"Trouble?" Conor stood up, his eyes on hers. "Why would you think she was in trouble?"
"Well, she will be, won't she, after you've written your article?"
"Would you like that? For Miranda to be in some sort of trouble?"
Amalie de Lasserre stared at Conor, her breathing labored. Then she went to the door.
"I have work to do, Mr. O'Neil. And I have told you all I can."
"You've told me very little."
"I tried to make it clear that I didn't know much. If you expected more, that's your problem." She held out her hand. "Please pay me what you owe me and leave."
"Just one last question, Miss de Lasserre. Do you live out here all by yourself?"
"I do."
"And how do you support yourself?"
"That is two questions, Mr. O'Neil, but I will give you the answer. My family is rich. As rich as Miranda Beckman's, I assure you." She smiled coldly. "I live here because I prefer my own company to anyone else's, and because my family will not support the charity I began some years ago."
"Charity?"
"Yes. A fund for abused farm animals."
Conor dug the remaining euros from his pocket and dumped them into her palm.
"That's very decent of you," he said.
Amalie smiled again. "Animals are innocent creatures that deserve our help and generosity, Mr. O'Neil. Humans are the only evil in this world."
The door shut in Conor's face. Moments later, he was on his way back to Paris.
* * *
Edouard De Lasserre lived on a quiet, tree-lined street in a neighborhood that whispered of wealth, antiquity and proper bloodlines. Depending on your point of view, his home was either gloomy or magnificent. Conor couldn't help thinking it was the kind of place a family of vampires would have loved.
He'd phoned earlier, so he was expected. A servant bowed him in, then led him through a series of dark rooms crowded with antiques and smelling of beeswax. They reached a long gallery hung with tapestries and battle flags. Brightly polished suits of armor were mounted in each corner.
He had examined the tapestries and the flags in minute detail by the time de Lasserre finally put in an appearance in the doorway at one end of the gallery.
"Monsieur O'Neil?"
Conor swung around. A handsome man, tanned, fit and in the prime of life, was coming down the three steps that led from the door. He was smiling pleasantly and holding out his hand politely but Conor felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
There was something about the Count Edouard de Lasserre he didn't like and every cell in his body was telegraphing the message.
"Count." He forced himself to smile in return and accept the man's handshake. "It's good of you to see me on such short notice."
"My pleasure, sir. May I offer you something? A drink, perhaps? Some coffee?"
"Thank you, but I'm fine." Conor drew back his hand and fought down the almost overwhelming need to wipe it against his trouser leg. "I promise, I won't take too much of your time."
"That's quite all right, monsieur. My dear cousin, Amalie, telephoned me. She said you'd been to visit her this morning."
Conor smiled. "She warned you about me, hmm?"
De Lasserre laughed. "Well, she did say you were quite persistent, if that is what you mean." He crossed the room to a massive sideboard and opened a paneled door. "Are you certain you won't join me in a drink?"
"Quite certain. But you go right ahead."
"Oh, I will." De Lasserre smiled as he unstoppered a faceted decanter and poured a couple of inches of amber liquid into a delicate snifter. "I am not a believer in self-denial, monsieur. Life is too short for that, don't you agree?"
He lifted his glass in Conor's direction, took a sip of the liquid and smacked his lips.
"Excellent brandy, if I must say so myself. I own a small vineyard. We don't produce anything of the quality of Armagnac, but given time..." De Lasserre shook his head. "Listen to me, prattling on when you are here to ask me some important questions. Amalie says you are writing an article, yes?"
"On the fashion business. Right."
"About Miranda."
"Among other things."
De Lasserre motioned to a pair of massive, carved wooden chairs. "Shall we sit and be comfortable?"
The chairs didn't look comfortable. They looked like older, man-eating versions of the chair that had threatened to consume Conor's Burberry in the Winthrop foyer. Was there something about the rich that made them fond of carnivorous furniture?
"Handsome chairs," he said politely, as he eased into one..
