Until You (12 page)

"Miranda?" A girl came hurrying towards them holding out a jumble of clothing. "Miranda,
s'il vous plait, c'est le moment!"

She glared at him but he didn't move.

"Okay," she said, "okay, O'Neil, you want a free show?" Her chin lifted in defiance. "You got one."

The smock slipped from her shoulders, revealing a white silk teddy. It was unadorned and plain and for all that, as sexy as anything Conor had ever seen.

He told himself to turn around but how could he, when she was deliberately exhibiting herself before him, telling him with her body and her cool eyes that he was beneath contempt? Besides, a man would have to be a stone saint not to look at legs that were as long and as lovely as hers, at the high-cut lines of the teddy that defined the soft roundness of her thighs.

His gaze rose further, until he could see that she was braless under the silk. Her breasts, as firm and round as apples, thrust against the fabric; her nipples were shadowed and mysterious.

Without warning, he felt his body clench.

"Like what you see, O'Neil?" she said gently.

Conor jerked his eyes to Miranda's face. She was smiling like a cat that had just dipped its paw into a dish of cream, her green eyes slanting slightly upward at the corners, her carmine-red mouth curving with pleasure, and he knew that she'd read his every emotion.

"Because that's all you're ever going to do, you know." She smiled and stroked her hands lightly down her throat, to her breasts. Her hands cupped them and her smile tilted, became a promise of pleasure beyond endurance. The pink tip of her tongue slicked across her crimson lips. "You can look, like all the rest, but you're never, ever going to be able to touch."

Conor's hands fisted at his sides. The urge to reach out and slap that beautiful, taunting face was almost overpowering. It took a minute until he could return that clever, disdainful smile.

"Have you ever done any mountain-climbing, Miss Beckman?" He saw the smile slip from her mouth, saw confusion blur those knowing eyes. "No? Well, I have. Not much, I admit, but just enough to have learned a couple of things about myself. One is that there's no satisfaction in accomplishing something that's already been done by too many men. The other is that no matter what anybody says, just because the mountain's there doesn't mean it's worth climbing." Her face seemed to whiten, even under the heavy makeup, and it made his smile genuine. "I'll see you later, after you've finished making believe you're a real woman for the paying customers."

Nita let out a long, sighing breath as he turned and strolled away.

"Like I said the first time," she said, "wow!"

"The bastard," Miranda said. Her voice trembled.

Nita turned and looked at her. Miranda's hands were balled into fists at her sides.

"Hey," she said, "come on, girlfriend. The guy was just getting even. I mean, you got to admit, you chewed him up pretty good." She slipped her arm around Miranda's shoulders. "You hear me?"

"Yes." Miranda nodded, her eyes glued to Conor O'Neil's retreating back. He was almost at the exit door. "I hear you."

"Well, then, put on a smile. And let Annick help you get dressed. Poor thing is standing here, wringing her hands." Nita grinned. "It's time to get out front, give the guys heart attacks and make the ladies drool. You know, do your thing!"

Make believe you're a real woman.

A pain Miranda hadn't felt in years and years stabbed through her heart.

"Oh, look," Nita screeched. "It's Jean-Phillipe!"

Miranda spun around. Jean-Phillipe was hurrying towards her, drawing smiles from even this jaded, sophisticated group. But his eyes were fixed on her and when he saw her face light at the sight of him, he held out his arms.

"Cherie,"
he said, as he caught her, "forgive me. I meant to be here sooner."

"It's all right," she said, and wound her arms around his neck.

Some sixth sense made her look towards the exit. Conor O'Neil hadn't left yet. He'd paused, his hand on the door, and now he was turned in her direction and looking at her—at her, and at Jean-Phillipe.

Miranda's head lifted. She smiled straight at him, and then she put her hands on Jean-Phillipe's shoulders, rose on tip-toe and pressed her mouth and her body against his.

Conor's vision clouded. He felt his hands curl into fists, felt the muscles in his arms and shoulders knot until they were rock-hard. Two minutes, that was all it would take, two minutes to close the distance between them, beat the too-handsome son of a bitch holding Miranda into a bloody pulp and then he'd throw her down on her back, part her legs and do what needed doing...

"Fuck!" he snarled, and he slammed his fist against the door and got the hell out of there while he still could.

Chapter 5

All right, he had blown it.

So what?

Conor stubbed out his cigarette—the first he'd smoked in, what, five years?—and caught the waiter's eye.

A second bottle of ale appeared at his elbow, along with a little basket of crackers.

Conor nodded his thanks, declined the glass, just as he had the first time, and wrapped his hand around the bottle. The ale wasn't India Pale, it wasn't even American. But it was icy-cold and just bitter enough to suit his mood and when he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long, slow drink, the stuff slid down his throat as cool as silk.

What an ass he'd made of himself. He couldn't stop thinking about it, not even after a brisk walk along the Seine with the wind blowing raw and cold in his face.

Miranda had made a fool of him.

Conor scowled and tilted the bottle to his mouth again.

Correction. He had
let
her make a fool of him, and that was even worse.

He'd gone in there knowing what she was, a woman who specialized in getting men to do what she wanted, and he'd still ended up letting her get to him.

Expect the unexpected, his instructors at Special Forces had said.

