Until You

by Sandra Marton

  And the people. Conor had never seen anything like this mob. There were fat women. Skinny women. Young ones and old ones. There were men, too, most of them garbed in tight black leather and draped with enough chains to outfit an Alabama work gang.

  What in hell were all these people doing? Racing around in circles, from what he could tell.

  How would he locate Miranda Beckman in this crowd? He'd assumed it would be easy enough, considering that he'd seen her portrait and that he had a photo of her in his pocket.

  How wrong could a man be?

  It wasn't that he couldn't pick out the models. They were the only people not rushing around in a frenzy. They were draped languidly in chairs or perched on stools, looking bored while the men and women buzzing around like bees made up their faces and their hair.

  It was just that they all looked alike.

  The girls who'd already been fixed up all had faces powdered white, eyes outlined in black and mouths painted into blood-red pouts. The ones who hadn't were almost as impossible to tell apart with their elegant bones, wide-set eyes, swan-like necks and long, slim bodies.

  Conor breathed a sigh of relief. The room was filled with Mirandas. He knew now, for certain, that there was nothing special about her.

  Slowly, he made his way into their midst. He hadn't seen this much carelessly exposed female flesh at one time since a long-ago weekend at Columbia, when he and half a dozen drunk fraternity brothers had burst into the women's locker room on a dare. He'd been too bombed to fully appreciate the sight then and hell, he wasn't really appreciating it now, either. Maybe it was the atmosphere, or maybe it was the bored, vapid looks on the women's faces, but the view just wasn't a turn-on.

  "Regardez!"

  Conor jumped back as a trolley loaded with black wigs raced towards him.

  "Pardon," he mumbled.

  He made the same apology another half a dozen times before he finally gave up. Nobody heard him and even if they did, nobody cared. And yet, things weren't as frenzied as he'd thought. There was an order in the insanity. Clothing was here, makeup tables were there...

  Oh, hell!

  There she was. She was sitting on one of the stools, wearing a blue smock that fell to mid-calf. Her back was straight, her hands were folded in her lap, and her face was tilted towards the man who was painting it.

  Conor told himself it was plain luck he'd been able to pick her out. He told himself it was just a trick of the light that made her look different. He told himself there was nothing special about her.

  Hell, he thought again, and let out his breath. What was the sense in lying to himself?

  Miranda Beckman's beauty shone as brightly as the sun.

  * * *

  Miranda was trying her best not to tick Claude off.

  He wasn't in a good mood today but then, he never was. Claude had the temperament of an artiste, people said. Personally, she thought he had the temperament of a barracuda but there was no point in pretending that he wasn't the best makeup-artist this side of the Atlantic. Rumor was that Jacques had paid him a fortune and a half to agree to design the maquillage for this showing of summer couture and to agree that he'd personally do the faces of the top girls.

  Claude himself had made it clear he wouldn't tolerate any nonsense.

  "If you come to the Master with bags under the eyes," his assistant, Françoise, had warned, "or if you do not sit absolutely still while the Master works, he will dismiss you, poof, just like that!"

  Well, Miranda thought, she had come to the Master with bags, thanks to the party Jean-Philippe had taken her to last night. She'd danced and laughed and drunk champagne until the small hours of the morning, all in honor of the Sultan of Something-of-Other who'd been celebrating his birthday, or maybe the birthday of one of his three wives. Jean-Phillipe hadn't been certain, he'd only known that he absolutely had to attend—which meant that she had to attend with him.

  "I am lost without you, cherie," he'd murmured when he'd shown up to ask her to go to the party during yesterday's run-through and Nita, who'd overheard, had rolled her eyes and said, in a honeyed drawl that was as phony as Claude's lineage, that if le sex pot movie star of la belle France were to say such a thing to her, she'd be his slave forever.

  Miranda smiled. Nita had nothing on her. She was more than willing to do anything Jean-Philippe wanted, and for the rest of her life. He was wonderful. He was everything...

  And he wasn't here.

  He'd promised he would be. He knew she never did a show without him in the audience to cheer her on, right from the beginning, all those years ago when she'd done her first pret a porter and one of the other girls had almost had to shove her out onto the catwalk.