Edouard de Lasserre smiled. "Indeed. They were commissioned by my ancestor, the fifth Count de Lasserre." His hand slid over the highly-polished arm in a sensual caress. "They have been in this house for centuries, as has almost everything else you see around you."
"Very impressive."
"Ah, it is not meant to be impressive, I assure you. I am simply pleased that history has put so much trust in me. It is an honor to bear the responsibility for all this."
"And an expense."
"Indeed. But a worthwhile one. Now, monsieur, what may I do for you?"
"Well, as I explained to Amalie, anything you can tell me about Miranda would be helpful."
"For this newspaper article you write, yes?"
Conor smiled. "I didn't say it was for a newspaper, Count de Lasserre."
"No? Then, for what magazine do you write, Monsieur O'Neil?"
"I work free-lance. I write for whomever pays me the most money."
"Then, you have not, as yet, a buyer for your article?"
"That's correct."
De Lasserre nodded. "Well," he said, almost gently, "I cannot help you, I am afraid."
"No?"
"I have no, how do you say, grist for the mill." He sighed deeply. "And even if I did, my time with Miranda was precious. I would not wish to say anything untoward about her."
"You loved her, then?"
"I adored her. What man would not?"
"But she left you the day after your wedding."
"You are well-informed, Monsieur O'Neil."
"I pride myself on doing my homework, Count de Lasserre."
"Then you must know that I married Miranda when she was quite young. Too young, I fear, to know her own mind."
"The marriage was your idea?"
De Lasserre rolled his eyes. "I see what has happened, monsieur. My dear cousin said unpleasant things about Miranda, yes? That she lured me into the elopement?"
Conor smiled. "Actually, the word she used was seduced."
"Sweet Amalie. So innocent of the ways of the world. She could not comprehend the passion that so quickly arose between Miranda and me."
"Passion? Not love?"
"Monsieur, I assume that you are a man of some sophistication. Surely you understand the power of a swift, overwhelming sexual attraction." De Lasserre leaned forward, his smile razor-sharp. "I will tell you this much. Miranda and I could not keep our hands off each other. I could have had her within an hour of meeting her, comprenez-vous? But I was brought up in the old school, to believe in a woman's honor."
What Edouard de Lasserre was talking about had happened years ago. Besides, what did it matter? Conor wouldn't have cared if Miranda and this man had gone at each other like a couple of stray dogs in the middle of Times Square.
Then, why could he feel his gut knotting? Why should his blood pressure be shooting for the moon? It had to be de Lasserre's manner. The Count's suit was Armani, his shoes were crocodile, his lineage was probably longer and bluer than any entrant's in the Westminster Kennel Club and his smile was strictly high-wattage. And yet, for all of that, there was something about him. Something unpleasant, maybe even sinister.
Or was it only the knowledge that he'd slept with Miranda that made him so easy to dislike?
Conor stuck his hands deep in his pockets, his fists tightly balled. What did it matter? He didn't give a damn who she slept with, now o
r in the past or in the future.
"...you understand, monsieur?"
Conor cleared his throat. "I' m sorry, Count. Would you repeat that?"
"I said, I have never regretted asking Miranda to marry me. I only regret that I had to give her her freedom."
"Why did you, then?"
"I had no choice." De Lasserre rose, walked across the room and took a small marble figure from its place in an elaborately carved etagère. It was the figure of a girl, nude and very beautiful. He smiled down at it, then ran his thumb slowly over the delicate curves. "Miranda was, as I have told you, very young."
"She was a minor."
De Lasserre looked up. "A detail of which I was not aware at the time," he said pleasantly, but his eyes had gone cold.
"Tell me what happened when Eva showed up."
"Who?"
"Eva Winthrop. Miranda's mother."
"Ah, of course." De Lasserre shrugged. "It was all so long ago." His finger trailed over the small breasts of the marble figure, caressing, rubbing. "Well, Ava was upset."
"Eva," Conor said. He tried to tear his eyes from the Count's hand but it was impossible. The long, slender fingers were moving again, between the legs of the little sculpture. "Miranda's mother is named Eva."
