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"I don't remember the name. I told you that, too. It's just a restaurant, for heaven's sake. You want to know the name, go check it for yourself."
"How come you didn't have lunch with Pretty Boy?"
"Who?"
"The Frenchman. Lunch, maybe a quickie. Wasn't he interested?"
She sat up straight and glared at him. "His name is Jean-Phillipe Moreau. He's an actor. And do you always go out of your way to be offensive?"
"Me? Offensive?" His smile was all innocence. "I'm only stating the obvious, Beckman. From the way you and Pretty Boy went at each other, I figured you had afternoon plans. Was I wrong?"
"Yes," she said, clearly and deliberately, "you were. Neither Jean-Phillipe or I would ever dream of rushing a fuck."
She saw the quick rush of crimson across his cheeks. Good, she thought, coldly, he deserved it.
Then, why did she feel as if she ought to have her mouth washed out with soap? She was a grown woman; she had a reputation for doing and saying whatever pleased her.
And he'd definitely deserved it.
Conor O'Neil had shouldered his way into her life without being invited. She didn't trust him, not one bit. All that stuff about his working for Eva... Who was he kidding? She couldn't imagine Eva caring enough about her welfare to send somebody to check on her. She couldn't imagine O'Neil taking orders, either, especially from someone like her mother.
There was something missing in the equation.
O'Neil was more complex than he appeared. There was something urbane and sophisticated lurking just underneath the tweedy surface. Something scary, too, but in a way that was strangely comforting. In fact, once she'd got over the shock of opening the door and seeing him, she'd found herself thinking that it was just as well he'd turned up instead of Jean-Phillipe. She loved Jean-Phillipe dearly but the truth was that he dramatized everything and the last thing she'd needed tonight was somebody to make more of that messy scene in the bedroom than she'd already made of it herself.
O'Neil hadn't done that. He'd looked the room over, then turned to her and issued a terse command.
"Stay put," he'd said, and no one in their right mind would have argued with him. He'd gone through the rest of the apartment, room by room, moving silently and purposefully and in a way that had made her feel protected and safe. No question about it, Conor O'Neil was very definitely the man you wanted around when you were frightened.
It was just too bad she didn't trust him.
Or like him.
The feeling was clearly mutual. He despised her; the message was in his eyes each time he looked at her.
But he wanted her, too.
The realization pleased her. It made him as predictable as every other man she'd ever dealt with. Sooner or later, he'd try to bed her. They always did, and they always ended up wondering what had hit them on their way out of her life. He would, too. This was a game she never lost. The rules were hers and the outcome was inevitable.
The thought made her smile.
"Something amusing come to mind, Beckman?"
Miranda looked up. O'Neil's face was stony, his gaze contemptuous. Her smile curled at the corners.
"Nothing you'd understand," she said.
His expression didn't change. "I'm still waiting to hear about the rest of your day. Lunch with Nita, no afternoon assignation with the boyfriend..."
"That's right. If you were hoping for a play-by-play account, you're out of luck."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "What did you do after lunch?"
Miranda sighed. She pressed down the filter top of the infuser and watched as it slowly plunged to the bottom of the carafe.
"Nita and I went to the Diderot showroom on Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. There was a photographer waiting. He took some more pictures."
"And?"
