Until You (3 page)

Conor shut his eyes. He pulled back his hand and rubbed it over his face. The stubble on his chin and cheeks was rough against his fingers.

"No, Harry, of course not. I'm always up and alert at—what time is it, anyway?"

"It's 6:00 a.m.," Mary Alice said. She flopped onto her belly and dragged the satin quilt over her naked shoulders. "Who in God's name makes phone calls at this hour on a Saturday morning?"

Harry Thurston's chuckle rumbled softly in Conor's ear. "Did I interrupt something? If I did, I'm sorry."

"Yeah. I'll bet."

"But I wanted to be sure I got hold of you."

Conor sighed. "Well, you got hold of me. What do you want?"

"I tried reaching you at the office yesterday, four, five o'clock, somewhere around there. Rosemary said you were already gone."

"I left at three-thirty." Conor shoved aside the quilt and swung his feet to the carpet. "Come on, Harry. You didn't call me to discuss the time I checked out of the office. What's up?"

"I'm cold," Mary Alice mumbled. Her voice had lost some of its sullen quality. "You pulled the quilt off me, Conor."

He half-turned, grasped the quilt and drew it over her. She caught his hand, bit the pad at the base of his thumb none too gently, then sucked the finger into her warm, moist mouth.

The voice on the other end of the phone took on a teasing whine. "Did you pull the quilt off, Conor? I'm ashamed of you."

Conor shook his head at Mary Alice, smiled and gently extricated his thumb from between her lips.

"Harry," he said, "I'm warning you, I'm not in the mood for fun and games right now."

"But I am, "Mary Alice murmured. She reached out her hand. Conor caught it as it began its search for his lap.

"You've got one minute to get to the bottom line, Harry," he said.

"Anybody ever tell you you've got no sense of humor, O'Neil?" Harry Thurston sighed. "Okay, okay, here's the deal. I need a favor."

"No."

"What do you mean, no? You don't even know what it is."

"It's the weekend, Harry. I finished up the stuff I'd been working on—"

"Yeah, I saw. Nice job."

"—and now I'm off the clock."

"I told you, this is a favor. A simple one. I need you to deliver a message to an old friend in New York. It'll take you five minutes. Ten at the most."

"A message?"

"That's right."

"Whatever happened to the telephone? Or e-mail? Or Federal Express?"

Mary Ellen kicked off the blanket and sat up. "I'll be right back," she purred. Naked hips swinging gently, she headed for the bathroom.

"I'm only asking you to say a few words to him, Conor. We went to school together."

"And?"

"What a suspicious mind you have." Thurston sounded pained. "What's so unusual about asking somebody to say a few words to a friend?"

"I don't know, Harry. It's just a feeling I'm getting. What's this message, and who am I delivering it to?"

"Hoyt Winthrop. He has a seat on the stock exchange and—"

"I know this is going to shock the hell out of you, but I read the papers. I know who Hoyt Winthrop is."

"Then you know the President's considering him for an ambassadorship."

"So?"

"So, I just want you to tell him he's made the A list."

Conor's eyes narrowed. "As in, the FBI said he's okay?"

"Yes."

"What's the matter? Did the Fibbies get evicted from their New York office? Why don't they pass the message along themselves?"

Harry Thurston sighed. "Why must you always be so distrustful?"

"Because I'm tired of being the guy who's up to his ass in alligators while the boys in the white hats stand around pretending they don't know who the fuck drained the water out of the swamp."

"You have a way with words, Conor. Anybody ever tell you that?"

Conor heard the toilet flush. The bathroom door opened and he got to his feet, walked across the room and out into the hall.

"Listen," he said into the phone, "you want to give this the personal touch, why not call Winthrop yourself, tell him he's been vetted and all he's got to do now is stand by and wait?"

"I told you, he and I go way back together. A visit is much more personal than a phone call." Thurston paused. "And I know he was a little concerned about things. You know how it is."

Alarm bells were sounding in Conor's head. "No. I don't know," he said coldly. "What does he have to be concerned about?"

"His daughter. Well, his stepdaughter. Miranda Beckman." Thurston's voice lowered, and Conor could almost picture him bringing the telephone closer to his lantern-jawed face. "She's a model, lives in Paris. Has for years." He paused delicately. "She leads a pretty wild life, from what I hear."

"And?"

"And," Thurston said, "there's nothing for Hoyt to worry about. Well, I mean the girl's not the Virgin Queen, but she's not into heavy drugs or underage Martians of either sex. In today's world, that makes her Snow White."

"Is that what I'm supposed to tell Winthrop? That his stepdaughter's a candidate for Miss America?"

"Just tell Hoyt things are fine. And give him my best, of course."

"Of course," Conor said, waiting patiently for the other shoe to drop.

"And while you're there," Thurston said smoothly, "ask him to give you the note."

"What note?"

"The one he got yesterday."

"Dammit, Harry—"

"Actually, it was addressed to his wife. Eva Beckman Winthrop. She owns that cosmetics firm, what's the name? Papillon, I think."

Conor closed his eyes. Harry Thurston had come into government the old-fashioned way, because of his name, his connections, and an idealized commitment to serving his fellow man, but he'd stayed there because he was clever and competent. He never forgot details, never did anything without having planned it carefully—and never managed to scam anyone without making it obvious that he was doing just that.

"Harry." Conor's voice was sharp. "Maybe I need to spell this out for you. I am not going to get involved in any more political games."

"So you've told me."

"I hate that crap and you know it."

"You're good at it, though."

Conor laughed. "Right. That's why that congressman wanted my ass served on a silver platter a couple of months ago."

