Until You (A Romantic Suspense Novel - Author's Cut Edition)

by Sandra Marton

  "Is he the only one? Or does he just have the inside track?"

  Miranda turned around. "I just told you, my private life is none of your business."

  "You just got a note, a charming one, I might add, and written on the same kind of paper as Eva's, in what looks like the same ink and handwriting." His smile was all teeth. "That makes everything my business."

  "Was Eva's note... was it like mine?"

  "Answer my question, Beckman. Is Moreau your only lover?"

  "You answer mine first. Was the note Eva got like the one I just found under the door?"

  "No," Conor said brusquely, "it wasn't half as creative. Now it's your turn. Does Moreau hold the franchise or doesn't he?"

  For the first time in years, the easy answer, the fiction she'd worked so hard to maintain, froze on her lips. She turned her back to him and finished making the coffee.

  "We have an unusual relationship."

  "Yeah, I'll bet. Well, maybe you'd better tell him that for a while anyway, it's not going to be enough to take you out for a meal and a tumble in the hay."

  "You're crude, O'Neil. Do you know that?"

  "I'm also direct and to the point so there can't be any doubt about what I'm telling you. If Moreau gives a damn about your safety, he's going to have to stir his ass, climb out of that pimp-mobile he calls a car, and walk you to your door."

  Miranda slammed the cabinet door shut.

  "What were you doing the other night, spying on us?"

  "You give him the word, or I will."

  "For your information," she said, fixing him with a cold look, "Jean-Phillipe wanted to take me home this evening but I wouldn't let him. He took a taxi in one direction and I took one in the other. I came home, unlocked my door, and found that—that message from the funny farm waiting for me."

  "Can you think of anybody who'd want to do this to you?"

  "Terrify me, you mean?" She laughed, though the sound of it was brittle, and plopped down in the chair again. "Well, I've probably stepped on lots of toes since I broke into modeling and every now and then, a fan decides I was heaven-sent just for him—but no, I can't come up with a single person who'd do anything like go through my underwear and send me a note and a picture like that." She hesitated. "O'Neil? I'm right, aren't I? You think whoever broke in here was the same person who sent me that—that thing?"

  Conor stood up, shoved the chair under the table and paced across the room. What could he tell her? He didn't know what to think; that was the trouble.

  He was supposed to be concentrating on the note sent to Eva Winthrop and her hotshot husband. He was supposed to break his ass to keep the President's nose clean, to figure out who was at the bottom of this mess. The old brain was supposed to be click-clicking away with government-approved, grade A efficiency.

  Instead, he'd spent the night thinking about a woman who sure as hell didn't like him and who he didn't much care for either, and now he was standing here with his brain locked on what she'd said about spending the day with the Frenchman. He kept imagining her in Pretty Boy's arms, her hair spread over the pillow, her beautiful face taut with ecstasy.

  "O'Neil? Do you think it's the same person?"

  Conor looked at her. "It's a good bet," he said, because there was nothing to be gained for either of them by lying.

  She took it well, nothing giving away her reaction except for a slight flicker in her eyes.

  "And is it good or bad that it's the same person who's doing these things?"

  Bad, he thought, definitely bad. If one person was behind everything, then that person was at the very least dangerous and, at the very worst, the kind of lunatic who'd long ago lost touch with reality.

  "Good," he said, this time opting for whatever lie would work. "If I'm right, then we can devote all our resources to locating one individual."

  "How will we do that?"

  So much for his clever response. Damn, but she was full of good questions he couldn't answer but he wasn't going to tell her that, not when she was back to looking at him the way she had when he'd first come through the door, as if he was Superman riding a white horse and to hell with mixed metaphors.

  "By doing the job I'm trained to do," he said, wondering what Harry Thurston would say if he could hear this crap. "Tracking down leads, asking questions... which reminds me, what's the dragon lady's name?"

  "Who?"

  "The concierge. Does she have a name or just a number?"

  Miranda smiled. "Madame Delain, you mean. She's not as bad as she looks."