"Eva, Ava, what does it matter? All I truly recall is that she appeared on my doorstep, told me Miranda was underage and demanded I grant her her freedom."
"Was Miranda glad to see her mother?"
De Lasserre smiled and gently placed the marble figure back on its shelf.
"I am afraid she was. The reality of marriage had begun to pall for my bride."
"So quickly?"
"She was young, as I have told you. Our elopement was very romantic, yes? An older man, a meeting in the dark of night outside the rough walls of her rather Spartan school, a flight to Paris..." He smiled modestly. "It was all the stuff of girlish dreams, n'est-ce pas?"
"You didn't try and convince her to give the marriage a chance?"
"Have you ever loved a woman with all your heart and soul, Monsieur O'Neil?"
The question caught Conor off guard. For the second time that day, he thought about his ex-wife.
"No," he said, after a couple of seconds, "I don't think I have."
"Well, to love a woman that way is not to wish to give her up. It is also not to wish to keep her caged." De Lasserre held out his hands. "It was what you Americans call a no-win situation, yes?"
"Surely it helped," Conor said politely, "that Eva Winthrop was willing to pay you a lot of money for Miranda's freedom."
He had waited for just the right moment to drop that bit of information into the conversation. Not that he'd known what to expect. Denial, maybe, or at the very least, surprise. Whatever he might have expected, it wasn't de Lasserre's quick, incredulous stare, which was followed by a roar of laughter.
"Mori Dieu! Is that what you believe? That Eva bought me off?"
"I don't know that I'd have put it quite that way but yeah, the thought's crossed my mind."
"Who was it who told you this lie? Eva?"
"One person's lie is another person's truth," Conor said, and smiled.
De Lasserre's eyes narrowed. "You are not researching an article, O'Neil, any more than I worship the memory of my abortive marriage to Miranda."
"Ah," Conor said softly, "now we're down to basics."
"Who do you work for? Your government? Hoyt Winthrop?"
"That's an interesting question. Why would the U.S. government or Hoyt Winthrop send somebody to question you about your marriage to Miranda Beckman?"
"It was a fiasco," De Lasserre snapped, "not a marriage. But everything is of importance when the girl's stepfather awaits a presidential appointment. Did you think we do not read the newspapers over here?"
Conor undid the button of his jacket and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets.
"Go on."
"Let me paint a picture for you, yes? Not a pretty picture but a graphic one. I ask you to visualize a man of some sophistication meeting a beautiful young woman. She flatters his ego, elevates his hunger by bringing him almost to the point of no return many times over, but she will go no further. She is, she insists, pure as the driven snow; she cannot possibly sleep with him." De Lasserre folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. "The young woman tantalizes. She titillates. She lets him touch but not take. The man is crazed with desire. She mentions marriage and he leaps at the idea. He is a more than acceptable suitor; he has a title, land, more money than the girl herself. He says he will ask for her hand but she blanches, weeps, assures him that her wicked mother and stepfather will lock her away forever if he so much as approaches them."
It was a good story and nothing Conor hadn't already thought of by himself. Miranda had seduced de Lasserre, not just with her body but with every emotional trick in the book. Then, why was it so difficult to listen to this cool recitation? Why did he want to wrap his hands around the man's neck and squeeze?
"The man, fool that he is, believes her story. He accedes to her wishes. They elope. He flies her to Paris in a private jet bedecked with white flowers, carries her over the threshold of his ancestral home with love and pride in his heart. His staff greets her with the respect that should be accorded a new Countess. 'All of this is now yours,' the man tells her. He carries her to his rooms, his innocent young bride, and starts to make tender love to her... and she laughs in his face and tells him she is not a doll, she is a woman, that his lovemaking bores her and that she has been with boys who have made her feel more than he can ever hope to imagine."
De Lasserre's fists clenched. He trembled with emotion.
