"Well, then," she said, "it's a good thing you decided to wear a tux tonight."
"I didn't think you'd noticed."
"I'd have noticed if you hadn't. After all, tuxedos were the uniform of the evening." But not every man who'd been at the party had looked the way Conor did, in his tux. So handsome, so magnificently male. A light rush of pink beat up into her cheeks and she moved, putting a little distance between them. "You were right," she said briskly. "I feel much better now."
"Good." His arm tightened around her, bringing her back where she belonged. "All you need now is something to eat."
"No. Oh, no. Thank you, but—"
Protest was useless. He was already leading her under a minuscule awning and through a doorway.
"Ah, Monsieur O'Neil, how good to see you again."
A round little man with a bristling mustache bustled up. Conor was known here; that was obvious. He rated everything but a kiss on each cheek which, Miranda thought with a smile, was probably a good thing.
The bistro was tiny, perhaps a dozen tables, all of them filled. The air was redolent with the earthy scent of garlic and good wine. Guitar music, bluesy and soft, drifted through the room. She knew in a heartbeat that the food, the service, and the ambience would all be wonderful.
Paris was crowded with little places like this; how could she have forgotten? The French took great joy in searching out the next candidate for a Michelin star. Once upon a time, she had, too.
It was one more thing that had changed about her, but when?
"Miranda?"
She looked up at Conor, who smiled.
"This is Maurice. He commands the best kitchen in all of Paris."
Maurice grinned. "Well, perhaps Taillevent is the best,
n 'est-ce pas, but who knows?" He took Miranda's hand and brought it to his lips. If her face was familiar, he didn't let on; he simply made some gallant Gallic, remark about her beauty before he led them down a narrow, twisting staircase which opened onto a handsome room with old brick walls and a scarred wooden floor. Small round tables, dressed in heavy white linen napery, bore centerpieces of flowers and candles. In a tucked-away corner, a man sat on a high stool, softly strumming a guitar.
"Everything's delicious," Conor said, as he and Miranda sat down at a table set for two. "The pot au feu, the coq au vin, the saucisson..." He smiled. "But if you want to win Maurice's heart, let him order for us."
"Really, I'm not terribly hungry."
"Tell that to Maurice."
Miranda looked at the little man standing beside the table, his face wreathed in lines of smiling anticipation, and she sighed.
"I'm in his hands," she said.
Conor grinned. "There's no safer place to be."
* * *
Maurice served their meal himself. Onion soup came first, covered with a thick cheese crust.
Miranda apologized again, as she picked up her spoon.
"I never eat much after seven in the evening," she said, "it's become habit, since I started modeling. It's bad for my weight."
"A couple of pounds more would do you good."
"The camera doesn't agree, but I'll try to eat a little of everything—to please Maurice."
Four courses later, as the busboy whisked away yet another empty plate, she sat back and groaned.
"I'll never forgive you for this, O'Neil. I have two showings tomorrow and I won't be able to fit into anything."
Conor's grin was smugly male. "Great stuff, huh?"
"Stuffed's what I am, right to the gills. I cannot believe I ate all that!"
"Maurice and I are proud of you."
"Tell that to the dressers tomorrow, when they're trying to shoehorn me into those size twos."
"Exercise, that's what you need."
"Too late. Not even walking all the way home will help me now."
"A few turns around the dance floor might."
Miranda laughed. "What dance floor?"
"Well, there's a couple of feet of empty space right over there. See?"
Some of the tables had emptied and they'd been pushed against the wall, their chairs stacked on top of them. A handful of couples were swaying to the plaintive sigh of the guitar in the center of something only a philatelist would have called a dance floor.
Miranda looked at the dancers, at how close they were in each other's arms.
"No." She heard the sudden breathlessness in her voice, swallowed hard and forced herself to smile. "I mean, it's really getting terribly late. I have an early call in the morning and I can't afford to look tired."