  "Yeah, and Mein Kampf was only a wish list." Conor went to the door and opened it. "You stay put. I'll only be a minute."

  Miranda stood up and went after him. Last night, she'd obeyed his command to stay like a well-trained spaniel but not this time.

  "Forget it, O'Neil." She plucked her coat from the chair and drew it around her shoulders. "Whither thou goest," she said, "I trail along."

  Conor took one look at the determined tilt to her jaw and decided not to argue.

  * * *

  Madame Delain not only insisted she had not permitted any strangers to enter the building, she grew indignant at Conor's even raising the question.

  "I grant access to no one without the knowledge and permission of our tenants," she said, drawing herself up until her ample bosom rested under her chin. "Surely, Mademoiselle Beckman is aware of this."

  "Oh, of course, madame," Miranda said quickly. "It's just that someone—"

  "Someone slipped something under Mademoiselle Beckman's door," Conor said, his voice sliding over hers. "And she just wondered if you knew who it was."

  "I do not know because no one did such a thing," madame said, her words dipped in ice.

  "Were you at your desk all day, madame?"

  "Certainement."

  "No lunch break?"

  "I had lunch here. It is my custom."

  "No breaks to visit the bathroom?"

  Madame Delain gave Conor a look that suggested only mortals were in need of such things.

  "None."

  "Miss Beckman received no deliveries?"

  "If she had, the package would have been left with me."

  "What about workmen? Did anybody come by to fix something?"

  The concierge started to shake her head, then changed her mind.

  "Well, yes, early this afternoon, but I can assure you, he went nowhere near Mademoiselle's apartment." Madame sniffed. "An annoying little man he was, too."

  "What did he come to fix?"

  "Oh, it was nonsense. Pure nonsense. We have all these rules and codes now. Paris has survived for centuries but lately there is always some fool stopping by to peer into the chimneys or tug at the wiring and tell me I must spend more money to meet some foolish new law."

  "Did something like that happen today?"

  "A man came, to check the elevator." Madame Delain sighed deeply. "I told him that there was nothing to check, that it was inspected two months ago, but he would not listen. Well, bureaucrats never do, do they? I told him to wait, that I would escort him to the elevator but he said, why did I need to bother when anyone with two eyes could see it stood right over there?"

  "And?" Conor prompted.

  "And," she said, with a shrug, "he rode down, he rode up, he made a pest of himself. He vanished for a while on the upper floor."

  "My floor," Miranda said softly, and Conor's hand closed on hers in warning.

  Madame Delain's brows arched. "He said it was to check the cables but I know how these fools do things." She leaned across her desk, her lips pursed like a prune. "He was hoping I would get nervous and offer him a few francs to give me a good report. Well, I did not do it. The elevator is fine and so are the cables. This is a well-run building. Anyone can tell you that."

  "What did he look like?" Conor said.

  "Who?"

  The temptation to seize madame, drag her out of her chair and hang her up by her heels, was close to overpowering.

  Conor smile
d. "The elevator inspector," he said politely.

  "Who would notice such a thing? A civil servant is a civil servant. They all look the same."

  Conor opened his mouth, felt the swift squeeze of Miranda's fingers against his, and cleared his throat.

  "Of course," he said.

  "You think this man left this thing under mademoiselle's door?"

  He nodded. "It's possible."

  "Mon Dieu, such nerve!" The concierge looked at Miranda, eyes bright with curiosity. "What was it?"

  Miranda hesitated. "Oh, you know." She smiled. "It was a nothing, just a message from a devoted fan."

  * * *

  "Well," she said to Conor, as they sat across from each other in a crowded café a little while later, "it might have been."

  "Have you ever had gotten anything even close to that from a fan?"

  "No, thank goodness. But I've heard about some weird stuff. You'd be amazed at the things people send to celebrities. Well, to people they think are celebrities."

  "Weird, huh?"

  "Weird is putting it nicely. I knew this British model once who got a letter that gave a whole new meaning to the words rubber room."

