Until You

by Sandra Marton

  "Is that all, O'Neil?"

  "No," he said curtly, "it's not. There'll be a locksmith at your door in half an hour."

  "A locksmith?"

  "That's what I said."

  "Thank you, but if I need a locksmith, I'll make my own arrangements."

  "You need one. And I'm making the arrangements."

  "I didn't authorize you to—"

  "No. You didn't. On the other hand, if you know some guy who can be trusted to install a pick-proof lock on the door of the apartment of the famous Miranda Beckman without being tempted to blab about it over a glass of vin ordinaire down at the local cafe a couple of hours later, be my guest." He paused. "Unless, of course, you want that kind of publicity."

  She didn't, and he knew it. Miranda sighed and gave in to the inevitable.

  "All right. Tell your locksmith to come over."

  "I already did. His name is Pete Cochran. He's tall and skinny and he's got hair so red it can stop traffic. He'll have an ID card with an embassy stamp on it. Ask him to show you the card before you let him in."

  "The American Embassy?"

  "Yes."

  Miranda's brows lifted. "You have friends in high places, O'Neil."

  "Yeah, my connections are impressive," Conor said smoothly. "It's one of the reasons your mother hired me. I'm probably the only guy you'll ever meet in Paris who's owed a favor by somebody used to make his living breaking into the homes of the rich and infamous."

  "I'm sure you only move in the finest social circles," Miranda said sweetly.

  "Half an hour, Beckman. And try and be dressed by the time Cochran gets there, will you? He's got a wife and four kids and, for all I know, a weak heart."

  "Don't tempt me, O'Neil. I've always wanted to add a married, red-headed thief to my list of conquests and here you are, serving him up for breakfast." Her voice hardened. "Have a nice day," she said, and slammed down the phone.

  Conor glared at his telephone, mouthed a couple of very creative obscenities and then headed for the bathroom to shave.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Miranda's intercom rang.

  It was Madame Delain calling to say that there was a gentleman called Monsieur Cochran—she pronounced it Cookrain—in the lobby.

  "He says," madame said with obvious displeasure, "that he is expected."

  "Yes, that's right. Send him up, please."

  Madame sniffed and broke the connection. Miranda knew she'd expected an explanation of why Monsieur Cookrain was expected but she offered none. The concierge was discreet but her husband was not and, as Conor had said, she didn't want the story of the break-in getting around.

  When the bell rang, she started to reach for the doorknob. Then she remembered Conor's warning. It seemed stupid to ask for the locksmith's ID when madame had just rung to say he was on his way, but she decided to go along with it.

  "Yes," she said, "who is it?"

  "Pete Cochran."

  He held his card to the peep-hole. Miranda looked at it, then looked at Cochran's pleasant, mid-Western American face.

  "Okay," she said, and let him in.

  Except for the bright red hair, Cochran was a nondescript-looking man carrying an equally nondescript canvas satchel that looked as if it had seen better days. He shut the door, put down the satchel, and gave her an appraising look followed by an easy smile.

  "Nice."

  Miranda didn't return the smile. "You're here to change the door lock, Mr. Cochran," she said coolly.

  Cochran grinned. "That's what I meant," he said, running his hand over the door. "It's nice wood. Mahogany."

  After that, he was all business, working methodically and neatly, but that didn't surprise her. For all his swagger, it was the way Conor worked, too. The people he relied on would do the same.

  Miranda leaned back against a small, marble-topped table—a find she'd picked up during one of her forays to the flea market—and folded her arms.

  "So," she said, "you and O'Neil are old friends, hmm?"

  Cochran picked up a small drill and plugged its cord into the nearest outlet.

  "Old acquaintances, you might say."

  "Have you known each other long?"

  "Long enough, you might say."

  The drill whirred as he turned it on and attacked the screws that held the old lock in place.

  "Where did you meet?" Miranda asked, raising her voice over the sound of the drill. "In New York?"

  Cochran looked up at her and smiled. "You might say."

  Miranda narrowed her eyes, bit back the sudden desire to ask him if he had any idea if the sun rose in the east, and left him to his work.

