"You've made your point," Thurston said coldly. "Anything else?"
"I assume you've put a tap on this line?"
"I'm not a fool. Certainly, it's tapped."
"What about the Winthrop phone? Are you on that?"
"Well, no. I suggested it but Hoyt didn't feel—"
"To hell with Hoyt's feelings. Tap their lines. All of them."
"Are we finished?"
Conor reached for Miranda's appointment calendar and leafed through it. She was going to be at the Papillon offices the next day for a business luncheon.
"Miranda has a meeting at Papillon tomorrow. She'll be tied up from one o'clock until three."
"How interesting for you," Harry said dryly. "Perhaps they'll be good enough to offer you suggestions on how to spruce up your wardrobe."
"I'm going to be elsewhere while the meeting's going on," Conor said, ignoring the remark. "Have somebody cover for me. Make certain they understand that things may be heating up. They need to be prepared for any eventuality. And for crissakes, don't send that ass, Breverman. Get Sorenson to do it, or Hank Levy."
"Certainly, Mr. O'Neil, sir. May I be of any further help?"
"Conor?"
Conor turned around. Miranda was standing in the doorway, barefoot and looking sleepy and rumpled in her pale yellow robe. He smiled and held out his hand, and she smiled back and came towards him.
"No," he said into the telephone, "but when I think of something, I'll let you know."
He hung up the phone while Harry was still sputtering. Miranda stepped into his arms.
"Hi," he said softly. "How do you feel?"
"Much, much better."
It was true, she did. Perhaps she'd imagined seeing Moratelli and even if she hadn't, this was a free country. The man had a right to walk the streets of New York. Whatever that had been about, the notes, the picture, the break-in, she'd left it all in France. She was here now, with Conor, and it was as if her life had begun all over again.
She smiled and looped he
r arms around his neck.
"Honestly, I feel fine."
"Good." He stroked a skein of silken hair back from her cheek. "How about some supper?"
Her stomach gave a ladylike growl and they both laughed.
"I'll make us something," Conor said.
"I'll do it."
"No, you won't. You'll sit down, take it easy, and watch me scramble some eggs."
"I told you, I'm fine." She kissed his chin. "There's a couple of steaks in the freezer. I'll broil them and make a salad."
"What's the matter, Beckman? Don't you trust my cooking? I'll do the steaks. I'll even whip up my very own version of sauce bearnaise. How's that sound?"
"Too good to be true. What's your version of sauce bearnaise?"