He knew she was wondering what had happened to Bob Breverman. He could tell by the way she glanced around, as if she were a kid playing a game of hide-and-seek. That pissed him off. He wanted to step out of the shadows, grab her and say, Dammit, haven't you figured out that this isn't a game an amateur stands a chance of winning?
Breverman had given him a rundown on her schedule. Out the door at eight; coffee, one slice of dry wheat toast and half a grapefruit at a little place a couple of blocks over, then a brisk walk to the office or a taxi ride to wherever the cameras might be filming that day. She had lunch—yogurt, fruit and a small bottle of Perrier—on the set, if she was being photographed. If she was in the office Eva had assigned her at Papillon, she ate on a bench in the atrium of a skyscraper a couple of blocks away. She never lunched at Papillon itself, where there was an executive dining room.
Eva took that as an indication of her daughter's intransigent behavior.
"My daughter prefers to go her own way," she'd said with a chill smile when Conor paid her a quick visit, told her not to mention his presence in the city to Miranda, and asked her to provide him with Miranda's weekly schedule in advance. "Following her when she's on her own time should prove interesting, Mr. O'Neil. Heaven only knows where she goes or what she does, even on her lunch hour."
Or who she does it with. The unspoken words had seemed to hang in the air between them.
Conor wondered what Eva would say if he told her that so far, Miranda's lunchtime assignations were with a bunch of cooing pigeons that had already figured out she was an easy mark. But he didn't answer; he just kept quiet and nodded wisely, as if he were taking it all in.
In the afternoons, Miranda invariably went out to promote Papillon's new cosmetic line. Eva's people had arranged appearances for her all over Manhattan and in half a dozen other major markets. She taxied to Bloomingdale's and Barney's; she was greeted with glitzy excitement at Saks, Henri Bendel's and the other Fifth Avenue stores.
A week after Conor took over, she began going out of town to tout Chrysalis. She flew to Dallas and Miami, Phoenix and San Francisco; Conor flew with her, in the same plane, folding his long legs into his coach class seat because there was no way he could sit in business class, or first, without her seeing him.
She flew to Los Angeles, too, and scooted off to a handsome house high in the hills for a couple of hours to visit with Jean-Phillipe Moreau. The house was damn near all windows, which made Conor nervous, but at least it gave him an easy view of things, enough to see the easy familiarity between Moreau and Harlan Williams, and to know that you couldn't call the kisses and hugs Miranda shared with the Frenchman anything but brotherly.
In the evenings, she went out. To the clubs, as Thurston had said, and always with a group of people, the women fashion-model gorgeous, the men successful-looking and handsome. She wore outrageous outfits, body-hugging dresses that came to mid-thigh, with her hair hanging loose down her back and a smile he knew was phony painted across her face, and she shimmered like heat-lightning on the dance floor. Watching her turned his body hard and his temper mean; it was all he could do sometimes to keep from marching onto the floor, tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her off.
She had the same effect on every other man who watched her and he could tell that she knew it. She flirted like crazy, damn her, batted her lashes and pouted and purred until half the guys in the place were panting to have her. And then she went home.
Alone.
Conor couldn't figure it out. He'd seen her with Moreau in L.A.; he knew that what Thurston had said about the man's sexuality was true. So, if she wasn't being faithful to the Frenchman, why was she sleeping by herself?
And through it all, she never had a clue that he was watching. Breverman, the poor sap, had slunk around dressed like a G-12 clerk. Conor knew better. He hadn't given a damn about blending into the background in Paris. If anything, he'd worn his Harris tweed jackets, his cords and chinos and sweaters as a not terribly original way of distancing himself from the smarmy fashion scene, but here he knew he had to fade into the woodwork.
