"Poor Hoyt."
"You can take as sarcastic a tone as you like, Conor. The fact remains that there is cause for concern."
Conor shoved back his chair and stood up. "Okay, let's stop jerking each other around. What do you want from me? You've got Breverman on this and he's been around long enough to know what he's doing."
A muscle flexed in Harry Thurston's jaw.
"By the time he does," he said quietly, "it may be too late."
Conor's eyes locked on Thurston's face. "Have there been more notes?"
"No."
"What, then? Has somebody tried a break-in at the Winthrop place?"
"No. Not there, or at the duplex the girl's taken on the East Side."
"Maybe I'm missing something here. She's not getting any more notes, there's been no break-in..." His eyes darkened. "Has she been hurt?"
"She's fine. Breverman's been keeping tabs on her—when he can."
"What do you mean, when he can?"
Harry sighed. "I mean just that. The Beckman girl manages to disappear on him whenever it suits her fancy."
"She..." Conor laughed and sat down again. "Are you telling me that a babe who knows more about shadowing her eyelids than shadowing someone has figured out a way to lose Breverman?"
"That's what I said. She's completely uncooperative. He wants to talk to her, you know, ask some questions, she won't let him. He wants to go inside, check out her apartment, she won't permit it. It's as if she's playing a game where she gets points for being stupid."
"She isn't stupid," Conor said sharply.
"I didn't say she was stupid, I said she was being stupid. There's a difference."
Conor thought of how he'd let himself get carried away that last night he'd spent with Miranda. Tell me about being stupid, he thought, and he kicked back his chair, picked up his plate and carried it to the trash can.
"I still fail to see what any of this has to do with me," he said, scraping his meal into the garbage.
Thurston rose, too. "Did you have a relationship with her?"
Conor's fork clattered to the floor. He bent down and picked it up.
"If you mean, did she show as much contempt for me as she's showing for Breverman—"
"I mean just what I said." There was nothing friendly or casual in Thurston's voice or face. "Did you have a relationship with Miranda Beckman?"
Conor turned and faced him. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"You slept with her. Or you wanted to sleep with her. I don't know which, O'Neil, but sure as God grows little green apples, something happened between the two of you, in Paris."
Conor's smile seemed pasted to his face as he strode to the cabin door.
"Good-bye, Harry," he said, reaching for the denim jacket he'd left hanging on a wall peg. "Thanks for the fishing and the recipe."
"I'm right," Thurston said, his voice rising, "something did happen, something you can use to work your way into her life again and get you close enough to her to keep her alive."
"Shove it, Harry." Conor reached for the door. "You and I both know you're full of—"
"Breverman intercepted a package sent to her yesterday. It was a carton. A small one. Came sealed, delivered by messenger."
Conor stopped, his hand on the doorknob. Don't ask any questions, he told himself fiercely, for God's sake, don't!
"You want to know what was in that box, O'Neil?"
Conor turned slowly, his eyes meeting Thurston's.
"A pair of very dead cats," the older man said softly. "One was a Siamese, like the girl's. The other had coal-black fur and green eyes." His mouth twisted. "You'll forgive me if I leave the details until after I've digested my lunch."
Conor nodded. It was bad, but it wasn't over yet; he could see it in Thurston's eyes.
"And?"
"And, there was a note." Thurston reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. "Perhaps you should read it for yourself."
Conor stared at his boss's outstretched hand. Slowly, he reached for the note. His brain registered that it was different from the others. This wasn't handwritten. The words were made up of letters that had been clipped from newspapers, then pasted on a sheet of plain white paper so that they looked lopsided and seemed, at first, to make no sense... and then, all at once, they did.
Miranda, darling Miranda, the note said. Soon you'll agree that a dead pussy is the only kind that's worth fucking.
Conor heard a roaring in his ears. He forced himself to take a deep, deep breath. Then he read the note again.
"Well?" Thurston asked, when the men's eyes met.
"I'm going to kill the piece of shit who wrote this," Conor said. His voice was calm, as if they were discussing nothing more urgent than the weather, but a vein had risen in his forehead and pulsed visibly just beneath his skin.
Thurston's lips curved in what might have been a smile.
"I take it you're back on board, then?"
"Call Langley. I want a plane waiting at Charlottesville to fly me to New York."
Thurston pulled a cell phone from his pocket. "Done. What else?"
"I get carte blanche. No idiocy with filling out forms in triplicate, no wasting time getting court orders if I need to do something that's not quite kosher."
"Of course."
"And you'd better make sure the Committee understands that I'll do whatever it takes to protect the girl, even if it means the President ends up with dirt on his shoes."
"My dear boy, presidents never end up with dirt on anything."
"Nixon did."
Thurston's smile flickered on again. "Ah, but Nixon didn't have the Committee. Do whatever you must. Just clean up this mess, once and for all."
Conor pulled on his jacket. "You're all heart, Harry, did anybody ever tell you that?"
"Having a heart never meant a thing in this business, O'Neil. When you come down to it, having one's a liability. You, of all people, should know that."
Conor nodded. He had not only known it, he had lived by it. And he would, again, when this was over.
* * *
Boring, Miranda thought, bor-ing!
