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"—but other than that, she's leading a life much like the one she led in Paris."
Conor's jaw tightened. "She's over eighteen."
"She goes to those clubs that spring up overnight in lower Manhattan and she's with a different man each night."
"Sleeping around isn't against the law," Conor said, though the words all but stuck in his throat.
"I don't know that she's sleeping with anyone." Harry set the skillet in the center of the table. "Breverman says she always comes home alone."
It was stupid to feel a sense of relief but that was exactly what Conor felt. He covered it with a careless shrug.
"How touching. Maybe she's being faithful to Moreau. Hell, stranger things have happened."
"Stranger things, indeed," Harry said. He drew a chair to the table and motioned Conor to do the same. "We did some deeper checking on Moreau, as you'd requested."
Conor reached for the skillet and dumped a couple of fillets on his plate.
"Looks good," he said. "Pass the salt, will you?"
"Taste it first."
"Harry..."
"As I was saying, we dug around a little, as you'd asked."
"I asked when I was still interested. Now, the only thing I'm interested in is the salt."
"Aren't you the least bit curious to know what we came up with?"
Conor sighed, put down his fork and leaned his forearms on the table.
"Tell me," he said, "because I can see, if you don't, I'm not going to be allowed to eat my meal in peace."
Harry Thurston took a mouthful of fish. "Mmm. Delicious."
"Harry, goddammit..."
"He's gay."
"Who's gay?"
The older man smiled. "Miss Beckman's lover. Her supposed lover. Jean-Phillipe Moreau."
Conor stared at Thurston. "You're crazy," he said flatly.
"He's been very, very discreet. And extraordinarily cautious. But there's no doubt about it. The man is a gender-bender."
"He can't be. I saw him with Miranda. I saw..."
What? What had he seen, really? Miranda clinging to Moreau like a honeysuckle vine to a fence post, that was all. But it had been enough. More than enough. She'd said—she'd made it clear...
"We checked thoroughly, Conor." Thurston forked more fish into his mouth. "In fact, you know that producer
he's working with, out in Los Angeles?"
"Harlan Williams," Conor said wryly. "How could I forget that name? The guy's probably still trying to figure out how twenty million bucks suddenly dropped into his lap so he could ask Moreau to make that movie."
"Well, Williams and Moreau have taken up housekeeping. Cautiously, of course."
