Until You

by Sandra Marton

  It was as close to an apology as John O'Neil had ever come, and Conor knew it. He stared up at the older man, and then he made his way back up the stairs.

  "Now then," his father said briskly, as if nothing had happened. He shut the door and led his son into the living room. "Tell me what you need."

  * * *

  Miranda was waiting for him in the marble and glass lobby at Papillon as they'd agreed she would.

  She was sitting on the raised wall surrounding a small reflecting pool along with half a dozen women. They were, he suspected, the editors with whom she'd met for lunch. Each woman was the height of style and elegance. Miranda, simply dressed, stood out among them like a glittering jewel.

  She stood up when she saw him, her face lighting with pleasure, said something to the other women and then hurried towards him.

  "Hello," she said softly.

  Conor was not a man given to public displays, by nature or by vocation, but when he saw the way she was looking at him, his heart swelled.

  "Hello, yourself," he said, and took her in his arms and kissed her.

  Miranda gave a breathless little laugh.

  "We're being watched," she whispered.

  "I don't care." He smiled, tilted her chin up and kissed her again. "Do you?"

  "Not a bit."

  "I missed you."

  "Not half as much as I missed you." She linked her arm through his as they strolled to the exit. "And that's not just sloppy sentimentality, either, O'Neil, so don't let it go to your head." She smiled up at him as the automatic doors slid open and they stepped out onto the street. "Or have you forgotten that while you were out, doing whatever manly thing it is you were doing, I was trapped in a room full of frills and froufrou?"

  "With the harpies back there?"

  "Uh-huh. Heaven save me from ending up that way."

  "What way?"

  "They're nice women, but scary. All of them afraid to eat an extra lettuce leaf, exchanging the addresses of their latest plastic surgeons..." She shuddered. "Can we get something to eat? I'm starved!"

  "Sure. But I thought you just had lunch."

  "We had something the menu called a Spring Surprise." She giggled. "The surprise was that nobody could get a fork in it long enough to hold it still and saw off a piece."

  Conor laughed. "How does a hamburger sound?"

  "With onion?"

  "Raw or fried?"

  "Raw," Miranda said indignantly. "Only the potatoes on the side should be fried."

  "Beckman, you're a woman after my own heart."

  "I don't suppose I could get a malted with my burger and fries?"

  "Even a pickle," Conor said.

  Miranda grinned. "You're on."

  * * *

  He took her to a place he knew on Tenth Avenue.

  It was a diner, a glittering chrome palace of a place, complete with a jukebox stocked with records from the sixties. Elvis sang about the Heartbreak Hotel while they attacked their hamburgers, which Miranda pronounced perfect.

  "I have," she sighed, "died and gone to heaven."

  "What happened to that finely educated French palate?" Conor said, smiling as he watched her pluck a French fry from her plate with her fingers.

  "O'Neil, I'm not a dope." She dunked the fry into a glob of ketchup, then popped it into her mouth. "There are some things only the French do well, like champagne or crème brulee, but when it comes to hamburgers, pickles and greasy fries, only the Americans know their stuff."

  "You have ketchup on your mouth."

  "Where?"

  Conor leaned over and kissed her.

  "There," he said softly. "And there. And..."

  His cell phone shrilled.

  "Dammit," he said, and yanked it from his pocket. "Hello?"

  "Conor, it's Harry."

  "Yes?"

  "Can you get to a land line?"

  Conor shot a glance towards the rear of the diner. There were two public telephones on the wall, both of them in use.

  "I can call you back in five or ten minutes," he said.

  "No. This is important." Harry took a breath. "The information you requested? About the couple we've been dealing with?"

  Conor sat up straighter.

  "Yes?"

  "It's come in."

  "Something on him?"

  "No. Not on him."

  "On the woman, then?"

  "Yes." Thurston paused. "The point of origin we'd learned, Conor, do you remember it?"

  "Point of—"

  "Conor?"

  Conor looked across the table at Miranda. She wasn't smiling anymore.

