"Miranda? Miranda, dammit, wait."
She could hear him calling after her as she flew toward the door but she didn't stop, didn't pause, didn't look back. Faces turned up to her in surprise; she wondered if they knew who she was or what she was running from.
The truth was, she wasn't sure what she was running from. When you came down to it, what had Conor said that she hadn't encouraged him and everybody else to say or at least to think? Why should she care that he'd looked at her as if she were beneath his contempt?
The cold night air stung her flushed face as she ran out into the street. O'Neil was nothing to her. He was less than nothing. She moved in a world that had no connection to his pathetic ideas about morality.
Dammit, where were all the taxis? There was never a taxi around when you needed one. It didn't matter. Her apartment was only a couple of blocks away. She yanked up the collar of her coat, stuffed her hands into her pockets and started walking.
What a fool she'd been tonight. Rushing into his arms, feeling safe, sitting opposite him in that smoky bar, laughing and talking and forgetting, just for a little while, the real reason he was with her. It was all a lie, what she'd felt—what she'd thought she'd felt—last night, when he'd kissed her and then tonight, when she'd ached for him.
Conor's hand clamped around her elbow.
"Where do you think you're going?" he growled as he swung her towards him.
"Let go of me!"
"Can't you ever manage to think further than the end of your nose? It's dark, it's late, for all you know there's a welcoming committee waiting for you at your apartment. You cannot go home alone."
"Don't give me orders, you bastard! Let go!"
He cursed and his hand locked around her elbow. She yelped but he didn't give a damn, he just lifted her to her toes and quick-marched her into the darkened doorway of a nearby shop. She balled her hand into a fist and swung it towards him but he was expecting it and he caught both her hands in his and locked them against his chest.
"Listen to me, dammit."
"There's nothing you could say I'd want to hear."
"I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean—"
"Save the apology, O'Neil. Just let go."
"When I'm good and ready."
God, how she despised this man! He was a solid wall of muscle, crowding her back against the locked door of the shop. His strength was overpowering and it frightened her.
"Don't manhandle me, you oaf! I don't like it."
"That's no surprise. You don't like much of anything I do," he said, "except for this," and he bent his head and kissed her.
His mouth was hot and hard, and terror swept through her like a flood tide.
"Don't," she said, against his lips, and even though he was almost beyond control, he heard the fear in her voice. The anger, whatever in hell had been driving him, fell away. In its place, he felt a yearning so vast and deep it made him shudder.
"Miranda." She whimpered and tried to twist her face away from his. He caught her face between his hands, his fingers spreading over her cheeks. "Don't be afraid, baby," he whispered. "I won't hurt you. I'd never hurt you."
He kissed her temple, her hair, the soft curve of her cheek. She was trembling; there were tears on her lashes and he tasted their salt as he kissed her closed eyes.
"Miranda," he said, and he put his lips against hers.
She went still in his arms. Then, just when he thought he would have to let her go, she gave a soft cry he knew he would never forget. Her arms slipped around his neck, her lips parted like the petals of a flower and she gave herself up to the kiss.
She tasted warm and sweet, of tears and of Campari, but most of all she tasted of herself and, then, so quickly that it stunned him, she tasted of hot, urgent desire.
He felt his body tighten, his penis thicken and rise, pressing against the softness of her belly. It happened with a swiftness that shocked him. He groaned, knowing he was at the edge of reason, knowing, too, that he couldn't let go of her.
He slid his hands down her back and cupped her bottom, lifting her into him, wanting her to feel him, to know how primitive and urgent was his need. He wanted her, needed her, needed everything she was and everything she could be. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, deepening the kiss, and then he slid his hands under her coat, up over her skin, so hot and silky, and cupped her breasts.
She went rigid in his arms. He felt the change in her even before she jammed her hands against his chest and began to struggle against him.
"No," he said, "Miranda."
But it was over. A sob of such awful desperation burst from her throat that he felt its impact in the marrow of his bones, and she twisted out of his embrace and slipped past him, fleeing into the night.
