Until You

De Lasserre nodded. "Well," he said, almost gently, "I cannot help you, I am afraid."

"No?"

"I have no, how do you say, grist for the mill." He sighed deeply. "And even if I did, my time with Miranda was precious. I would not wish to say anything untoward about her."

"You loved her, then?"

"I adored her. What man would not?"

"But she left you the day after your wedding."

"You are well-informed, Monsieur O'Neil."

"I pride myself on doing my homework, Count de Lasserre."

"Then you must know that I married Miranda when she was quite young. Too young, I fear, to know her own mind."

"The marriage was your idea?"

De Lasserre rolled his eyes. "I see what has happened, monsieur. My dear cousin said unpleasant things about Miranda, yes? That she lured me into the elopement?"

Conor smiled. "Actually, the word she used was seduced."

"Sweet Amalie. So innocent of the ways of the world. She could not comprehend the passion that so quickly arose between Miranda and me."

"Passion? Not love?"

"Monsieur, I assume that you are a man of some sophistication. Surely you understand the power of a swift, overwhelming sexual attraction." De Lasserre leaned forward, his smile razor-sharp. "I will tell you this much. Miranda and I could not keep our hands off each other. I could have had her within an hour of meeting her, comprenez-vous? But I was brought up in the old school, to believe in a woman's honor."

What Edouard de Lasserre was talking about had happened years ago. Besides, what did it matter? Conor wouldn't have cared if Miranda and this man had gone at each other like a couple of stray dogs in the middle of Times Square.

Then, why could he feel his gut knotting? Why should his blood pressure be shooting for the moon? It had to be de Lasserre's manner. The Count's suit was Armani, his shoes were crocodile, his lineage was probably longer and bluer than any entrant's in the Westminster Kennel Club and his smile was strictly high-wattage. And yet, for all of that, there was something about him. Something unpleasant, maybe even sinister.

Or was it only the knowledge that he'd slept with Miranda that made him so easy to dislike?

Conor stuck his hands deep in his pockets, his fists tightly balled. What did it matter? He didn't give a damn who she slept with, now or in the past or in the future.

"...you understand, monsieur?"

Conor

cleared his throat. "I' m sorry, Count. Would you repeat that?"

"I said, I have never regretted asking Miranda to marry me. I only regret that I had to give her her freedom."

"Why did you, then?"

"I had no choice." De Lasserre rose, walked across the room and took a small marble figure from its place in an elaborately carved etagère. It was the figure of a girl, nude and very beautiful. He smiled down at it, then ran his thumb slowly over the delicate curves. "Miranda was, as I have told you, very young."

"She was a minor."

De Lasserre looked up. "A detail of which I was not aware at the time," he said pleasantly, but his eyes had gone cold.

"Tell me what happened when Eva showed up."

"Who?"

"Eva Winthrop. Miranda's mother."