She saw the quick rush of crimson across his cheeks. Good, she thought, coldly, he deserved it.
Then, why did she feel as if she ought to have her mouth washed out with soap? She was a grown woman; she had a reputation for doing and saying whatever pleased her.
And he'd definitely deserved it.
Conor O'Neil had shouldered his way into her life without being invited. She didn't trust him, not one bit. All that stuff about his working for Eva... Who was he kidding? She couldn't imagine Eva caring enough about her welfare to send somebody to check on her. She couldn't imagine O'Neil taking orders, either, especially from someone like her mother.
There was something missing in the equation.
O'Neil was more complex than he appeared. There was something urbane and sophisticated lurking just underneath the tweedy surface. Something scary, too, but in a way that was strangely comforting. In fact, once she'd got over the shock of opening the door and seeing him, she'd found herself thinking that it was just as well he'd turned up instead of Jean-Phillipe. She loved Jean-Phillipe dearly but the truth was that he dramatized everything and the last thing she'd needed tonight was somebody to make more of that messy scene in the bedroom than she'd already made of it herself.
O'Neil hadn't done that. He'd looked the room over, then turned to her and issued a terse command.
"Stay put," he'd said, and no one in their right mind would have argued with him. He'd gone through the rest of the apartment, room by room, moving silently and purposefully and in a way that had made her feel protected and safe. No question about it, Conor O'Neil was very definitely the man you wanted around when you were frightened.
It was just too bad she didn't trust him.
Or like him.
The feeling was clearly mutual. He despised her; the message was in his eyes each time he looked at her.
But he wanted her, too.
The realization pleased her. It made him as predictable as every other man she'd ever dealt with. Sooner or later, he'd try to bed her. They always did, and they always ended up wondering what had hit them on their way out of her life. He would, too. This was a game she never lost. The rules were hers and the outcome was inevitable.
The thought made her smile.
"Something amusing come to mind, Beckman?"
Miranda looked up. O'Neil's face was stony, his gaze contemptuous. Her smile curled at the corners.
"Nothing you'd understand," she said.
His expression didn't change. "I'm still waiting to hear about the rest of your day. Lunch with Nita, no afternoon assignation with the boyfriend..."
"That's right. If you were hoping for a play-by-play account, you're out of luck."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "What did you do after lunch?"
Miranda sighed. She pressed down the filter top of the infuser and watched as it slowly plunged to the bottom of the carafe.
"Nita and I went to the Diderot showroom on Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. There was a photographer waiting. He took some more pictures."
"And?"
"And, that was it."
"You came home?"
"Yes. No." She shot him a narrow-eyed look. "Are you trying to confuse me?"
"Just answer the question, please. And hurry up with that coffee before I pass out."
She poured two cups of coffee, gave one to Conor and kept the other for herself. Then she leaned back against the sink, holding her cup with both hands.
"Where was I?"
"You were having your picture taken at the Diderot showroom."
"Right. Well, by the time we finished, it was late. So I sat around for a while and took it easy. Then I dressed for the evening."
"You didn't come home to get dressed?"
"No. There wasn't any reason. Jacques had asked me to wear one of his designs to the party I was going to tonight. Last night. You know what I mean."
Conor's brows lifted. "That thing you were wearing was a dress?"
She laughed. "An eight-thousand-dollar dress."
"Yeah, well, it only goes to prove that there's no accounting for taste. So you got dressed at the showroom. And then you met Pretty Boy."
"Jean-Phillipe," Miranda said coldly.
"Right. You met him for drinks. And afterwards, you went to, what was it? La Tour d'Argent for dinner?"
"We went to Taillevent. This is childish, O'Neil. Trying to trip me up as if—"
"Then you and Moreau went to a party."
Miranda nodded wearily and put down her coffee cup. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back and massaged her temples with the tips of her fingers. Her hair tumbled down her back, exposing her ears and throat.
Conor stared at her. She had beautiful skin. It reminded him of peaches and cream. Would it taste that way, too?
His jaw tightened. He looked down at his coffee, raised it to his lips and took a swallow.
"Tell me about the party," he said.
"I told you about the party."
"Tell me again."
She sighed and looked at him.
"It was on the Rue St-Honoré. A big, handsome house owned by some English diplomat."
"You had champagne, you chatted with some people..."
"One person," she said wearily. "Just one. And before you ask me again, I still don't remember his name."
"You didn't ask?"
"I told you, he introduced himself. But the place was noisy. And crowded."
"So you had this long conversation with some guy whose name you didn't know?"
