Until You

by Sandra Marton

"Miranda, I just told you, that doesn't matter."

  "But it does. It matters a lot because—because the truth is, there hasn't been anybody. Not since Edouard, and that was—"

  Conor shot up against the pillows. "What?"

  She nodded. The, tip of her tongue crept out from between her lips, then swept over them in a nervous gesture.

  "I only—Edouard was the only man who..." She cleared her throat and looked into his eyes. "Even Jean-Phillipe. He was—he is—my friend. But I never slept with him, never with anybody, after Edouard. I never wanted to... until you."

  Conor stared at her. He thought of the things the headmistress of Miss Cooper's had said about her; of what Eva and Hoyt had said. He thought about her reputation...

  "I know it's hard to believe."

  But it wasn't, that was the damndest part. He'd deliberately blanked that night in Paris out of his head because it hurt too much to remember, but the evidence had been there all the time, taking niggling little pokes at his subconscious.

  How she'd seemed hesitant about touching him. How her eyes had widened into pools of shocked darkness at the intimacy of his caresses. How she'd tried to hold back just before she'd shattered in his arms.

  "Conor?"

  He looked at her. Her face was pale; her mouth was trembling.

  "Conor, I'm only telling you this because—because." She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. "I'm not trying to put any kind of pressure on you. I mean, I don't want you to feel—to feel any obligation." Her chin lifted. "Damn you, O'Neil, will you please say something? If you're angry, admit it."

  "Angry?" he said, his tone giving nothing away. "Angry, to find out I'm the first man you've slept with since that son of a bitch, de Lasserre? Angry, to learn that your reputation is a P.R. lie?"

  "P.R.? You mean, public relations? Oh no. It's not that at all. I just—I didn't want men coming around, you see, and—and when I tried to think of a way to stop them... I mean, in my business, men are an occupational hazard."

  Conor reached out and hauled her into his arms.

  "Beckman," he said, "you are, without a doubt, the most exasperating, impossible, incredible woman."

  Miranda blinked back her tears.

  "Does that mean you're not angry at me?"

  Conor took an unsteady breath.

  "It means," he said, cupping her face in his hands, "that I'm crazy about you. And that you've just given me the greatest gift imaginable."

  "Oh, Conor." She laughed, threw her arms around him and kissed him. "I didn't know how you'd take it. Jean-Phillipe said—he told me that this would happen, someday, you know, that I'd fall in love and..." Her eyes widened and scarlet flooded her face. "Oh, hell. Hell! I didn't mean—I shouldn't have said—"

  "Yes, you should have." He kissed her with a tenderness that was new to him. "I love you, Miranda. I have since I first saw your picture."

  Happiness shone in her eyes. She gave a soft laugh and leaned her forehead against his.

  "Don't tell me you're one of those guys who buys the hype in magazine ads!"

  Conor's smile faded. It was the perfect lead-in. Take a deep breath, pal, and go for it.

  "I'm talking about the painting of you that hangs in the foyer at the Winthrop house."

  Miranda stiffened in his arms and a wintery stillness came over her.

  "Is that still there?"

  "All it took was one look, and I was lost."

  "It's a horrible painting. I'd hoped they'd taken it down by now."

  "Well," Conor said, smiling as he touched the tip of his finger to the end of her nose, "it's not exactly a work of art, no, but considering that it was painted by an amateur like Hoyt—"

  "Conor." Miranda lay back against the pillows and looped her arms around his neck. "I don't want to talk about Hoyt now."

  "No, neither do I. I want to talk about us."

  "Us," she said, and smiled. "What a lovely word."

  "Miranda, sweetheart—about the way we met..."

  "Mmm." She laughed softly as she trailed her hands down his shoulders, to his chest. "You didn't just 'happen' to be on that running path this evening, did you?"

  Conor felt his muscles tense. Here we go.

  "No, baby, I didn't."

  "I thought so." Her fingers swept into the dark hair that covered his chest, exploring its texture and the play of firm muscle beneath. "Did you come looking for me?"