He'd moved into a sublet two blocks from Miranda's place, courtesy of his expense account, and the only things he hung in the closet were his Burberry and his tux. Everything else was Manhattan casual: a couple of pair of snug, faded Levi 501's, his ancient denim jacket that had once been a rite of passage, a leather flight jacket he'd cherished, for more than a decade. He took himself over to Ralph Lauren's, bought some cashmere sweaters, a couple of sports jackets, pants and a handful of shirts. Then he thought, what-the-hell, ducked into a nearby shop and picked up a pair of leather boots, although he spent half an hour scuffing the boots with sandpaper so he wouldn't come off looking like some midnight cowboy and end up having to defend his honor. A pair of dark shades, and that was it.
He was in business.
Now he could bide his time, hang back and wait. Sooner or later, something was bound to happen. It was just that when something finally did, it wasn't what he'd expected.
Friday afternoon, Miranda was heading for her apartment. She was walking, taking her time, looking into shop windows, when she suddenly veered into a place called The Milepost. Conor tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans, sauntered to the window, and looked in.
The shop was crammed with running gear. Sneakers, shorts, tops, warm-up suits—a sea of Spandex flowed in all directions. He could see Miranda making her way down one aisle and up the other, taking stuff from the racks and finally toting it to the counter.
Had she taken up running? Had she joined a gym? One or the other seemed likely, but he had no idea which it was.
He knew she got a late start on Friday nights. He had plenty of time to go home, dress for an evening of club-hopping, then return and stake the place out.
Logic told him that, but instinct told him something else.
He trotted the couple of blocks to his apartment but instead of putting on one of his Polo jackets, he pulled on a pair of sweats, added his old Columbia sweatshirt with the hole in the sleeve, and laced up his Adidas. A little past six, he took up station outside Miranda's apartment building.
Somewhere between seven and seven-thirty, she came out the door.
She was wearing stuff he'd seen her buy that afternoon, a no-nonsense gray tank top, gray shorts and white running shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a French braid and her face was shiny, scrubbed and makeup-free. She looked up at the sky, checking the weather. He wanted to cross the street, tell her that what she should be checking was her head.
You didn't go running at night, not in this city.
She did a couple of quick stretches and he figured she was about to get on her way when she stopped, cocked her head in his direction and got that funny "Is somebody there?" look on her face. And she smiled.
The skin on the back of Conor's neck prickled. He knew that she couldn't see him. This side of the street was in shadow and he was standing far back in a doorway. Still, he had the damnedest feeling, not that she suspected he was there but that she hoped he was.
A middle-aged woman crossed from his side of the street to Miranda's. She was holding a leash and at the end of it, a silver grey Yorkie wearing a bright red bow in its top-knot hurried along as fast as its short legs would carry it. Miranda grinned, bent down and rubbed the dog's ears as it trotted past. Then she did another couple of stretches, adjusted her laces and set off at an easy lope towards Central Park.
Conor let out his breath.
It was going to be tough to figure which of them was the bigger jerk.
He counted to thirty, then set off after her.
* * *
Miranda puffed a little as she headed into the park.
What was the matter with her this evening?
Aside from being out of shape, which she certainly was, or she wouldn't be breathing so hard.
What on earth had made her think of O'Neil just now?
Not that it was the first time. It had been hap
pening with regularity, ever since that fool, Call-Me-Bob, had mercifully been pulled out of her life.
For reasons she couldn't figure at all, she'd come out of her building the morning after the Art for the Homeless thing and stopped dead in her tracks, her heart doing a fluttery two step. She'd had the eerie sensation that Conor was somewhere close by.
He hadn't been, of course. He was wherever he'd been before Eva had hired him, doing whatever it was private investigators did. Spying on somebody else, probably, making some other poor soul's life a misery.
Damn, when was the last time she'd done any running? Nita had always said they ought to get into it but Nita didn't really need the exercise. She could stuff her face from morning until night and never gain an ounce.
Miranda smiled, thinking of the letter she'd gotten from Nita the other day. "I am too happy for words," she'd written, and tucked inside the brief but telling note had been a photo of her wearing a yellow sarong and with a big pink flower tucked behind her ear. Her arms were locked around the neck of a skinny guy sporting a smile as big as Nita's. "Me and Carlos," she'd scribbled on the back of the picture. "Isn't he gorgeous?"
