Until You

"She was." Eva turned, walked back into the library and headed straight for the bar. Conor gave the painting one last glance, then followed after her. "But she was no longer a child. That was what she told me in the taxi en route to the airport. I told her I was taking her home, that we'd work things out together. But Miranda said she was a woman now, not a little girl, and that she liked Paris and was going to stay there."

"A seventeen-year-old girl? And you let her?"

Eva spun towards him. The vodka in her newly freshened drink sloshed over the top of the glass.

"You're damn right I let her! She called me the most terrible names, said the most cruel things..." Tears glittered on her lashes. "You cannot know what it's like to have a child you've loved and nurtured turn on you! What could I do? Fly her back in chains? Lock her in her room when we got home?" Her chin rose. "I had already given more of myself to my daughter than she deserved. It was time for me to think of my husband. Of Hoyt. 'You want to stay in Paris?' I said, 'very well. Stay! I'll send you money each month and when you've had enough, let me know and I'll send you a ticket home.' "

"You've supported her, then, all these years?"

"Yes, of course. Well, until she became a successful model."

"She never wanted to come home?"

Eva shook her head. "Never," she said, her voice breaking. "I should have known that Miranda would never have enough of the kind of life she leads."

"And your husband knows all of this, Mrs. Winthrop?"

"Certainly. There are no secrets between Hoyt and me. He knows. And he agrees that I did the right thing."

Conor thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "You told the FBI none of this," he said softly.

"No." She smiled thinly. "They didn't ask, and I didn't volunteer it. What mother would be proud of such failure? Besides, I didn't see that it was important but now, I suppose..."

"Now, you think your daughter's somehow involved in this."

Eva's eyes flashed. "She moves in decadent circles. I'm sure she knows people who'd think nothing of trying to embarrass me."

"You could have saved us all a lot of trouble if you'd told me this last night, Mrs. Winthrop."

"And I tell you again, what mother would be proud of talking about such awful failure?" Eva pulled a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. It crossed Conor's mind that he'd never seen a woman take out a lace handkerchief except in an old movie. "Why, Miranda wouldn't even talk to me on the phone until just a year or two ago... " She began to weep, very quietly. "I'm sorry, Mr. O'Neil, but I'm afraid I'm going to ask you to leave."

"Of course." Conor took out his wallet, pulled a card from it, reached past her and put it down on the bar. "If you think of anything more to tell me, Mrs. Winthrop, please give me a call."

He shut the library door after him, walked to the chair where he'd left his coat and scooped it up. The FBI investigation hadn't turned up the story of Miranda's elopement but he wasn't surprised. The incident was years old; Eva had moved quickly to hush it up and she'd succeeded. Besides, the investigation had centered on Hoyt Winthrop, not on his stepdaughter.

What did surprise him was the performance he'd just witnessed. And he was almost certain that was exactly what it had been. But why? Was there more to the story than Eva claimed?

Was she putting on an act in hopes of keeping him from digging any further?

He turned around slowly and stared at the portrait. The Mona Lisa was supposed to have the most mysterious smile in the world.

Then again, the odds were damn good that whoever had come to that conclusion had never laid eyes on this painting of Miranda Beckman.

Chapter 3

Eva had told him the truth...

About her husband knowing the details of Miranda's elopement, anyway. Conor's unannounced visit to Hoyt Winthrop's Wall Street firm the following day confirmed it.

The building that housed Winthrop, Winthrop and Winthrop was one of lower Manhattan's tallest and most impressive. Hoyt's company filled the top three floors; his private office took one enormous corner of the upper two. Thanks to its size and to two walls made almost entirely of glass, walking into it was like walking into an aerie.

Hoyt rose from behind a massive mahogany desk to greet

him.

"Mr. O'Neil," he said, rounding the desk with his hand outstretched, "it's good to see you again."

"Thank you," Conor said politely.