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"I know. I thought, at first, it might be some kook."
"Oui. A pervert. But this man, O'Neil, thinks otherwise, that whoever broke into your apartment also sent this mysterious note to your mother?"
"He thinks it's possible."
"A note meant to threaten her."
"That's what he says. And he says the note Eva received mentioned me and my..." Her mouth twisted. "...my elopement."
Jean-Phillipe kissed the top of her head, came around the sofa and sat down next to her.
"It is not logical, cherie. Why would someone make such a reference, after all these years?"
"Did I tell you Hoyt—my stepfather—is going to become an ambassador?"
"So?"
Miranda sighed. "So, ambassadors are like Caesar's wife. You know, above reproach."
"Ah, I begin to see. Your Mr. O'Neil thinks someone intends to use this to blackmail your mother and stepfather?"
"I guess."
Jean-Phillipe put his feet up on the table, too, and crossed them at the ankles.
"It is possible, I suppose. Has he spoken with the animal you married?"
"I don't know. When you come right down to it, I don't know anything except that Eva got a note, my apartment got taken apart, and, as always, it's somehow going to end up being all my fault."
"I am going to speak with your Mr. O'Neil and ask him some questions."
"Jean-Phillipe, please, he is not my Mr. O'Neil. And I don't want you to talk to him. I don't want you to get involved in this at all. It's liable to get messy."
"I am not afraid, Miranda."
"I know that," she said gently. She smiled and took his hand in hers. "Don't worry about me. Honestly, I'll be fine."
"You will telephone Eva and question her? Make certain the man, O'Neil, is who he claims?"
"Yes. I promise."
"It is also time to move from that apartment of yours. I have tried and tried to tell you, the neighborhood has charm but it can also be dangerous."
It was an old argument, one they'd had many times. When they'd met—when he'd rescued her from a dark Paris street—Jean-Phillipe had lived in a tiny attic apartment in the Marais and she had lived there with him until she'd begun earning enough money modeling to take a small place of her own.
They had both moved since then, she to a comfortable apartment off the Rue de Rivoli, Jean-Phillipe to this elegant location near the Arc de Triomphe. He kept trying to convince her to move nearby but Miranda was happy where she was—or she had been, until last night.
And she would be, again. No one was going to force her out of her home.
"I told you, there's a new lock on my door."
"Locks do not impress me."
"Please, let's not quarrel." Miranda got to her feet and dug her bare toes into the velvety Aubusson carpet that covered the living room floor. "Is this the rug we bought at the flea market last week?"
"You are trying to change the subject!"
"You're darned right I am. I don't want to think about last night anymore, or about Eva or Conor O'Neil." Her smile was quick and beseeching. "Let's talk about something else."
