Until You

Here it came, The Big Lie. He didn't think she'd be able to keep that stony look on her face after this. If she'd written that note, he'd know it.

"The note mentioned your elopement," Conor said, and waited. But her reaction wasn't anything he'd expected. She didn't look caught off guard, she simply looked baffled.

"That's ancient history. Why would anybody send Eva a note about that?"

If she was putting him on, she was doing a damned fine job of it. Conor decided to switch tactics.

"That's what bothered her. She's worried. About you, I mean."

Miranda's eyes narrowed. "Try another line, O'Neil. Eva hasn't worried about me since I was twelve."

"Still," he said, "she's concerned."

"Why?"

"Well, if the note is some sort of threat, it could very well be directed at you."

"That's ridiculous. Why would anybody want to threaten..."

She went still so suddenly that the silence seemed to have a physical presence. Then she made a little sound of distress and sank down on a chair.

"Shut the door," she whispered.

He did, and then he looked at her. "What is it?"

She stared at him. The color was creeping back into her cheeks but when she got to her feet, she seemed wobbly.

"Here's the chance of a lifetime, O'Neil," she said. "How'd you like to take a tour of my bedroom?"

She didn't wait for him to answer, she simply set off down the hall. Conor stared after her. Then he took a deep breath and started walking.

Chapter 6

The coffee in Conor's cup was murky black. He looked down at it, scowled, then lifted it to his lips and took a long swallow.

The stuff tasted like something that ought to be poured down the drain but when you needed a jolt of caffeine as badly as he did, you took what you could get, and you took it straight, without sugar or cream.

He sighed, put the cup down and scrubbed his hands over his face. What he really needed was to fall into bed, clothes and all, and sleep for ten hours straight.

How long was it since his plane had touched down on French soil? A day? A week? A month? He didn't know anymore, and he wasn't sure he was functional enough to figure it out. Exhaustion and jet lag were doing him in. His legs felt numb, his tongue felt thick, and his eyeballs felt as if they'd been sandblasted.

"Welcome to Paris, O'Neil," he muttered. He'd have laughed, too, if he'd had the energy.

Conor picked up the cup and forced down another mouthful of coffee. What was he doing here, sitting in Miranda Beckman's apartment in the middle of the night? He was supposed to be in his place in Georgetown, snug and cozy in his own bed. Or was it only evening back home? At this moment, figuring out the time change seemed a challenge for a genius.

Not that it mattered. Whatever the hour, he'd bet that Harry Thurston wasn't sitting around in a daze, with the floor spongy under his feet and his stomach snarling and saying it couldn't remember the last time something other than coffee acid had been dumped into it.

Thurston, the bastard, was eating dinner. Or watching a movie. Or sleeping soundly. Whatever he was doing, it was better than this.

Conor's mouth thinned. Thurston, he thought grimly, Thurston, you no-good—

Hell. Who was he kidding? He couldn't blame Harry for this mess. It had been his idea, and his alone, to fly to Paris. And why? To question Miranda Beckman, and to get a look at her.

"Okay," Conor muttered, staring down into his cup where blobs of oil from the coffee floated like debris on the Potomac, "you got a look. And now you're sitting here at something o'clock in the morning, brain-dead, and you know, you know, you're getting drawn in deeper and deeper."

Shit.

He got up, dumped the contents of both his cup and the coffee pot into the sink and rinsed them out.