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Mary Alice linked her hands behind his neck. "That's good, because I expect your undivided attention."
"You've got it."
"For the weekend, I mean. You do understand," she said, not unkindly. "I'm not into commitment."
Conor laughed. She was just what he needed, this woman. She was all honesty and reality and unabashed desire. As for being beautiful—a man would have to be crazy not to see that she was.
Whatever nonsense had spooked him in the Winthrop house would wither once he and Mary Alice Whittaker took another ride in her bed.
They shared a long brunch and then they took an equally long carriage ride through Central Park. In late afternoon, Conor bought a couple of bottles of Chardonnay at a store that looked more like a place that sold magic elixirs than booze and then they stopped at Zabar's for Brie, English water biscuits and smoked Scotch salmon.
They taxied to Mary Alice's apartment and while she changed to another incredibly sexy gown that seemed to be woven of cobwebs, Conor chilled the wine, lit a fire in the fireplace and tossed the throw pillows from the sofa onto the carpet. They made love slowly, by the light of the dancing flames. It was all perfect... and yet, at the last minute, Conor hesitated.
"Conor?" Mary Alice whispered as he went still above her.
He looked down at her upturned face. "It's all right," he said, bending to kiss her.
And it was all right, just as soon as he closed his eyes and substituted the inky spill of Miranda Beckman's hair for the soft strands of gold that actually lay spread over the pillows, the unfathomable green eyes for the greedy blue ones.
It was the first time in his life he'd ever made love to an imaginary woman. It was a new feeling and he was not sure he liked it, but it brought him to a shattering climax that somehow still managed to be incomplete.
At dawn, he arose from Mary Alice's bed.
"Wha' time issit?" she said sleepily.
"Go back to sleep," he said. Then he kissed her gently on the mouth, showered and dressed, and caught an early morning flight back to Washington.
Chapter 2
Monday morning and it was still raining, in New York and in D.C. But the six o'clock shuttle touched down at Dulles right on schedule.
Conor swung his carry-on bag from the overhead compartment, made his way out into the terminal along with a hurrying bunch of yawning, early-morning business travelers, and headed for the lot where he'd left his car. He slung his bag into the rear seat of the vintage Thunderbird, got behind the wheel and headed for the Beltway.
Traffic was heavy. It always was. Sometimes Conor had the feeling that everybody who worked in Washington spent half their time sitting in their automobiles, driving the roads that encircled the city.
Things eased off, once he headed into the Virginia countryside. Office buildings weren't jammed in here the way they were in town. Traffic was moving pretty smoothly by the time he reached the turn-off for the complex where the Committee had its offices. It was still raining, but that was okay.
The rain suited his mood.
The weekend that had begun with so much promise had ended on an off-key note and he had nobody to blame but himself.
Why in hell had he agreed to do Thurston's "little favor?"
"Little favor, my ass," he muttered as he took the off-ramp faster than was sensible, considering the rain. The 'bird slipped a little on the wet macadam and Conor eased his foot from the gas pedal.
Despite his assurances to the Winthrops, every instinct he possessed told him there was more to that seemingly simple note than he'd pretended. Those same instincts told him that Eva Winthrop knew it, that she knew one hell of a lot more than she'd admitted.
And then there was that portrait.
Conor's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Why couldn't he get it out of his head? It was as if the image of the girl had burned itself into his brain. All he had to do was shut his eyes and he could see that perfect oval face, those green eyes, that mane of black hair.
What kind of stupidity was that?
He was not a man given to romantic daydreams, especially about females who were, what? Sixteen? Wasn't that what Hoyt Winthrop had said Miranda was, in the painting? As for sexual fantasies—like any other man, he'd had his share. A beautiful woman strolling past, hips swaying just so. A quick glance, a smile, and he could amuse himself with some very interesting scenarios during a dull meeting an hour or two later. But he never toyed with fantasies when he had a stunning, eager-to-please woman in his arms—and yet, he'd left Mary Alice's bed in the dark hour just before dawn, not so much because he couldn't sleep but because there was something unsettling about the possibility of making it with her again while conjuring up an image of Miranda Beckman.
Conor's jaw tightened as he pulled into the parking lot. Okay, so maybe the girl's face was stuck in his head. But it wasn't his hormones that kept it there, it was instinct, the same sixth sense that told him that her mother knew lots more than she was letting on.
Miranda Beckman, Miranda Winthrop, whatever Eva's daughter called herself, was somehow part of what was going on. He wasn't sure how or why, only that the note, and the girl, were linked. Despite what he'd told Eva and Hoyt, the note meant business. And it had something to do with Miranda.
