Until You (36 page)

She sat still, letting her machine screen the call, something she'd never done until lately.

It was Madame Delain phoning, which was a surprise. The
concierge
never called. If she had something to say, she came to the door.

Miranda picked up the phone.

"Yes, Madame Delain," she said, "what is it?"

Madame, never one to be flustered by anything, was obviously flustered now.

"Mademoiselle," she said, "I am afraid I do not know how to approach this."

Had there been another visit from the elevator inspector? Miranda sat up straight. "What's wrong?"

"Your apartment, mademoiselle."

"Yes? What about it?"

"You must vacate it before the month is out."

Mia offered a loud, Siamese complaint as Miranda pushed her from her lap and shot to her feet.

"Are you crazy? Why would I do that?"

"The owner of your rooms wants them back."

"Madame, what are you talking about?
I'm
the owner! I have a lease."

"You are the renter. Perhaps you forget that I explained, when you signed the lease, that the apartment was owned by a bank."

"Perhaps
you
forget that you also told me I could rent it for as long as I wished and even buy it, when I was ready."

"It would seem that things have changed. I am afraid you must leave. It is unfortunate, but I hope mademoiselle understands."

No, Miranda thought as she slammed down the telephone, mademoiselle did not understand. Conor O'Neil wanted her out of Paris and all of a sudden, her best friend was moving halfway across the world, she was losing her home...

The phone rang again. "Listen, madame," Miranda said as she snatched it up, "I refuse to believe—"

"Ah,
cherie,"
Jean-Phillipe said, laughing, "how can you refuse to believe my good fortune when I have yet to share it with you?"

"Jean-Phillipe." Miranda sighed with relief and sank down onto the sofa. "You can't imagine how glad I am to hear your voice. I've had the most impossible day."

"No more notes, surely?"

"No, no more notes."

"Bien.
I did not think there would be any, not with your Monsieur O'Neil hovering over you like a guardian angel."

"He's not
my
Mr. O'Neil and he sure as hell isn't a guardian angel."

Jean-Phillipe chuckled. "You might be quicker to agree if you had heard the questions he asked of me."

"What?" Miranda stood up. "The bastard! When did he talk to you? And why did you let him?"

"Now, Miranda, you must not think ill of a man who is concerned with your welfare."

"He's nothing but a stooge, hired by my mother!"

"He is a man with a job to do,
cherie,"
Jean-Phillipe said patiently, "and he asked me nothing I would not have asked myself of a man who knows you well." He paused and when he spoke again, there was the hint of a smile in his voice. "Though I will admit, his questions did grow somewhat personal."

"Personal? What do you mean, personal?"

"He wanted to know how long we had known each other, if it bothered me to know there were other men in your life from time to time, that sort of thing. I had the feeling he would like to have made our talk a bit more man-to-man." He laughed softly. "Perhaps I should say,
mano a mano.
I do not think he likes the idea of you belonging to anyone else."

"I don't give a damn what he thinks. And you're probably right—he's just the type who would settle a dispute with his fists."

"Miranda? Has your relationship with O'Neil taken a more intimate turn?" His voice softened. "I was tempted to tell him the truth,
cherie,
that you and I have never been more than good friends."

"But you didn't," Miranda said quickly.

"I would not do such a thing without consulting you first. But I felt much empathy with him. I sense that he feels as protective of you as I."

"He isn't protective, he's a bully."

"His job is to watch over you, and he does."

"Not anymore. I showed him the door days ago."

"His interview with me took place the day before yesterday,
cherie.
It would seem your protector is still there."

"And still unwanted," she said grimly. "The man is as hard to get rid of as the flu."

He laughed and she smiled a little. It had been an awful day but things would look up, now that Jean-Phillipe was back. He was, wasn't he? Or was he phoning from the Cote d'Azur? Mia leaped into her lap, purred and settled down for some petting.

"Enough about O'Neil," Miranda said. "What's the good news you were going to tell me? Does it have something to do with your trip to the Cote d'Azur?"

"The Cote d'Azur? Why would you think that?"

"Well, your message. You said you were flying to the Cote."

"No, no." Jean-Phillipe laughed. "Those airport telephones can be so noisy, can they not? I left word that I was flying to the
coast."

"The coast?" Miranda frowned. "What coast?"

"Yours, of course. The West Coast. I am in Hollywood,
cherie.
Isn't that exciting?"

Miranda sat back. "Yes," she said slowly. She did her best to put some enthusiasm in her voice but it wasn't easy. "It's very exciting. How come?"

"Do you recall my saying plans for my next film were all set? That it would be made in France?" His voice quickened. "Well, that has changed. I met someone at the Cannes festival last year. Harlan Williams, an American film producer. I must have mentioned him to you, no?"

"You and Nita." Miranda said. "Love must be in the air."

"No, no, this is business." He chuckled. "Well, it is business now, but who knows? At any rate, Harlan phoned me last week. In Cannes, he had told me of a film he wished to make, here in California. Oh, it sounded wonderful, and with a part for me. Not a starring role,
tu comprends,
but one which—how do you say?—one which pivots. But he could not raise the money he needed. The script was too
artistique, n'est-ce pas?"

