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

by Sandra Marton

  Conor's fingers closed, hard around her wrist and he pushed her hand away.

  "Oh yeah," he said softly, "I know exactly how it is. You have an itch, you scratch it. That's the story of your life, isn't that right, Beckman?"

  He didn't wait for her to answer, which was good because she wasn't sure she could have managed to come up with one, not while her throat was constricting.

  With studied nonchalance, he sauntered back into the bedroom and collected his clothes. She waited until he'd strolled into the hallway and shut the door behind him; then she stepped into the shower, turned the faucet to hot and grabbed the soap.

  How long would she have to scrub, before she felt clean again?

  * * *

  It was bitter cold, and the streets were deserted.

  And one hell of a night for a man's cell phone to give up the ghost.

  Conor blew on his hands and stamped his feet as he stood in the phone booth he'd finally located and waited for his call to go through.

  "Come on, Harry," he muttered, "what the hell's taking so long?"

  It was, what, almost midnight in the States. Thurston had to be home; he had to hear his damn telephone ringing.

  "Hello?"

  "It's me, Harry."

  "Conor, where in blazes are you? I've been trying your mobile for hours."

  "Yeah, well, it isn't working."

  "Do tell. Listen, my boy—"

  "No, Harry, old pal, you listen. I'm out of here."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  A truck rumbled by. Conor waited until he saw it turn the corner before he spoke again.

  "I said, I'm signing off the Winthrop thing."

  "Conor, don't be hasty."

  "Hasty, my ass. I'm done. Finished. I'm out of here. I'm coming back to the good old U.S. of A., pronto."

  "What's happened?"

  "Nothings happened. Enough is enough, that's all."

  "But why?"

  "Don't push it, Harry."

  "Conor," Harry said, his voice growing soft and persuasive, "I can tell you're upset."

  "I'm not upset. And don't bother trying to sweet-talk me. Just find yourself another patsy."

  Harry's sigh wheezed over the satellite connection as clearly as if he were in the next room.

  "Simmer down, my boy, simmer down. You've never been a patsy, you're the Committee's main man, doing a vital job."

  "That's a wonderful line, Harry. Did you lift it from a motivational seminar or did it just spring into your head?"

  "Conor." Thurston's voice was filled with distress. If Conor hadn't known him better, he might have believed it was real. "What have I done to deserve such a display of animosity?"

  "It's not animosity. And you haven't done a thing—except ask me to play at being a bodyguard to a woman who doesn't want one."

  "You're not playing at any such thing. You're conducting an investigation."

  "I'm stumbling around on foreign soil with about as much clout as an ant at an aardvark's picnic."

  Thurston chuckled. "What a charming picture."

  "Well, it's a charming situation, which is why I'm dealing myself out."

  "Difficult cases were always your specialty."

  "You're wasting your time. Flattery won't get you anywhere."

  "I just don't understand the problem. You say you're on foreign soil without any clear authority but let's be honest; that never stopped you in the past."

  "Harry, you're not listening."

  "And it isn't as if you've never offered protection to a client before."

  "No, it isn't. But our client is Eva Winthrop, not her daughter. And I didn't come over here to offer protection to anybody .remember? I came to get facts."

  "This doesn't sound like you, Conor."

  "You know what they say, Harry. The times, they are a-changin'."

  "Is that a quotation from some modern French philosopher? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with it."

  "Listen, just so you know I'm not being unreasonable about this, I'll give you a couple of days to line up somebody else to take over."

  "Suppose you update me. What's the latest situation there?"

  The latest situation? Hell, I slept with Miranda Beckman and got exactly what I deserved.

  Conor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

  "I'll e-mail you as soon as I get my phone working."

  "Humor me. Bring me up to date the old-fashioned way. The Beckman girl's apartment was rifled but I take it there's been more."

  "There's been more, all right. Somebody slipped a little gift under her door. His name is Moratelli. Vincent Moratelli."

  "An Italian?"

  "An American, I think. Run his name, see what you can find."