  * * *

  The phone rang again, just after she'd shut the door on Pete Cochran and slid home the bolt on the new lock.

  "Yes," she said crisply, putting the phone to her ear, "your locksmith is all done. He's quite the conversationalist, your Mr. Cochran, but I suppose you already know that."

  "Miranda?" Jean-Phillipe said cautiously.

  Miranda sighed and sank down on the sofa.

  "Jean-Phillipe. You can't imagine how glad I am to hear your voice!"

  "I take it you were expecting someone else."

  "Unfortunately," she said with a little laugh, "I was."

  "I have never heard you mention someone named Cochran, cherie."

  "No. I mean, that's not who I thought you were."

  "Miranda? You sound—how do you say?—upturned."

  "Upset. And you're right, I am. Or I was, until I heard your voice." She looked at her watch. "Could I interest you in breakfast?"

  "I am afraid I have already had my croissant and coffee this morning."

  "I meant an American breakfast," she said, dropping her voice to a deliberately seductive whisper. "Orange juice, hot-cakes with syrup and sausage, hash browns, eggs..."

  Jean-Phillipe made a sound of soft distress. "McDonald's?"

  "McDonald's," she agreed, "in half an hour. What do you say?"

  He chuckled. "Make it fifteen minutes, cherie. If I must wait any longer than that, I will expire of anticipation."

  * * *

  At a few minutes past ten in the morning, the big McDonald's on the Champs Elysées was almost empty. The breakfast crowd was gone; the lunch crowd had yet to arrive. Jean-Phillipe, dressed for what he'd claimed would be anonymity, was waiting just inside the door.

  "Oh yeah," Miranda said, giving him the once-over, "you're anonymous, all right."

  "I did my best," he said staunchly, but there was the hint of a smile on his lips.

  And well there should have been, Miranda thought wryly. She was bundled from head to toe in a grey wool coat, her hair invisible beneath the brim of a squashed-down cloche. Her sunglasses were dark and covered half her face. He, on the other hand, was resplendent in a full-length black leather coat, silver Tony Lima lizard-skin boots and the latest rage in oval designer shades. With his trademark blond hair blown dry in artful, shoulder-length disorder, Jean-Phillipe was about as anonymous as a macaw in a flock of starlings.

  He bent down, kissed her on both cheeks and took her hands in his.

  "Such cold hands, Miranda."

  "Well, it's chilly out."

  "And what I can see of your face is very pale." His brow furrowed. "What is it, cherie? Have you something to tell me?"

  Miranda hesitated. Had she chosen the right place to tell him about the break-in at her apartment? They could have had breakfast at the Grand or the George V, where they'd have been safely secluded at a quiet table. Instead, she'd deliberately chosen McDonald's, not just because Jean-Phillipe had a very un-Gallic weakness for its bill of fare but for its bright, uncomplicated atmosphere.

  Maybe here, with Ronald McDonald grinning down from the wall, she could think about, talk about, what had happened last night without shuddering.

  "Miranda?"

  Jean-Phillipe's dark blond eyebrows were drawn together above his long French nose. Miranda squeezed his hands in hers.<
br />
  "Yes," she said, "I do have something to tell you. But let's get our breakfast first, okay?" She smiled. "I need a caffeine fix, and the thought of an Egg McMuffin is driving me crazy."

  "Ah," he said, and smiled back at her, "cherie, you are still une americaine at heart."

  A bunch of young cashiers had already collected at the counter to giggle and gawk at Jean-Phillipe. He let Miranda draw him there, even though the idea of breakfast á la McDonald's was no longer quite so appealing. Miranda was upset—he had sensed it yesterday, when she had greeted him so effusively at the Diderot showing and again last evening, at the party—and it worried him.

  There was no point in demanding explanations. She would explain in her own good time and meanwhile, he would see to it that she ate something, despite her attempt at trying to get away with having only coffee and the Egg McMuffin.

  "Nonsense," he said briskly, and ordered enough food to feed a small army. Then he autographed a couple of place mats, a Big Mac wrapper and, as the pièce de resistance, the breast pocket of one of the blushing cashiers.

  "Now," he said, lifting their heavily laden tray, "mademoiselle and I shall have our feast."

