If only Jean-Phillipe were here. She could say anything to him, that the blonde in silver sequins looked as if she'd had cantaloupes implanted in her breasts, that the fat German playwright over near the bar seemed to have put his hairpiece on backwards. But Jean-Phillipe was on the Cote d'Azur. He'd been there all week. His movie had wrapped, as expected, but the director had decided he needed to re-shoot the ending.
"I am sorry, cherie," he'd said, "but it cannot be helped, tu comprends?"
Of course, she understood. And there was no good reason he had to be here with her. She knew practically everybody in the crowd and the ones she didn't know would inevitably trip over themselves to impress her, like Brian what's-his-name, who'd managed to box her neatly into a corner.
What was it, then? What was getting her down? Because something certainly was. She couldn't relax and just have a good time.
Conor O'Neil, she thought suddenly, that's what it was. She hadn't spotted him yet; she might even have escaped him by dressing at Nita's but it didn't matter because here she was, on edge anyway, looking around and knowing, just knowing, that he was going to appear any minute and put a damper on things.
That's what a week's worth of having him hovering over her had accomplished.
She'd phoned Eva, as she'd promised she'd do, and they'd had a stilted, five-minute conversation during which Eva had assured her that O'Neil was, indeed, in her employ.
"Accept his presence, Miranda," Eva had said coldly.
She had, the way you accept a necessary evil, but after a couple of days, the awful impact of the note and the picture had begun to fade. She'd thought back to the stuff she'd heard over the years, the weird notes and gifts that some of the other girls had received. Yes, what had been tucked beneath her door had been nasty but it hadn't been lethal.
Besides, she'd grown tired of having O'Neil around. He made her feel uncomfortable. She couldn't lead any kind of life with a silent but glowering stranger following at her heels like a suspicious rottweiler.
A couple of mornings ago, she'd sailed out of her apartment building and gone straight to where he stood waiting for her across the street.
"Don't you have anything better to do than follow me?"
He hadn't answered or even acknowledged her presence, which had only made her angrier.
"Go home, O'Neil," she said, "and tell Eva thanks but no thanks. I don't want your services."
She'd headed for the Metro and he, damn him, had fallen in behind her.
She tried losing him there, waiting till the last second to exit the subway car, then racing for the exit—but he made it out the door and after her, just in time. She took a taxi to Versailles, stuffed herself into a huge group of American tourists—and found O'Neil wandering alongside. She strolled into her favorite bistro, dashed madly through the kitchen and exited by the rear door—and found him leaning against a wall in the alley.
He was like the poem Hoyt used to read her when she was little, the one about having a shadow that followed you about.
No matter what she did, where she went, Conor was always there. And even when he wasn't, like right now, he occupied her thoughts so that she had no idea what in heaven's name the man from the modeling agency had just finished telling her. Whatever it was, he was waiting for her response.
"So, what do you think?" he said. "Sounds like a good deal, doesn't it?"
Miranda cleared her throat. "Well, Brian, I don't really know what to say."
"Just say yes. I don't want to be pushy but hey, we both know you've got to make the jump soon or forget about it." He smiled, his teeth an artificial flash of fish-belly white against his sunlamp tan. "We don't want to lose our chance at the Big Apple, do we? Trust me, dear, I know what I'm talking about. Not to be immodest, but I only book for the top girls."
The crowded room was warm. Brian's smile was unctuous and her twitching nostrils told her he must have dumped half a bottle of cologne over his head before coming here tonight.
Help, Miranda thought desperately and at that moment, a hand closed around her arm. Her skin tingled, and she looked up.
"Conor," she started to say...
But it wasn't Conor who'd come to her rescue, it was—it was...
"How lovely you look tonight, Miranda."
It was the man she'd met at the party after the Diderot showing. What was his name?
"Hello," she said, and gave him a glowing smile. "How are you?"
"Miranda." The man from the agency frowned and dipped his head to hers. "I was hoping we could go someplace quiet and talk. A late supper, maybe, or a drink."
"Thank you, Brian, but really—"
"I'm sure we can work out mutually satisfying terms."
"I'm sure we could, but..." Miranda shot a desperate look at the man who'd just joined them. "But—"
"But Miss Beckman is with me," her savior said. He slipped his arm lightly around her waist and smiled pleasantly. "And I'm afraid I have no intention of sharing her. Now, Miranda, let me get you some champagne and then we'll find ourselves a quiet corner."
Brian Stone looked wounded but not defeated. Miranda offered an apology, tucked his business card into the tiny silver purse that hung from her shoulder and let herself be led through the crowd. Champagne flute in hand, she smiled up at her rescuer.
"I can't thank you enough for saving me, Mr....? I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."
"Moratelli. Vincent Moratelli. Call me Vincent, please. And it was my pleasure."
"Well, thank you again, Vincent. I was desperate."
Moratelli chuckled. "I could see that you were."
"Really?" She blushed. "Oh, that's awful. I didn't mean it to show. It's just that I hate when people corner me and insist on talking shop."
"I agree. On a night like this, matters of a more intimate nature should be the only topics for discussion."
