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Conor stared at her. He thought of the things the headmistress of Miss Cooper's had said about her; of what Eva and Hoyt had said. He thought about her reputation...
"I know it's hard to believe."
But it wasn't, that was the damndest part. He'd deliberately blanked that night in Paris out of his head because it hurt too much to remember, but the evidence had been there all the time, taking niggling little pokes at his subconscious.
How she'd seemed hesitant about touching him. How her eyes had widened into pools of shocked darkness at the intimacy of his caresses. How she'd tried to hold back just before she'd shattered in his arms.
"Conor?"
He looked at her. Her face was pale; her mouth was trembling.
"Conor, I'm only telling you this because—because." She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. "I'm not trying to put any kind of pressure on you. I mean, I don't want you to feel—to feel any obligation." Her chin lifted. "Damn you, O'Neil, will you please say something? If you're angry, admit it."
"Angry?" he said, his tone giving nothing away. "Angry, to find out I'm the first man you've slept with since that son of a bitch, de Lasserre? Angry, to learn that your reputation is a P.R. lie?"
"P.R.? You mean, public relations? Oh no. It's not that at all. I just—I didn't want men coming around, you see, and—and when I tried to think of a way to stop them... I mean, in my business, men are an occupational hazard."
Conor reached out and hauled her into his arms.
"Beckman," he said, "you are, without a doubt, the most exasperating, impossible, incredible woman."
Miranda blinked back her tears.
"Does that mean you're not angry at me?"
Conor took an unsteady breath.
"It means," he said, cupping her face in his hands, "that I'm crazy about you. And that you've just given me the greatest gift imaginable."
"Oh, Conor." She laughed, threw her arms around him and kissed him. "I didn't know how you'd take it. Jean-Phillipe said—he told me that this would happen, someday, you know, that I'd fall in love and..." Her eyes widened and scarlet flooded her face. "Oh, hell. Hell! I didn't mean—I shouldn't have said—"
"Yes, you should have." He kissed her with a tenderness that was new to him. "I love you, Miranda. I have since I first saw your picture."
Happiness shone in her eyes. She gave a soft laugh and leaned her forehead against his.
"Don't tell me you're one of those guys who buys the hype in magazine ads!"
Conor's smile faded. It was the perfect lead-in. Take a deep breath, pal, and go for it.
"I'm talking about the painting of you that hangs in the foyer at the Winthrop house."
Miranda stiffened in his arms and a wintery stillness came over her.
"Is that still there?"
"All it took was one look, and I was lost."
"It's a horrible painting. I'd hoped they'd taken it down by now."
"Well," Conor said, smiling as he touched the tip of his finger to the end of her nose, "it's not exactly a work of art, no, but considering that it was painted by an amateur like Hoyt—"
"Conor." Miranda lay back against the pillows and looped her arms around his neck. "I don't want to talk about Hoyt now."
"No, neither do I. I want to talk about us."
"Us," she said, and smiled. "What a lovely word."
"Miranda, sweetheart—about the way we met..."
