Until You (A Romantic Suspense Novel - Author's Cut Edition)

by Sandra Marton

  Who was he, anyway? A man who thought a lot of himself, that was for certain, but who was he, really? Had he told her the truth when he'd said he had some connection to Eva? It didn't seem likely. How could a man with such hard eyes be associated with a woman as elegant as her mother?

  "Miranda. "She looked up. Jean-Phillipe had come up beside her, her cape and his evening coat draped across his arm. He smiled politely at her and then at her companion. "Forgive me for intruding, cherie, but would you be terribly distressed if I suggested we leave now?"

  Miranda gave him a dazzling smile. "Of course not." She put her hand lightly on the arm of the man she'd been talking to. What was his name? The hell with it, she thought, and flashed him a smile, too. "It's been nice talking with you."

  The man bowed, took her hand and lifted it to his lips.

  "Until we meet again, Miss Beckman," he said.

  Jean-Phillipe shook his head as they made their way out of the gilt-trimmed salon.

  "Someday," he murmured as he drew her cape around her shoulders, "someday, little one, you are going to get yourself in trouble with your games."

  "What games? I was behaving like a perfect lady."

  "Perfect ladies do not exchange pleasantries with gangsters."

  "Gangsters?" Miranda said in amazement. She craned her neck and tried to peer back into the salon for another look at the man, but it was too crowded.

  Jean-Phillipe's hand tightened on her arm.

  "Behave yourself," he said sternly, "and remember to smile for the cameras as we go out the door."

  "Was that man really a gangster?" she whispered as they threaded their way through the gaggle of photographers that lined the steps and sidewalk.

  "So it is said, and for God's sake, must you sound so delighted?" There was a studio limousine waiting for Jean-Phillipe. The driver leaped out, opened the door, then shut it after them. "I suppose you would not have looked so bored had you known, eh?"

  Miranda laughed. "Did I look bored?"

  "Completely so."

  She sighed, kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes against the deep pile carpet of the limo.

  "I'm sorry, Jean-Phillipe, I'm just in a bad mood tonight, I guess."

  "Any special reason?"

  Yes, she thought, and his name is Conor O'Neil.

  "Miranda?"

  "No," she said quickly, "no reason at all. I'm just tired."

  "Well, you did not look tired on the runway this morning, cherie. You looked beautiful."

  "And you're prejudiced," she said, smiling, "but thank you anyway. What about you? Did you connect with the Hollywood money man?"

  "Unfortunately, no. Apparently, he changed his mind about attending."

  "Ah. Too bad." She looked at him, her eyes twinkling. "I hope the night wasn't a total waste. Did anybody catch your eye, at least?"

  Jean-Phillipe chuckled. "I never kiss and tell, cherie, that is one of my charms, non?"

  She laughed and took his hand in hers.

  "The other is your humility," she said, as the big car moved through the brightly lit streets.

  * * *

  Jean-Phillipe offered to see her to her door but Miranda told him to go on home.

  "You're tired and I'm tired," she said, "and we both know that if you come up, I'll offer you a cognac and we'll end up talking half the night, dishing the dirt on everybody."

  "What you really mean," he said, with a mock frown, "is that I will ask you why I rated such an effusive welcome at this morning's showing."

  "You already asked me." Her tone was light. "And I told you, I missed you."

  Jean-Phillipe touched his finger to the tip of her nose. "Did it have something to do with that handsome fellow I saw?"

  "What handsome fellow?"

  "You know exactly the one I mean, cherie. The one who was hurrying off with a face like a thunderbolt."

  "Thundercloud," she said, with a little smile, "and no, it had nothing to do with him."

  "Who was he?"

  "He was just a man. An annoying one. No, no more questions! It's late. I'm tired. And if you don't get some sleep, those little bags under your eyes are going to have babies."

  "Ah, Miranda, you know how to strike terror into an actor's heart." He clasped her hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed it. "Bonne nuit, cherie."

  She leaned forward and pressed her lips lightly to his cheek.

  "Good night, Jean-Phillipe."

  His driver waited while she dug out her keys and unlocked the ornate iron gate that barred entry to the courtyard of her apartment building. The three-story, U-shaped structure had once been a Bourbon palace. Now, it was home to an eclectic assortment of executives and artists.

  The gate clanged shut behind her and the lock slid heavily into place. Miranda's high heels clicked loudly against the old paving stones that led to the massive front door. Her key slid home again and she pushed the door open.

  "Good night," she mouthed, turning to wave.

  Jean-Phillipe had rolled down his window. He blew her a kiss and the car rolled away.

