Until You (32 page)

"Conor, I've asked you before, don't call me baby. I don't like it."

She could see that it was an effort for him to hold his smile but she had to give him credit; he was managing.

"Okay, if it really bothers you. Now, come back to bed."

"I told you, I'm going to take a shower." She reached into the tub and turned on the spray. "That was fun, I have to admit, and probably just what I needed."

"Just what you needed?" he said, and there was a dangerous undercurrent in his tone.

"Well, you know, to get a good night's sleep." She flashed the smile again. "But I never vary the ground rules."

He was looking at her as if she were something nasty that had just crept in out of the night. A sharp pain lanced through her-—but then she thought of Eva, and Hoyt, and Edouard, and the pain faded to a dull ache.

"What ground rules?" he said, through his teeth.

"Well, there's only one, really."
Another deep breath, Miranda, and then spit it out.
"No matter how terrific the fuck, I never let a man spend the night in my bed."

His face paled; every bone seemed to stand out so that his blue eyes burned like fire. She thought of the time Jean-Phillipe had convinced her to fly to Vegas with him to see a much-lauded championship boxing match. She'd hated it, the blood and the sweat and the knowledge that a human being should want to pound at another like the most primitive of animals, and Jean-Phillipe had laughed at her.

"Ah,
cherie,"
he'd said, "you do not comprehend the needs of the male animal."

Well, she comprehended those needs now. Conor's eyes glittered with the hunger to beat her senseless.

"Is that what I was?" he said in an ominously soft voice, "A good fuck?"

"You do understand that I meant it as a compliment," she said in her kindest tone.

"Oh, yeah." He smiled tightly. "Yeah, I understand. And I guess it really is a compliment, coming from a connoisseur like you."

The words were blows that hammered at her soul, but she knew better than to let the pain show.

"There's no need to get nasty, Conor. I'm sorry if you've got some kind of old-fashioned sentimentality about sex, but—"

"Hey," he said, and now his smile was swift and very wolflike, "trust me, lady. I've got no sentimentality about anything. I just figured, what the hell, this was fun for the both of us, so—"

"So, why not do it again?" Miranda sighed and shook her head. "A lovely thought but I'm afraid I've got a shoot in the morning. The camera picks up every under-eye shadow." She smiled, reached out and gently patted his cheek. "You know how it is."

Conor's fingers closed, hard around her wrist and he pushed her hand away.

"Oh yeah," he said softly, "I know exactly how it is. You have an itch, you scratch it. That's the story of your life, isn't that right, Beckman?"

He didn't wait for her to answer, which was good because she wasn't sure she could have managed to come up with one, not while her throat was constricting.

With studied nonchalance, he sauntered back into the bedroom and collected his clothes. She waited until he'd strolled into the hallway and shut the door behind him; then she stepped into the shower, turned the faucet to hot and grabbed the soap.

How long would she have to scrub, before she felt clean again?

* * *

It was bitter cold, and the streets were deserted.

And one hell of a night for a man's cell phone to give up the ghost.

Conor blew on his hands and stamped his feet as he stood in the phone booth he'd finally located and waited for his call to go through.

"Come on, Harry," he muttered, "what the hell's taking so long?"

It was, what, almost midnight in the States. Thurston had to be home; he had to hear his damn telephone ringing.

"Hello?"

"It's me, Harry."

"Conor, where in blazes are you? I've been trying your mobile for hours."

"Yeah, well, it isn't working."

"Do tell. Listen, my boy—"

"No, Harry, old pal,
you
listen. I'm out of here."

"I beg your pardon?"

A truck rumbled by. Conor waited until he saw it turn the corner before he spoke again.

"I said, I'm signing off the Winthrop thing."

"Conor, don't be hasty."

"Hasty, my ass. I'm done. Finished. I'm out of here. I'm coming back to the good old U.S. of A., pronto."

"What's happened?"

"Nothings happened. Enough is enough, that's all."

"But why?"

"Don't push it, Harry."

"Conor," Harry said, his voice growing soft and persuasive, "I can tell you're upset."

"I'm not upset. And don't bother trying to sweet-talk me. Just find yourself another patsy."

Harry's sigh wheezed over the satellite connection as clearly as if he were in the next room.

"Simmer down, my boy, simmer down. You've never been a patsy, you're the Committee's main man, doing a vital job."

"That's a wonderful line, Harry. Did you lift it from a motivational seminar or did it just spring into your head?"

"Conor." Thurston's voice was filled with distress. If Conor hadn't known him better, he might have believed it was real. "What have I done to deserve such a display of animosity?"

"It's not animosity. And you haven't done a thing—except ask me to play at being a bodyguard to a woman who doesn't want one."

"You're not playing at any such thing. You're conducting an investigation."

"I'm stumbling around on foreign soil with about as much clout as an ant at an aardvark's picnic."

Thurston chuckled. "What a charming picture."

"Well, it's a charming situation, which is why I'm dealing myself out."

"Difficult cases were always your specialty."

"You're wasting your time. Flattery won't get you anywhere."

"I just don't understand the problem. You say you're on foreign soil without any clear authority but let's be honest; that never stopped you in the past."

"Harry, you're not listening."

"And it isn't as if you've never offered protection to a client before."

"No, it isn't. But our client is Eva Winthrop, not her daughter. And I didn't come over here to offer protection to anybody .remember? I came to get facts."