  The hazel-eyed blonde who now bore Jean-Phillipe's signature across her left breast looked at Miranda.

  "Are you someone special, mademoiselle?"

  Miranda shook her head. "Sorry, no."

  "Ah," Jean-Phillipe said, "that is not so. She is—"

  Miranda's boot-clad foot landed on his instep.

  "I'm just one of Monsieur Moreau's worshipful fans," she said solemnly.

  "Just another fan, indeed," Jean-Phillipe muttered as they set off for a corner table. "Why do you hide your fame under a basket?"

  "It's a bushel. And you flaunt yours enough for the both of us."

  "I?" he said with a wounded smile.

  Miranda sat down, slipped her coat back from her shoulders and tugged her dark glasses down on her nose.

  "You love the glitter of the bright lights," she teased. "Admit it."

  "Certainly, I do." A grin lit Jean-Phillipe's handsome face. "But I hide it well, yes? I am becoming a better and better actor, Miranda. Even my drama coach tells me this."

  "The little girl with the hazel eyes is still looking at you," Miranda whispered, leaning towards him. "I'll bet she never washes that blouse, now that you've signed it."

  "Such is the price of fame," he sighed dramatically. "Now, drink your juice. Eat your Egg McMuffin. Take a bite of the potatoes. You are too thin, cherie. Unlike that fool, Diderot, I prefer you with some meat on your bones."

  She tried, but each mouthful seemed to stick in her throat. After a while, she shoved her breakfast aside and concentrated on her coffee.

  "You are not eating?"

  "I ate," she said defensively. "I finished almost half my McMuffin."

  Jean-Phillipe looked at her. Then he collected everything except their coffee cups and dumped it into the nearest trash bin.

  "Now," he said, sitting down not across from her but beside her, "tell me what is wrong."

  "Am I that transparent?"

  "To me, yes. Tell me what troubles you."

  She hesitated, looked up at a grinning Ronald McDonald again, and took a deep breath.

  "Someone broke into my apartment yesterday."

  Jean-Phillipe's face went chalk-white beneath its year-round tan.

  "My God," he whispered, reaching for her hand.

  "I don't know exactly when it happened but I suspect it must have been in the evening, after Madame Delain locked the front door." Miranda tried for a smile. "You know how she is. She'd never have let anyone slip past her."

  Jean-Phillipe's hand tightened on hers.

  "A burglar, in your apartment?" He shuddered. "Thank God you were not home when it happened."

  "I know. I keep thinking that, too."

  "What was taken, cherie? Not that it is of any importance. Possessions are always replaceable."

  "That's just it," Miranda said quietly. "Nothing was taken."

  "Nothing?"

  She shook her head.

  "The thief was surprised in the act, then?"

  "I don't think so. Whoever broke in just poked around in my bedroom, went through my things..."

  "He touched your possessions?"

  She nodded. "My clothing. And—and apparently, he lay on my bed."

  Her voice quavered and she fell silent. Jean-Phillipe let out a string of French oaths she barely comprehended. His hand tightened around hers, hard enough so it hurt, but she didn't mind. The pain was an anchor to reality.

  "Did you call the police?"

  "No."

  "And you did not call me. Why not? I would have come to you at once, you know that. Mon Dieu, you should not have been alone!"

  "I wasn't. Do you remember that man at the showing yesterday morning?"

  "What man?"

  "The one I was talking to when you came backstage to wish me luck."

  Jean-Phillipe frowned. "The one who looked as if he would have liked to carry you off?"

  "Don't be silly."

  "That is how he looked, Miranda, as if he wished he could kill me and have you all to himself. Oui. I remember." His face darkened. "You are not saying it was he who did this thing?"

  "No. No, it wasn't him. But he came to the door, right after I found—right after I got in last night." She reached out, touched the tip of her finger to a scattering of crumbs on the table top. "In fact, when the bell rang, I thought it was you."

  "Instead, it was this stranger?"

  "Yes. His name's Conor O'Neil. He's American."

  "And what does he want with you?"

  "Well, he's a detective. He's working for my—for Eva."

  "But why does she need the services of a detective? And why has he come to see you? Cherie, I am confused. Perhaps you had best start at the beginning and explain, yes?"