He stood looking after her, a man lost in a dream of what had almost been. At last, sanity returned. He drew a long breath, pulling the knife-sharp air deep into his lungs. Then he turned up his collar and set out after her, his pace steady, fast enough so he never lost sight of her, slow enough so there was no possibility he'd overtake her.
He stood in the shadows while she unlocked the gate in the courtyard of her apartment building but as she started towards the front door, he came up behind her. She swung towards him, her eyes as bright and wide as a cat's.
"Get away from me, O'Neil." Her voice was steady and cold. "Or I'll kick you where it hurts."
He smiled at that. He'd almost forgotten all the fancy moves she'd laid on him the other night.
"You won't have to," he said. "I'm just going to see you, to your door."
"Not in this lifetime."
She meant every word, he was sure of it. After a minute, he nodded.
"We'll compromise," he said. "You give me your keys, wait in the lobby while I check out your apartment."
Her chin lifted. In the faint light cast by the street lamp, he thought he saw a faint glitter of moisture in her eyes.
"You really expect me to trust you?"
Her words dripped contempt and he knew he deserved every bit of it, but he showed nothing.
"I'm all you've got," he said.
He saw her mouth tremble. Then she unlocked the door that led into the lobby. They stepped inside. Wordlessly, she dropped her keys into his outstretched hand.
Moments later, he rode down in the elevator.
"Everything's fine," he said. "I turned on a lamp in the living room. Switch it off, then on again once you've locked the door after you."
Miranda took her keys from him and got into the elevator. He waited until he heard the ancient mechanism groan to a stop. Then he went out to the street and looked up at her windows.
The light he'd left burning went out, then came back on. She was safe. He had done his job.
Conor turned his back on the lamp's glow and walked off into the night.
Chapter 10
Nita Carrington tucked back one corner of the crimson velvet drapes that covered the windows of her salon and peeked out at the street.
What a strange winter this was turning out to be. It hardly ever snowed in Paris but a light snow was falling again tonight, etching the winter-bare branches of the Tuileries Gardens with lace.
And, as she'd half-expected, there was Conor O'Neil's car, just pulling up across the way. The car, and the man, had become equally recognizable over the last few days.
He was persistent, she had to give him that. It was sure going to be interesting, seeing Miranda's reaction when she discovered him waiting out there.
Right now, Miranda was still in the bathroom, getting dressed. The two of them had come here after the Dior showing, Miranda hoping O'Neil would lose her trail so that she'd be able to shake him for the evening.
Uh-uh, Nita thought. "No such luck, girlfriend," she said softly.
Miranda was going to be royally pissed off but that wouldn't be anything new. She'd been hissing like a cat for days, ever since Mr. Conor O'Neil had come strutting onto the scene. Darned if she would hiss, if O'Nei
l turned his attention to her. Not that she had any hopes, even if he knew she was between men. O'Neil was single-minded; he had eyes for nobody but Miranda, although Miranda insisted it was all business.
Sighing, Nita let the drapes fall back into place. Maybe she'd meet somebody at the party tonight. Lord knew she was ready, not just for a new lover but for something different. Everything seemed boring lately. Paris, the showings, even this room.
It was a stunner, especially if you were into gilt cherubs and red velvet, which she had been a couple of years ago. The guy who'd designed it for her had kissed his fingertips and pronounced it the best thing he'd ever done. Nita had figured the best thing he'd ever done was probably some leather-freak with a shaved skull but she got the general message. And he'd been one hundred percent right.
The room was spectacular, kind of over-the-top rococo meets braggadocio baroque with maybe some high-priced brothel tossed in for good measure. Her southern ancestors would spin in their graves if they'd seen it, but Marie Antoinette would have been thrilled. Nita had been, too, but now the look was wearing thin.
Oh yes, she thought, plucking a pair of ruby earrings the size of hummingbird eggs from the table and screwing them into her ear lobes, it was definitely time for something new. Something along the lines of what Miranda had done with her place, all whites and beiges and blacks, lots of indirect lighting and simple lines.
