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"Sorry. I was—ah, I was just trying to think of some simple explanation for that note."
Hoyt gave him a hopeful smile. "And?"
"And if I were you, I wouldn't be the least bit concerned," Conor said briskly. "Your wife's right. The world's full of psychos. For all we know, the note's the first step in a solicitation by a bunch of religious fruitcakes. You know, a loose interpretation of the 'Repent, ye sinners,' kind of thing."
"Of course," Hoyt said, looking relieved. "Why didn't I think of that?" He held out his hand and Conor shook it. "Thank you again for coming by, Mr. O'Neil. And if you need anything else..."
"Actually," Conor said, "there is one thing."
"Yes?"
"That painting."
Hoyt's brows rose. "What painting?"
"That one. Of the girl." Conor paused. He felt as stupid as he was certain he sounded, and yet it would be stupider still not to know the answer, to leave here wondering about the girl's identity. "Who is she?"
Hoyt turned, his gaze following Conor's. "Oh. You mean Miranda."
Miranda? Of course. Eva's daughter, Miranda Beckman.
"It was painted when she was sixteen."
Sixteen? Conor thought, surprised. The girl in the painting looked older. Not wiser, just older than sixteen. He looked at her mouth again, at that Mona Lisa smile, and to his chagrin he felt that sudden tightening of his body.
"She doesn't live with us," Hoyt said quickly. "Miranda's been on her own for several years now. I'm sorry to say that we're not close, not close at all."
She lives a pretty wild life.
Harry Thurston's words echoed in Conor's head as his eyes met Winthrop's. The man's message was clear. Don't judge me by my stepdaughter, he was saying. I don't have anything to do with her life and she has nothing to do with mine.
It took nothing to offer a smile of reassurance.
"Yes, sir," Conor said quietly. "I understand."
Hoyt smiled. "Good day, Mr. O'Neil."
"Good-bye, Mr. Winthrop."
The door shut after him. Conor trotted down the steps. There was a cab parked at the curb and he hurried to it and yanked open the door. Mary Alice glared at him as he climbed inside.
"Honestly, Conor, I've been waiting and waiting. Meet me at ten, you said, and here it is, going on ten-thirty,
and—"
Conor thought of Miranda's portrait. How could he have thought Mary Alice beautiful? Her eyes weren't the color of the sea; her hair didn't frame her face like ebony silk.
"—don't like to be treated this way, not one bit. If you think you can—"
What sort of man got turned on by a painting? Hell, what sort of man got turned on by a painting when he had a flesh and blood woman like this waiting for him? Conor looked at Mary Alice's blue eyes, her daffodil-gold hair. He thought about her satin thighs and the fullness of her breasts.
"—was thinking that perhaps you'd rather collect your things and go to the airport. The shuttle—"
She gasped as Conor pulled her roughly into his arms and kissed her to silence. When the kiss ended, she leaned back and smiled into his eyes.
"Oh, that's nice," she said softly. "Very nice." Reaching out, she stroked her hand over his forehead, threading her fingers into his dark hair. "I thought you'd forgotten all about me."
His smile was slow and sexy. "Not for a minute."
