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Conor plunked two cups of cafe au lait on the table.
"What's so funny?" he said, slipping into the chair opposite hers.
"Listen, O'Neil, let's get something straight. I'm a big girl. Just because you work for my mother doesn't mean I'm going to let you push me around."
Conor thought of telling her he wouldn't work for Eva if his life depended on it and that he'd do more than push her around if she didn't shut up, behave herself and pay attention. He'd put in a long, miserable night, first the call to Harry Thurston, then a call from Harry to him to tell him he'd spoken with Eva and that he'd checked out Moratelli, who'd come up on the computer as a small-time hood with nothing on his record that would even suggest he'd get into something like this.
And then there'd been more calls, to Hoyt Winthrop and to Eva, to God only knew how many other people, until he'd finally ended up with what just might be a workable plan—assuming he had to put it in motion, assuming Miranda would refuse to do the logical thing he was going to ask her to do.
Of course, she'd refuse. He looked at her as he took a fortifying swallow of his coffee. She was just what Eva had said she was, a stubborn, spoiled, self-involved brat—but there was no denying that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. The face of an angel, he thought, with the morals of a hooker, although there'd been a time last night, when she'd been in his arms that he'd thought—that he'd almost thought...
"Did you hear me, O'Neil? I'm not going to let you bully me."
Conor nodded. He put his cup on the table, folded his hands around it, and leaned forward.
"You're right," he said pleasantly, "you don't have to let me do anything, not even save your ass. Still, I'm going to do my best to try. Now, do you want me to tell you what was in Eva's note or do you want to go on detailing the flaws in my personality?"
Miranda glared at him. There was no winning an argument with a man like this.
"I left one out," she said coldly. She pushed her cup of coffee to the center of the table. "You're arrogant. Did it ever occur to you to ask me how I take my morning coffee?"
"This is France." Conor tore open two packets of brown sugar and dumped the contents into his cup. "It's unpatriotic not to drink hot milk in your coffee in the morning."
"You forget, I'm not French."
"You're the next best thing, Beckman. You live here, you work for a bunch of pansy European designers, you sleep with an ooh-la-la movie star." He shrugged his shoulders. "I figured you'd forgotten that you started life as an all-American girl."
"Is that why you shanghaied me this morning? So you could run up the stars and stripes and check to see if my passport still says 'born in the USA?'"
Conor gave her a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile.
"Your work p
ermit says it, too."
"What?"
"I said—"
"I know what you said." Why was he smiling? "What does my work permit have to do with this conversation?"
He shrugged again, lifted his cup and took a mouthful of the steaming liquid.
"Maybe nothing," he said, and looked at her. "Do you do it often?"
"Do I do what often? O'Neil, if you're going to talk in riddles..."
"Sleep with other men instead of Frenchy. I meant to ask last night but I just never got around to it."
"That's none of your business."
"It's very much my business. I'll need a list of your lovers, so I can check them out."
"For what?" she said. She smiled, but her eyes looked like chips of ice. "I'm a big girl. Trust me, I'm perfectly healthy. I do my own checking."
"Do you," he said sarcastically.
She lifted her chin defiantly. "Yes."
