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"Ah, of course." De Lasserre shrugged. "It was all so long ago." His finger trailed over the small breasts of the marble figure, caressing, rubbing. "Well, Ava was upset."
"Eva," Conor said. He tried to tear his eyes from the Count's hand but it was impossible. The long, slender fingers were moving again, between the legs of the little sculpture. "Miranda's mother is named Eva."
"Eva, Ava, what does it matter? All I truly recall is that she appeared on my doorstep, told me Miranda was underage and demanded I grant her her freedom."
"Was Miranda glad to see her mother?"
De Lasserre smiled and gently placed the marble figure back on its shelf.
"I am afraid she was. The reality of marriage had begun to pall for my bride."
"So quickly?"
"She was young, as I have told you. Our elopement was very romantic, yes? An older man, a meeting in the dark of night outside the rough walls of her rather Spartan school, a flight to Paris..." He smiled modestly. "It was all the stuff of girlish dreams, n'est-ce pas?"
"You didn't try and convince her to give the marriage a chance?"
"Have you ever loved a woman with all your heart and soul, Monsieur O'Neil?"
The question caught Conor off guard. For the second time that day, he thought about his ex-wife.
"No," he said, after a couple of seconds, "I don't think I have."
"Well, to love a woman that way is not to wish to give her up. It is also not to wish to keep her caged." De Lasserre held out his hands. "It was what you Americans call a no-win situation, yes?"
"Surely it helped," Conor said politely, "that Eva Winthrop was willing to pay you a lot of money for Miranda's freedom."
He had waited for just the right moment to drop that bit of information into the conversation. Not that he'd known what to expect. Denial, maybe, or at the very least, surprise. Whatever he might have expected, it wasn't de Lasserre's quick, incredulous stare, which was followed by a roar of laughter.
"Mori Dieu! Is that what you believe? That Eva bought me off?"
"I don't know that I'd have put it quite that way but yeah, the thought's crossed my mind."
"Who was it who told you this lie? Eva?"
"One person's lie is another person's truth," Conor said, and smiled.
De Lasserre's eyes narrowed. "You are not researching an article, O'Neil, any more than I worship the memory of my abortive marriage to Miranda."
"Ah," Conor said softly, "now we're down to basics."
"Who do you work for? Your government? Hoyt Winthrop?"
"That's an interesting question. Why would the U.S. government or Hoyt Winthrop send somebody to question you about your marriage to Miranda Beckman?"
"It was a fiasco," De Lasserre snapped, "not a marriage. But everything is of importance when the girl's stepfather awaits a presidential appointment. Did you think we do not read the newspapers over here?"
Conor undid the button of his jacket and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets.
"Go on."
"Let me paint a picture for you, yes? Not a pretty picture but a graphic one. I ask you to visualize a man of some sophistication meeting a beautiful young woman. She flatters his ego, elevates his hunger by bringing him almost to the point of no return many times over, but she will go no further. She is, she insists, pure as the driven snow; she cannot possibly sleep with him." De Lasserre folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. "The young woman tantalizes. She titillates. She lets him touch but not take. The man is crazed with desire. She mentions marriage and he leaps at the idea. He is a more than acceptable suitor; he has a title, land, more money than the girl herself. He says he will ask for her hand but she blanches, weeps, assures him that her wicked mother and stepfather will lock her away forever if he so much as approaches them."
It was a good story and nothing Conor hadn't already thought of by himself. Miranda had seduced de Lasserre, not just with her body but with every emotional trick in the book. Then, why was it so difficult to listen to this cool recitation? Why did he want to wrap his hands around the man's neck and squeeze?
"The man, fool that he is, believes her story. He accedes to her wishes. They elope. He flies her to Paris in a private jet bedecked with white flowers, carries her over the threshold of his ancestral home with love and pride in his heart. His staff greets her with the respect that should be accorded a new Countess. 'All of this is now yours,' the man tells her. He carries her to his rooms, his innocent young bride, and starts to make tender love to her... and she laughs in his face and tells him she is not a doll, she is a woman, that his lovemaking bores her and that she has been with boys who have made her feel more than he can ever hope to imagine."
De Lasserre's fists clenched. He trembled with emotion.