"This doesn't sound like you, Conor."

"You know what they say, Harry. The times, they are a-changin'."

"Is that a quotation from some modern French philosopher? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with it."

"Listen, just so you know I'm not being unreasonable about this, I'll give you a couple of days to line up somebody else to take over."

"Suppose you update me. What's the latest situation there?"

The latest situation? Hell, I slept with Miranda Beckman and got exactly what I deserved.

Conor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

"I'll e-mail you as soon as I get my phone working."

"Humor me. Bring me up to date the old-fashioned way. The Beckman girl's apartment was rifled but I take it there's been more."

"There's been more, all right. Somebody slipped a little gift under her door. His name is Moratelli. Vincent Moratelli."

"An Italian?"

"An American, I think. Run his name, see what you can find."

"What was the gift this Moratelli sent Miss Beckman?"

Conor hesitated. All he had to do was shut his eyes and he knew he'd be able to see the ugly piece of garbage that had been inside that envelope.

"A picture. And a note. I'll run them over to the embassy and put them in the diplomatic pouch."

"Fine."

"Test for the usual stuff. Prints, ink, paper, and blood."

"Blood?"

"Animal, probably. Look, I'd rather not describe this over the phone. I'll ask the embassy to put it through ASAP."

"Was the note like the one sent to Eva?"

"Not the message, but yes, the paper and ink look like a match."

Harry made a humming sound. Long experience told Conor what was happening. Thurston would have turned his gaze to the ceiling. There'd be a seemingly casual expression on his face. It was all deception. Thurston was about as casual as a fox assessing a hen-house. Something was clicking away in his brain and when he was good and ready, he'd spring it.

"You said you were going to interview Miss Beckman's former husband and his cousin. Have you done so?"

Conor sighed. "Look, I am standing out here in the cold, freezing my tail off. What about saving the debriefing until I'm back in D.C.?"

"I take it you spoke with them."

"Dammit, Harry! Yes, I did."

"Could either one be responsible for these events?"

"It's possible, but I've got my doubts."

"Which are?"

"The ex is a slime ball, but why would he pull crap like this?"

"Blackmail?"

"I doubt it. He seems to have plenty of money. Besides, he's not a fool. He knows that even if his marriage to the girl isn't exactly public knowledge, it's not the sort of secret that's worth a lot of dough."

"Are you sure? Hoyt is up for that appointment, after all."

"So what? We're talking about old news, Harry. Very old news. Besides, turn on any of a dozen talk shows and you'll see people sitting around discussing things you and I would probably sooner die than admit to a priest."

"Well, perhaps the gentleman hasn't figured that out."

"He's been around. He knows there's nothing in the story."

"What about his cousin?"

"She says she's got money. I'll check it out—I mean, whoever you hand this over to should check it out, but I'd rule out blackmail. On the other hand, she hates Miranda. Eva, too. Maybe she's just been looking for the chance to put in the knife."

"Who else was on your list?"

Conor's stomach roiled. "Jean-Phillipe Moreau. Miranda's lover."

"Have you spoken with him?"

"No. That'll be something else for the new guy to deal with."

"Anybody else who might want to hurt the girl?"

Yes, Conor thought coldly, me.

"Nobody I can come up with. Listen, Harry, it's late and I'm bushed. I'll phone you when I hit D.C."

"It was your idea to go to Paris, Conor."

"I know that."

"And now you want me to hand this off to someone else?"

Conor's mouth narrowed. "That's right."

"I've never known you to leave an assignment unfinished, my boy. You admit, you've yet to question Moreau or to check Amalie de Lasserre's motives more deeply, and you've asked me to check out one Vincent Moratelli."

"Isn't it good to know that I'm leaving something for the next guy to do? Listen, I didn't phone to ask permission, I phoned to tell you I was signing off."

"May I ask the reason?"

"I told you, I don't like playing bodyguard, especially where I have no authority."

"Foreign soil, and all that."

"Now you've got it."

"Well, I can't disagree with you, Conor. It's just that the second note puts a new twist on things."

"Not in any way that affects me."

"I'm not talking about the note Miss Beckman received." Thurston paused, long enough to highlight the drama of the moment. "A second note was delivered to Eva, just today."

"I still don't see how that changes things," Conor said, but a warning buzz was already tingling down his spine.

"The note was on the same paper as before. Same ink, looks to be the same handwriting."

"I still don't see—"

"It was written in French and it says..." Conor could hear the faint rustle of paper. "It says, and I know you'll forgive my accent..."

"Just read the damned note, Harry, okay?"

"It says,
C 'est de la foutaise, ta fille. C'est une allumeuse et bientot, elle sera morte."

Conor felt his heart begin to swell, until it seemed lodged in the middle of his throat.

"I suppose you had that translated?"

"Please, credit me with some competence. Of course I had it translated. It means..." Again, there was the rustle of paper. "It means, 'Your daughter is garbage. She is..."' Harry cleared his throat. " 'She is a cock-teaser and soon, she will be dead.' " Silence hummed along the line and then he cleared his throat again. "So, what do you think?"

Conor closed his eyes. Thurston, the son of a bitch, knew exactly what he thought.

The notes to Eva, the vile message sent to Miranda and the trashing of her bedroom were definitely connected. To hell with Hoyt's appointment; that wasn't the issue here. What was happening was about Miranda and had been, right from the start.