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"Let's walk for a while," she said. "Okay?"
Hell, he'd have danced their way back if she'd asked, anything to bring some color back to her face. He nodded, took her hand, and they started slowly towards the Place de l'Opera.
"Why would that man have sent me that—that stuff anonymously and then go out of his way to identify himself?" she asked, after a while.
Because there's more to his plan. Because he got a kick out of seeing your terror.
"I don't know," Conor said.
"And why pick that party to tell me about it? I could have screamed."
He was willing to bet you'd be too stunned to say a word.
"Good point."
She looked up at him. "Maybe—maybe that's the end of it. Maybe that's all he wanted, to see my reaction."
No. Hell, no, this prick wants more than that.
"Maybe."
"He must have known I'd run away from him."
Conor could hear the rising hope in her voice and the desire to kill the son of a bitch who'd done this to her intensified because he knew, he knew, that this was just the beginning of whatever the guy was planning.
"I mean, if he'd really intended to—to do anything, he'd have chosen another place to confront me, wouldn't he?"
What was one more lie, if it calmed her? Conor squeezed her hand.
"Sure."
She sighed. "I just don't understand any of it. Why would someone do something so sick?"
At least, this time
, he could give her a truthful answer.
"I don't know, but I'm sure as hell going to find out." She was trembling again, even though the night had turned soft and still, with the snow giving it a magical quality. Conor put his arm around her and drew her into his warmth. "I'll do some checking in the morning. Until then, I want you to put him out of your mind."
"Believe me, I'd like to, but I don't see how."
"Think about something else."
"What?" She gave a little laugh. "My brain feels like a hamster on one of those wheels. It just keeps chasing around and around and around."
"How long have you lived in Paris?"
"Come on, you know how long."
"Tell me."
Miranda sighed. "Eight years."
"Do you like living here?"
"Conor, I know what you're doing, you're trying to change the subject but it won't—"
"What's your favorite color?"
