Until You (20 page)

"Because you know me well,
cherie.
Yes, there is a
but.
The studio has asked me to make another movie."

"And that's a
but?
Jean-Phillipe, that's terrific!"

He sighed as they paused on the corner and waited for a break in the traffic.

"It would be better news if I had been asked to make a film in the States."

"Why? You've got a wonderful career building here."

"I know that." The flow of cars eased. Jean-Phillipe clasped Miranda's hand and they hurried across the road. "But I want more. I want to be an international star. Or perhaps a director, with an Oscar on the mantel. Who knows?
Merde,
Miranda, don't look at me as if I were crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy." She hesitated. "I just think you should, you know, consider the ramifications."

"What ramifications? I am a good actor. You know that."

"Yes, but Hollywood is different. The press is relentless. They'll want to know everything about you."

"So?" His voice swelled with defiance. "Let them. People should judge me on my talent. Is that too much to ask?"

"No, of course it isn't. Jean-Phillipe, what are you doing?"

It was a silly question because she could see what he was doing. He'd swung out in the path of a woman hurrying towards them, her head and shoulders bent against the wind-driven snow.

"How do you do, madame?" he said, dancing along backwards in front of her. "Do you know me?"

"Jean-Phillipe!"

Miranda tugged at his sleeve but he ignored her. "Do you?" he demanded.

The woman came to a dead stop. Her eyes widened.

"You're that actor," she said. "Oh my goodness! You are, aren't you?"

He grinned, doffed an imaginary hat and made a deep, courtly bow.

"Indeed I am. And I must ask you, madame, would it change your opinion of me if you learned that—"

"Don't," Miranda hissed.

His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

"My charming friend," he said, "fears that I am about to be indiscreet. She is afraid that if I tell you the truth—"

"Jean-Phillipe, please—"

"—the truth, madame, which is that I am longing to go to America and become a big star, you will no longer go to my films." He smiled. "You do go to see my films, do you not?"

"Yes," the woman said, staring from one of them to the other, "oh yes, all the time."

"Ah. And would you continue to do so, even if you knew that I..." He shrugged off Miranda's hand. "...that I was not the same old Jean-Phillipe Moreau you've come to know?"

"Of course," she said in bewilderment. "Why wouldn't I?"

"My sentiments, precisely." Jean-Philippe took the woman's hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it.
"Merci,"
he said, "and be sure to see my latest film when it opens."

Miranda grabbed his arm and tugged him along the sidewalk, away from the woman who stood staring after them.

"You are a crazy man," she said fiercely. "She'll go around telling everybody that you ought to be in an asylum."

"What did you think? That I was about to make an announcement on the Champs Elysees?"

"The thought occurred to me, yes."

His laugh was quick and sharp.

"Trust me,
cherie.
I know full well that one does not become a Hollywood star by standing on a street in Paris and asking a strange woman for her good wishes." His voice cracked. "I also know that you speak the truth. The more I reach out for my dream, the closer I come to losing it."

"Oh, Jean-Phillipe, I didn't mean..."

"It is foolish to deny it." He stopped walking, turned and faced her, and she could see the anguish in his eyes. "You have been wonderful, letting the world think you are my lover."

"Don't make me sound like a saint," she said, smoothing her hands over the lapels of his leather coat. "I've gotten something out of the deal, too."

"Oui.
Having me hover in the background keeps other men from demanding too much of you."

"Stop fishing for compliments," she said, smiling. "You know I meant that being known as your girlfriend adds luster to my reputation." Her smile tilted. "Besides, I love you. You know that."

"And I love you,
cherie."
Jean-Phillipe clasped Miranda's face. Snowflakes dotted her hair and lashes; he thought that she had never looked more beautiful. "If I were not gay..."

"But you are," she said softly, "and someday the world will be ready to accept it."

He kissed her gently on the mouth. Then, hand in hand, they continued towards the Place de la Madeleine.

Chapter 8

Conor's day had not begun well.

He'd awakened to a pounding headache, a desperate need for a cigarette and the sure knowledge that he'd made an ass of himself last night.

The headache was the kind that made even the thought of lifting his head from the pillow an accomplishment worthy of the Croix de Guerre but finally he'd managed to get up, gulp three aspirin with the steaming cup of
cafe au lait
the chambermaid delivered to his room, and hope for the best.

The urge for a smoke had been tougher to deal with. He'd told himself that it was a dirty habit, that he never even had a yen for a cigarette except when he was in France where everybody over the age of puberty still seemed to be puffing away despite a bunch of new laws. He'd reminded himself that not even his daily four-mile run or workouts on the Nautilus in the gym back home could dull the effect of smoking on your lungs. And while he'd told himself all those things, he'd patted down his pockets on the off-chance he'd come up with a stray Gauloise.

After a while, he'd given up. He had as much chance of finding a cigarette as he had of convincing himself he hadn't behaved like a fool with Miranda, meaning the odds on either ranged from zero to none.

With only a cup of coffee to fortify him, he'd phoned Miranda to tell her to expect Cochran to change the lock on her door and he'd ended up feeling like a damn fool all over again, caught between her obvious irritation at his interference and an erotic image so powerful it had infuriated him.