  "Yes. Yes, I did, and before you get ticked off—"

  "I knew it, as soon as I saw you." She smiled again, though it was a different smile now, as her hand danced lower. "Are all private detectives as efficient as you, O'Neil?"

  "Miranda." Conor reached between them and caught hold of her hand. "Don't—don't do that. You're distracting me, and I'm trying to tell you something."

  "There's no need. I told you, I know you sought me out. And I'm glad you did. When I saw you today... oh Conor, I kept telling myself I hated you but the truth was that I couldn't stop missing you." She laughed softly. "I even missed your pig-headed interference in my life."

  "Sweetheart, listen to me for a minute. I need to tell you about Eva. About what I told you, that she hired me—"

  "But that doesn't matter now. Don't you see? I'm not angry about that anymore. Bringing you into my life, was the first—the only—good thing my mother ever did for me."

  How could he get her to listen? For that matter, how could he think with her lying close to him and touching him? Her hands felt like silk, smooth and warm, against his body.

  "Miranda, you don't understand."

  She clasped his face and brought his mouth to hers. She kissed him, her mouth open and soft against his.

  "All of them—first Eva, then Hoyt and finally Edouard... all of them used me, all of them wanted something from me. But you," she whispered fiercely, "you wanted only me. Just me. You didn't lie, you didn't use me."

  She kissed him again and he told himself not to respond, to pull back and say the things that had to be said.

  But he couldn't. There was no way to resist her sighs and her kisses and no way to tell her the truth, not without the risk of losing her, and that was a risk he couldn't take.

  So he told her the one true thing that mattered.

  "I love you," he said, and then, with a groan born of despair and desire, he buried himself in her heat.

  Chapter 16

  Spring had truly arrived.

  Golden daffodils and red and white tulips blooming in chic wooden tubs brightened the grey canyons of the city. Tables and chairs crowded the sidewalks outside trendy cafés. Lovers strolled through Central Park, hand in hand.

  It was, Conor thought as he lay sprawled in the grass in the Sheep Meadow, his head pillowed on his arms and his gaze fixed on Miranda's face, a wonderful time to be alive.

  A week had passed and in all those days and nights, they'd only been apart for a handful of hours. She was between photo shoots; he told her he was between assignments.

  There was no reason to do anything except be together.

  Sometimes, he even forgot reality. Keeping her safe wasn't an assignment, it was a commitment. Staying close to her wasn't part of the job, it was a function as necessary as breathing.

  He wanted Miranda in his life forever.

  He'd never known a woman like her. She was funny, she was serious; she could discuss politics and Plato, then pick up the Sunday paper and giggle over the comics. She understood the things that really mattered. For instance, runny eggs weren't civilized. Rare steak was. And she didn't even mind when he forgot, on occasion, and left the seat up in the john.

  But sometimes, when the nights were too dark and long for sleeping, worries crept into the corners of the bedroom. He thought about what would happen when he finally had to tell her the truth, not just about who he was and how he'd come into her life this second time but that whoever wanted to hurt her was still out there.

  She was convinced the nightmare was over. She'd told him that and smiled, e
xplained her belief that the notes and picture had been the work of some kook who'd moved on to other interests, now that she'd left France. Somehow, he'd managed to look convinced. She'd told him about Bob Breverman, too, and it had been no trouble at all to laugh when she'd described him as a jerk.

  She was a good storyteller with a nice flair for the dramatic. Right now, she was telling him about her very first roommate at her very first boarding school, and what they'd done to get back at the headmistress for the awful food the girls were served.

  "Beryl wanted to dump the sugar out of the bowls in the cafeteria and fill them with salt instead but I said, heck, we'd get caught whatever we did so we might as well do something interesting."

  She'd been twelve then, she said, and he could just imagine her sitting cross-legged on her narrow bed, dressed in a flannel nightgown and with her hair in braids and a sprinkling of freckles on her nose, whispering and giggling in the dark with another poor little rich girl every bit as homesick as she was.

  "...and I said, 'Beryl, did you ever notice, Miss Blakely'—she was the headmistress at the Jefferson Academy, did I tell you that?—'Miss Blakely never eats at the faculty table in the dining room, she just sits there and goes through the motions?"'

