Until You (14 page)

"Mia," she said sternly, "it's late and I've had a long day. The last thing I'm in the mood for is a game of Siamese hide-and-seek!"

Mia skidded down the parquet-floored hall towards the bedroom. Her sinuous, chocolate-tipped tail disappeared around the half-open door just as Miranda reached it.

"For heaven's sakes, cat, what's gotten into—"

Oh God!

The blood in her veins seemed to freeze. The faint light from the street cast an eerie illumination over a room that suddenly didn't seem to be hers.

What had happened here? The bed was rumpled. The closet was open and clothing lay strewn over the floor. The doors of the cherrywood
armoire
were open, too, and her silk and lace underwear was spilling out of the top drawers.

Someone had been here.

Here, in her apartment.

In her bedroom.

Someone had been here and whoever it was had lain on her bed, had taken her clothes from the hangers, had handled her panties and bras...

The doorbell rang.

She spun around, her skin icy with fear.

Who would come calling at this hour? No one had rung the courtyard bell. You had to ring the bell, unless you had a key to the gate. And no one had a key to that gate, except for her.

And Jean-Phillipe.

Yes. It could be him. Jean-Phillipe could have come back.

She'd told him to go home, that it was too late for a drink but so what? This wouldn't be the first time he'd decided to ignore her saying something like that.

The bell rang again.

Miranda moved slowly down the hall.

"Jean-Phillipe?" she whispered.

Knuckles rapped against the door.

"Yes," she said, oh yes, of course it was him, who else would it be? A sob burst from her throat as she flew to the door and flung it open.

"Oh, Jean-Phillipe, you can't imagine how happy I am to see—"

"Good evening, Miss Beckman."

Miranda screamed.

* * *

Jesus H. Christ, Conor thought, and even as he was thinking it, Miranda Beckman tried to slam the door in his face.

He reacted instinctively, thrusting his foot into the opening, driving his shoulder against the ornate paneling, and the door flew open, hurling her back into the room. She scrambled to her feet and came at him in what had to be the worst impression of a karate crouch that he'd ever seen in his life.

"Miss Beckman..."

Grunting, she kicked out with her right foot. Conor danced back easily.

"Okay," he said, "I didn't exactly expect you to greet me with open arms—"

"You sonofabitch!"

"Lady, if you'd just let me talk—"

"Talk? Talk?" She spun around, then kicked out. Her foot caught him a glancing blow. It didn't hurt but it sure as hell surprised him. "You don't want to talk, you want to—you want to—"

She came at him a third time. She had as much finesse as an elephant but it didn't matter, not when she had so much determination. Conor knew he could stop her but he didn't want to hurt her. On the other hand, he didn't want to end up with what looked like a shoe equipped with a four-inch spiked heel embedded in his groin.

"Miss Beckman," he said soothingly, "Miranda, listen."

She wasn't listening. She was intent on killing him.

"Hell," he muttered, and he moved fast, got inside her stiffly outstretched arms and past her flailing kick, grabbed her wrist and tossed her to the carpet.

She went over backwards, hit with a thud and gave out a high, wild cry. He came down on top of her and she hissed like a snake and went for his eyes.

"Damn!" He caught her wrists in one hand, drew her arms above her head and pinned them there. "Are you crazy?"

"I'll kill you first," she said, and before he could ask her what in hell that was supposed to mean, her lips parted and he knew she was going to scream. For one crazy instant, he thought of shutting her up by kissing her—but then sanity returned. He slapped his free hand over her mouth, and just in time. The muffled shriek that burst from her throat would surely have been enough to call up every
gendarme
within miles.

"Okay," he growled, "that's enough."

She said something against his hand. It wasn't pleasant, whatever it was, and probably wasn't very ladylike but then, Miranda Beckman didn't look very ladylike lying sprawled beneath him, her hair a tangle of black silk, her eyes hot and dark in her flushed face. She was wearing what he knew women called slip dresses although this one looked more like a bathing suit, for God's sake, with its skinny black straps and the way it exposed the curve of her breasts, and the way it had ridden up her thighs.

Conor felt his body stir.

Stop it, he told himself furiously, what the hell is wrong with—

Her teeth sank into the heel of his hand. He yelped, pulled his hand back, and she almost scurried out from under him. He came down harder, his chest pressed to her breasts, his knee jammed between her thighs, and he held on to her wrists with one hand while he clamped the other around her throat and jaw, hard enough to get her attention.

"Okay," he said roughly, "here's the deal."

She made a sound but the pressure of his fingers stopped it. Her eyes were wild with fear. That was okay with him. She deserved a good scare. Maybe, if she was scared enough, she'd start to listen.

"I'm only going to say this one time. You got that?"

Her blue eyes gleamed with hate. Conor applied just a little more pressure.

"Do you understand me, Miranda?"

His thumb bit into the hollow of her throat. She nodded.

"You scream," he said, "or bite me again, or try any crap at all, you try to do anything but listen to every word I say and I'll be forced to get your attention the hard way." After a few seconds, he shifted his hold on her jaw, forcing her head up and back. "Blink if we've got a deal."

He had to give her credit for guts if not brains. He had every advantage, size and weight and position, but she still wanted to defy him. He could see it in the rush of conflicting emotions that swept over her face. But she wasn't a complete fool. A minute passed, and then she blinked.

"Was that a yes?"

She blinked again.

