Until You (26 page)

"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."

He wanted to call back the words as soon as they'd left his mouth, but it was too late. Her face went white; her chair tipped over as she pulled her hand from his and got to her feet.

"Miranda? Miranda, dammit, wait."

She could hear him calling after her as she flew toward the door but she didn't stop, didn't pause, didn't look back. Faces turned up to her in surprise; she wondered if they knew who she was or what she was running from.

The truth was, she wasn't sure what she was running from. When you came down to it, what had Conor said that she hadn't encouraged him and everybody else to say or at least to think? Why should she care that he'd looked at her as if she were beneath his contempt?

The cold night air stung her flushed face as she ran out into the street. O'Neil was nothing to her. He was less than nothing. She moved in a world that had no connection to his pathetic ideas about morality.

Dammit, where were all the taxis? There was never a taxi around when you needed one. It didn't matter. Her apartment was only a couple of blocks away. She yanked up the collar of her coat, stuffed her hands into her pockets and started walking.

What a fool she'd been tonight. Rushing into his arms, feeling safe, sitting opposite him in that smoky bar, laughing and talking and forgetting, just for a little while, the real reason he was with her. It was all a lie, what she'd felt—what she'd thought she'd felt—last night, when he'd kissed her and then tonight, when she'd ached for him.

Conor's hand clamped around her elbow.

"Where do you think you're going?" he growled as he swung her towards him.

"Let go of me!"

"Can't you ever manage to think further than the end of your nose? It's dark, it's late, for all you know there's a welcoming committee waiting for you at your apartment. You cannot go home alone."

"Don't give me orders, you bastard! Let go!"

He cursed and his hand locked around her elbow. She yelped but he didn't give a damn, he just lifted her to her toes and quick-marched her into the darkened doorway of a nearby shop. She balled her hand into a fist and swung it towards him but he was expecting it and he caught both her hands in his and locked them against his chest.

"Listen to me, dammit."

"There's nothing you could say I'd want to hear."

"I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean—"

"Save the apology, O'Neil. Just let go."

"When I'm good and ready."

God, how she despised this man! He was a solid wall of muscle, crowding her back against the locked door of the shop. His strength was overpowering and it frightened her.

"Don't manhandle me, you oaf! I don't like it."

"That's no surprise. You don't like much of anything I do," he said, "except for this," and he bent his head and kissed her.

His mouth was hot and hard, and terror swept through her like a flood tide.

"Don't," she said, against his lips, and even though he was almost beyond control, he heard the fear in her voice. The anger, whatever in hell had been driving him, fell away. In its place, he felt a yearning so vast and deep it made him shudder.

"Miranda." She whimpered and tried to twist her face away from his. He caught her face between his hands, his fingers spreading over her cheeks. "Don't be afraid, baby," he whispered. "I won't hurt you. I'd never hurt you."

He kissed her temple, her hair, the soft curve of her cheek. She was trembling; there were tears on her lashes and he tasted their salt as he kissed her closed eyes.

"Miranda," he said, and he put his lips against hers.

She went still in his arms. Then, just when he thought he would have to let her go, she gave a soft cry he knew he would never forget. Her arms slipped around his neck, her lips parted like the petals of a flower and she gave herself up to the kiss.

She tasted warm and sweet, of tears and of Campari, but most of all she tasted of herself and, then, so quickly that it stunned him, she tasted of hot, urgent desire.

He felt his body tighten, his penis thicken and rise, pressing against the softness of her belly. It happened with a swiftness that shocked him. He groaned, knowing he was at the edge of reason, knowing, too, that he couldn't let go of her.

He slid his hands down her back and cupped her bottom, lifting her into him, wanting her to feel him, to know how primitive and urgent was his need. He wanted her, needed her, needed everything she was and everything she could be. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, deepening the kiss, and then he slid his hands under her coat, up over her skin, so hot and silky, and cupped her breasts.

She went rigid in his arms. He felt the change in her even before she jammed her hands against his chest and began to struggle against him.

"No," he said, "Miranda."

But it was over. A sob of such awful desperation burst from her throat that he felt its impact in the marrow of his bones, and she twisted out of his embrace and slipped past him, fleeing into the night.

He stood looking after her, a man lost in a dream of what had almost been. At last, sanity returned. He drew a long breath, pulling the knife-sharp air deep into his lungs. Then he turned up his collar and set out after her, his pace steady, fast enough so he never lost sight of her, slow enough so there was no possibility he'd overtake her.

He stood in the shadows while she unlocked the gate in the courtyard of her apartment building but as she started towards the front door, he came up behind her. She swung towards him, her eyes as bright and wide as a cat's.

"Get away from me, O'Neil." Her voice was steady and cold. "Or I'll kick you where it hurts."

He smiled at that. He'd almost forgotten all the fancy moves she'd laid on him the other night.

"You won't have to," he said. "I'm just going to see you, to your door."

"Not in this lifetime."

She meant every word, he was sure of it. After a minute, he nodded.

"We'll compromise," he said. "You give me your keys, wait in the lobby while I check out your apartment."

Her chin lifted. In the faint light cast by the street lamp, he thought he saw a faint glitter of moisture in her eyes.

"You really expect me to trust you?"

Her words dripped contempt and he knew he deserved every bit of it, but he showed nothing.

"I'm all you've got," he said.

He saw her mouth tremble. Then she unlocked the door that led into the lobby. They stepped inside. Wordlessly, she dropped her keys into his outstretched hand.

Moments later, he rode down in the elevator.

"Everything's fine," he said. "I turned on a lamp in the living room. Switch it off, then on again once you've locked the door after you."

Miranda took her keys from him and got into the elevator. He waited until he heard the ancient mechanism groan to a stop. Then he went out to the street and looked up at her windows.

The light he'd left burning went out, then came back on. She was safe. He had done his job.

Conor turned his back on the lamp's glow and walked off into the night.

Chapter 10