  Conor laughed. A long walk in what had turned into a cool, clear night and a couple of drinks had taken the edge off the ugliness of what had happened.

  He knew what he had to do, that it was important to concentrate on getting answers so he could begin to piece the puzzle together. He had some answers already. Not enough, but some.

  Miranda, for instance, was off his suspect list. Her panic last night had seemed genuine. As for today's envelopeful of goodies... Even if she'd been capable of putting together a package like that, she couldn't have timed her hysteria to coincide with his arrival.

  Still, the big questions remained. Who was behind this? And what did he—or she—want? To thwart Hoyt Winthrop's appointment? Or was some nut really leading up to hurting Eva Winthrop and her daughter? And what was Eva hiding? Something, Conor was sure of it. Despite her seeming willingness to confide in him, her apparent bewilderment at what was happening, there was something else there that he had yet to figure out.

  Until he knew the answers, all he could do was keep digging and do whatever he could to keep mother and daughter safe.

  Eva, with her socially correct existence, would be a cinch. The powers-that-be could add half a dozen bodyguards to her retinue of servants and she'd never complain. She might even bask in her newly acquired status.

  Miranda... ah, Miranda was a different story altogether.

  He looked at her, seated across from him, her face lit by the soft glow of the recessed lights. He could just see how she'd react if he told her he was going to arrange for protection for her, three shifts a day of guys with bulging muscles that would hang on her every move.

  She'd laugh in his face, that was what she'd do, and set out to lose every last one of them.

  He doubted if he could ever convince her to keep a low profile, either. Not that it would help. There was nothing outrageous in the way she was dressed this evening. She had on a white sweater, cashmere maybe, something soft and feminine, and a pair of black wool slacks. Her camel-colored coat was draped on the chair behind her; her hair, that ebony cloud of silk, was pulled back from her face and secured with a barrette. She wasn't wearing any makeup, not that he could tell, anyway, or any jewelry except for a pair of little gold hoops in her ears.

  And yet, every man in the place was aware of her. He'd felt the stir that had gone through the room the minute they'd walked in.

  It didn't surprise him. A man would have to be dead not to be aware of Miranda, not to want her soft mouth under his, her warm breath on his skin...

  "...didn't come to anything, though, except to give us a good laugh."

  Conor shifted in his chair.

  "Sorry," he said. "I was, ah, my mind was wandering. I didn't get that."

  She took a sip of her Campari and soda.

  "I was talking about a note Nita once got, a real winner from a fan."

  "Nita. The girl you were with yesterday?"

  She nodded. "Yes. Nita Carrington. She's my best friend."

  "You've known her for a long time?"

  Miranda shrugged. She touched the tip of her finger to the rim of her glass and ran it along the edge.

  "For years. We started modeling around the same time."

  "She's American, isn't she?"

  She smiled. "Atlanta born and bred."

  "And you're close?"

  "Well, we've got lots in common. We started out together, we're both from the States, and neither of us has any family."

  "You have family, Miranda. A mother and a stepfather."

  Her smile tilted. "Eva gave birth to me." she said, the same way she might have offered a weather report. "That's the extent of our relationship."

  "And Hoyt? He told me that you and he were very close, when you were little."

  She plucked the twist of lemon from her Campari and dumped it into the ashtray, her smile gone.

  "I'm not going to discuss my family with you, O'Neil."

  "Why not?"

  "What are you, a shrink?" She looked at him, her eyes suddenly cool. "You're here to do a job, not to analyze me."

  "My job is to find out who's behind these threats. Until I do, everybody's a suspect."

  "Including me?"

  Conor sat back and watched her face. "What about Nita?"

  "What about her?"

  "Does she have any reason to want to frighten you?"

  "Nita?" she said incredulously, and laughed. "I'd trust Nita with my life."

  "I suppose you'd trust your Frenchman, too."

  Her eyes flashed fire. "You're damn right I would."

  Conor felt as if a knot were forming in his gut again. The image was back, the one that had plagued him earlier. Miranda in Moreau's arms, his hands on her body...