  He was going through the motions, too. He was too damn distracted to keep his mind on the story but even a Martian would have responded to Miranda's shining eyes and mischievous smile, to the animation in her voice and the feel of her hand as it touched his for emphasis.

  "...and that was when I said, 'I'll bet Blakely dines on lobster and pâté in the privacy of her rooms.'" She frowned and shot him a mock glare. "Are you paying attention to this, O'Neil? There's gonna be a quiz, you know."

  "Of course I am. You guys were being served stale bread and gruel but you figured Madam Ogre was chowing down on lobster and pâté." He grinned. "Lobster and pâté, huh? Pretty sophisticated thinking for a gawky kid."

  Miranda gave him an indignant look before grinning back at him.

  "I was not gawky. Skinny as a stringbean, maybe, and convinced I was never going to stop growing until my head hit the ceiling, but not gawky. Miss Blakely wouldn't have allowed it."

  "I see. A dead ringer for Michael Jordan, but with a classy palate."

  "Give me a break! My idea of gustatory paradise—"

  "Gustatory paradise?" Conor said, laughing as he sat up.

  "If you can think of a better way to describe peanut butter, onions and sardines on whole wheat bread, let me know."

  "You're joking."

  "Cross my heart and hope to die. It was the midnight dorm rage that entire semester."

  Conor shuddered. "What they say is true. There are inconceivable differences between little girls and little boys."

  Miranda's smile grew wicked. "Are you only just figuring that out?"

  Their eyes met. After a minute, Conor cleared his throat.

  "Go on with that story," he said softly, "or I'm liable to show you that I know the difference, right here and now."

  Miranda reached out, put her hands against his shoulders, and he let her tumble him backwards into the grass.

  "How?" she whispered, scooting into the curve of his outstretched arm.

  "Behave yourself, Beckman, and finish your story. You were about to corrupt poor Beryl."

  "Right. She wanted to do the salt-for-sugar thing but I said, if we're gonna go, let's go big time." Miranda rolled onto her belly, plucked a blade of grass and ran it down Conor's nose. "Did you break this?"

  "You mean, you can tell?" He smiled up at her. "Heck, Dr. Frankenstein promised no one would ever know."

  "Well, I really wouldn't except one time I had this roommate who broke her nose playing field hockey and after it was set, it healed just fine except it had this ever-so-slight tilt to the left."

  "Beryl?"

  Miranda sighed and fell back again, this time with her head cradled on his shoulder.

  "I don't know if poor Beryl ever got around to playing hockey or anything else, for that matter. She was pretty much in purgatory after we did our thing."

  "Which was?"

  "Well, you have to keep in mind, I'd organized this very polite petition drive, asking for a review of the food they served us. I even went to the Student Council for their support."

  "And?"

  "And, the council was scared of getting in trouble. Everybody agreed we were getting screwed but nobody wanted to confront Blakely. I didn't blame them. I didn't want to march into her office, hold out my dinner bowl and say, 'More, please,' either."

  "So you came up with another plan, one that got Beryl tossed out?"

  "She didn't. Get tossed out, I mean. Her parents decided to move her to another school." Her voice changed, lost just a bit of color. "Even after the school made it clear they intended to expel me, Beryl's father said that any school that permitted someone like me to slip through their admissions screening in the first place wasn't the right place for his daughter."

  Conor felt his belly knot. He wanted to turn back the clock, seek out Beryl Whatsis's old man and punch out his lights—after he put old Blakely on a bread and water diet.

  "Hey," Miranda said softly, "don't look like that. It was a long time ago—and when you hear what I did, you might not feel so sorry for me."

  She gave him a self-satisfied little grin that eased away his anger. He grinned in return, rolled over, and looked down at her.

  "Come on, Beckman, can the suspense! What'd you do?"

  "I sneaked into Blakely's rooms one night after dinner. I hid in a closet."

  "Ah ha," Conor said. "A covert operation."

  "And you'd know all about those, of course."