"No excuses, Beckman," Conor said sternly. He took her hand and tugged her gently to her feet. "Have I mentioned the strain you're putting on the seams of that gown?"
She laughed. "That's not fair," she said as she went into his arms—and in that heart-stopping moment, everything changed.
The postage-stamp bit of space that Conor had called a dance floor, the music, the soft clink of cutlery and glasses faded away. She felt as she had years before, when she'd been walking a craggy beach in Maine and a storm had swept in from the sea.
The air had thickened, and jagged fingers of lightning had sizzled against the rapidly darkening sky. The ocean, moments before a gentle swell of grey, had turned into a white-frothed behemoth that threatened to consume her. It had been a moment filled with heart-stopping danger. She'd known that she should run for safety but what was safety compared to the excitement and power of the storm?
Conor's arms tightened around her. He said her name and when she looked into his eyes, she knew that whatever was happening to her was happening to him, too.
Her pulse quickened. Run, she told herself, run and don't look back.
But she couldn't run. She couldn't move, except to slide her hands up Conor's chest and link them behind his neck.
One of his hands cupped her head, his fingers threading into her hair as he brought it to his chest, while the other slid down her back, hot against her naked skin, and drew her hips against him.
Miranda closed her eyes. She was adrift in sensation, the steady beat of Conor's heart, the silken brush of his fingers, the warmth of his breath against her temple.
It was as if they were alone in the universe, floating on the soft whisper of the guitar. Conor began moving, swaying to the magic of the music, and she melted into his embrace, every inch of her body sensitized to his. She sighed with pleasure and he drew her even closer, so that they were almost moving and breathing as one.
"Conor," she said unsteadily.
"Hush," he whispered, "it's all right, baby, I understand."
He couldn't. He didn't. There was no way he could understand because she didn't understand. Something was happening, and it was all wrong. Reality had turned upside down.
She wasn't the one who should be breathing erratically, whose legs threatened to give way and whose heart was racing like a runaway train. That was supposed to be him. She was always in control with men. Always. That was the pleasure of it, the knowledge that she set the rules and the pace, that she had the power to turn it all off any time she wanted.
And she hadn't lost that power. Why would she? It was Conor's fault this was happening. She'd had a scare, he'd sensed her vulnerability and now he was making the most of it.
She stiffened and put her hands against his chest.
"That's enough," she said.
His hand closed over hers. "You know it isn't." His voice was soft, as warm and thick as honey. "Come back into my arms and let me hold you."
She wanted to, oh yes, she wanted to...
"No," she said sharply.
"Baby—"
"I'm not your baby. I'm not your anything. You're here at Eva's request and on my sufferance, and you'd better not forget it."
She saw the stunned look on his face, then the flash of something, anger, maybe even hurt, in his eyes.
She spun away from him, moving quickly, snatching up her cape and purse, lying up the stairs, through the restauran
t and out the door.
Conor caught up to her at the curb, just as she was hailing a cab and swung her towards him. The smokiness was gone from his eyes. Now, they blazed with tightly repressed anger.
"What the hell is the matter with you?"
"Let go of my arm, please."
A muscle flexed in his jaw. He reached past her and yanked open the taxi door.
"Get in," he growled, and when she didn't move fast enough, he propelled her inside the cab. Then he climbed in after her and gave the driver her address.
She expected—what? Anger? Recriminations? A speech? But they made the ride to her apartment in silence. The taxi pulled up outside the gated courtyard and she flung open the door and got out.
Conor was right behind her.
"Keys," he said, and held out his hand.
She opened her mouth to protest, but decided against it. Arguing with him was useless, and she knew it. Besides, the thought of crossing the dark courtyard alone tonight wasn't pleasant. Eva was undoubtedly paying him well for his time. He might as well do his job.
She handed the keys to him, waited while he paid the driver. He reached for her arm but she shrugged off his hand.