Why had she let herself be talked into attending this party?
Eva had told her it was a charity function. Papillon, she'd said, believed in supporting good works. What she'd neglected to mention was that the purpose of this particular good work was to raise monies to provide works of art for homeless shelters around the city.
Art? For people who needed roofs over their heads and, probably, food in their bellies?
It was a concept that was totally Eva. There she was now, holding court across the room, her hairdo impeccable, her makeup perfect, her gown the latest creation from Donna Karan. Hoyt was beside her, resplendent in his tuxedo, looking for all the world like the perfect ambassador though he wasn't an ambassador. Not yet.
To hear Eva tell it, that was her fault.
"Those dreadful notes surely originated with someone of your acquaintance," she'd said at dinner the first night Miranda was back in the States. "Please be sure you keep better friends, so long as you remain in this city—which we shall help you do, by having you live here, with us."
Miranda had sat there, smiling politely. The next morning, she'd gone apartment-hunting, subletting the first place that was acceptable. Then she'd made some phone calls to people she knew. Hi, she'd said, wasn't it cool? She was in town and hey, where did people go to have fun?
The next day, she was living in her new apartment and the day after that, she'd made both The Huffington Post and Page Six, her name splashed in heavy black print beneath photos of her snapped on the dance floor at a hot little club in the meatpacking district where she'd probably been the only person in the place who didn't have a tongue full of gold studs.
Eva had phoned, voice icy with disapproval.
"The Papillon image is not well-served by such publicity," she'd snapped, and Miranda had said that if Eva preferred, she could find so
meone else to be the Chrysalis girl.
Eva had made it clear that personal preference had little to do with the situation. Using Miranda as the Chrysalis model was the story she and Hoyt had concocted to explain her return. Miranda had almost laughed. She'd thought of pointing out that people who knew them also knew that mother and daughter had barely spoken to each other in the past eight years, but she'd simply repeated, politely, that the choice was Eva's.
She would conduct her personal life as she saw fit.
"As you always have," Eva had snarled, and hung up.
A couple of hours later Hoyt had called and asked, pleasantly enough, if Miranda could please try to keep a low profile until things calmed down.
"Meaning what?" Miranda had asked, just as pleasantly. "Meaning, stay low until Eva sells a billion new lipsticks? Or until you get your precious appointment?"
Why, until it was certain no harm would come to her. Or to Eva, Hoyt had said in a wounded tone.
"I've never wanted anything but the best for you both, Miranda," he'd said. "You know that."
Tonight, Hoyt seemed to hear Miranda's thoughts. He looked around, caught her eye, and smiled. Miranda didn't smile back. His charm was wasted on her. She didn't like him. She never had, though Eva insisted that wasn't true, that she'd adored him, when she was little.
"Miss Beckman?"
A tall man with a bristling mustache and a shiny bald head had appeared at her elbow.
"It is such a pleasure to have you here, Miss Beckman."
Miranda smiled dutifully. "It's a pleasure to be here."
"Such a fine, charitable event, don't you think?"
What she thought was that the event was stupid and anybody who didn't realize that was even stupider. Not that she was much better. Here she was, back where she'd sworn she'd never be, at Eva's beck and call.
At least she'd had the sense to look up Brian Stone and ask him to represent her.
"...so many organizations raising money for food and clothing and shelter that we asked ourselves, why should we duplicate..."
Brian hadn't turned a hair at the thought of getting as much money as possible out of Miranda's own flesh and blood. Thanks to him, Papillon was paying a fortune so it could plaster her face everywhere. Even Jean-Phillipe was impressed. Nita was, too. The last time they'd spoken on the phone, she'd laughed and gone straight to the nitty-gritty.
"This is so great, girlfriend! That mama of yours, paying through the nose to have you in her ads after she once dumped you like a load of dirty laundry!"
Trust Nita to put the right spin on things. Viewed that way, being in New York wasn't so bad. Eva was eating crow, Miranda was getting terrific exposure, the notes had stopped coming—and Conor, the meddling son of a bitch, was out of her life.
But the news wasn't all good. O'Neil had been replaced by a jerk named Breverman. He'd come straight to her door, rung the bell and introduced himself.
"How do you do, Miss Beckman," he'd said. "My name is Robert Breverman but please, call me Bob." Then he'd flashed a government ID at her.
A private detective peering over her shoulder had been bad enough but to have Big Brother breathing down her neck was ridiculous, especially since the nut who'd sent the awful notes and the picture had faded back into the woodwork.
She'd asked Eva to call the guy off but Eva had shrugged her shoulders and said it wasn't up to her, that the government was doing what it had to do to safeguard Hoyt. So Miranda had swallowed her pride and asked Hoyt to see about getting rid of Breverman but Hoyt had only given her that phony, elder-statesman smile and launched into a speech about the importance of patience and tolerance.
Finally, she'd taken things into her own hands and figured out ways to give Call-Me-Bob the slip. It was almost painfully easy, considering that she could pick him out of a crowd at a hundred yards. Hadn't ever occurred to him that not that many guys hung around the Papillon offices on Fifth Avenue or the building on Madison, where Brian Stone had his agency, wearing black suits that had a shine and black wing-tips that didn't?