  "What was the gift this Moratelli sent Miss Beckman?"

  Conor hesitated. All he had to do was shut his eyes and he knew he'd be able to see the ugly piece of garbage that had been inside that envelope.

  "A picture. And a note. I'll run them over to the embassy and put them in the diplomatic pouch."

  "Fine."

  "Test for the usual stuff. Prints, ink, paper, and blood."

  "Blood?"

  "Animal, probably. Look, I'd rather not describe this over the phone. I'll ask the embassy to put it through ASAP."

  "Was the note like the one sent to Eva?"

  "Not the message, but yes, the paper and ink look like a match."

  Harry made a humming sound. Long experience told Conor what was happening. Thurston would have turned his gaze to the ceiling. There'd be a seemingly casual expression on his face. It was all deception. Thurston was about as casual as a fox assessing a hen-house. Something was clicking away in his brain and when he was good and ready, he'd spring it.

  "You said you were going to interview Miss Beckman's former husband and his cousin. Have you done so?"

  Conor sighed. "Look, I am standing out here in the cold, freezing my tail off. What about saving the debriefing until I'm back in D.C.?"

  "I take it you spoke with them."

  "Dammit, Harry! Yes, I did."

  "Could either one be responsible for these events?"

  "It's possible, but I've got my doubts."

  "Which are?"

  "The ex is a slime ball, but why would he pull crap like this?"

  "Blackmail?"

  "I doubt it. He seems to have plenty of money. Besides, he's not a fool. He knows that even if his marriage to the girl isn't exactly public knowledge, it's not the sort of secret that's worth a lot of dough."

  "Are you sure? Hoyt is up for that appointment, after all."

  "So what? We're talking about old news, Harry. Very old news. Besides, turn on any of a dozen talk shows and you'll see people sitting around discussing things you and I would probably sooner die than admit to a priest."

  "Well, perhaps the gentleman hasn't figured that out."

  "He's been around. He knows there's nothing in the story."

  "What about his cousin?"

  "She says she's got money. I'll check it out—I mean, whoever you hand this over to should check it out, but I'd rule out blackmail. On the other hand, she hates Miranda. Eva, too. Maybe she's just been looking for the chance to put in the knife."

  "Who else was on your list?"

  Conor's stomach roiled. "Jean-Phillipe Moreau. Miranda's lover."

  "Have you spoken with him?"

  "No. That'll be something else for the new guy to deal with."

  "Anybody else who might want to hurt the girl?"

  Yes, Conor thought coldly, me.

  "Nobody I can come up with. Listen, Harry, it's late and I'm bushed. I'll phone you when I hit D.C."

  "It was your idea to go to Paris, Conor."

  "I know that."

  "And now you want me to hand this off to someone else?"

  Conor's mouth narrowed. "That's right."

  "I've never known you to leave an assignment unfinished, my boy. You admit, you
've yet to question Moreau or to check Amalie de Lasserre's motives more deeply, and you've asked me to check out one Vincent Moratelli."

  "Isn't it good to know that I'm leaving something for the next guy to do? Listen, I didn't phone to ask permission, I phoned to tell you I was signing off."

  "May I ask the reason?"

  "I told you, I don't like playing bodyguard, especially where I have no authority."

  "Foreign soil, and all that."

  "Now you've got it."

  "Well, I can't disagree with you, Conor. It's just that the second note puts a new twist on things."

  "Not in any way that affects me."

  "I'm not talking about the note Miss Beckman received." Thurston paused, long enough to highlight the drama of the moment. "A second note was delivered to Eva, just today."

  "I still don't see how that changes things," Conor said, but a warning buzz was already tingling down his spine.

  "The note was on the same paper as before. Same ink, looks to be the same handwriting."

  "I still don't see—"

  "It was written in French and it says..." Conor could hear the faint rustle of paper. "It says, and I know you'll forgive my accent..."

  "Just read the damned note, Harry, okay?"

  "It says, C 'est de la foutaise, ta fille. C'est une allumeuse et bientot, elle sera morte."