Miranda's smile flickered. Moratelli spoke politely and what he'd said wasn't even much of a come-on, not in this crowd, but a whisper of unease drifted over her skin as she looked into his overly handsome face.
"Well," she said, "if I can ever return the favor—"
"Ah, darling, such a quick brush-off. I'm disappointed."
"It's not a brush-off at all. I just—"
His hand closed around her wrist. His fingers were firm and cool and reminded her of marble.
"I lied for you, Miranda."
"Let go of me, please."
"Aren't you the least bit curious? About my turning up here tonight, I mean."
"No. Why should I be? I just assumed—"
"I came to see you."
"Me? But why?"
Moratelli smiled slyly. "Well," he said, "I thought we could take up where we left off the other evening."
"We didn't leave off anywhere, Mr. Moratelli. Please let go of my wrist."
"Didn't you like my little present, Miranda?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm disappointed. I went to such trouble, finding just the right picture and then adding my own special touches to it."
"What picture? You didn't send me any..." An image of the magazine ad flashed into her head, and she felt the blood drain from her face. "Oh God," she whispered, and Moratelli laughed. His hand tightened on hers and he pulled her close against him. His breath washed over her face.
"Did it excite you, darling? I hoped it might. I want you to be hot and wet and ready for me when I fuck you."
The champagne glass slipped from her hand and shattered against the floor.
"Darling, what's wrong? Didn't you like your champagne? I can get you something else. Campari, perhaps. Or would you prefer some chocolate? I know all your favorite things, Miranda."
His hand fell from her wrist. Miranda spun away; she could hear him laughing behind her. She wanted to scream but her throat had closed up. She wanted to run but there were people jammed in all around her. Desperate little sounds rose in her throat as she fought her way across the room while
she prayed that Moratelli wouldn't follow her...
"Miranda?"
She did scream this time, as a man's hands closed on her shoulders, but the sound was lost in the noises blasting from the band.
"No," she said, struggling fiercely against the hard press of those hands, "don't—"
"Baby, what is it?"
She looked up and saw Conor.
His arms folded around her. For long seconds they stood that way, while her heart raced so hard she could hear its pounding beat in her ears, and then Conor drew back just enough so he could look down into her face.
Something had damn near scared the life out of her.
A familiar rage rose inside him. If only she hadn't been so determined to blow him off. He'd have been here, watching over her...
Hell, who was he kidding? It was his fault, not hers. She'd tried to lose him but, in the end, it was he who'd lost her. First the rental car had broken down and then an army of taxis had flashed by, their drivers oblivious to his waving arms. When he'd reached the point of desperation, he'd stepped out in front of one, ordered its occupants out, flashed his ID at the driver as if this were the States and he had the right to commandeer a cab in the first place. Then he'd ordered the frightened driver to take him here, pronto.
By the time he'd finally reached the hotel, you couldn't have fit another person into the ballroom with a shoehorn but he'd forced his way into the mob and set out to locate Miranda.
Just when he'd decided she'd managed to give him the slip, he'd spotted Nita hanging on to some guy. There was no point in playing cat and mouse. Nita knew he was tailing Miranda; he'd even seen her watching him from the window tonight. So he'd clapped his hand on her shoulder, turned her towards him and asked, without any preliminaries, where in hell Miranda was spending the evening if not at this godforsaken party.
"Don't be silly, handsome," Nita had purred. "She's here."
"Where?" he'd growled, and Nita had given a throaty laugh and said why, the last she'd seen, Miranda had been right over there, in that corner.
He'd caught a quick glimpse, just enough to know Nita was pointing him in the right direction, and he'd set out towards her. But some jerk had blocked his view and his path and the next thing he'd known, Miranda had been clawing her way through the mob, her beautiful face white with fear, her eyes shining with it, and now she was here, in his arms, and dammit to hell, he would kill whatever son of a bitch it was who'd put that look of terror into her eyes.
"Conor," she whispered, "oh, Conor!"
He slid his arm around her shoulders and brought her close against his body.
"Let's get out of here," he said, and she nodded.
He led her to the door, shouldering his way through the mob, ignoring the protests of those he shoved out of his way. At last, they broke free and reached the comparative quiet of the lobby. He clasped her shoulders, his eyes hard and questioning as they locked on hers.
"What happened?"
She put her hand to her heart. She could feel its fluttering beat hammering beneath her fingers.
"There was a man."
"What man?"
She stared at him blankly, her eyes glassy. Conor's fingers bit into her flesh.
"Answer me, dammit!"
"A—a man came up to me."
"Who was it? Did you know him?"
"I met him last week. At—at the party Jean-Phillipe took me to." She shuddered and Conor drew her against him again, stroking her hair until he felt the tremors stop. "I was talking to someone, you see, and I was going crazy, trying to figure out a way to get rid of him, and..." She swallowed hard. "And this man suddenly came up to me. He said hello and I said hello, and then he acted as if we'd arranged to meet here."
"Had you?"
"No. I didn't even remember his name until he told it to me."
"What was it?"
"Moratelli. Vincent Moratelli. He was very pleasant and he seemed to have figured out that I was trying to get away from this other person, so when he made it sound as if he'd been looking for me, I went along with it. He asked me if I'd like some champagne and I said I would and he took me over there and we started to talk and, oh God, Conor, he said—he said, did I like the little present he'd sent me?"