He always did. It was how he'd survived dark cul-de-sacs, icy mountain peaks, hot deserts and even, one memorable night, what had come at him in his own apartment.

Conor lit another cigarette. He took a long drag, coughed, looked at the slim white tube with distaste and then mashed it to death in the ashtray.

A fashion show wasn't his kind of mountain or desert but he should have been prepared for something down-and-dirty. He knew what Miranda Beckman was. He should have gone in there with a smile on his face and his hands over his
cojones.

He glowered at the bottle of ale as he raised it to his lips again.

The bitch! Peeling off her clothes as if he hadn't existed, letting him glimpse that lithe, tanned body and think about what it would be like to lay claim to it. What pleasure it must have given her when his mask had slipped and she'd seen the hunger in his eyes.

Even now, hours later, the words she'd flung at him still burned in his brain.

You can look, like all the rest, but you're never going to touch.

And then the final insult, the show she'd put on with the Frenchman with the pretty face, climbing all over the guy, making sure he got a good, long look at what it was like for the men she did allow to touch.

But she'd miscalculated. She couldn't operate him the way she did others. Besides, his turn was coming.

A smile twisted across Conor's mouth.

Miranda Beckman had sent that note to her mother. It was just the sort of smug, aren't-I-clever thing a babe like that would do.

I'm bored, so I'll just rattle Mommy's cage for fun.

It was a stunt with all the markings of an amateur. Somebody who was serious, a blackmailer who wanted money, would have followed through with a demand. Even a looney-tunes looking for kicks would have come up with a P.S. by now.

No question about it, the note was Miranda's, sent to shake her mother's composure, to put Hoyt into a sweat and generally remind them both that life was never simple with a loving daughter like her dancing around behind scenes.

Conor drank down the last of the ale.

He'd solved the mystery, such as it was. Unfortunately, there was still a bit of a problem to overcome because what he'd come up with was all theory. He couldn't prove a damned thing. On the other hand, that was one of the pleasures of working for the Committee.

Conor smiled. His chair squealed against the marble floor as he shoved it back and got to his feet.

He didn't
have
to prove anything. The only thing he had to do was get Miranda to admit she'd written the note and then convince her she'd sooner get caught in an earthquake than try and pull a stunt like this again.

He tucked two ten euro notes under the edge of the pack of Gauloises. The waiter could have both, the money and the cigarettes, and more power to him. As for Miranda Beckman... he'd intended to identify himself to her as a low-level embassy flunky, doing a routine checkup now that her stepfather was up for a presidential appointment, but what was the sense in coming on so nice and easy?

A little session of Q and A, complete with some hard-ass assurances that she wouldn't much like the things that could happen to spoiled little girls who played nasty games, and that Mona Lisa smile would disappear.

Eva could go back to worrying about Papillon's next shade of nail polish, Hoyt could take his tux out of mothballs, and he could fly back to Washington and tell Harry Thurston what to do with himself the next time he decided to toss a mess in his direction. And if, in the process, Miranda Beckman learned that some men weren't to be played with...

Hey, some things were just too good to pass up.

Whistling jauntily through his teeth, Conor belted his raincoat and stepped out into the biting chill of the night.

* * *

The party that followed the showing was held at Jacques Diderot's mansion on the Rue St-Honoré.

Jean-Phillipe said that two centuries ago it had been the home of a mistress of Louis XVI but Miranda suspected that even before the lady's head had parted company with her body, courtesy of Madame Guillotine, the house had probably never seen a party more extravagant than this.

On the street, the light from scores of cell phone cameras and video cams flashed against the night. Spectaators screamed, photographers and reporters fell on each arriving limousine like lions pouncing on impala.

Inside, Italian
principessas
rubbed shoulders with Seventh Avenue princes. The buffet tables groaned under the weight of Beluga caviar and Strasbourg
foie gras;
the champagne was vintage Moet et Chandon. It was the kind of scene that Miranda knew best. The envy of the women, the hunger of the men—and the comfort of knowing that Jean-Phillipe was never more than a moment away.

Parties like this were always fun.

But not tonight.

Tonight, she found it difficult to smile and mingle. She felt as if everyone could see that she was wearing a mask. Was it the morning's run-in with Conor O'Neil that had left her feeling this way? Was it wondering whether Eva was in some kind of trouble? That didn't seem possible. She didn't give a damn about her mother and, heaven knew, the feeling was mutual. As for O'Neil—why would she waste time even thinking about the man?

Still, she felt out of sorts and out of place. Jean-Phillipe, who was always attuned to her emotions, noticed.

"You are so quiet,
cherie.
Do you feel ill?"

Not ill, she almost said. Just—just strange.

But she didn't say it. Mentioning Eva would only lead to an argument. Jean-Phillipe, who'd lost both his parents in infancy, had a sentimental view of mothers that nothing could shake, not even the reality of one like Miranda's.

"Your mother made mistakes,
oui,"
he'd said at least a dozen times over the past couple of years, "but time has passed. Perhaps you should try and make things better between you."

No, she didn't want to hear that lecture again. And she certainly didn't want to talk about that boor, Conor O'Neil. It was a long time since anybody had gotten to her the way he had. Who did he think he was? Even now, hours later, she wished she'd slapped that contemptuous look from his face.