  "Stop moving," Claude snapped. "How will I disguise these bags beneath your eyes, mademoiselle, if you do not sit still?"

  Miranda complied. She was getting a crick in her neck, thanks to the angle he'd demanded she hold her head. But at least he hadn't done as Françoise had threatened. He wasn't about to dismiss her, poof, just like that, not while she was still at the top of the heap along with Jacques Diderot's crazy, and crazily expensive, designs. Not even Claude was foolish enough to distance himself from so much success—but he could damned well screw up her makeup. She'd seen it happen before, the brush stroke that went just a little off, the color shade a bit too dark.

  Claude drew back and glared at her again and she realized she must have moved, or twitched, or maybe just breathed too hard. Heaven knew she was trying not to breathe at all because Claude was exhaling clouds of garlic and red wine straight into her face.

  "I am almost fini," he snapped, "and although you are not deserving of it, I have made you my masterpiece, Miranda. Do what you must to keep entirely still for a moment longer, if you please."

  "Do what you must to get done," Miranda said, without moving her lips. "I mean," she said, when he glared at her again, "I am very grateful, Claude, but my neck is getting stiff."

  "Kohl," Claude snapped, and held out his hand. Françoise slapped a pencil into his palm. "Brush." She slapped that into his other hand. The Master bent closer to his canvas and Miranda held her breath. "Your neck is a small price to pay for my genius, mademoiselle. Look up. Look down. Now, look to the side. No, do not turn to the side, you stupid girl, look to the side. The eyes move, nothing else. You understand?"

  "Umm," she said, and did as he'd asked...

  And saw the man.

  Who was he?

  Why was he staring at her?

  She didn't know him. She had never even seen him before. She was certain of that, even though she couldn't really get a clear view of him. Her head and eyes were at a strange angle and he was too far away. Still, she knew he was watching her, she could feel it, and with such intensity that it sent a funny feeling up her spine.

  She scowled, trying to bring him into focus. Claude let loose with a blistering string of obscenities in a breathtaking mélange of languages.

  "Qu'est-ce que tu fous?" he said furiously. "What the hell are you doing, you stupid girl? Would you like me to stop? I can leave you this way, if you wish, with your left eye only half-finished!"

  Miranda shook her head the slightest bit.

  "Look at me, then, and do not move."

  She did as he'd ordered. Long moments passed and then Claude tossed the brush at Françoise, put his hands on his hips and stepped back.

  "I have done you," he announced.

  Nita Carrington, seated on the stool next to Miranda's, gave a throaty laugh.

  "Not on your best day, Claude, baby," she said. "Miranda and I don't give no pity-fucks, isn't that right, girlfriend?"

  Claude drew himself up to his full five feet two inches.

  "Françoise will do your face, Mademoiselle Carrington," he said coldly, and marched away.

  "Françoise was gonna do me anyhow, weren't you, sweetness?" Nita said. She sat up straight and tilted her face towards Claude's sour-faced assistant. "Go on, girl. Do your worst."

>   Françoise set to work. Miranda waited a minute, then slid her gaze sidewards.

  The man was still there.

  "Nita," she hissed.

  "Hmm?"

  "Can you see the stage?"

  "A little bit of it. Why?"

  "Who's that man?"

  "What man?"

  "The one near the stage, dammit! Aren't you listening to me?"

  Nita shifted her gaze. "I don't see nobody."

  "What do you mean, you don't see anybody? You can't miss him."

  "Mademoiselle," Frangoise said petulantly, "if you move..."

  "Nita, try again. See? The guy in the tweed jacket?"

  "The guy in the what?" Nita bit back a giggle. "What are you flyin' on, girlfriend? Ain't nobody here gonna be wearin' a tweed jacket."

  "This man is," Miranda said impatiently, "and do me a favor and ease off the down home talk, okay? There's nobody around to appreciate it."

  "Says who?" Nita slipped into perfect upper-class American diction. "Besides, I have to keep in practice. In these parts, 'down home' is lots more exotic than Ivy League. Haven't you ever heard of Josephine Baker?"