  "Yes." Miranda's eyes met his. "Could we go someplace else? I thought it would be easy to talk here, but—"

  Jean-Phillipe was already on his feet, draping her coat over her shoulders, pulling back her chair.

  "We will go to my apartment," he said, and Miranda nodded, let him slip his arm protectively around her waist, and lead her away.

  * * *

  Jean-Phillipe lived in a handsome duplex with a wonderful view of the Luxembourg Gardens. By the time they reached it, Miranda had told him the entire story, not once but twice, and still he wasn't satisfied.

  "You should have called the police," he said, as he flung their coats onto a curved leather sofa.

  "No, I shouldn't," she answered wearily. She sank down on the sofa and leaned her head back against the cushions. "Would you want that kind of publicity? Well, neither do I. And what's the point? Nothing had been stolen. Besides, what could they have done?"

  "There might have been clues."

  She sighed, kicked off her boots and put her feet up on the low table that stood in front of the sofa.

  "This isn't a movie script, Jean-Phillipe. Nobody left a telltale match book behind. Besides, if they had, O'Neil would have found it."

  "O'Neil," Jean-Phillipe said, and scowled. "The man claimed to be a detective and you believed him, just like that."

  "He showed me identification."

  "I carried identification certifying that I was a gendarme during my last film. Did that make me one? Mon Dieu, did it not occur to you to telephone your mother and inquire about this man?"

  "There's no reason to phone Eva." Miranda smiled tightly. "It's not her birthday, or mine."

  "That is a poor attempt at humor, cherie, considering the situation."

  "All right, maybe I should have called her. Maybe O'Neil's not what he claims he is. But he's not the person who ransacked my bedroom, I'm certain of it."

  "There can be no mistake about what happened? You could not, perhaps, have left things in disorder?"

  Miranda shook her head. "This wasn't disorder. It was mayhem. Whoever did this
wanted to be sure I knew it."

  Jean-Phillipe came up behind her and lay his hands lightly on her shoulders. Gently, he began kneading the taut muscles.

  "I am so sorry, cherie. If only I had gone upstairs with you..."

  "Don't be silly. It wouldn't have changed anything." She let out a deep sigh. "Mmm," she said, letting her head droop forward, "that feels wonderful."

  "I cannot imagine who would have done such a thing, or why."

  "I know. I thought, at first, it might be some kook."

  "Oui. A pervert. But this man, O'Neil, thinks otherwise, that whoever broke into your apartment also sent this mysterious note to your mother?"

  "He thinks it's possible."

  "A note meant to threaten her."

  "That's what he says. And he says the note Eva received mentioned me and my..." Her mouth twisted. "...my elopement."

  Jean-Phillipe kissed the top of her head, came around the sofa and sat down next to her.

  "It is not logical, cherie. Why would someone make such a reference, after all these years?"

  "Did I tell you Hoyt—my stepfather—is going to become an ambassador?"

  "So?"

  Miranda sighed. "So, ambassadors are like Caesar's wife. You know, above reproach."

  "Ah, I begin to see. Your Mr. O'Neil thinks someone intends to use this to blackmail your mother and stepfather?"

  "I guess."

  Jean-Phillipe put his feet up on the table, too, and crossed them at the ankles.

  "It is possible, I suppose. Has he spoken with the animal you married?"

  "I don't know. When you come right down to it, I don't know anything except that Eva got a note, my apartment got taken apart, and, as always, it's somehow going to end up being all my fault."

  "I am going to speak with your Mr. O'Neil and ask him some questions."

  "Jean-Phillipe, please, he is not my Mr. O'Neil. And I don't want you to talk to him. I don't want you to get involved in this at all. It's liable to get messy."

  "I am not afraid, Miranda."

  "I know that," she said gently. She smiled and took his hand in hers. "Don't worry about me. Honestly, I'll be fine."

  "You will telephone Eva and question her? Make certain the man, O'Neil, is who he claims?"

  "Yes. I promise."

  "It is also time to move from that apartment of yours. I have tried and tried to tell you, the neighborhood has charm but it can also be dangerous."