That was what love was all about, Miranda thought, picking up her pace a little. It was getting easier to breathe, now that she was getting into the rhythm of the run. You met a man, he made you smile, not just with your lips but with your heart, and if he asked you to follow him to the ends of the earth, you paused only long enough to pack your toothbrush.
It wasn't like what she'd felt for Conor, anger so fierce she wanted to hurt him where he lived one minute and a need so powerful she ached to be in his arms the next. Whenever he'd asked her to do something, she'd been torn between doing it and breaking something over his head.
Why was she even thinking about him? Dredging up all those memories would only spoil the run. The park was all hers and the solitude was wonderful after the noise of the city streets. She'd been hesitant about running tonight, wondering if it might not be a better idea to roll out of bed early and hit the park in the morning but she'd been eager to give it a try and besides, it was still fairly light out.
Plenty of time to enjoy finding her stride.
Plenty of time to think about Conor.
Maybe she hadn't hated him. Hate was an awfully strong word. What had she felt, then? Dislike? No, dislike didn't make it. Dislike was how she felt about brussel sprouts or cold oatmeal, the lumpy stuff she'd always thought of as Boarding School Breakfast. Dislike had nothing to do with emotions so powerful they made you feel as if you'd been turned inside out.
Damn, what was she doing? Only a lunatic would waste time trying to categorize her feelings for a man who meant nothing to her. Less than nothing, to be accurate. And there it was, that weird sensation again, that if she could only turn around quickly enough she'd spot him watching her. Following her.
"Stop it," she muttered.
The path jigged just ahead, cut into a stand of forsythia that was just coming into bloom. Miranda got her knees up a little, tucked in her elbows and picked up her pace.
No more thinking about Conor O'Neil. From this second on, he was history.
* * *
She ran well, he had to give her that.
And she looked good, too. Those long legs, that nicely rounded bottom... Coasting along a couple of dozen yards behind Miranda was turning out to be a very pleasant way to end the day—even if Central Park at dusk wasn't the place he'd have chosen.
Running wasn't a bad idea, either. He was holding back so he wouldn't get too close to her but still, he was working up a light sweat, feeling a nice stretch in his muscles. That was always good but after days of mostly standing around with his thumb up his butt, just watching and waiting, a little workout was just what he needed. It was good for his body and for his brain. There was nothing like some physical stuff to clear out the cobwebs and God knew, he'd picked up more than his fair share the past weeks.
Was that what his thoughts about Miranda were? Cobwebs? Meaningless debris, lodged in his mind?
Not that it mattered. This assignment would be done soon—he could feel it in his gut. And once it was, it would be goodbye, au revoir, adios, auf wiedersehn to her and everything about her...
What was that?
Up ahead, Miranda had just gone around a curve and disappeared into a sea of yellow forsythia. He couldn't see her, but he could see the four big, burly teenaged boys who'd slipped out of the shrubs behind her. The boys were moving fast and running close together and as they vanished from sight, he remembered a film he'd once seen on cable about a pack of wolves on the trail of a deer.
Conor put his head down and really began to run.
* * *
The feeling was back, that somebody was on her tail.
Only the feeling wasn't the same as before. She knew, without hesitation, that it wasn't Conor coming up behind her. It wasn't even Bob Breverman.
It was somebody—several somebodies—that meant her harm. Every urban survival instinct told her so.
Miranda lengthened her stride.
Behind her, somebody laughed.
"Laaydee..."
The voice was young, male and deceptively soft. It was a voice that was rich with the promise of pleasures yet to come, pleasures that would surely not be hers.
She began to run flat-out, feet pounding the path, arms swinging. She could hear the footsteps quicken behind her, and the laughter. The urge to turn around and see who was coming after her was overwhelming but she knew better than to give in. She'd lose precious time—and God only knew what she'd see.