"Eva Winthrop appeared at the door the next morning. She was arrogant and rude, she did not even ask to hear my side of the story but immediately informed me that Miranda was a minor and that I had committed a criminal act. Miranda chimed in and said that I was a beast who had tricked her into marriage and forced her into bed. The two of them, mother and daughter, turned on me, called me names I will not, to this day, repeat."
"Are you saying that the money you got from Eva was money you more than deserved?"
"For God's sake, man, use your head! My name, my title, my home and my lands go back to the very beginning of my country. Look around you. Do I look as if I needed Eva's money?"
"I only know what Eva told me," Conor said, his eyes on de Lasserre's face. "She said she bought Miranda's freedom from you."
"That is ridiculous! I gave her the girl and our marriage license, both quite willingly. Oh, she tossed a handful of notes on the floor, as if I were a beggar, but—"
"A handful of notes?"
"The equivalent of five hundred of your dollars, perhaps. I didn't stop to count. I gathered it up and ran after her but she and Miranda were gone."
"Five hundred dollars," Conor said softly. "Well, who could blame you for keeping such a pittance?"
"I did not keep it! I took a taxi to the Gare d'Austerlitz. As always, there were half a dozen young putains, just about Miranda's age, plying their trade on the streets. Like an angel of mercy, I dispensed Eva Winthrop's leavings into their grubby hands until it was gone." He smiled coldly. "All things considered, it seemed a most appropriate charity."
A muscle knotted and unknotted in Conor's jaw. "You've been very forthcoming, Count."
"I see no reason to deny the truth."
"No. Neither do I. There's just one other thing I wanted to ask you."
"Yes?"
"How do you feel about underwear?"
"What?"
"Underwear. You know, panties. Camisoles. Maybe garter belts." Conor's smile curled at the edges. "Silk stuff, mostly, with a few pieces of lace mixed in."
De Lasserre's face was like a mask. "I have no idea what you are talking about."
"I hope not."
"What are you saying, O'Neil?"
"Let me put it in words you'll understand." Conor's smile fled. "I'm telling you not to fuck with me."
&nb
sp; Edouard de Lasserre stiffened. "Get out of my house!"
Conor nodded. "Don't bother seeing me out. I'll just keep going until the air starts smelling clean again."
The Count was still sputtering as Conor slammed the front door behind him.
* * *
It was a long drive back to Paris.
Snow had made the traffic heavier than usual and there was a fender-bender just outside the city. Cars and trucks were caught in a snarl so dense it would have done D.C. or even New York proud.
That was fine. It gave Conor plenty of time to think.
Miranda Beckman was a complete enigma.
Had she sent Eva that note? She had reason to want to upset her mother but so did Edouard de Lasserre. And it was a cinch to make a case for the sad, frumpy Amalie.
Traffic inched forward. A space opened in the next lane and Conor shot into it, ignoring the frantic horn blasts of the car he'd cut off.
Take the initiative, that was the key to survival in Parisian traffic.
In life.
And he was about to do just that.
He'd come to Paris to check on Miranda and he'd done it. Now, he wanted out.
Tonight, he'd order in a sandwich and a couple of bottles of ale—you could find ale at his hotel, it was one of the things that made the place civilized. And then he'd take out his Android, enter some notes and send everything straight to Harry Thurston's office.
Let Thurston give the mess to somebody else. The FBI. The CIA. The French police. Hell, Dick Tracy. Whatever, whoever, he didn't care.
He was taking himself out of the loop.
Harry would phone, try to talk him into hanging in. He'd refuse, head for the airport, buy a ticket on the next flight out and go home.
Maybe he'd give Mary Alice a call.
Maybe he'd try somebody new.
A taxi slipped into a space the size of a shoebox in front of him. Conor stood on the brakes and cursed while what sounded like a thousand tinny horns blared in fury.
He loosened his collar and tie.
Yes sir, he was going home.
No more crazy French traffic. No more smarmy French counts. No more death wishes for nicotine and tar.
And no more Miranda, to screw up his head.
Until You (A Romantic Suspense Novel - Author's Cut Edition) Page 15