"That's just the point. You don't give a damn, Conor. You're not interested in becoming the D.C. Poster Boy of the Month."

"That doesn't mean I'm interested in getting dragged into your pal Winthrop's situation, either."

"There isn't any situation. That's what I'm trying to tell you. You're making a mountain out of a molehill. Go see Hoyt, congratulate him for me, and eyeball this note his wife received."

"And that's it?"

"That's it. Cross my heart and hope to die."

"What heart?" Conor leaned back against the wall. "I don't suppose you know what this note says?"

"I've no idea. Hoyt left a message with my secretary, then on my cell—but we never managed to connect."

"So, what do I do with the note after I see it?"

"Make nice-nice to Hoyt and his wife, tell them the note is nothing—which I'm certain it is—and bring it to the office with you on Monday."

"And you'll either put it in the round file or hand it over to the FBI."

"Certainly."

Conor sighed. "I can almost see your nose growing, Harry."

He could still hear his boss laughing as he jammed his finger against the
off
button and put an end to their conversation.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Conor was standing at the iron-banded door to a grey stone mansion on Fifth Avenue.

It was a cold, sunless morning with the promise of rain in the air. He'd already identified himself to a blurred face hidden behind an eye-level grill. Now, as he waited to be admitted to the Winthrop inner sanctum, he warmed himself by thinking about Mary Alice, who'd promised to take a taxi uptown and meet him on the corner in an hour.

"We can go downtown to Balthazar for brunch," she'd said.

"Brunch sounds good," Conor had answered, kissing her, "but I'll be damned if I can think of anything we can do with the rest of the day."

The sound of her husky laugh was still echoing in his ears as the buzzer to the Winthrop mansion sounded. Conor grasped the heavy brass doorknob and turned it. The door swung open and he stepped inside a small anteroom.

"Good morning, sir."

The accent was English, the attire was formal. The butler, Conor thought, without question, and though the man's greeting was polite, the look on his face suggested it was certainly not a good morning if he was going to have to admit someone like this into the Winthrop presence.

Conor gave an inward sigh. He was used to it by now but it still amazed him to find that the toadies of the rich and powerful were often twice as smarmy as their masters.

"Mr. Winthrop will see you in a moment."

"Good," Conor said, at the same time moving forward into the foyer so that Jeeves or whoever the hell he was had no choice but to step aside. He shrugged off his Burberry and tossed it at the man. "Don't bother hanging my coat away," he said pleasantly. "I won't be staying long."

Jeeves inclined his head and draped the Burberry across the back of a chair with a tapestry seat and arms and legs that ended in claws. Conor half expected the chair to growl and chew the trenchcoat into pieces.

"As you wish, sir. If you'll wait here, please?"

The butler vanished noiselessly through a doorway that led into the bowels of the house. Conor undid the button on his Harris tweed jacket, tucked his hands into his pants pockets, and balanced forward and backward on the balls of his feet while he admired his surroundings.

The foyer was handsome. The walls were paneled in the sort of rich, old wood that bore the deep luster that comes of decades of patient care. He glanced down at the carpet beneath his feet. It was old, too. Persian, maybe, or Turkish.

He took his hand from his pocket, shot back his cuff and looked at his watch. Five minutes gone already. What in hell was taking Winthrop so long?

Impatiently, he paced the perimeter of the room. No doubt about it, it was certainly nice to be rich. Very, very nice. That had to be a Van Gogh on the wall. His dark brows lifted. And, unless he missed his bet, that was a Jasper Johns hanging right next to it...

Jesus.

Everything seemed to go still as his gaze fell on a painting that hung slightly apart from the others.

You didn't have to wear a paint-spattered smock to know that it wasn't the work of anybody whose name had ever rocked the art world. This was no Old Master, dark and glorious with age, and it wasn't an impressionist gem. It wasn't even something new, trendy, and outrageously clever. The painting's only claim to fame was its subject. And she made everything else that hung on these walls fade to insignificance.

Conor moved forward, his eyes never leaving the portrait. It was of a young woman standing in a garden, her face and body angled towards the viewer. She was wearing a demure, old-fashioned dress, white lace, maybe, with a high collar and long, full sleeves, and holding a wide-brimmed straw hat in her hand. Her hair, a waterfall of midnight silk, was drawn back from her high-cheekboned face and then left to spill, unhampered, over her shoulders. Her eyes were a shade of dark green that Conor knew couldn't be real but had to be the invention of the painter. Her mouth looked soft and inviting. It was color of a budding rose and bore the faintest suggestion of a smile.

The girl in the painting was beautiful, with the guileless innocence of youth.

Or was she? The longer he looked, the more he saw something else. The girl seemed to have both the purity of a Madonna and the sensuality of a Jezebel.

With heart-stopping swiftness, Conor felt his body harden with need.

"Hell," he muttered, under his breath.

The last time he'd reacted that way to a picture, he'd been a randy adolescent drooling over a copy of
Playboy
.
What kind of nonsense was this? If you factored in the night he'd just spent in Mary Alice's bed, what was happening to him was damned near impossible.

But it was happening, just the same.

"Mr. O'Neil?"

Who was she? He stepped closer to the painting. That smile—was it really a smile, or was it something else, an allusion to a sadness so deeply hidden it might never be revealed?

"Mr. O'Neil?"

And those eyes. That color. Surely, no artist would devise such a shade of green—

"Excuse me, Mr. O'Neil."

Conor blinked and swung around. A white-haired man with an aristocratic bearing was standing just behind him, hand outstretched.

"So sorry to have kept you waiting," the man said. "I'm Hoyt Winthrop."