"What present? Miranda, you've got to..." Conor's face went white. "The picture?"
"Yes," she whispered. "He asked me if—if it had excited me. He said he hoped it would, that he wanted me ready before he—before he—"
Her voice broke. Conor cursed and drew her close against him. He was offering comfort but she could feel the anger vibrating through his body. When he finally pulled back and held her at arm's length, what she saw on his face was terrifying.
"What does he look like?"
"I don't remember."
"Think, Miranda. What does Vincent Moratelli look like?"
"He's tall," she said slowly, "but not as tall as you. Five ten, five eleven, maybe. I'm not sure. Average build. Dark hair and eyes. A pleasant face, nothing unusual."
"Stay here."
"No!"
"I've got to find this bastard, Miranda."
"You'll never find him," she said, her hand clutching his sleeve. "Not in that mob. And I don't want to stay here by myself."
He knew she was right. He'd never find the son of a bitch, not this way. How could you search for one man in a room packed with hundreds? Her description wasn't enough to go on and besides, she was right about something else, too. He couldn't leave her alone. He wouldn't, not for any reason.
"Conor?" She looked up at him, and he had all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms. "Please," she whispered, "get me out of here"
He nodded. "Where's your coat?"
"I checked it." She opened the silver purse and dug out the claims ticket. "Here. It's black velvet, with a hood and a silver trim."
"I know what it looks like."
"You do?"
"I saw you and Nita going out tonight."
"Then, where..." She flushed. Where were you? she'd almost said, why did it take you so long to come to me?
"The damn car quit," he said, his eyes on hers. "And then I couldn't get a mothering taxi or I'd have been right behind you."
She tried to smile. "I'm just glad you showed up when you did."
Conor cleared his throat. "Okay," he said gruffly, "you wait right here."
"No."
"I'm just going to get your coat." He looked at her, saw the determined tilt to her chin, and gave up the fight. "Fine," he said, and held out his hand. "We'll get it together."
* * *
There was a line of taxis waiting outside the hotel but Miranda said she didn't want to go home and be alone, not just yet.
Conor started to reply but thought better of it. She wasn't going to be alone, not tonight, but there was no sense in telling her that and getting into a quarrel before she'd calmed down.
"Let's walk for a while," she said. "Okay?"
Hell, he'd have danced their way back if she'd asked, anything to bring some color back to her face. He nodded, took her hand, and they started slowly towards the Place de l'Opera.
"Why would that man have sent me that—that stuff anonymously and then go out of his way to identify himself?" she asked, after a while.
Because there's more to his plan. Because he got a kick out of seeing your terror.
"I don't know," Conor said.
"And why pick that party to tell me about it? I could have screamed."
He was willing to bet you'd be too stunned to say a word.
"Good point."
She looked up at him. "Maybe—maybe that's the end of it. Maybe that's all he wanted, to see my reaction."
No. Hell, no, this prick wants more than that.
"Maybe."
"He must have known I'd run away from him."
Conor could hear the rising hope in her voice and the desire to kill the son of a bitch who'd done this to her intensified because he knew, he knew, that this was just
the beginning of whatever the guy was planning.
"I mean, if he'd really intended to—to do anything, he'd have chosen another place to confront me, wouldn't he?"
What was one more lie, if it calmed her? Conor squeezed her hand.
"Sure."
She sighed. "I just don't understand any of it. Why would someone do something so sick?"
At least, this time, he could give her a truthful answer.
"I don't know, but I'm sure as hell going to find out." She was trembling again, even though the night had turned soft and still, with the snow giving it a magical quality. Conor put his arm around her and drew her into his warmth. "I'll do some checking in the morning. Until then, I want you to put him out of your mind."
"Believe me, I'd like to, but I don't see how."
"Think about something else."
"What?" She gave a little laugh. "My brain feels like a hamster on one of those wheels. It just keeps chasing around and around and around."
"How long have you lived in Paris?"
"Come on, you know how long."
"Tell me."
Miranda sighed. "Eight years."
"Do you like living here?"
"Conor, I know what you're doing, you're trying to change the subject but it won't—"
"What's your favorite color?"
"Don't be silly."
"Red? I'll bet it's red. Bright, shiny red."
Miranda looked at him. "I hate red."
"Puce, then."
"Puce?" She smiled, just slightly, but it was an improvement. "I'll bet you don't even know what color puce is."
"You're right," he said solemnly, as they waited at the corner for the light to change to green. "To tell the truth, I don't want to know. Anything with a name like that can't be good."
"That's such a male attitude, O'Neil," she said, still smiling. "For your information, puce is just a shade of purple."
"Yuck."
"Yuck? Did you really say yuck?"
"It's better than admitting the truth."
"Which is?"
"I'm color-disadvantaged."
Miranda laughed. It was a soft, lovely sound and it made him smile just to hear it.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's the politically correct way of saying I really don't give a damn for any color you can't find in a box of Crayolas."
Until You (A Romantic Suspense Novel - Author's Cut Edition) Page 19