"All right. I'm going to lift my hand from your throat. Just remember what I said. Any funny stuff and you'll regret it.
Comprenez-vous?"

Slowly, he eased his hand from her neck.

"You still with me?"

The tip of her tongue snaked across her lips.

"Do you know who I am?"

Her mouth twisted with undisguised contempt.

"I'm not a moron, O'Neil."

"And I'm not the bogeyman, or whoever in hell you mistook me for."

"You'd better get out of here," she said. "I called the police."

"Yeah? Well, maybe we should call a doctor." He drew back, his knee still wedged between her legs, and shot a quick look at his hand. The tiny marks of her sharp teeth stood out clearly against the skin. "I hope you've had your rabies shots, Beckman."

"The police station is only a block away. They'll catch you, if you don't—"

"And charge me with what? Defending myself against an attempt on my life?"

"Let me up!"

"Why? So you can launch another attack?"

"Dammit, O'Neil!"

"What in hell's wrong with you? Or do you always greet your guests that way?"

"You're not a guest," she said furiously, "you're an intruder. A—a pervert!"

"A what?" he said, and laughed.

She didn't blame him for laughing. Whoever Conor O'Neil was, whatever he was, she somehow doubted if he'd get his kicks by messing around in a drawer filled with women's underpants.

But he'd caught her by surprise. She'd expected to see Jean-Phillipe's familiar face when she'd opened the door. Instead, she'd been faced with this—this barbarian.

"Get off me," she snapped.

"First you tell me why I rated such a welcome." His teeth flashed in a humorless smile. "I know I'm not on your list of favorites, Beckman, but—"

"Will—you—get—off—me?" she said and when he didn't move, Miranda twisted beneath him and tried to roll him off.

In a heartbeat, she knew it hadn't been a very good idea.

So did he.

If only she hadn't moved.

One minute, adrenaline had been pumping through Conor's system at about a gallon a minute while he'd tried to figure out how to deal with the crazy woman pinned beneath him—and the next minute, his body was doing it again.

At least, this time it made sense. He wasn't reacting to a portrait or a photograph or to a woman going out of her way to give him a peep-show. He was reacting to the real thing. Male anatomy and female anatomy. Yin and yang. Hard muscles against soft, sweet-smelling woman...

A woman who was terrified of him.

Dammit to hell, he thought furiously, and he rolled off her and shot to his feet.

"Get up," he snarled.

She stood, her face stony and her eyes cold. But she was trembling and that only made him angrier. He thought of the ads he'd seen her in, of that sexy pout she offered the camera; he thought of the way she'd greeted the Frenchman with the too-pretty face this morning, damn near climbing the guy's leg like a bitch in heat.

So she'd felt his erection. So what? It would hardly be the first time.

Who was she kidding, standing there in a dress that molded itself to her breasts and ended damned near at her crotch? No way was he going to apologize for an act of biology she specialized in causing.

"Well, Beckman?"

"Well, what?"

"Are you going to tell me why you tried to kill me?"

Her eyes narrowed until they were slits.

"Get out of my apartment, O'Neil."

"I take it that's a no."

"Did you hear me?" Her voice shook; but the hand she pointed towards the door was rock-steady. "Get out!"

"Okay, don't tell me. I'm not even sure I want to know. It's been a long day. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm as eager to see the last of you as you are to see the last of me. If it makes you feel better..." He went to the door, opened it a few inches, then turned and looked at her. "How's that? We'll leave the door ajar, I'll ask you a couple of questions, and then I'll leave."

"I'm not answering any questions. I told you that this morning."

Conor sighed. He dug into his pocket, came up with an ID card that bore his photograph and flashed it at her.

"This is an official visit, Miss Beckman."

As he'd hoped it would, that caught her attention. "Official?"

"Yes."

Some of the color was returning to her face and with it, that look of haughty disdain.

"I should have known," she said. "What are you, O'Neil? Some government flunky come to chat about my childhood?"

Conor looked at her. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Oh, come on. I'm not stupid. You said you wanted to talk about my mother and Hoyt. And Hoyt's up for—what? A U.N. post?"

"An ambassadorship."

"Whatever," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "It's time to open the closets and sweep out all the dirt."

Conor smiled pleasantly. "Is there dirt to sweep out?"

Miranda's eyes flashed. "Only me," she said, her voice steady and cold.

"Well, then, you won't mind answering my questions."

"That's where you're wrong." She strode past him, shouldered the door fully open, and stood beside it with her arms folded. "Eva should have warned you. I'm not into accommodating authority figures. So you can take your government badge and your notepad and shove them—"

"I'm not with the government," Conor said with a smooth smile.

"No?"

"No."

Miranda's eyes narrowed. "You just said—"

"I said I was here on official business, and I am." He didn't even think about what lie he'd tell her. It was one of the things about his profession, he thought with bitter satisfaction; lying came as easy as breathing. "I'm working for your mother."

She laughed. "Right. And I'm a candidate for mayor."

"I'm a private investigator."

"A what?"

"An investigator. A private detective."

"You're joking."

"I never joke about my profession," Conor said with such sincerity that he gave himself a round of mental applause. "Can we sit down and discuss this?"

"We are discussing it. Why would Eva need a private eye?"

"Someone sent your mother a note."

"How fascinating."

"It was a strange note, and unsigned."

"So? What's it have to do with me?"

"That's what I'm here to find out."