Nita fastened a ruby choker around her long, cafe au lait neck and slipped a matching bracelet on her wrist. She could still remember the first time she'd seen Miranda's apartment, how surprised she'd been by the laid-back, almost Spartan design which just didn't suit Miranda's party-girl image. But as the friendship had grown, she'd begun to think that maybe the decor wasn't so out of sync, after all.
Crazy as it seemed, she suspected the inner Miranda might not have a whole lot in common with the outer one.
A pair of red sequined sandals with skinny four-inch heels sat on top of a scarlet-covered chair. Nita tried not to wobble as she stepped into them.
How could you be friends with somebody all this time and still have the weird feeling that you didn't really know her? This thing Miranda had going with Jean-Phillipe, for instance. Nita walked to a gilt-framed mirror on the far wall, her steps tiny and mincing to accommodate the figure-hugging lines of her ankle-length, red jersey gown. He was always sending Miranda flowers and hugging her and she was always hanging on to him and sighing, but for all of that, there was something missing. Nita couldn't put her finger on it but she'd sensed it right away, from the time so long ago when the friendship between Miranda and Jean-Phillipe had suddenly seemed to turn into a hot-ticket item.
"You really gettin' it on with the Frenchman?" Nita had asked, deliberately couching the question in her phoniest down-home drawl.
Miranda had laughed and said yes, of course she was—but there'd been a couple of seconds when her eyes had said something else.
Now, with Conor O'Neil in the picture, Nita was more puzzled than ever. Miranda was blunt about disliking the guy but anybody with a functioning brain could tell that the temperature went up a couple of hundred degrees whenever he came near her. He was an investigator, Miranda had said, making a face; she said there'd been some trouble at her apartment and some similar stuff involving her mother in New York, that her mother had bought and paid for O'Neil to play bodyguard until it was cleared up, and that he was about as welcome in her life as the plague.
"Mmm-mmm-mmm," Nita had said with a sexy grin, "that man can guard my body any time he wants."
Miranda hadn't even cracked a smile.
"That's only because you haven't had to deal with him. O'Neil is a thickheaded, chauvinistic, egotistical, judgmental—"
"Sounds good so far," Nita had answered, batting her lashes.
"He's a bully with an over-active libido," Miranda had snapped, "and the quicker he's out of my life, the better."
Miranda had spent the last few days trying to lose him, but O'Neil stuck like Crazy Glue.
Sooner or later, you just knew there were going to be old-fashioned, Fourth of July fireworks between those two.
"Nita?" Miranda's voice floated out from the bathroom. "Is our cab here yet?"
Nita went to the window again. The snow had stopped and a full, perfect moon had risen. A cab was just pulling up to the door... and there, across the road, Conor stood leaning against his car, arms folded.
She whistled soundlessly through her teeth. What a gorgeous man he was, with that tough-but-beautiful face and that terrific body. He was all gussied up, too, in a black tux that showed off all his assets—the wide shoulders, the broad chest, the narrow waist and hips and those long, very masculine legs.
"Well? Is it here?"
Nita cleared her throat.
"Yeah. It is. You ready?"
Miranda stepped into the room. One look, and Nita knew that she'd definitely had it with crimson and gilt.
Miranda was a study in simplicity. Her gown was a long, demure column of heavy white silk but Nita had seen her model it at the showing; she knew that its innocent appearance was an illusion. The silk would take on the warmth of Miranda's body and, as she walked, it would cling to her breasts, her hips, her legs. Even the neckline wasn't what it at first seemed; it was high in the front but it dipped to the base of her spine in the back. Her hair was loose, drawn back from her face with a pair of antique silver combs. The only other hewelry she wore were the silver slave bracelets that adorned her wrists.
"How do I look?" she asked.
Nita smiled. "Like the Fourth of July."
"Huh?"
Nita strutted across the room and plucked her sable cape from where it lay across a red velvet chair.