If it had been O'Neil watching over her, she'd never have got away with it. He'd have stuck like glue, the way he had in Paris. If she'd tried to evade him, he'd have shouldered his way into her apartment, demanded to know what in hell she thought she was doing and after they'd yelled at each other maybe, just maybe, he'd have gathered her into his arms and kissed her until nothing mattered but the taste and the feel of him, though why she should even think such a thing was beyond her comprehension.
Miranda gave herself a little shake. This was what came of standing around and being bored out of your mind. You got maudlin and stupid, you began to think about things that had no meaning. Enough, she thought, and she turned to the man standing beside her, gave him a dazzling smile, and interrupted him in midsentence.
"I'm sure Art for the Homeless is a wonderful cause," she said earnestly, "and I'm very grateful to you for explaining it to me."
"You're more than welcome, Miss Beckman." He cleared his throat and edged closer. "Perhaps you'd like to have a late supper with me. I'd love to fill you in on some of our future plans."
"Another time," Miranda said, her smile even more brilliant. "Unfortunately, it's quite late."
"Late?" His gaze shot to the Rolex on his pale, hairless wrist. "But it's barely nine-thirty."
"Ah, but I have to face the cameras in the morning. You wouldn't want me to look anything less than my best, would you?"
She patted his arm before he could come up with an answer and made her way to the table where she'd left the pale grey suede coat that matched her dress.
Eva caught up to her as she was halfway to the door.
"The party's not over," she said coldly.
"I know, but I have an early shoot tomorrow."
"This is an important event. Papillon is one of the sponsors and Chrysalis should be properly represented."
"Don't worry, Mother. I shook all the right hands and smiled at all the right people."
Eva's lips thinned with contempt. "I suppose you have a late date."
"That's none of your business."
"Nothing is different," Eva said in a low, razor-sharp voice. "You still have no sense of morality or obligation."
"Isn't it nice to know some things never change?" Miranda said, her smile unwavering. "Good night, Mother."
* * *
It was cool out but not unpleasantly so. She could even smell the green fragrance of spring on the sighing breath of a light breeze. The only thing that spoiled the evening was a quick glimpse of Bob Breverman, lurking just a few yards past the hotel.
The doorman started to whistle for a cab but Miranda waved it away. It was only a short walk to the apartment she was renting and besides, she needed the exercise. Paris was a city of walkers; New York was a place where you took a taxi, even if you were only going half a dozen blocks. Maybe she'd join a gym. Or take up running. Something. Anything. She didn't want to put on weight.
Didn't want time to hang heavy on her hands because when it did, she ended up thinking.
About Conor and what he'd done to her, taking away her friends, her home, all the things that had been her life.
About how it had been between them, that night. That one fantastic night, when almost anything had seemed possible.
That awful night, when she'd come painfully close to making a complete fool of herself.
A horn blared and she almost jumped out of her skin as a taxi squealed to a halt only a couple of feet away. The driver leaned out his window, cursing her in some language she'd never heard before. Other horns blared as she zigzagged through the traffic.
Terrific. If she wasn't careful, she'd end up not on the society pages tomorrow or even on the gossip pages, but as a front page headline.
Famous Model Finds Fate on Fifth.
Eva would probably love the publicity.
Miranda stepped up on the curb and made her way to the entrance to her apartment building. At the last
second, she came to a dead stop. Call-Me-Bob Breverman was right on schedule, following her so closely that he almost crashed into her as she turned and confronted him.
"Good evening, Mr. Breverman," she said politely. "Lovely night for walking, isn't it?"
Breverman flushed. "This is a foolish game, Miss Beckman."
"Perhaps. But it's my game and I enjoy playing it. You can go home and get some rest, Mr. Breverman. I promise, I'm not going out anymore tonight. I'll be locked up, safe and snug, until eight tomorrow morning."
One last smile and then she walked briskly to the entrance.
The doorman touched his cap in greeting, the door swung open, and Miranda stepped inside the lobby.
* * *
Conor, watching from the shadows, cursed under his breath.
He waited until the door closed after her. Then he strolled across the street to Bob Breverman's side.
"She made you," he said conversationally.
Breverman's flush deepened. "Yeah, but she almost always does."
Conor nodded and dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his leather flight jacket.
"She's a winner, all right."
"She's a bitch," Breverman said, "and she's all yours, O'Neil."
Conor watched as Breverman strode away. No, he thought, and his gut tightened, she isn't mine.
But God, how he wished she were.
Chapter 14
Miranda had no idea he was watching her.
Conor dogged her footsteps for the rest of the week but he might as well have been invisible.
She never caught a glimpse of him. He was certain of that although a couple of times she'd hesitated as she stepped out the door in the morning, her head lifted, her nostrils delicately flaring. It made him remember a filly he'd seen once, during a stint in Saudi Arabia, and the way she'd come into the stable, tossing her head and seeking the scent of the stallion waiting for her.
It was a fanciful, pointless thought and he'd have laughed at it and at himself if he'd had the time, but he was too busy making sure he kept out of the way so Miranda didn't spot him.
Until You Page 26
