"And?" Conor said, wanting to hear it from her lips, even though the picture was coming together with breathtaking swiftness.
"And, de Lasserre wanted me to permit him to use our shipments to smuggle in cocaine. He said it would be profitable for us both."
"But you didn't want to risk it."
"Certainly not. I have everything I could possibly want. A successful business, a magnificent home, a husband with a fine old name."
"And a daughter you don't give a crap about," Conor said through his teeth.
"If you think to shame me," Eva said coldly, "I assure you, you cannot. Miranda is the one mistake of my life."
"What you mean is that she's the reminder of who you really are, Mrs. Winthrop." Conor smiled tightly. "Go on. De Lasserre asked you to smuggle drugs and you said no. What happened next?"
"You know what happened next. He sent me a threatening note and then he began sending notes to Miranda. He thought he could make me change my mind, you see." She shrugged her shoulders. "The man is a fool."
Conor's hands fisted. He jammed them deep into his pockets.
"Let me be sure I understand this. He's threatening Miranda to get at you."
"Yes. He assumed that since I had bought him off when he married the girl, I could be coerced into giving him what he wanted again."
"Five hundred dollars," Conor said, very softly. "You really put a high price on her, didn't you?"
"It was not five hundred, it was twenty-five thousand. I am not without feeling," Eva said stiffly. "Besides, I knew the marriage was an error."
"For Miranda, or for you? It wouldn't have done much for your reputation, would it, if word got out that she'd run off with a piece of sleaze like de Lasserre?"
At the other end of the room, the door eased slowly open.
"I tell you again, this is not your concern, Mr. O'Neil. Your only business is to see to it that my husband gets his appointment. That was the reason you were sent to Paris, the reason you forced my daughter to return to the States. It is why you reentered her life, because it was your obligation to do whatever was necessary on behalf of my husband and me. Now, all that remains is to stop de Lasserre from ruining everything for us. We cannot afford any scandalous headlines, do you understand?"
Conor could feel his rage building with every beat of his heart. He wanted to grab Eva Winthrop, shake her until her bones rattled, tell her that she was a poisonous harpy who ought to be on her knees, thanking whatever gods existed for having let her give life to the miracle that was Miranda.
But things were moving too quickly now. Eva had said no to Edouard de Lasserre, and he wasn't a man you said no to without paying the consequences. Eva was safe, but Miranda was all too vulnerable.
So he took a deep breath, fixed a smile to his lips, and looked at Eva Winthrop in a way that made it clear they were in this together.
"Making sure you and your husband get what's coming to you is all I'm interested in," he said.
"I'm pleased to hear it." Eva was almost her old self now, standing straight and tall, a look of elegant hauteur on her face. "I'll wager this has been a far better assignment than most that have come your way."
At the far end of the room, the door flew open and hit the wall. Conor spun around, in a crouch—and saw Miranda, standing in the doorway.
His heart dropped when he saw the look on her face. "Baby," he said quickly, "it's not what you think!"
"Yes, it is," she said, giving him the same smile that Hoyt had captured in the painting that had hung in the foyer, a smile that spoke of pain and betrayal. "It's exactly what I think."
"Miranda." He moved towards her, his face grim. "Goddammit, I told you to stay put."
She laughed, a long trilling sound that was as phony as her smile.
"I don't ever do what I'm told. Just ask my dear mother. Besides, then I'd have missed your wonderful chat with Eva."
"Miranda," he said, reaching out to her, "sweetheart..."
She slapped his hand away before he could touch her, and now he could see the glitter of tears on her lashes.
"Was it?" she said, in a gravelly whisper. "Was it what she said, Conor? A better assignment than you're used to getting?"
"No!"
"It wasn't? You mean, it was just run of the mill, what we had? What I thought we had?" Her voice broke and tears rolled down her cheeks. "Goddamn you," she said, "goddamn you to hell, O'Neil."