  Miranda stepped inside the building and the door swung shut.

  The lobby was huge and had a high, vaulted ceiling. There was a stone fireplace at one end and a grouping of velvet-covered chairs and sofas no one ever sat in at the other. Just ahead, the concierge's desk stood unattended. It was after eleven and Madame Delain had retired for the night.

  Beyond, shadowed in darkness, the ornate wrought-iron elevator cage waited.

  She hesitated. Was the lobby always this dark and silent?

  What on earth was wrong with her tonight? Of course it was dark and silent. It was almost midnight. She'd come home at this hour hundreds of times before. Actually, she'd come home far later.

  But she'd never felt so uneasy, so—so...

  Miranda frowned, marched to the elevator and stepped inside. The door clanged shut and she pressed the button for the third floor. The car rose slowly, as it always did, and with its usual accompaniment of rattles and moans. When she'd first moved in here, a couple of years ago, the sounds had struck her as spooky.

  Now, for some silly reason, they sounded spooky again.

  At the third floor, the car groaned to a shuddering halt and as it did, the bulb that lit the hall that stretched ahead of her blinked out.

  Miranda swallowed dryly. So what? She didn't need the light to guide her. She'd made this walk in the dark before. The wiring in the old building wasn't good; lights were always going on and off for no reason. Tenants grumbled about it to each other all the time.

  But there was a tight feeling in the pit of her belly. She didn't want to put her hand on the brass knob of the elevator door, turn it, and step outside.

  It would take just a couple of minutes to go back downstairs and rouse Madame Delain. Madame would roll her eyes but her husband, a plump little man with a sweet smile, would be more than happy to take a flashlight, ride upstairs with her and walk her to her door.

  And wouldn't she feel like a fool, if he did.

  Whatever is the matter with you tonight, Miranda?

  She gave herself a little shake, opened the elevator door and hurried to her apartment. Her hands were unsteady and she fumbled with the key before she managed to get it into the lock but finally the door swung open.

  She stepped inside, let out a sigh of relief, shut the door behind her and reached for the light switch.

  Click.

  The room remained dark.

  The hair stirred at the nape of her neck. Was this bulb out, too?

  Coincidence, that was all it was.

  Wasn't it?

  Her nostrils dilated. What was that scent in the air? It was very faint. Perfume, or cologne.

  But not hers.

  Her heart started to race. She put her hand over it and told herself to stop being silly. Of course, the scent wasn't hers. She'd just come from a party where the guests had been packed in like sardines in a can. Clouds of stuff had filled the air. T
his wouldn't be the first time she'd come home with drifts of someone's Opium or Blue Water, whatever, in her hair and on her clothes.

  Her heart banged again.

  Where was Mia?

  She'd had the cat for almost three years and in all that time, Mia had never missed the chance to come racing to the door and weave around her ankles while she said "Hello, where have you been all this time?" in a discordant, Siamese purr.

  Miranda stared into the darkness. She could see nothing, hear nothing, but the racing thud of her heart.

  "Mia?" she whispered.

  Nothing moved.

  She thought again of Monsieur Delain. She could still go down and wake him. She had plenty of time to get out; she was barely inside the apartment and...

  Get out? What for?

  She was in her own home. She was completely safe. There had never been so much as a break-in here. Never. There was the bolted gate. The heavy, locked front door. There was Madame, standing guard like a short-tempered lioness.

  But not at this hour.

  So what? There was still the gate and the locked downstairs door. And this door, the one to her apartment, had not been tampered with. Surely, if someone had broken in...

  "Stop it," Miranda said firmly, and she walked briskly through the inky shadows and reached for the lamp she knew stood a few feet away.

  Light, soft and warming, flooded the foyer. In its glow, she could see that everything was just as it was supposed to be, even Mia, blinking her great sapphire eyes as she looked up from a corner of the white sofa.

  Miranda laughed shakily and let out a gusty sigh. She dropped her cape and her purse on a chair and scooped the Siamese into her arms.

  "Naughty girl," she crooned, rubbing her face against the cat's chocolate brown fur, "why didn't you come to say hello?"

  The cat meowed and butted its head against Miranda's chin.

  "Are you angry because I've been gone so long? Well, suppose I open a can of tuna, hmm? No cat food for you to—"

  The Siamese hissed, dug its claws in hard, then leaped to the floor and took off running.

  "Mia!" Miranda rolled her eyes. The only thing more temperamental than a woman, Jean-Phillipe had once said, was a cat—and he was right.

  "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 at
tention 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—"