  Conor felt his heart begin to swell, until it seemed lodged in the middle of his throat.

  "I suppose you had that translated?"

  "Please, credit me with some competence. Of course I had it translated. It means..." Again, there was the rustle of paper. "It means, 'Your daughter is garbage. She is..."' Harry cleared his throat. " 'She is a cock-teaser and soon, she will be dead.' " Silence hummed along the line and then he cleared his throat again. "So, what do you think?"

  Conor closed his eyes. Thurston, the son of a bitch, knew exactly what he thought.

  The notes to Eva, the vile message sent to Miranda and the trashing of her bedroom were definitely connected. To hell with Hoyt's appointment; that wasn't the issue here. What was happening was about Miranda and had been, right from the start.

  "Conor?"

  "Yeah," he said brusquely. "I'll call you back in ten minutes."

  He dropped the phone back into its cradle, turned up his collar and leaned against the wall of the booth. The lights were still on in Miranda's apartment. He thought of her lying in the warm, wide bed and then he thought of what she'd said to him and the cold, deliberate way she'd said it.

  The bitch.

  He owed her nothing. He never even wanted to see her again—but, God help him, there wasn't a way in the world he was going to turn this fucking case over to anybody else. He stood there, shivering in the cold, thinking and planning, and then he picked up the telephone and dialed Thurston's home again.

  * * *

  At two a.m. New York time, the telephone beside Eva Beckman Winthrop's bed began to ring.

  Eva sat up, turned on her reading lamp, and reached for it.

  "Hello?" she said.

  "Mrs. Winthrop? It's Harry Thurston. I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, but—"

  "Do you have any idea what time it is, Mr. Thurston?"

  "As I said, I'm sorry, but this is important."

  "It had better be," Eva said sharply.

  Harry Thurston cleared his throat. "Actually, I'd like to speak with Hoyt. If you'd put him on the phone, please...?"

  As if on cue, the door connecting the Winthrop's bedrooms opened. Hoyt stood in the doorway, blinking in the glare of the light.

  "Darling?" he said. "Is something wrong?"

  "Hold on," Eva snapped into the phone. She put her hand over the receiver. "Go back to sleep, Hoyt."

  "Who's that on the phone?"

  "It's one of my West coast distributors," she said, forcing a smile. "There's a problem with a shipment. Los Angeles was expecting Swallowtail Red lipstick and they've received Monarch Pink instead."

  "And they called you?" Hoyt said indignantly. "Do they know the time?"

  Eva nodded, determinedly ignoring Harry Thurston's voice in her ear.

  "Apparently, they forget the time change. It's ridiculous, I know, but as long as they've called, I might as well sort out the problem."

  "Shall I get you something, my dear? Do you need a notepad, perhaps?"

  "No," Eva said. She took a deep breath and smiled again. "No, thank you, Hoyt. You go on back to bed."

  "Well, if you insist..."

  "I do. Just shut the door after you, please." She laughed gaily. "I may have to raise my voice to these people and I wouldn't want to keep you awake."

  Hoyt smiled and went back into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Eva waited a few seconds and then the smile fell from her lips.

  "Now," she said into the telephone, "what is the reason for this call, Mr. Thurston? Does it have to do with the note I received today?"

  Harry Thurston hesitated. "Perhaps you didn't understand me, Mrs. Winthrop. I should like to speak with your husband."

  "Hoyt is asleep," Eva said briskly. "How may I help you?"'

  "Mrs. Winthrop, I really think I should talk with Hoyt."

  "I don't agree. The note in question, both notes, in point of fact, were addressed to me."

  Harry sighed. Conor O'Neil and Eva Winthrop, all in one day. How lucky could one man get?

  "Very well," he said. "I'll get straight to the point."

  "Please do."

  "Your daughter has also received a note."

  "What kind of note?"

  Harry sighed again. It would have been so much simpler to discuss this with Hoyt.