Her hand flashed through the air and slammed against his cheek. It was a hard blow that stung his flesh and rocked him back on his heels, but it felt as if it had penetrated straight into his heart.
She'd misinterpreted what she'd heard but whose fault was that? He'd lied to her, time after time; he deserved the blow and more, and when she pulled back her hand to hit him again, he didn't try to stop her. But she didn't hit him. A cry ripped from her throat and she turned and ran from the room.
"Miranda!" He started after her, but Eva flung herself in front of him.
"Just a minute, Mr. O'Neil. I want to know what you intend to do next. You promised me you would take care of Edouard de Lasserre."
"Get out of my way, damn you!"
"Not until you've answered my questions."
Conor cursed, grabbed Eva Winthrop by the shoulders and shoved her aside.
"Miranda," he yelled, as he ran into the hall.
Where was she? The hall was empty. So was the foyer. He raced to the front door, yanked it open—and almost collided with Hank Levy.
"Where is she?" Conor snarled.
Hank's jowly face was gray. "I'm sorry, O'Neil. Hell, it all happened so fast—"
Conor grabbed him by the shoulders. "Where the hell is she?"
"She went running out of her apartment. So I followed her. I left Scotti back at the building, to keep an eye on things, just in case."
"Dammit, man, just tell me!"
"I was across the street here, watching the front door. Somebody came out of the side entrance. Jesus, I didn't realize it was the girl."
"You lost her?"
"A car came up, black Mercedes, tinted glass so I couldn't see inside. The door opened. I yelled..." Hank gave a wheezing sigh. "Hell, Conor, somebody snatched her."
Chapter 20
Flying. Miranda was flying, soaring though the skies.
And she was blind.
No, not blind. Blindfolded, that was it. There was a cloth tied around her eyes. She couldn't see, but she knew she was in an airplane. She could hear the low rumble of its engines, feel their vibration resonating in her body.
She didn't remember getting onto a plane. A car. She remembered that. She'd heard Conor and Eva, talking about her as if she were a problem they'd been coping with, and she'd run blindly from the house while Conor pounded after her.
The car had come out of nowhere, running up onto the sidewalk, the door opening.
"Hello, pussycat," somebody had whispered, and a hand clamped around her wrist.
After that there were only her screams and a rag jammed over her mouth and nose and the smell of something sweet and awful.
Then there was darkness.
How long had she been unconscious? An hour? A day? Terror swept through her and with it, a wave of nausea. She moaned, tried to gasp for air, but there was a gag in her mouth. Her hands were bound, too, and angled painfully behind her.
The terror rose again and ripped from her throat in a silent scream.
Behind her, she heard the whisper of laughter.
"Easy, pussycat. We don't want you should hurt yourself."
Hot breath feathered against the back of her neck. Miranda froze; her heart was the only part of her that was moving as it banged erratically against her ribs.
"That's it," the voice whispered.
Leather creaked. Whispers floated on the air. Someone eased into the seat beside her.
"We was wonderin' how long it would take you to wake up and join the party."
Don't move, she told herself frantically, oh, don'
t move. Just sit still and don't let him see how frightened you are.
A hand stroked lightly over her face. She couldn't help it; all her promises fled at the feel of those unseen fingers moving on her skin like the soft brush of tiny spiders. She bucked back against her seat, twisting in a desperate attempt to escape, but it was useless.
The man next to her laughed, and she felt him lean closer.
"Now, pussycat, this ain't no way to make friends." A hand touched her thigh, eased up over her belly. "It'll go better for you if you act nice, you know that."
Miranda sobbed against the gag in her mouth as the man cupped first one breast and then the other.
"Nice. Real nice. I'm a tit man, myself. 'Course, my pal, here, he ain't so specialized, you know what I mean? He likes tits, ass, everythin'. Ain't that right, Vince?"
Vince? Vince? Bile flooded her mouth. No, she thought, no, please, no...
"Hello, darling."
