Until You (52 page)

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."

"Uh-huh."

"There are some signs in the pictures, in Spanish. I figure they must have some connection to the message."

"What do the signs say?"

"The first says
Avenida Rio Azul
."

Conor could hear the sharp intake of his father's breath over the phone.

"
Avenida Rio Azul
?"

"Yeah. Does that mean something to you?"

"Tell me what the other signs say, Conor."

"There's a second sign that says
Calle La Perla
. And then there's a sign on a building. It says—"

"
El Gato Negro
."

Conor frowned. "That's right. You know this place?"

"Damn right, I know it. Where'd you get those pictures, son?"

"It's too complicated to go into now. Just tell me what the hell I'm looking at here."

"There was a big drug bust back when I was still on the job. Some yahoos from Medellin got taken down by the DEA."

Conor felt the hair rise on the nape of his neck.

"Medillin? Colombia?"

"Yes. They were running high-octane coke right through the heart of the Seventh. I ended up working with the DEA guys. They had lots of surveillance photos."

"Like these?"

"Exactly like those."

"So, what am I looking at, then? A Colombian drug factory?"

"
El Gato Negro
, at the intersection of
Calle La Perla
and
Avenida Rio Azul
, wasn't a drug factory."

"Conor?"

Conor turned around. Miranda had moved close to where he stood. Her face was pale and puzzled.

"Who are you talking to?"

He tried for a smile and forced his attention away from Miranda and back to the telephone.

"If it wasn't a drug factory, what was it?"

"It was the favorite meeting place for every fat cat who dealt dope in that part of Colombia."

"Why?"

"Because
El Gato Negro
was the best whorehouse in town."

* * *

"I don't understand why I can't go with you."

Conor slipped into his leather jacket. He and Miranda had been at this for almost twenty minutes, her insisting on going with him, him coming up with what he hoped sounded like logical reasons for her to stay right here. Well, she wasn't going with him, that was for sure, not if he had to lock her inside this damn apartment and throw away the keys.

No matter what Miranda's relationship was with her mother, he wasn't going to have her standing there while he told Eva he knew she'd lied about her place of birth, then shoved a picture of a whorehouse under her nose and asked her what in hell she knew about it.

"Damn you, O'Neil, don't you dare ignore me!" Miranda grabbed his arm and stepped between him and the door. "Why won't you take me with you?"

"Sweetheart..."

"Don't sweetheart me. I want an answer."

"I've given you my answer half a dozen times." He smiled, but she wasn't buying it. Her eyes still flashed defiance. Conor sighed. "Okay, I'll try again. I want to check out a lead."

"About these photos," she said, and he nodded. "I have the right to know why, Conor. They were sent to me."

"I know that."

"And you won't tell me what that call from your father was about."

"Can't a father call a son to say hello?"

"Give me a break, O'Neil. He called to give you some information."

"What if he did? He was a cop, remember? Cops have all kinds of contacts."

"How come you didn't tell me you'd gotten in touch with your father about what's been happening to me?"

"It didn't seem important to tell you, not until I found out if he could pick up some information on Moratelli."

"And he did, but you won't tell me what it is."