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Yes, he thought, dammit to hell, yes. She just sat there, watching him with those big, innocent eyes, giving him that little Mona Lisa smile, acting as if they were discussing a walk in the country, for God's sake, instead of her sex life.
Conor felt his muscles tense. He wanted to grab her, shake her until her teeth rattled and she gave up that cool, "who I sleep with is my business" attitude.
She hadn't been so cool-looking last night, in his arms.
Hell, he thought furiously, last night didn't have a fucking thing to do with this. Keep your mind on business, man, where it belongs.
"In that case," he said, his tone as cool as hers, "you'd know if one of the men you've played games with would be likely to call you a tease."
"A tease?"
"Yeah. Come on, Beckman, don't give me that innocent look." Conor lowered his voice. "The note to Eva was in French. It said you were une allumeuse. Do I have to put that in gutter English, or can you do the translating for yourself?"
Miranda blinked. Then she gave a strangled laugh, reached out and wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. The bone-white of her knuckles stood out in stark relief against the white of the cup. "Jean-Phillipe was right."
Conor's eyes narrowed. "Moreau called you that?"
"No, of course not. He said—he said, it was what I was being called."
Her eyes met Conor's. What he thought of her was right there, in his face. The need to reach over, put her hand on top of his and say, "You're wrong, O'Neil, I'm not like that at all," was, for a moment, as strong as her need to draw breath. But the only thing she did was lift her cup and force a swallow of the rapidly cooling coffee down her throat.
"I'm sure Eva was thrilled," she said. "Was there more?"
"Yes." A muscle ticked in his cheek. There was no easy way to deliver the rest of it, especially if he had any hope of getting her to cooperate. "Whoever wrote it said you were going to die."
Coffee sloshed over her fingers. She set the cup down on the table, carefully wiped her hands with a paper napkin, then crumpled it and put it aside. He watched her face as she fought for equilibrium, found it and finally managed a faint smile.
"I suppose I should be flattered. Being threatened on two continents, you know? I'll bet that doesn't happen to everybody."
"No," Conor said flatly, "it sure as shit doesn't."
She nodded. The tip of her tongue snaked out and she moistened her lips.
"Moratelli's doing this?"
"That's my best guess"
"I—I don't suppose you've, uh, you've figured out the reason?"
He shook his head. Her tone was cocky but there was fear in her eyes. Why in hell hadn't he done what he'd promised himself he'd do, bought some cigarettes and tucked them into his pocket? He needed something to do with his hands so that he didn't end up doing a stupid thing like reaching out, hauling her into his arms and telling her he'd protect her.
"Because it doesn't make sense." Her words were rushed. "I mean, who is he? What would he gain from threatening me? And why involve Eva?"
"Blackmail," he said flatly. "Nothing else makes sense."
"To keep Hoyt from getting his appointment?" Miranda shook her head. Her hair slipped across one high cheekbone like dark water over a perfect arch of stone. "But why? I just can't imagine all this over something like a silly ambassadorship."
"Neither can I." Conor looked at her. "I'm talking about old-fashioned, I-know-your-secret blackmail, the kind people do for money."
"What secret? You mean, that I was once married to Edouard de Lasserre?"
"I doubt it." He could be honest about this much, anyway. "Besides, Moratelli's just a front man for somebody else."
"How do you know that?"
He shrugged. "I just do, that's all. And if I'm right about them wanting money, it's Eva's they're after, not yours."
"You mean, this person figures Eva will pay to keep them from doing something to me?" Miranda gave a forced laugh. "Wow. Talk about errors in judgment!"
