Until You

"We agreed upon twice this amount," she said brusquely, after she'd counted it.

"We did. I'll give you the rest after we've talked."

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she turned and marched into the house with Conor following after her.

"Shut the door, please. I don't want all the heat escaping."

What heat? he wondered. There was a fire glowing on the hearth at one end of the room but the air was cold enough so he could see his breath plume. An old, very plain oak table stood to the left of the fireplace. Amalie settled herself into one of the chairs. There was a cup filled with some sort of steaming liquid on the table in front of her. She lifted it to her lips and took a noisy sip.

"Now," she said, plunking down the cup and fixing him with a sharp look, "what do you want to know?"

So much for hospitality. Conor walked to the hearth and held his hands out to the fire.

"I want you to tell me about Miranda Beckman, mademoiselle."

"You can leave off the French terminology, Mr. O'Neil. I speak your language quite well and I am not impressed by your ability to speak mine."

"Of course," he said politely.

"What is it you wish to know about Miranda?"

"Whatever you think will help me get a picture of her as she was in the days you and she roomed together."

Amalie de Lasserre folded her arms over her ample bosom.

"I didn't know her well. We were not friends."

"But you were her roommate."

"So everyone at Miss Cooper's said."

Conor arched his brows. "I'm afraid I don't follow that."

"It's quite simple. I had been at school for three years before Miranda arrived. She moved into my room, not I into hers, yet no one ever referred to her as my roommate."

He smiled. "I see your point, Miss de Lasserre."

"No, you do not. You couldn't possibly see my point. You have never been an overweight seventeen-year old with pimples and stringy hair, called to the headmistress's office one morning to be told that you are about to share your room with a girl who couldn't pass a mirror without looking into it and admiring her reflection."

Conor kicked a chair out from beneath the table, turned it around and straddled it.

"You didn't hit it off?"

Amalie laughed. "The understatement of the year, sir. We hated each other on sight. Oh, she put on quite a performance, sweet little Miranda, smiling and simpering when we first met, but I saw what she was."

"And what was she, Miss de Lasserre?"

Amalie's nostrils flared, as if she'd caught the scent of something unpleasant.

"A rich brat, vain and spoiled, just like her mother."

"You met Eva Winthrop?"

"Only once, the day she brought Miranda to Miss Cooper's, but it was enough. The woman acted as if she expected me to kneel and kiss her ring."

Conor smiled. "So, you didn't like either Eva or Miranda."

"No intelligent person would."