Who she'd see.
Somebody who wants to hurt you, Miranda. Somebody who sent you that awful picture and that terrible, bone-chilling note.
"Hey, laaydee..."
A hand brushed her shoulder, another cupped her ass. She cried out and twisted away but fingers clamped her arm and spun her around. She had a quick glimpse of four laughing faces and then a fist landed in the middle of her chest. The air whooshed from her lungs; she fell to her knees.
"Son of a bitch!"
Like an avenging angel, Conor burst upon her attackers. There was a thud, a muffled grunt, the sound of bone cracking against flesh. A high-pitched scream pierced the air and one of the boys went down, his left arm clutching his right, which hung uselessly at his side.
"Conor," Miranda wept, "oh God, Conor!"
"Kohnuh," a voice mimicked cruelly, "oh God, Kon—"
Conor moved again, fast as lightning. The second assailant went down, his mouth opening and closing as he gasped for air, his arms wrapped around his jackknifed body.
Conor laughed. He was on the balls of his feet as if he were dancing, his body loose, his arms out and his hands open. There was a smile on his face and a terrible coldness in his eyes and Miranda could smell base, animal rage in his sweat.
"Okay," he was saying to the third of her attackers, his voice very soft, "okay, dude, come and get me."
The boy's eyes shifted from side to side. Something glinted in his hand.
"He's got a knife," Miranda screamed.
The boy moved fast, the knife coming in gut-low. But Conor moved faster. There was a scream. The knife went flying and then Conor was standing behind the boy, who must have outweighed him by fifty pounds, with his right arm wrapped tightly around the kid's neck.
The fourth assailant turned and ran.
"Don't, man," pleaded the one in the arm-lock.
Conor yanked back, hard. "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't."
The boy rose on his toes. "We was only funnin', man."
"The truth or you're dead, scumbag."
The boy grabbed Conor's arm and hung on, trying to ease the choke hold that was cutting off his breath.
"Please, man, let go!"
"Who set this up? You?"
"It was just some fun, is all. A little fun with the lady."
"I asked who set it up."
"James did."
"James?"
<
br /> "The guy who took off."
"Why?"
"I told you, man, it was for fun."
"You've had fun like this before?"
Conor jerked back and the boy lifted on his toes.
"On my mother, man," he babbled, "we never did! Never!"
Conor flung the boy from him. His pals scrambled to their feet and the three of them stood huddled together.
"If I ever see you again," he snapped, "the rats will be eating your eyeballs. You got that? Now, get the hell out of here before I change my mind."
The trio turned and ran.
Conor swung towards Miranda. She was still on her knees. There was dirt on her face and terror in her eyes and all he could think about was how close he'd come to losing her. If he hadn't taken over from that idiot, Breverman, if he hadn't followed his instincts and been waiting for her when she'd come out the door tonight...
What he thought and what he felt terrified him so completely that he reacted the only way he dared.
"Goddamn you, Beckman," he roared, "you are one dumb broad!"
She stared at him for a long, long minute. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath and got to her feet, ignoring the hand he extended, making it on her own even though her legs were so watery they didn't feel as if they belonged to her.
"You're right," she said. Tears of anger glinted in her eyes and she brushed them away. "I am stupid, because just for a minute there, I was going to say—I was going to say..."
She swung away from him, head bowed so that her braid swung forward, revealing the tender nape of her neck, and Conor cursed himself for a fool and reached for her.
"They could have killed you," he said harshly.
She stiffened as his hands closed on her shoulders and then a sound, terrible in its anguish, burst from her throat and she turned and went into his arms. He held her while the moments ticked away, his arms hard around her, his heart thudding against hers, telling himself it was best not to think about anything, certainly not to try and figure out what he was feeling, knowing only that holding her close was the best thing that had ever happened to him, that he was never going to let her go again, and then she stiffened and pulled back in his arms.
Until You Page 27