  "Conor, what's the matter?"

  "Hold it a second," he said into the phone, and put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Nothing, sweetheart. This is just, ah, it's just the same guy I called yesterday, remember? He promised to get back to me with some information."

  "About Moratelli?" she whispered.

  "Miranda, just let me finish this call, okay?"

  She nodded and pushed aside her plate, her eyes gone as bleak and dark as they had yesterday.

  Conor turned away from her, the phone still pressed to his ear.

  "All right," he said very softly, "let's have the rest of it."

  "The woman's point of origin is not Argentina. It's Colombia."

  "She lied?"

  "Conor, I am not going to discuss this over this phone. Call me back."

  Conor winced as Harry slammed down the receiver on his end. He flipped the phone closed and looked at Miranda.

  "I forgot," she said. "For a little while, I forgot all about everything."

  Conor nodded. For a little while, he'd forgotten, too.

  * * *

  Eva had been born in a little town in Colombia, not in Argentina.

  But the rest of her story was true enough. She'd met a marine named James Beckman, who'd been stationed at the American Embassy in Bogota, and married him. He'd brought her to the States and they'd had a baby they'd named Miranda. Beckman died in an auto accident when the child was still a toddler, and Eva started selling a lotion she'd brewed up in her kitchen, door-to-door. Five years later, she'd hocked everything she owned to open the first Papillon factory.

  Conor sat back on the sofa in Miranda's living room, put his feet on the coffee table, and crossed them at the ankles.

  Okay, so she'd lied. So she'd bought herself a phony Argentinean birth certificate.

  So what?

  That still didn't explain why somebody had zeroed in on her and it sure as hell didn't explain why they'd zeroed in on Miranda.

  Miranda.

  He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his eyes.

  Nothing had been the same since that phone call in the diner and it went beyond the fact that the call had tossed both of them back into harsh reality.

  "There's something you're not telling me," she'd said, when they'd gotten back to her apartment. "Conor, what are you holding back?"

  Everything, he'd thought.

  "Nothing," he'd said, and the look on her face that said he was lying and she knew it, had been as sharp as a knife to his heart. "Miranda," he'd said, reaching out for her, but she'd brushed past him.

  "I'm going to take a shower," she'd said, "and then I'm going to lie down for a while."

  He'd known better than to argue with her or to take her into his arms and make love to her. Don't touch me, her eyes had warned, so he'd just stood there, feeling angry, stupid and helpless, watching as she scooped up Mia, went into the bedroom and closed the door.

  Then he'd called Harry and gotten the details about Eva—which brought him back to the beginning.

  Eva had lied, she'd been born in Colombia, not Argentina, but so what?

  "Dammit," Conor whispered, "dammit to hell!"

  His phone rang. He snatched it from the coffee table and jammed it to his ear.

  "What else have you got for me, Harry?"

  "Conor," John O'Neil said, "I've got some information for you on Moratelli."<
br />
  "I'll call you back."

  He went into the foyer, dialed his father's number on Miranda's phone. His father picked up on the first ring.

  "I'm sorry if I called at an inopportune time," he said stiffly.

  Conor sighed. "It isn't that. I didn't want to talk on my cell. They're too easy to monitor."

  "Why have one, then?"

  Conor laughed. "You're right. I'd be better off with a pager."

  "I checked on Vincent Moratelli."

  "And?"

  "And, I'm afraid your people were right, Conor. There's nothing on the man."

  Conor rubbed his hand over the back of his neck.

  "Shit."

  "Not that he's clean, mind. My sources say he's a gonzo of the first order, a strong-arm pimp with pretensions of grandeur who ran a couple of girls until he beat his number one lady so bad she talked the rest into hustling for somebody else. The other guy put the word out on the street and Vince had to quit the game."

  Conor nodded. "Nice guy. Well, listen, Dad, I appreciate you trying."

  "There is one thing. I'm not sure if it's going to help you or not."

  "What is it?"

