth rattled and she gave up that cool, "who I sleep with is my business" attitude.

She hadn't been so cool-looking last night, in his arms.

Hell, he thought furiously, last night didn't have a fucking thing to do with this.
Keep your mind on business, man, where it belongs.

"In that case," he said, his tone as cool as hers, "you'd know if one of the men you've played games with would be likely to call you a tease."

"A tease?"

"Yeah. Come on, Beckman, don't give me that innocent look." Conor lowered his voice. "The note to Eva was in French. It said you were
une allumeuse.
Do I have to put that in gutter English, or can you do the translating for yourself?"

Miranda blinked. Then she gave a strangled laugh, reached out and wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. The bone-white of her knuckles stood out in stark relief against the white of the cup. "Jean-Phillipe was right."

Conor's eyes narrowed. "Moreau called you that?"

"No, of course not. He said—he said, it was what I was
being
called."

Her eyes met Conor's. What he thought of her was right there, in his face. The need to reach over, put her hand on top of his and say, "You're wrong, O'Neil, I'm not like that at all," was, for a moment, as strong as her need to draw breath. But the only thing she did was lift her cup and force a swallow of the rapidly cooling coffee down her throat.

"I'm sure Eva was thrilled," she said. "Was there more?"

"Yes." A muscle ticked in his cheek. There was no easy way to deliver the rest of it, especially if he had any hope of getting her to cooperate. "Whoever wrote it said you were going to die."

Coffee sloshed over her fingers. She set the cup down on the table, carefully wiped her hands with a paper napkin, then crumpled it and put it aside. He watched her face as she fought for equilibrium, found it and finally managed a faint smile.

"I suppose I should be flattered. Being threatened on two continents, you know? I'll bet that doesn't happen to everybody."

"No," Conor said flatly, "it sure as shit doesn't."

She nodded. The tip of her tongue snaked out and she moistened her lips.

"Moratelli's doing this?"

"That's my best guess"

"I—I don't suppose you've, uh, you've figured out the reason?"

He shook his head. Her tone was cocky but there was fear in her eyes. Why in hell hadn't he done what he'd promised himself he'd do, bought some cigarettes and tucked them into his pocket? He needed something to do with his hands so that he didn't end up doing a stupid thing like reaching out, hauling her into his arms and telling her he'd protect her.

"Because it doesn't make sense." Her words were rushed. "I mean, who is he? What would he gain from threatening me? And why involve Eva?"

"Blackmail," he said flatly. "Nothing else makes sense."

"To keep Hoyt from getting his appointment?" Miranda shook her head. Her hair slipped across one high cheekbone like dark water over a perfect arch of stone. "But why? I just can't imagine all this over something like a silly ambassadorship."

"Neither can I." Conor looked at her. "I'm talking about old-fashioned, I-know-your-secret blackmail, the kind people do for money."

"What secret? You mean, that I was once married to Edouard de Lasserre?"

"I doubt it." He could be honest about this much, anyway. "Besides, Moratelli's just a front man for somebody else."

"How do you know that?"

He shrugged. "I just do, that's all. And if I'm right about them wanting money, it's Eva's they're after, not yours."

"You mean, this person figures Eva will pay to keep them from doing something to me?" Miranda gave a forced laugh. "Wow. Talk about errors in judgment!"

Here we go, Conor thought.

"Trust me on this, O'Neil. Expecting Eva to worry about me is like asking a shark to become a vegetarian."

"She's concerned about you."

"Right, and I'm the man in the moon." Miranda took a deep breath, then exhaled on a gusty sigh. "Thanks for the update," she said, pushing back her chair. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Sit down, Miranda."

"O'Neil, I am late. I work for my living, in case you'd forgotten, and I have a shoot at the Jeu de Paume. If I don't get moving now—"

"Eva wants you to come home."

Miranda laughed. "Goodbye, O'Neil."

Conor caught hold of her wrist. "She says Papillon's been searching for a model to advertise a new line of cosmetics and you've got the look her people want."

"I'll bet."

"Dammit, what's the matter with you? You go back to New York, you get an exclusive contract with Papillon and for all you know, you and Eva might find some neutral ground."

"What you mean is, Eva's worried about me meeting a nasty end in Paris. That wouldn't suit Hoyt's image or Papillon's, either."

Hell, Conor thought, trying not to wince. The words were different but the sentiment was damn near the one Eva had expressed when he'd talked to her a couple of hours ago.

"I have decided," she'd said, "albeit with the greatest reluctance, to accede to Mr. Thurston's request."

"It's the right thing to do," Conor had begun, but Eva had interrupted him.

"Both my husband and I are people of some standing, Mr. O'Neil. I will not risk having our good names sullied by some ugly public revelation. If it's necessary to find a way to convince Miranda to return home so we can put an end to this business and ensure her safety, then I shall do so."

Miranda, watching Conor's face, smiled tightly.

"I'm right, aren't I? She wants me home about as much as I want to go there."

Dammit, he thought, looking into her knowing eyes, what was the sense in pretending?

"She wasn't eager for it," he said, "but once I convinced her it was necessary, she agreed to cooperate."

"Which is why she's offered me the Papillon job. Sort of a bonus. A little tidbit to make me want to roll over like a good little puppy."

Conor shrugged his shoulders. "You could put it that way."

Miranda nodded. "Thanks for being honest." Her eyes were shiny and she brushed the back of her hand across them. "It's too damned warm in here," she said brusquely, and made for the door.

Conor didn't speak until they'd reached the street. Then he took her arm and gently turned her to face him.

"I'm glad you're taking this intelligently."

"I've been taking my mother's feelings for me intelligently all my life. She doesn't like me but that's okay." Her smile was as false as it was bright. "There's no law that says mothers and daughters have to love each other."

"I meant, the part about you going home."

"Going home?"

"To New York." He smiled. This had all gone so much easier than he'd expected. He thought of all the stuff he'd worked his butt off to line up, the arms he'd had to twist, the favors called in by Harry, all of it done because he'd figured he'd have to force her to agree to return to the States. His smile broadened. "Who knows? You might even find you're tired of being an expatriate."