"Don't tell me," she said softly. "The money suddenly turned up."

Jean-Phillipe laughed delightedly. "How did you know?"

Miranda's head drooped back against the sofa. "Oh, just a lucky guess."

"My only concern is you,
cherie.
I do not like to leave you alone in Paris with all that has been happening. But with your Mr. O'Neil to watch over you, what is there to worry about?"

"What, indeed?" she said, wished him luck, and gently hung up the phone.

* * *

Sometime during the night, it occurred to her that Liliane, who'd handled her bookings for years, had not called with any assignments in the past few days.

A gust of wind hit the window and fluttered the bedroom drapes. Goose bumps rose on her skin.

Coincidence, nothing more. It was all coincidence, Nita and Jean-Phillipe and the loss of her apartment...

At seven, Miranda showered, dressed, and phoned for a taxi.

* * *

Things were going at the usual frenzied pace at the agency. The waiting room was packed with hopefuls, young and not-so-young, the unknowns and the once-knowns all vying for work. Miranda said a couple of quick hellos, waved at the receptionist, and hurried down the hall to Liliane's cluttered office.

The booker was on the phone when Miranda knocked on the half-open door. She rolled her eyes skyward, pointed at the phone and made a retching motion.

Miranda laughed. "My very sentiments."

Liliane jerked her chin towards a chair. "Sit," she hissed, with her hand over the mouthpiece. A couple of minutes later, she said a sweet
adieu,
followed by a not-so-sweet
merde
as she slammed down the receiver.

"What a pig," she said, and smiled beatifically.
"Ma petite,
I was just about to ring you."

Miranda sighed dramatically and put her hand to her heart.

"What a relief! Considering the way things have been going in my life lately, I was half-convinced I was never going to hear from you again."

Liliane smiled nervously. "There is no need to concern yourself with that. You are much in demand."

But? Miranda waited. The word, unspoken, hung in the air.

"But..." The booker smoothed her hands over her skirt as she stood up and came out from behind her desk. "We had a visit from some man from the government yesterday."

Miranda tried to smile. "He wasn't an elevator inspector, was he?"

Lilian frowned. "No, of course not. Why would you think that?"

"Just a bad joke, sorry. Go on, tell me. What did he want?"

"He said—I know it is a mistake, Miranda, I said so at once." Liliane frowned. "He said that your work permit is no longer valid."

Miranda bolted from her chair. "What? Liliane, don't be silly! My papers are fine!"

"I said as much to him, of course, but I am afraid I can give you no assignments until the matter is clarified." Liliane put her arm around Miranda's waist and walked her to the door. "You must take this up with your embassy. Surely, they can sort it out."

* * *

Surely, they could not.

A round-faced woman whose desk plate identified her as Mrs. Tully assured Miranda in the most pleasant way that her permit had not expired.

"Your modeling agency misunderstood," she said. "The problem is with your visa."

"My visa?"

"I'm afraid so."

"What's wrong with it?"

"I don't know, exactly."

Miranda's eyes narrowed. "Then, send me on to someone who
does
know, exactly."

Mrs. Tully smiled again. Dammit, was she paid to smile or to solve problems for Americans in France?

"We can't do a thing on this end. I'm afraid you'll have to return to the States and reapply."

"Reapply?" Miranda said in disbelief.

"It shouldn't take more than a few weeks to sort things out."

"You're telling me I have to return to America and reapply for a visa that's been perfectly acceptable for years?" Miranda glared at the woman. "That's the stupidest thing I ever heard!"

So much for Mrs. Tully's professional smile. It vanished, as did her unctuous tone.

"The embassy suggests you make arrangements to leave France immediately, Miss Beckman."

"And if I don't?"

"Rules are rules," the woman said stiffly. "I don't make them, I only follow them."

Miranda took a deep breath.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"Where is who?" Mrs. Tully pushed back her chair an inch or two.

"You know who! Where's Conor O'Neil, that no-good, fast-talking, sneaky son of a bitch!"

"Miss Beckman, I must ask you to calm down or I shall be forced to call Security."

"You're all in this together," Miranda said furiously. She leaned over Mrs. Tully's desk. "Well, you can just tell O'Neil that it isn't going to work!"

"Security," Mrs. Tully said in a quavering voice. She picked up her telephone. "Security," she said again, and hit a button, but Miranda was already marching out the door of her office and towards the exit.

"O'Neil," she muttered, and punched open the door, "O'Neil, you bastard!"

A couple walking past the embassy looked at her in surprise as she came down the steps.

"Mademoiselle?"

"You heard me," Miranda said. "Conor O'Neil is a sleazy bastard!"

The man and woman looked at each other.

"L'Americaine, elle est folle,"
the man murmured, his eyebrows lifting.

"I'm not crazy," Miranda shouted to their rapidly retreating backs.

An angry sob caught in her throat. She wasn't. It was Conor who was crazy, thinking he could pull this stuff and get away with it...

Her shoulders slumped. "Damn you, O'Neil," she whispered.

Eight years ago, she had taken a vow. Now, she had no choice but to break it.

Like it or not, she was going home.

Chapter 13