  For just an instant, his heart skipped a beat. But she was still smiling, and finally he realized that she'd been referring to the job he'd told her he held as a private detective.

  "Sure," he said casually, chiding himself for having tossed out such a dumb, off-hand remark. "A pamphlet on covert operations comes packed inside each Handy Dandy Junior Detective kit."

  Miranda smiled and linked her arms loosely around his neck.

  "So I hid in the closet and sure enough, in just a little while, Blakely came in and sat herself down at her desk. A couple of minutes later, one of the monitors who worked in the kitchen came trundling up the stairs, carrying a tray. She set it down in front of Blakely, whipped off the cover, and there it was."

  "Lobster and pâté?"

  "Better than that. Steak and a baked potato oozing with butter. Oh, I still drool when I think of it! The closest we'd come to meat in weeks was some slimy grey stuff."

  "Mystery meat," Conor said, "yeah, we had that in the army."

  "Is that where you broke your nose? In the army?"

  Damn, what was the matter with him? He never so much as hinted at his background. It was right up there on his How to Survive list, not just professionally but personally. You didn't give pieces of yourself away; what was the point? Nobody gave a damn about anybody in this world, not really. Nobody cared what was your favorite color, or what kinds of books you preferred. He'd always known that; it was one of the things Jillian had thrown at him, when they'd split up, that he'd never let her in, and now here he was, dropping bits and pieces of information like a flower girl going up the aisle with a basket of rose petals on her arm, not just wanting to know everything there was to know about Miranda but, dammit, wanting her to know about him.

  Wanting her to know the truth, that he'd lied to her from Day One, that he wished to God he hadn't, that she was becoming a part of his life he didn't want to think about ever losing...

  "Conor?"

  He blinked, forced himself to focus on her slightly puzzled smile.

  "Yes," he said, catching a strand of her hair, letting it slip like silk through his fingers, "I was in the army. But it isn't where I broke my nose."

  "I'll bet it was playing football, in high school."

  He laughed. "Football heroes don't break their noses."


  "Is that what you were?" Miranda planted a gentle kiss on his slightly bent nose. "A football hero?"

  "Well, I would have been," he said modestly, "but I broke my leg taking a joyride on a Harley, and that was the end of me and football."

  "Joyriding? As in borrowing?"

  "Joyriding, as in borrowing without permission. Are you horrified?"

  She laughed. "When you hear what I did to Blakely, you'll be sorry you asked that question. So, what was it? A sudden yen? A boyish prank?" She grasped the open collar of his shirt and tugged on it. "A fit of youthful rebellion?"

  "All of that, I guess. The bike belonged to the guy who lived downstairs. He'd let me ride it a couple of times; I figured I'd take it out for half an hour, bring it back, and nobody'd be the wiser."

  "But?"

  "But, my old man caught me. He said what I'd done was a sure sign I was destined for a dissolute life."

  Miranda's brows lifted. "You sure your father and my mother never met?"

  Conor chuckled. "Not unless Eva put in some time down around the Magnificent Seventh."

  "The Magnificent Seventh? What's that?"

  "My old man's police precinct. He was a cop."

  "A law-and-order type, hmm?"

  Conor's smile tilted. "Yeah, you might say that."

  He stood up, drew Miranda to her feet and put his arm around her. They strolled along a path bordered by bright yellow daffodils.

  "Just look at the flowers," she said. Her smile lit his heart. "Aren't they beautiful?"

  "Beautiful," Conor agreed, watching her.

  She bent down to the daffodils and reached out as if to touch one but her fingers never quite reached the golden petals. Suddenly, Conor thought of the photo tucked inside his wallet, the one of Miranda sitting under a dogwood tree, smiling with the innocence of youth and holding a flower in her hand.

  That's the sort of girl she was, Agnes Foster had said coldly, sitting on the grass when she knew it was forbidden, plucking blossoms. She would have been reprimanded for that.

  He reached down, plucked a daff from the sea of gold and handed it to Miranda.

  "It's okay," he said solemnly. "There's an old Irish proverb says you have to pick the first daffodil of the season or they won't bloom the next year."