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Did he know what power he held, that only he could wound her so deeply that she might never recover?
She couldn't go to him. Not yet. Instead, she walked to a chair, sat down and folded her hands in her lap.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking," she said.
"And?"
She swallowed. "And," she said softly, "I need to know the truth."
What truth? he almost said. But he couldn't lie to her, not anymore. She wanted the truth and he'd tell it to her. He had to tell it to her, everything, from the real reason he'd sought her out that day at the Louvre to the hellish package that had brought him back into her life. She had to understand why he'd deceived her so she could understand, and forgive him.
"Conor? You didn't just happen to bump into me in Central Park that evening, did you?"
He sat down opposite her, on the sofa. "No."
"You came looking for me."
"Yes."
"Because you're still working for Eva," she said, her voice trembling just a little.
"No! I don't work for Eva. Nothing I've done has been for—"
The doorbell rang. Miranda shot to her feet, her face gone white.
"Conor?" she whispered.
Conor held up his hand. "Stay put."
He moved past her, and opened the door.
Chapter 19
It was the porter, standing in the hall with a manila envelope in his hand.
It had been delivered by private messenger, he said, for Miss Beckman.
Conor let out his breath, dug in his pocket and pulled out a bill.
"Yeah," he said, stuffing it into the man's hand, "thanks."
He shut the door and turned to Miranda. The color had come back into her face.
"For me?" she asked.
Conor thought of the package that had been delivered to her the last time, the one she knew nothing about.
"Let me open it," he said.
She shook her head as she rose to her feet. "I'll do it," she said, and held out her hand.
He gave the envelope to her and watched as she tore the flap. A puzzled look spread over her face.
"Pictures," she said, pulling three eight-by-ten black and white photos from the envelope.
Conor's first instinct was to rip them out of her hand. He still remembered, all too clearly, the picture Moratelli had sent her in Paris. But these photographs, whatever they were, hadn't upset her. She looked puzzled, even baffled. Nothing more.
"I don't understand," she said finally. "Why would somebody send these to me?"