God. Oh God. It was him. It was Vincent Moratelli.
"Come on, Joey."
He sounded civil. Polite. As if they were back at the party, where they'd met.
"Don't monopolize the lady's time. It isn't nice. Tell you what. You go sit in the back, read Penthouse or something. I'll sit here with our guest and entertain her."
"Aw, Vince. I was just havin' some fun."
"Who's in charge here, Joey? You? Or me?"
"You, but—"
"Get moving!"
Joey let out a sigh that stank of decay.
"See you later, pussycat."
"Joey," Vince said in a warning tone.
"Yeah, I'm goin'." Joey chuckled and leaned closer. "You got a knight in shinin' armor to protect you, pussycat. Ain't that nice?"
Vincent Moratelli, protecting her? Miranda stiffened as leather creaked again and he settled into the seat beside her. Moratelli had sent her that hideous picture, said those hideous things, and now he'd helped kidnap her.
But he'd stopped the other man from touching her.
Maybe it was going to be all right. They'd kidnapped her but that didn't mean they intended to hurt her. Money. That's what they wanted. That's what kidnappers always wanted, wasn't it? They'd ask Eva for ransom and she would pay it because she and Hoyt couldn't afford scandalous headlines, wasn't that what she'd told Conor?
Conor. Conor, who had deceived her. Who had never meant anything he'd said, whose kisses had been lies...
"I do want to thank you, darling, for having made things so nice and easy for us, though it was probably just serendipity. Still, it was lovely. First your boyfriend abandons you and then you come flying out the service entrance of your mother's house, just when we were trying to figure out how to go in and get you." Moratelli sighed. "Listen to me, prattling on. I haven't even asked you how you feel."
"Mmph," she said, into the gag.
"Ah. The gag's in your way. I understand." He patted her shoulder gently, like a father or an older brother. "We'll take it out soon, I promise. After we land and get settled. But first, you're going to take another nice little nap."
No, she screamed, or tried to scream, but she couldn't. There was the sudden sharp sting of a needle in her arm and then, once again, there was only darkness.
* * *
When she awakened the next time, she was sitting in a soft, deep chair and the drone of the engines had gone.
Where was she? A house? A room. It was cool; she could hear the whisper of an air conditioner and, way off in the distance, a deeper sound. Waves, maybe, beating against a shoreline.
"You awake, darling?" It was Moratelli; she could hear the rustle of cloth, feel the whisper of breath against her face and she knew he must be squatting down beside her. "Not feeling too good, huh? Well, you'll feel better soon. Take off her blindfold, Joey."
She trembled as the cloth was ripped away. She didn't want to look, didn't want to see anything. Dialogue from a hundred bad movies chased through her brain. You weren't supposed to look at your kidnappers, not if you wanted them to let you live.
But she already knew their identities. One was named Joey. And the other was a man she'd prayed to never see again.
"Open your eyes, Miranda."
Moratelli's voice was soft and surprisingly gentle.
"Come on, darling. You might as well take a look. We both know you can identify me. Besides, I think you're going to be surprised. This isn't half as bad as you've probably imagined."
There wasn't really any choice. Slowly, she opened her eyes. She saw Joey first and he was as she'd pictured him, small and dark, with a furtive look that was frightening. She thought he must have been the kind of boy who'd gotten his kicks torturing defenseless animals.
"You like what you see, huh, pussycat?" Joey said. He grinned, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth, and she looked quickly past him.
Moratelli smiled as their eyes met.
"Miranda," he said, nodding his head.
For one insane second, she almost smiled back at him. He looked just as she remembered, tall and good-looking, with a civilized smile and dark, pleasant eyes.
"Look around you," he said. "You'll see that there's nothing to fear."
It was true, there didn't seem to be. She was in a living room that was big and bright. The ceiling was high, with exposed wooden beams and a huge skylight that seemed filled with stars. A fireplace stretched the length of one wall. The furnishings were handsome and looked expensive.
