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Conor swung around. A handsome man, tanned, fit and in the prime of life, was coming down the three steps that led from the door. He was smiling pleasantly and holding out his hand politely but Conor felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
There was something about the Count Edouard de Lasserre he didn't like and every cell in his body was telegraphing the message.
"Count." He forced himself to smile in return and accept the man's handshake. "It's good of you to see me on such short notice."
"My pleasure, sir. May I offer you something? A drink, perhaps? Some coffee?"
"Thank you, but I'm fine." Conor drew back his hand and fought down the almost overwhelming need to wipe it against his trouser leg. "I promise, I won't take too much of your time."
"That's quite all right, monsieur. My dear cousin, Amalie, telephoned me. She said you'd been to visit her this morning."
Conor smiled. "She warned you about me, hmm?"
De Lasserre laughed. "Well, she did say you were quite persistent, if that is what you mean." He crossed the room to a massive sideboard and opened a paneled door. "Are you certain you won't join me in a drink?"
"Quite certain. But you go right ahead."
"Oh, I will." De Lasserre smiled as he unstoppered a faceted decanter and poured a couple of inches of amber liquid into a delicate snifter. "I am not a believer in self-denial, monsieur. Life is too short for that, don't you agree?"
He lifted his glass in Conor's direction, took a sip of the liquid and smacked his lips.
"Excellent brandy, if I must say so myself. I own a small vineyard. We don't produce anything of the quality of Armagnac, but given time..." De Lasserre shook his head. "Listen to me, prattling on when you are here to ask me some important questions. Amalie says you are writing an article, yes?"
"On the fashion business. Right."
"About Miranda."
"Among other things."
De Lasserre motioned to a pair of massive, carved wooden chairs. "Shall we sit and be comfortable?"
The chairs didn't look comfortable. They looked like older, man-eating versions of the chair that had threatened to consume Conor's Burberry in the Winthrop foyer. Was there something about the rich that made them fond of carnivorous furniture?
"Handsome chairs," he said politely, as he eased into one..
Edouard de Lasserre smiled. "Indeed. They were commissioned by my ancestor, the fifth Count de Lasserre." His hand slid over the highly-polished arm in a sensual caress. "They have been in this house for centuries, as has almost everything else you see around you."
"Very impressive."
"Ah, it is not meant to be impressive, I assure you. I am simply pleased that history has put so much trust in me. It is an honor to bear the responsibility for all this."
"And an expense."
"Indeed. But a worthwhile one. Now, monsieur, what may I do for you?"
"Well, as I explained to Amalie, anything you can tell me about Miranda would be helpful."
"For this newspaper article you write, yes?"
Conor smiled. "I didn't say it was for a newspaper, Count de Lasserre."
"No? Then, for what magazine do you write, Monsieur O'Neil?"
"I work free-lance. I write for whomever pays me the most money."
"Then, you have not, as yet, a buyer for your article?"
"That's correct."
