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Miranda looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Are you crazy? I'm not going to New York."
"But you just said—"
"I said I knew what Eva's motives were in asking me to come home." She turned up her coat collar; the wind was picking up and there was a faint promise of snow in the air again. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to oblige her."
"Dammit, Beckman! Are you naturally stupid or just pretending to be an idiot? Don't you understand what's happening?"
"Someone's threatened to hurt me. Of course I understand."
"Hurt isn't the word I'd use to describe our friend's intentions," Conor said sharply. "Whoever this is wants to do more than that."
"There are lots of crazies in this world, O'Neil. If everybody jumped each time one of them said boo—"
"Let me lay this out for you, lady. There's a lunatic walking around who's pulling Moratelli's strings. He wants to off you but first he figures on some fun and games. A little torture, maybe, a little rape—"
She flinched under the impact of his words. Good, he thought fiercely, let her flinch if it means she'll finally accept how serious this is.
"Must you be so descriptive?"
"I can be a lot more descriptive, if I have to. He knows where you live. Either he or Moratelli, maybe both of them, have been inside your apartment. And I don't have a clue as to who this bastard is or why he's after you."
"So, what are you saying? That you can play detective better in the States?"
"Yes, dammit, I can! My hands are tied here. I'm not a French citizen, I don't have access to—to the things I need."
"No."
"Have you heard anything I said?"
"Yes, I heard you and no, I'm not going home." Miranda's eyes met his. "Maybe I should lay this out for you, O'Neil. I am home. I have a life here. I have a home, a career, and friends."
"You have an apartment, a job you could do anywhere, a girlfriend who's idea of permanency is the latest man in her life and a lover who's so busy trying to turn himself into an international movie star that he's barely got time to fit you in."
Miranda stiffened. "My," she said frigidly, "you have been a busy little Boy Scout, haven't you!"
"Miranda, use your head! Call Eva, tell her you're coming home."
"You do the phoning, Mr. O'Neil. Call your employer, tell her what she can do with her heartwarming invitation and tell her, too, that I'll do my very best to keep from becoming the sort of headline that might make her cringe."
Her eyes were shiny again; her lashes glistened with tears. One last phony smile and then she turned and walked briskly away.
Conor jammed his hands into his pockets, looked across the street and jerked his chin towards Miranda. A tall, average-looking man moved out from a doorway, dodged into the gutter and trotted towards him.
"Don't let her out of your sight," Conor said. "If you see trouble coming—"
"Hit my beeper. I know, I know."
Conor waited until the spook had fallen in behind Miranda. Then he took his phone from his pocket.
They'd have to do it the hard way, after all.
* * *
Two days later, Miranda stood in front of the ticket booth at the Eiffel Tower, looking towards the Champ de Mars, checking the faces of people as they approached and tapping her toes with impatience.
Where was Nita? She was always late but today she was setting an all-time record.
And why were they meeting here? The Tower was the heart of Paris and magnificent, but they'd both been here before, on their own as tourists and at least two or three times for fashion shoots. Still, Nita had been adamant about meeting here today.