  "Haven't you ever heard of Condoleezza Rice? Why's he watching me?"

  "Condoleezza?"

  "Nita, I'm warning you—"

  "Come on, Miranda. There's a guy watching you. So what?"

  "He hasn't just been watching. He's been staring."

  "Everybody stares at you. You'd be collecting unemployment if they didn't. What's with you? I'm the one gets the jitters right about now, not you."

  Miranda took a deep breath. Nita was right. She never got edgy before she went out on the catwalk, not since the first time. As for people watching... so what? Nita was right about that, too. She was paid to let people watch her.

  Why was she getting antsy because this one guy was looking?

  Maybe it was the way he was watching her. As if he was some kind of scientist and she was a bug he'd never seen before. This wasn't the long, hungry look that went with the territory of her profession. This was... different.

  Françoise dusted a powder puff over Nita's face and then stepped back, hands on her hips, in a perfect, if unconscious, parody of her boss.

  "Et voila," she said, "you are done."

  "And so are you," Nita said, slipping off the stool and turning to a mirror behind her, "if I don't look fantastic." She peered at her reflection. "Good God almighty, I look like somethin' that would make the Ku Klux Klan fire up another cross!"

  Miranda laughed. "Wait until you put on your wig," she said, "and then... Shit!"

  "Oh, come on. It's not that bad."

  "He's heading this way."

  "Claude?"

  "That man."

  "What man?"

  "Nita, dammit all, I am not in the mood for—"

  "Wow. You were right. The guy's wearing a tweed jacket."

  "Told you so."

  "And he's heading straight for us," Nita whispered. "Straight for you, anyway. My oh my, I have seen intensity before, girlfriend, but not like this! He hasn't even blinked."

  Miranda would have known that without Nita telling her. She could feel the stranger's gaze still locked onto her.

  "Maybe he wants my autograph."

  "Uh-uh. Man's not into autographs, babe, trust me." Nita's voice dropped dramatically. "You sure you don't know him?"

  "Positive."

  "And no wonder, considering he's wearing tweed. On the other hand, even I might make an exception about tweed for a guy looks like this one. Bet he's got muscles where a man should have muscles, if you know what—"

  "Miss Beckman?"

  He had a good voice, Miranda thought, she had to give him that, deep and just a little husky.

  "Excuse me, Miss Beckman, do you have a minute?"

  And he was polite, too. Then, why was it so hard to turn around? Stop being an ass, Miranda told herself, and she swung towards him.

  He was tall, that was her first thought, tall enough so she'd probably have had to look up at him even if she'd been on her feet and wearing heels. Not many men could meet that qualification. And he was good-looking, as Nita had said, if you went in for the rugged type. Broad shoulders beneath that oh-so-proper grey tweed jacket. Good chest, narrow waist and long legs.

  The rest wasn't bad, either. Black hair, thickly lashed blue eyes, a nose that looked as if it had once taken on a bit of trouble, a wide mouth set above a square, cleft chin. The camera would probably love him, except for the cold, cold look in those eyes.

  Why was he looking at her that way, as if he'd seen her somewhere before and wasn't quite sure if they'd parted as friends or enemies? Nita was wrong. His interest in her wasn't sexual. His gaze was steady and cool, maybe even a little mocking. He was looking at her in a way men never did, and she didn't like it.

  "How do you do, Miss Beckman?" he said. He held out his hand. "My name is Conor O'Neil."

  Miranda looked pointedly at his outstretched hand. Then she looked at him.

  "How nice for you," she said coolly. She heard Nita swallow a giggle.

  His hand dropped to his side. She could see the swift flash of anger in his eyes but his tone remained polite.

  "Can you give me a few minutes?"

  "I don't give interviews, Mr....?"

  "O'Neil. Conor O'Neil."

  "Oh yes, you already told me your name, didn't you?" Miranda leaned forward, peered into the mirror behind Nita and touched the tip of one finger to her lips. "Well, as I said, I don't give—"

  "I'm not a reporter."