  "An unsavory one. Look, I wouldn't ask you to disturb Hoyt if it weren't important—"

  "Was it about Miranda or about me?"

  "It was about your daughter."

  "Then I'm afraid I don't quite see why you're calling me."

  Harry rubbed his hand over the top of his head. Eva Winthrop's tone was frigid, though polite. He knew she and the girl were estranged but he had a daughter, too, and he couldn't imagine not worrying about her, no matter what the situation between them.

  "Not that I'm not concerned for my daughter's welfare," Eva said, as smoothly as if she'd read his mind, "but I'm certain you and Mr. O'Neil can look out for her. In the meantime, I should think the president's advisors would be pleased to hear from you."

  "To hear what, Mrs. Winthrop?" Harry tried, but he couldn't keep an edge from his voice.

  "Why, to hear that while this business is most unfortunate, it has nothing to do with Hoyt or with me, and that the White House can go ahead with Hoyt's appointment."

  "I'm sorry, but I can't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because, at this point, I don't know enough about these threats or what repercussions they might have."

  "But you just said—"

  "Why would someone send notes to you, if these threats were directed only at Miranda?"

  "I have no idea, Mr. Thurston. You are in charge of this investigation, not I."

  "Can you think of anyone who might wish to harm either you or your daughter? Perhaps you can think of an acquaintance of your daughter's who—"

  "I do not know my daughter's acquaintances," Eva said coldly, "and I much prefer it that way but, considering what I know of the life she leads, I would not be surprised if an number of them are unsavory individuals."

  "You may be right. We're checking."

  "We?"

  "Mr. O'Neil. He's still in Paris."

  "And has he made any progress?" Eva switched the phone to her other ear. "Or has Miranda succeeding in making him let his hormones do his thinking for him?"

  Harry gave an inward groan. He hadn't expected such a blunt question, especially since it was the same one, though not as politely phrased, he'd been asking himself ever since he'd talked with Conor.

  "Mr. O'Neil is eminently qualified," he said. "If anyone can get to the bottom of this, he can."


  "If?" Eva's voice turned even frostier. "Perhaps you've forgotten that my husband is a personal friend of the President's and that we have both made significant contributions to his campaign. We expect this mess to be dealt with, and quickly."

  "It will be—with your help."

  "What kind of help are you asking for, Mr. Thurston?"

  "Thus far, O'Neil's been acting on his own authority. He has no official status as a representative of the American government and he's in a foreign country."

  "Get to the point, please."

  "Miranda is not being cooperative. She doesn't seem to understand the importance of keeping a low profile until this situation is cleared up."

  "If you're asking me to have a talk with her, you can save your breath. She doesn't take orders or advice from anyone, most especially not from me."

  Harry sighed. He had a feeling the hard part was yet to come.

  "Mr. O'Neil and I agree that if we're to get to the bottom of this, we need to bring your daughter home."

  "Home?" Eva said, as if she'd never heard the word before.

  "Yes. To the States. To New York, where we can keep her safe with far more ease and conduct an investigation that—"

  "I don't agree. Miranda lives in Paris. If someone she knows is sending these notes, wouldn't it be reasonable to assume that person is French? For that matter, wouldn't you want my daughter to stay in France, rather than run the risk that her pursuer, or whatever you wish to call him, might follow her to the States and present a direct problem for Hoyt and me?"

  For the first time in his sixty-odd years, Harry Thurston had to fight the almost overwhelming desire to tell a woman to perform an impossible anatomical act upon herself.

  "Let me spell this out for you, Mrs. Winthrop," he said coldly. "It may be that you don't give a damn if your daughter ends up raped or dead but it will matter to the president. I promise you, madam, that if something happens to the girl and you could have helped us prevent it from happening but chose not to, you can kiss Hoyt's appointment good-bye."

  Eva threw back the blankets and shot to her feet, her face livid. "How dare you speak to me that way?"

  "Miranda isn't about to return to New York because we ask her," he said, ignoring the outburst. "But you are her mother. I'm certain you can think of some reason she will accept."