"Trust me," she said. "It's gonna be an interesting evening."
* * *
The party, given by a Prince Something of Somewhere in celebration of Fashion Week, was in one of Paris' s most elegant hotels. Everyone who'd been invited had accepted, for this was the party to attend, and virtually each guest had brought along others who had not been asked. There was a certain cachet in making it look as if you were such a close friend of the prince's that you could simply invite your house guests or visiting business associates to his party.
The prince didn't mind. Tomorrow, blogs and society column headlines in the tabloids on several continents would mention his name and that of his latest trophy wife, a woman half his age who had made her name as Miss October in Penthouse magazine.
The hotel minded, but only a little. Things were crowded, it was true, and the head chef was screaming at the sous-chefs, who were frantically re-doubling everything they'd prepared for the buffet tables, but tomorrow the hotel's name and photographs of the glittering ballroom would appear everywhere.
Miranda, trapped by the fast-talking owner of a big-time New York modeling agency, had just about decided she was the only person in the entire place who was not having a wonderful time.
"...marvelous opportunities for your career, dear girl. If I could just have a few minutes of your time..."
Even Nita, who'd agreed the much-ballyhooed party would probably be boring, boring, boring, had deserted her.
"You remember some old song about seein' your true love across a crowded room?" she'd said under her breath and headed, straight as an arrow, for a tall, skinny guy who looked as if he'd staked out a permanent location near one of the buffet tables.
"...is right for this absolutely incredible career move. And you have my assurance..."
The noise level was awful, an inevitable result of the conversational buzz of several hundred people vying for contention with the shrieks of the latest rap group blasting over the sound system.
"...do you think? Or perhaps you have some questions you'd like me to answer?"
Miranda blinked, looked at the man who'd been talking her ear off, and tried to figure out what, precisely, he'd been saying.
"No," she said, "I, ah, I can't think of any."
"I assu
re you, Miss Beckman, this is the perfect time for you to take your career to the States."
"The States? Is that what..." She smiled politely. "I'm sorry, but I'm not interested in working in the States, Mr.—Mr....?"
"Stone. Brian Stone. Call me Brian, please. And I do wish you'd reconsider."
"Brian, I really don't want to talk business tonight. Why don't you give me your card and I'll be in touch."
"Well, of course, but I do want to make a couple of points. As I was saying, you have my assurance..."
Miranda felt her smile stretching her lips. The only assurance she wanted right now was that she could get out of here, and soon.
Nita had said tonight was going to be interesting and she'd hoped that would turn out to be true. Maybe a splashy party with too much champagne and too many people would improve her mood.
Not so far, it hadn't.
She was bored. No, it was more than that. She was... what was the word? Disconnected, as if she were watching everything going on around her from a distance.
Nita, who'd inched by a couple of minutes ago with the intense-looking stranger in tow, had picked up on it right away.
"Smile, girlfriend," she'd whispered. "You look like Dr. Phil taking notes in a divorce court."
That was a perfect description of how she felt. She was observing, not participating, and the things she saw and heard struck her as dull and pointless and even silly.
Darling, you look fabulous. You've gained a little weight, haven't you, but it's so becoming!
Did you see Lana? Such a stunning woman. I wonder, who's her plastic surgeon?
I couldn't decide between the Bulgari and the Cartier, so Teddy bought them both. A woman can never have too many diamond necklaces, I always say.
Silly. And boring, especially in a world so filled with disaster and trouble. It was how she'd felt years ago, when she'd first gained admission to this much-vaunted circle. What had happened? How could she have forgotten?
If only Jean-Phillipe were here. She could say anything to him, that the blonde in silver sequins looked as if she'd had cantaloupes implanted in her breasts, that the fat German playwright over near the bar seemed to have put his hairpiece on backwards. But Jean-Phillipe was on the Cote d'Azur. He'd been there all week. His movie had wrapped, as expected, but the director had decided he needed to re-shoot the ending.
Until You Page 18
