Until You

Conor felt his stomach knot. "The Frenchman," he said tonelessly.

"His name is—"

"I know his name. Jean-Phillipe Moreau. Okay. So, you and he had breakfast together in some trendy little place whose name you can't remember."

"McDonald's." The word blurted from her lips. Damn, she thought, but now that it was out she looked at him, her chin tilting in defiance. "We had breakfast at McDonald's. And after that, we went to his place."

Nothing about Conor's expression changed, yet she could almost feel the sudden tension in his big body. She knew what he was thinking, but so what? Her reputation—her supposed reputation—didn't embarrass her. On the contrary, it pleased her. She worked hard at maintaining it. Jean-Phillipe, ever the armchair analyst, said she did it to get even with Eva but Miranda knew better. She just liked having people whisper about her.

Then, why was she having such trouble with this conversation?

"Maybe you want to take notes," she said. "Breakfast, then we went to his place, then—" She looked at him over her shoulder. "You won't really need all the details, will you, O'Neil?"

No, Conor told himself, hell, no, he didn't need the details. His brain was on overload already, grinding out X-rated scenes guaranteed to never make it past any censor.

"How long has the Frenchman been your lover?"

"That's none of your business."

"Is he the only one? Or does he just have the inside track?"

Miranda turned around. "I just told you, my private life is none of your business."

"You just got a note, a charming one, I might add, and written on the same kind of paper as Eva's, in what looks like the same ink and handwriting." His smile was all teeth. "That makes everything my business."

"Was Eva's note... was it like mine?"

"Answer my question, Beckman. Is Moreau your only lover?"

"You answer mine first. Was the note Eva got like the one I just found under the door?"

"No," Conor said brusquely, "it wasn't half as creative. Now it's your turn. Does Moreau hold the franchise or doesn't he?"

For the first time in years, the easy answer, the fiction she'd worked so hard to maintain, froze on her lips. She turned her back to him and finished making the coffee.

"We have an unusual relationship."

"Yeah, I'll bet. Well, maybe you'd better tell him that for a while anyway, it's not going to be enough to take you out for a meal and a tumble in the hay."

"You're crude, O'Neil. Do you know that?"

"I'm also direct and to the point so there can't be any doubt about what I'm telling you. If Moreau gives a damn about your safety, he's going to have to stir his ass, climb out of that pimp-mobile he calls a car, and walk you to your door."

Miranda slammed the cabinet door shut.

"What were you doing the other night, spying on us?"

"You give him the word, or I will."

"For your information," she said, fixing him with a cold look, "Jean-Phillipe wanted to take me home this evening but I wouldn't let him. He took a taxi in one direction and I took one in the other. I came home, unlocked my door, and found that—that message from the funny farm waiting for me."

"Can you think of anybody who'd want to do this to you?"

"Terrify me, you mean?" She laughed, though the sound of it was brittle, and plopped down in the chair again. "Well, I've probably stepped on lots of toes since I broke into modeling and every now and then, a fan decides I was heaven-sent just for him—but no, I can't come up with a single person who'd do anything like go through my underwear and send me a note and a picture like that." She hesitated. "O'Neil? I'm right, aren't I? You think whoever broke in here was the same person who sent me that—that thing?"

Conor stood up, shoved the chair under the table and paced across the room. What could he tell her? He didn't know what to think; that was the trouble.

He was supposed to be concentrating on the note sent to Eva Winthrop and her hotshot husband. He was supposed to break his ass to keep the President's nose clean, to figure out who was at the bottom of this mess. The old brain was supposed to be click-clicking away with government-approved, grade A efficiency.