  "There's a rumor he's involved in something big-time. The word is, he's working for some foreigner and that he's about to come into a lot of money."

  "A foreigner?" Conor's eyes narrowed. "What's that mean, exactly?"

  "I don't know."

  "Somebody here? Or somebody overseas?"

  "I'm telling you, I don't know."

  "Well, find out." Conor ran his tongue across his lips. "Can you do that?"

  "I'll try."

  Conor gave his father Miranda's number, then hung up the phone. He told himself to take it easy, not to get too excited. He'd been in this business long enough to know that two and two didn't always add up to four. Still, things did seem to be falling into place. It took no great leap of the imagination to figure that the foreigner Vince Moratelli was working for was Edouard de Lasserre. Or his cousin, Amalie.

  But if this was a blackmail scam, as he'd suspected all along, why was it moving so slowly?

  "Conor?"

  He turned at the soft sound of Miranda's voice. She'd scrubbed off her makeup and brushed out her hair. She was wearing her pale yellow robe. He could see her bare toes peeping out from under the hem. She looked innocent and vulnerable, and he knew he loved her more than he'd ever dreamed he could ever love anyone.

  "Miranda," he said.

  Miranda's throat constricted when she saw the way Conor was looking at her. She had hurt him before, she knew. Now, she longed to run to him, go into his arms and tell him that she loved him with all her heart.

  But she couldn't.

  It wasn't that she didn't love him. God, she did. She'd never imagined loving anybody the way she loved Conor.

  But something was wrong between them.

  She knew he was a man who kept things to himself, that he'd opened up to her more than he'd ever opened up to anyone, even his ex-wife. Still, there was a dark secret in his eyes and it had to do with her. The realization terrified her.

  Other people had lied to her and she'd survived. She'd even grown stronger as a result of those lies. But if Conor had lied, if he'd deliberately set out to use her...

  Did he know what power he held, that only he could wound her so deeply that she might never recover?

  She couldn't go to him. Not yet. Instead, she walked to a chair, sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

  "I've been doing a lot of thinking," she said.

  "And?"

  She swallowed. "And," she said softly, "I need to know the truth."

  What truth? he almost said. But he couldn't lie to her, not anymore. She wanted the truth and he'd tell it to her. He had to tell it to her, everything, from the real reason he'd sought her out that day at the Louvre to the hellish package that had brought him back into her life. She had to understand why he'd deceived her so she could understand, and forgive him.

  "Conor? You didn't just happen to bump into me in Central Park that evening, did you?"

  He sat down opposite her, on the sofa. "No."

  "You came looking for me."

  "Yes."

  "Because you're still working for Eva," she said, her voice trembling just a little.

  "No! I don't work for Eva. Nothing I've done has been for—"

  The doorbell rang. Miranda shot to her feet, her face gone white.

  "Conor?" she whispered.

  Conor held up his hand. "Stay put."

  He moved past her, and opened the door.

  Chapter 19

  It was the porter, standing in the hall with a manila envelope in his hand.

  It had been delivered by private messenger, he said, for Miss Beckman.

  Conor let out his breath, dug in his pocket and pulled out a bill.

  "Yeah," he said, stuffing it into the man's hand, "thanks."

  He shut the door and turned to Miranda. The color had come back into her face.

  "For me?" she asked.

  Conor thought of the package that had been delivered to her the last time, the one she knew nothing about.

  "Let me open it," he said.

  She shook her head as she rose to her feet. "I'll do it," she said, and held out her hand.

  He gave the envelope to her and watched as she tore the flap. A puzzled look spread over her face.

  "Pictures," she said, pulling three eight-by-ten black and white photos from the envelope.

  Conor's first instinct was to rip them out of her hand. He still remembered, all too clearly, the picture Moratelli had sent her in Paris. But these photographs, whatever they were, hadn't upset her. She looked puzzled, even baffled. Nothing more.

  "I don't understand," she said finally. "Why would somebody send these to me?"

  He took the pictures from her and stared at the first one.