No, he thought as he opened the door and stepped out on his tiny balcony, none of that had been a good way to start the day.

The air was crisp but the sky was bright. Conor finished what remained of his coffee while he gazed out at the soaring towers of Notre Dame Cathedral and the grey ribbon of the Seine.

Why in God's name had he kissed her last night? She wasn't his type and he'd bet a month's worth of paychecks that he most definitely wasn't hers.

She was beautiful, sure. A man would have to be dead not to admit it. But she was all glitter and flash. Even if you only took a woman to bed, you liked to think there was more to her than just a face and a body.

Besides, he never got personally involved. Never. It was what had made him a good soldier and an effective agent. It had also been his ex-wife's chief complaint.

"Don't you ever feel anything?" Jillian had shrieked towards the end of the disaster they'd called a marriage.

Conor swallowed another mouthful of coffee. Of course he felt things. He enjoyed a crimson-and-gold sunset, a good bottle of wine, a concerto that could make your throat constrict and the feel of a woman in his arms.

That hadn't been enough for Jillian.

She'd wanted, she'd said, a man who would "communicate."

Christ, how he'd come to hate that word.

Share with me, Conor. Tell me what you 're thinking, Conor. Let me inside you, Conor.

One day, when he'd had all he could take, he'd said okay, if she really wanted to know what he was thinking, he'd tell her. What he was thinking, he'd said, was that he wanted her to stop trying to invade his space and his head.

Then he'd flown off on a brief assignment. When he got back, Jillian was gone. All she'd left waiting for him was a polite note, her attorney's phone number and a faint drift of perfume.

Conor had felt some loss but the truth was, he'd known the marriage had been over for a long time. The last months, they'd only been making each other miserable. It wasn't her fault or his; they just weren't right together.

But it had bothered him that, at the end, Jillian had accused him of being just like his father.

He knew better than that.

He was nothing like his old man. Hell, no. He'd lived his whole life making sure of that.

His father was a cop, with a cop's mentality. Things were good or they were bad; there was no in-between. He never smiled, never had a good word for anybody. He didn't read books or listen to music; he'd never been more than a couple of hundred miles from home and his idea of a good time was to sit around the house, drink beer and watch TV.

A cold breeze drifted up from the river. Conor shivered, stepped back into the room and closed the balcony door. He'd made damn certain his world was a hell of a lot bigger than his father's and if Jillian hadn't been able to see that, that was her problem. Anyway, he hadn't been cut out for marriage. There were too many things to do in this world besides tying yourself down to one woman.

As for Miranda Beckman—okay, his gonads had taken over last night, but it wouldn't happen again. A man was nothing if he didn't have control of his emotions.

He had a job to do and he'd do it. He needed to figure out what was going on. Was Eva Winthrop being threatened? Was her daughter? And if so, were the two incidents connected?

First things first. He shot back his sleeve, glanced at his watch. Cochran would be just about finished installing the new lock on Miranda's door. He'd check it out, ask her a few more questions and tell her she was to keep close to home until she heard from him.

Conor smiled. He had the feeling he knew exactly how she was going to take that bit of news.

Whistling softly, he headed out of the hotel.

* * *

Cochran had said changing the lock would take thirty, forty minutes. "An hour, max."

Conor had told him to make sure it took an hour. He got to Miranda's with five minutes to spare but either his timing or Cochran's was off. Whichever it was, by the time he got to the apartment building off the Rue de Rivoli, the locksmith was gone—and so was Miranda.

The
concierge,
who bore more than a passing resemblance to one of the gargoyles that looked down from the roof of Notre Dame, looked at him coldly and said she was sorry but she could tell him nothing of Mademoiselle Beckman's whereabouts. Mademoiselle, she said, looking at him down her classic Gallic nose, was out. No, she did not know where she had gone. No, she had no idea when she would return.

Pressed, she finally agreed that Monsieur might, if he truly wished, leave a note.

Conor truly wished. He scrawled his telephone number on a sheet of paper yanked from his address book, added a terse line which was not quite "Where the hell did you go?" but a close equivalent, tucked it into an envelope Madame ungraciously provided, sealed it and handed it over. Then he went out onto the street, fished his cell phone from his pocket and put in a call to Cochran.

"Yeah," the redhead said, "I did the babe's locks." He made a wheezing sound Conor figured was supposed to be a "just between us guys" chuckle. "Tell the truth, I'd sooner have done her. Man, that is some piece of ass! You gettin' it on with her or what?"

Conor felt his stomach knot. An image shot into his head, his fist connecting with Pete Cochran's grinning face and turning it into hamburger.

"How's that parole arrangement of yours going?" he asked pleasantly. "The
Surete
still sending reports back to D.C., assuring them you're living a righteous existence?"

"Hey," Cochran said in the tones of a man who's been grievously misjudged, "what'd I say? Since when is it a crime to notice that a babe looks hot?"

Conor took a deep breath, then let it out.

"It isn't."

"Damn right, it isn't."