"Nice, isn't it?"
Her gaze flew back to Vince and he frowned.
"For heaven's sake, aren't I foolish? You can't answer, not with that gag in your mouth, can you, darling? Joey, undo Miranda's gag, if you please."
She took a deep, ragged breath as the gag fell from her lips. Her throat felt raw and parched and she swallowed painfully.
"Joey," Vince chided, "I think you must have had that on too tight." He bent down and knelt in front of her, his expression one of deep concern. "Are you all right, darling?"
It took effort to work enough moisture into her mouth to speak.
"Mr. Moratelli..."
"Please, there's no need for such formality. Call me Vince, won't you? It's much more appropriate, considering how well we're going to know each other."
Joey let out a high-pitched giggle. "Oh, that's good, Vince, that's really good!"
Vince sighed and shook his head. "You'll have to forgive Joey, Miranda. His manners are sadly lacking."
"Mr. Moratelli. Vince." She swallowed dryly. "Vince, please, you're making a mistake."
Joey giggled again. Vince shot him an angry look.
"Go put up some coffee," he said. "Miranda and I want to talk. Now, darling, what do you mean, I'm making a mistake?"
"I know you want money."
"Well, we all do, don't we? Even you, with your privileged upbringing, must understand that."
"What I'm trying to say is, if you let me go, I'll see to it that Eva pays you whatever it is you've asked."
Vince smiled. "That's very kind."
"Plus a bonus, for—for being so cooperative."
"Do tell."
"Yes. And I swear, I'll never tell her or anyone else that you were involved in this."
Vince rose to his feet, folded his arms and rocked back on his heels.
"I don't understand, darling. You say your mother will pay extra for your safe release."
"Absolutely. As I said, she'll pay whatever you've asked, plus—"
"But I haven't asked anything, Miranda."
"No, not yet. I'm talking about when you get around to contacting her."
"Ah, I see." Vince smiled. "Sit forward, will you, so I can undo that rope around your wrists."
Miranda scooted towards the edge of the chair. She could see Joey measuring coffee in the kitchen. He was horrible, a human weasel, and he made her skin crawl. Vince did, too; she tried not to shudder as his fingers brushed her flesh as he untied her hands, but at least he was reasonable.
She had to concentrate on him, dire
ct her plea to him.
"How's that? Better?"
She nodded, flexed her hands and put them in her lap. The blood was pouring back into them and the pain was sharp, almost breathtaking, but she sensed it would be better not to admit it.
"Much better. Thank you."
Vince gave her another of his radiant smiles.
"Good. Now, what were you saying, Miranda?"
"I was saying that if you'd just let me go—"
"I'm afraid that's impossible."
"Why? Why is it impossible?" Miranda heard the hysteria mounting in her voice. She stopped, took a breath, and started over. "You're in charge, you said, isn't that right?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, then..."
He moved, so suddenly and swiftly that she had no warning at all. He grabbed a fistful of material at the round neck of her cotton shirt yanked down hard and ripped the fabric to the hem. Miranda screamed. She reached for the torn edges of the shirt but Vince grabbed her hands in one of his and squeezed. She could feel the bones of her fingers scraping against each other.
"Joey was right," he said conversationally. "You do seem to have lovely breasts."
"Don't," she said, in a high whisper of a voice that couldn't possibly have been her own, "oh don't, please don't..."
His hand closed on her bra and it tore in half.
"Ah," he breathed.
"Mr. Moratelli. Vince, please. I beg you..."
"Joey? Come here a minute, would you?"
The little man came scuttling over. His lips curled up, revealing a yellow grin as he peered at Miranda.
"What'd I tell you? Great tits, right?"
"Excellent tits. Stand up please, Miranda."
She shrank back deeper into the chair. Vince sighed, grimaced and hauled her to her feet.
"Please, don't make this more difficult than it need be."
Until You (A Romantic Suspense Novel - Author's Cut Edition) Page 37
