Until You

She didn't, and he knew it. Miranda sighed and gave in to the inevitable.

"All right. Tell your locksmith to come over."

"I already did. His name is Pete Cochran. He's tall and skinny and he's got hair so red it can stop traffic. He'll have an ID card with an embassy stamp on it. Ask him to show you the card before you let him in."

"The American Embassy?"

"Yes."

Miranda's brows lifted. "You have friends in high places, O'Neil."

"Yeah, my connections are impressive," Conor said smoothly. "It's one of the reasons your mother hired me. I'm probably the only guy you'll ever meet in Paris who's owed a favor by somebody used to make his living breaking into the homes of the rich and infamous."

"I'm sure you only move in the finest social circles," Miranda said sweetly.

"Half an hour, Beckman. And try and be dressed by the time Cochran gets there, will you? He's got a wife and four kids and, for all I know, a weak heart."

"Don't tempt me, O'Neil. I've always wanted to add a married, red-headed thief to my list of conquests and here you are, serving him up for breakfast." Her voice hardened. "Have a nice day," she said, and slammed down the phone.

Conor glared at his telephone, mouthed a couple of very creative obscenities and then headed for the bathroom to shave.

* * *

Half an hour later, Miranda's intercom rang.

It was Madame Delain calling to say that there was a gentleman called Monsieur Cochran—she pronounced it Cookrain—in the lobby.

"He says," madame said with obvious displeasure, "that he is expected."

"Yes, that's right. Send him up, please."

Madame sniffed and broke the connection. Miranda knew she'd expected an explanation of why Monsieur Cookrain was expected but she offered none. The concierge was discreet but her husband was not and, as Conor had said, she didn't want the story of the break-in getting around.

When the bell rang, she started to reach for the doorknob. Then she remembered Conor's warning. It seemed stupid to ask for the locksmith's ID when madame had just rung to say he was on his way, but she decided to go along with it.

"Yes," she said, "who is it?"

"Pete Cochran."

He held his card to the peep-hole. Miranda looked at it, then looked at Cochran's pleasant, mid-Western American face.

"Okay," she said, and let him in.

Except for the bright red hair, Cochran was a nondescript-looking man carrying an equally nondescript canvas satchel that looked as if it had seen better days. He shut the door, put down the satchel, and gave her an appraising look followed by an easy smile.

"Nice."

Miranda didn't return the smile. "You're here to change the door lock, Mr. Cochran," she said coolly.

Cochran grinned. "That's what I meant," he said, running his hand over the door. "It's nice wood. Mahogany."

After that, he was all business, working methodically and neatly, but that didn't surprise her. For all his swagger, it was the way Conor worked, too. The people he relied on would do the same.

Miranda leaned back against a small, marble-topped table—a find she'd picked up during one of her forays to the flea market—and folded her arms.

"So," she said, "you and O'Neil are old friends, hmm?"

Cochran picked up a small drill and plugged its cord into the nearest outlet.