  "Really," she said, the single word making it clear she didn't care what he was. "Well, then, if you've come for an autograph—"

  "I don't want an autograph, either."

  His voice was tight now. Good. The balance of power was shifting.

  "I'm glad to hear it, Mr... O'Neil, did you say? Because if you did, want an autograph, I mean, you'd have to stop by and see Annick—she's that woman over there, do you see her?—and tell her to give you a signed photo."

  "I just told you," he said through his teeth, "I'm not interested in an autograph."

  Miranda looked at him. "No?"

  "No."

  "What are you doing here, then? For that matter, how did you get in? No one's permitted backstage, Mr—Mr—"

  "O'Neil," he growled. "O-apostrophe-N-E-I-L. Is that too difficult for you to remember?"

  Nita laughed out loud. Miranda looked at her and smiled. Then she turned her back on Conor O'Neil.

  "So," she said to Nita, "what do you think? Should we go to that party after the showing or... hey! Hey, what do you think you're doing?"

  Conor's hand had closed tightly on her shoulder. He swung her towards him, fighting to control his temper.

  "Maybe that act works with clowns like the guy who was painting your face," he said. His voice was soft and cold and as hard as the press of his hand. "Maybe it works with all the other monkeys who swing around after you."

  "Let go of me!"

  Conor's fingers bit into her flesh. "But I promise you, Miss Beckman, it sure as hell isn't going to work with me."

  He took his hand from her shoulder and watched her face. It was hard to read, under all that gook, but she was shaken, he could tell. Well, hell, he was shaken, too. Losing control was never a good idea but who could blame him? Even from across the room, he'd known when she'd become aware of him and known, too, how readily she'd dismissed him as a man beneath her notice.

  It was one thing to be treated rudely but to be treated as if he were something messy Miranda Beckman had found on the bottom of her shoe was something else again.

  She was beautiful, yes, and beyond his wildest imaginings. She was also everything he'd been told she was, and more. Aloof, spoiled, self-centered, and with one hell of an attitude.

  No wonder nobody had a decent word to say about her.

  The fat little man with the paunch had painted her face so she looked like a cross between Morticia Addams and the bri
de of Frankenstein. Close-up, he could see that her mouth was outlined in black and filled in with a red that reminded him of blood. Her green eyes had been so heavily circled with something that looked like ink that he could hardly see their true color. Her hair had been pinned back, probably so she could wear one of the ugly black wigs he'd seen piled on the cart that had almost run him down.

  And yet, for all of that, her natural beauty managed to show through—on the outside, anyway.

  A memory flashed into his head. One Christmas when he'd been little, maybe a year or two before his mother died, she'd taken him to Fifth Avenue to see the sights. Though they lived in the city, this part of it was as foreign to him as China would have been.

  The animated displays in the Lord and Taylor windows had enchanted him, and he'd grown wide-eyed at the Santas on every street-corner, but what had sent his heart soaring had been the beautiful Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.

  When the cold had gotten to be too much, his mother had dragged him away only by promising she'd take him to Macy's, where he could pick out a special decoration for their own tree but when they got into the store, Conor had taken one look at the white trees hung with gold and silver balls that decorated the place and announced, with perfect childish logic that he didn't want a decoration from a tree, he wanted one of the trees themselves.

  He'd pleaded. He'd argued. He'd almost wept, though his father had already taught him that little boys never cried. But his mother kept saying he couldn't have one and finally, he'd sat down cross-legged on the floor beneath the biggest white tree and refused to move.

  Angry, embarrassed, his mother had swept him up into her arms to carry him off. Desperate, Conor had reached out and grabbed the white Christmas tree...

  And discovered the truth.

  The tree, beautiful beyond his wildest dreams, wasn't real. It was gilt and tinsel, straight through to its phony core.

  He remembered his disappointment. "You should have told me," he kept saying to his mother, and his mother had given up her scolding, held him close and said if she had, he'd never have believed her.

  Twenty-eight years later, he was older but not smarter. People had told him what to expect of Miranda Beckman, but he knew that he hadn't really believed them.