  "Can you think of anybody who'd have something to gain by terrorizing you and Eva?"

  "Nobody."

  "What about your ex-husband? Do you think he'd have something to gain by doing something like this?"

  "Edouard's not my ex anything. We weren't married long enough for me to think of him like—" Her breath hitched. He'd caught her off guard; he could see it. "My, but you've been doing lots of digging."

  "Just part of the job."

  "How'd you find out that I'd been—about Edouard?"

  "Your mother told me."

  "Good old mom." Miranda gave a bitter laugh. "What'd she tell you?"

  "What do you think she told me?"

  "What is it with you, O'Neil? Is it impossible for you to make a statement? I ask you a question, you respond with a question. It's annoying as hell."

  "Your once-upon-a-time hubby doesn't seem too fond of you," Conor said, ignoring the outburst.

  Miranda leaned forward, her hands folded on the table top. He tried not to notice how the action made her breasts push together under the soft wool of her sweater.

  "Have you ever been married?"

  "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Just do us both a favor, okay? Answer the question."

  "Yes," he said, with a little shrug, "I was married, once."

  She smiled sweetly. "If I went to see your former wife, would she seem fond of you?"

  He had to laugh. "Point taken."

  Miranda took a sip of her drink, put it down and sat back, her eyes on his.

  "So, when did you see Edouard?"

  "Today."

  "How'd you know where to find him?"

  "Friends in high places."

  "Boy, that embassy is just a fount of information, isn't it? Locksmiths, ex-husbands... Why'd you go to see him? Do you suspect him of being involved in this?"

  "Do you?"

  "There you go again. Is that what they teach you in detective school? To avoid answers whenever possible?"

  Conor lifted his beer to his lips and took a long drink. It was German and dark but
it was cold and bitter and it suited his mood.

  "He could be involved," he said, putting the bottle down, "but I doubt it. He's got a line of blue-blooded ancestors running all the way to Cro-Magnon man."

  "You really think people with pedigrees don't do awful things?" Miranda laughed. "Oh, do you have a lot to learn!"

  "What I'm saying is that the simplest motive behind what's happening is blackmail. A couple of nasty tricks and then the note, the one addressed to Eva that says, pay up or else. I can't imagine a man risking everything for a payoff he doesn't need. It's obvious de Lasserre has money."

  "He didn't have any, when he married me."

  "No?"

  "No. Why do you sound so surprised?"

  "So," Conor said, ignoring the question, "what's he been doing the last few years, do you know?"

  "He got married, two or three times, the last time to an English girl, I think. An heiress. They're divorced now but she's supposed to have settled a hefty amount on him."

  "And you didn't?"

  "Me?" Miranda laughed. "I was living on a starvation allowance. Come on, who are you kidding? Eva wouldn't have missed the chance to tell you how much she paid to buy my freedom. It's one of her favorite tales. The whole thing, from start to finish. How I seduced Edouard, how she had to rush to my rescue when I decided I wanted out..."

  "When good old Edouard didn't live up to expectations, you mean." He looked across the table at her, waiting for her to say something, but she didn't. That taunting, Mona Lisa smile crept across her lips and he thought about what de Lasserre had told him, how she'd turned on him when he hadn't pleased her in bed.

  The knot in his belly tightened. I could please her, he thought, I could make her forget Moreau and de Lasserre and God only knows how many others.

  "Eva told me everything," he said softly. "So did good old Edouard. He says you didn't like his bedroom technique."

  Miranda reached back and drew her coat around her.

  "Good night, O'Neil," she said briskly. "Thanks for the drink."

  He reached across the table and caught hold of her wrist. "No comment?"

  "It was a long time ago. I don't really remember."

  "And a lot of guys ago, too, I'll bet." She tried to push back from the table but he wouldn't let her; his fingers dug into her flesh. "Maybe we should put our heads together, try and work up a list. A suspect list, you know? Men you've fucked and forgotten."