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"I tell you again, this is not your concern, Mr. O'Neil. Your only business is to see to it that my husband gets his appointment. That was the reason you were sent to Paris, the reason you forced my daughter to return to the States. It is why you reentered her life, because it was your obligation to do whatever was necessary on behalf of my husband and me. Now, all that remains is to stop de Lasserre from ruining everything for us. We cannot afford any scandalous headlines, do you understand?"
Conor could feel his rage building with every beat of his heart. He wanted to grab Eva Winthrop, shake her until her bones rattled, tell her that she was a poisonous harpy who ought to be on her knees, thanking whatever gods existed for having let her give life to the miracle that was Miranda.
But things were moving too quickly now. Eva had said no to Edouard de Lasserre, and he wasn't a man you said no to without paying the consequences. Eva was safe, but Miranda was all too vulnerable.
So he took a deep breath, fixed a smile to his lips, and looked at Eva Winthrop in a way that made it clear they were in this together.
"Making sure you and your husband get what's coming to you is all I'm interested in," he said.
"I'm pleased to hear it." Eva was almost her old self now, standing straight and tall, a look of elegant hauteur on her face. "I'll wager this has been a far better assignment than most that have come your way."
At the far end of the room, the door flew open and hit the wall. Conor spun around, in a crouch—and saw Miranda, standing in the doorway.
His heart dropped when he saw the look on her face. "Baby," he said quickly, "it's not what you think!"
"Yes, it is," she said, giving him the same smile that Hoyt had captured in the painting that had hung in the foyer, a smile that spoke of pain and betrayal. "It's exactly what I think."
"Miranda." He moved towards her, his face grim. "Goddammit, I told you to stay put."
She laughed, a long trilling sound that was as phony as her smile.
"I don't ever do what I'm told. Just ask my dear mother. Besides, then I'd have missed your wonderful chat with Eva."
"Miranda," he said, reaching out to her, "sweetheart..."
She slapped his hand away before he could touch her, and now he could see the glitter of tears on her lashes.
"Was it?" she said, in a gravelly whisper. "Was it what she said, Conor? A better assignment than you're used to getting?"
"No!"
"It wasn't? You mean, it was just run of the mill, what we had? What I thought we had?" Her voice broke and tears rolled down her cheeks. "Goddamn you," she said, "goddamn you to hell, O'Neil."
Her hand flashed through the air and slammed against his cheek. It was a hard blow that stung his flesh and rocked him back on his heels, but it felt as if it had penetrated straight into his heart.
She'd misinterpreted what she'd heard but whose fault was that? He'd lied to her, time after time; he deserved the blow and more, and when she pulled back her hand to hit him again, he didn't try to stop her. But she didn't hit him. A cry ripped from her throat and she turned and ran from the room.
"Miranda!" He started after her, but Eva flung herself in front of him.
"Just a minute, Mr. O'Neil. I want to know what you intend to do next. You promised me you would take care of Edouard de Lasserre."
"Get out of my way, damn you!"
"Not until you've answered my questions."
Conor cursed, grabbed Eva Winthrop by the shoulders and shoved her aside.
"Miranda," he yelled, as he ran into the hall.
Where was she? The hall was empty. So was the foyer. He raced to the front door, yanked it open—and almost collided with Hank Levy.
"Where is she?" Conor snarled.
Hank's jowly face was gray. "I'm sorry, O'Neil. Hell, it all happened so fast—"
Conor grabbed him by the shoulders. "Where the hell is she?"
"She went running out of her apartment. So I followed her. I left Scotti back at the building, to keep an eye on things, just in case."