  It was a snapshot of an intersection. No. No, it wasn't. It was a photo of a sign at an intersection. It said, Avinida Rio Azul.

  The second photo, taken from a slightly different angle, still showed the intersection and the sign but now you could also see a street corner and a street sign that said, Calle La Perla.

  He flipped to the final picture. The intersection and the street corner were still visible but whoever had taken the shot had moved further back. A building showed in the photo now, a narrow, three-story structure that bore a small sign over the door.

  "El Gato Negro," he murmured. "The Black Cat."

  "Why would someone send these pictures to me?" Miranda said. "What do they mean?"

  Conor looked up. "Damned if I know."

  "Maybe it's a mistake."

  He wanted to tell her she was right, that the envelope had somehow been misaddressed, but he couldn't do it. The pictures had been meant for her, all right, but why?

  "Conor—there's something written on the back of that photograph."

  He turned the picture over. Every muscle in his body tensed. Something was, indeed, written on the reverse side and if he'd been a betting man, he'd have put his money on the ink and the handwriting being identical to the ink and handwriting in the first notes that had been sent to Eva and to Miranda.

  Miranda had seen the message, too. She moved closer and read it aloud.

  "Dile a tu madre que divulgue su secreto," she said, and looked at him. "Why would someone send me a message in Spanish?"

  Conor frowned. "I don't know. Can you translate it?"

  "I'm not sure." Miranda chewed on her lip. "I can pick out some of the words. Madre means mother, and the last part sounds like 'reveal the secret'—"

  The phone rang. Conor moved quickly, grabbed the receiver and barked, "Hello."

  "Conor?" His father's voice was alive with excitement. "I've got something for you."

  "What is it?"

  "The name of the guy Moratelli's supposed to be working for. French, it's supposed to be, but it doesn't sound it."

  Conor's hand tightened
on the telephone.

  "Tell me," he said.

  "Dee Lassiter. Does that mean anything to you?"

  De Lasserre. The name screamed inside Conor's head.

  "Conor? You still there?"

  "Yes," he said hoarsely, "yes, I'm here."

  But he wasn't. He was back inside that moldy pile of stone that was the home of Edouard de Lasserre, hearing the Count talk about Miranda as if she were little better than a whore.

  Miranda was staring at him, her eyes wide and shiny. He knew she was reading his face, that now she was fighting hard not to be afraid. He knew what he wanted to do. Drop the phone, go to her, take her in his arms and kiss her and tell her everything would be fine, it would be fine...

  He tried what he hoped was a reassuring smile, turned his back and walked into the next room.

  "The name isn't Dee Lassiter," he said softly to his father. "It's de Lasserre."

  "Now, that sounds right." John O'Neil chuckled. "Fella I talked to didn't have much of a French accent, if you get my drift. So, you know this guy?"

  Images crowded in. De Lasserre's arrogant face and cruel smile, and what Miranda had told him of her wedding night in that medieval fortress.

  "Son? Does it help?"

  Conor cleared his throat. "Yes, yes, it does. Thanks, Dad."

  "No problem. To tell the truth, it felt good, poking my nose into things again. If there's anything else...?"

  "Actually, there is." Conor looked at the photo in his hand. Sometime during the last few minutes, he'd crushed it in his fist. Now he tucked the phone in the crook of his shoulder and smoothed the creases out of the picture as best he could. "Some of your neighbors read Spanish, right?"

  His father laughed. "Is the Pope Catholic?"

  "You think one of them would translate something for me?"

  "Well, I guess. Let me grab a pencil here... Okay. What've you got?"

  "Dile a tu madre que divulgue su secreto," Conor said slowly, then spelled it out. "I know it's something about your mother and revealing the secret but—"

  "It means, 'Tell your mother to let the cat out of the bag.' "

  Conor's eyebrows shot up. "How'd you know that?"

  "You can't work in Nuevo York as long as I did without learning something."

  "In that case," Conor said, fanning through the photos, "maybe you can help me with something else. I've got some pictures here. That message was written on the back of one of them."