"This may come as a shock, O'Neil, but very few people check someone's ID before they carry on a conversation. Any other questions?"
"Yeah. Try harder to come up with the guy's name."
Miranda groaned. "It was foreign, I think. American."
"Which was it? American or foreign?"
"He was American. But his name was European. Italian, maybe."
"So, you wouldn't know how to get in touch with him?"
"Why would I want to get in touch with him?"
"I don't know. You said he was pleasant. Good looking. Made nice chit-chat."
"So what? I meet a lot of people like that."
"Men, you mean." His smile was quick and chill. "Might be a good idea to sort them out, you know? Keep a scorecard."
There was no mistaking what he meant. She bit back the rush of anger, knowing it was just what he wanted, swung away and dumped her coffee into the sink.
"An excellent suggestion. Now, if you don't mind, I'm tired and my nerves are jingling from all this coffee." She turned towards him again, her hands on her hips. "Let's just get this over with."
"Moreau drove you home?"
"Yes."
"But he didn't bring you to your door."
"No. There was no need. This building is perfectly safe. There's the locked gate..."
"Oh, right. The locked gate." Conor shook his head, dug into his pocket and took out a small Swiss Army knife, the kind she'd always figured was useless for anything more complicated than clipping off a thread. "A minute with this and I was in."
"Well, not everyone has your talent," Miranda said sweetly.
"Anybody with the least bit of determination could have been inside this apartment in less time than it takes to tell. The gate's a laugh and so is the lock on the door downstairs."
"You opened that with a penknife, too?"
He grinned. "Actually, I used my American Express card. Never leave home without it."
She laughed before she had time to think about it. It was a nice laugh, Conor thought, and real. Her eyes met his; it was almost as if she'd realized what she was doing. She stopped laughing, turned away and began slamming the doors to the cabinets over the sink.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for chocolate."
"What?"
"I'm going to fall on my face in about five seconds, thanks to this inquisition. Caffeine's not helping so I'm hoping chocolate will." Rising on her toes, she felt along the
cabinet shelves. "I always keep some in the house. Not where I can find it too easily, but somewhere..."
Her words trailed off but it didn't matter. Conor wasn't listening. How could he, when he was watching her every move? Her sweatshirt had ridden up. Not much, just a couple of inches—just enough to bare a narrow band of smooth, silky skin and the delicate tracery of her spine.
"...never find it when I want it..."
She grunted as she stretched higher; the shirt climbed another inch up her back. Conor's mouth went dry. He knew that a gentleman would offer to help but hell, he wasn't a gentleman. He was a man transfixed by a sudden vision of himself crossing the room to where Miranda stood, slipping his hands under her shirt and cupping her breasts while he bent his head, nuzzled her hair from the nape of her neck and tasted her skin with his tongue.
The coffee still left in his cup dumped into his lap.
"Dammit," he yelped, and shot to his feet.
Miranda spun around, a little box of Fauchon's chocolates in her hand.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. I spilled the damn coffee, that's all."
She put down the box, picked up a dish towel and leaned towards him.
"Here, let me—"
"No!" He jerked back from her outstretched hand, then took a deep breath. "That's okay. I'll go and wash up."
"Listen, O'Neil, why not do us both a favor and leave? It's late and we're both exhausted..."
She was talking to herself. O'Neil had already disappeared down the hall.
Miranda sighed, walked into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa with her feet up. Mindlessly, she opened the box and took out a chocolate. Cookies, and now candy. Well, just one wouldn't hurt. She could skip breakfast tomorrow. Or today. Whatever it was; she didn't know anymore. The minutes and hours had all run together, thanks to the mess she'd come home to.
And what an ugly mess it had been.
She thought again that it was a good thing Conor O'Neil had turned up at her door. So what if he didn't like her? If he thought she was wild, and immoral, and all the things she'd worked so hard to make the world believe she was. He could think what he liked about her; she didn't care...
"Okay, let's talk."
She swung her feet to the floor and sat up. Conor was standing over her, his hands on his hips. His hair was wet; he must have ducked his head into the sink. Her eyes went to his face. It was a good face. Strong. Very masculine. She supposed there were women who'd find him handsome, with those prominent cheekbones and that nose that tilted just slightly to the side, as if it had once been broken. The rest of him suited the face: the wide shoulders, leanly muscled body, the aura of danger that was so wonderfully sexy.
A pulse leaped in the hollow of her throat.
I'm tired, she thought, that's what all this is about, I'm tired and I'm not thinking straight.
"It's late." She stood up, the half-empty box of chocolates dangling from her hand. "I can't answer any more questions."
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.
Until You Page 11