"Have it your way," he muttered, and they marched through the gate, then through the heavy front door and to Madame Delain's vacant desk. Miranda turned around.
"Thank you for the guard service." Her tone was polite but removed. "I'll switch the light on and off in the living room, the way I did last night."
Conor yanked open the elevator door and pushed her inside. "Last night," he said grimly, "you hadn't had your little chat with Vincent Moratelli."
Her skin prickled as she remembered the threat. The elevator lurched to life, rose slowly, then groaned to a stop.
"Out," Conor growled and she obeyed. He unlocked the door to her apartment. When it swung open, she held out her hand for her key.
"Good night, O'Neil."
He took her arm, prodded her inside, then closed and locked the door. Miranda's stomach lurched, with a combination of fear and something else.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" He tossed her keys on the table, unbuttoned the jacket of his tuxedo and slipped it off.
Mia came hurrying into the foyer, meowing plaintively, and wound around Miranda's ankles. She bent down, scooped the cat into her arms and faced Conor with defiant calm.
"If you think that little dance rates you a berth for the night, think again."
"Sorry, Beckman. I know it'll disappoint you to hear this but I'm just not into babes who get their kicks out of games like yours." He took the studs out of his cuffs, dropped them beside the keys, and rolled up his sleeves. "I'm staying the night, but it's strictly business."
"You are not staying the night!"
"Is that sofa as uncomfortable as it looks?"
"Maybe you didn't hear what I said. You are not... Where are you going?"
"I'm going to get myself a blanket and a pillow. Is that a linen closet?"
"Damn you, O'Neil!"
"Don't argue with me, Beckman." He turned and looked at her, and her breath caught at what she saw in his eyes. "If we play any more games tonight, we'll play them by my rules."
Color washed into her face. She put down the Siamese, marched past him, pulled open the door to the linen closet and hurled a blanket, pillow and bedding in his direction.
"Ever the gracious hostess," he said wryly.
"Ever the unwanted guest. Just so you know, the sofa sags and your feet are going to hang off the end. Oh, and the temperature in the living room bottoms out sometime around dawn."
"Thanks for the warning."
"Warning?" She folded her arms and flashed a smile that reminded him that the cat at her feet wasn't the only creature here with sharp claws. "I'm simply making sure you know in advance that you're in for a long and miserable night. Which reminds me... if I even think I hear you outside my bedroom door, I'll scream the house down."
"I told you, Beckman, you're not my type." Conor gave her a chilly smile across the armful of bedding. "But for the record, the only screaming my women do is when they beg for more."
"In your dreams, O'Neil."
She could still hear the sound of his soft laughter after she'd stalked into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.
Chapter 11
Conor lay on the too-narrow, too-short, lumpy-as-cold-oatmeal sofa, glowering into the darkness.
He'd certainly made an ass of himself tonight.
His scowl deepened.
The truth was, he'd been working overtime at making an ass out of himself ever since his size elevens had touched down on the soil of la belle France.
What was it about Miranda Beckman that turned him into such a jerk? He'd made enough mistakes in his personal life to fill a bank vault but one thing had always been certain: he was good at his job. He had been, from the day he'd walked away from his father, trading the old man's iron-fisted, because-I-said-so version of law and order for the clearly defined rules of first the army and then the Committee.
You had an assignment, you did it. And by the book. No bull, no second-guessing, no useless expending of emotional energy. You went in, you did what you were supposed to do, and you got out. You didn't get involved.
So what in hell had he been doing, coming on to Miranda?
"Making an ass of yourself, O'Neil," he muttered, "that's what."
He rolled onto his back, almost tumbling off the damn sofa in the process, and linked his hands beneath his head.
Every instinct he possessed told him it was time to terminate this assignment. Telephone Harry, bring him up to date on the stuff that had been tucked under Miranda's door—and then make it clear he was coming home.
He'd done the preliminaries. Let somebody else take it from here.
It was just that he'd never walked out in the middle of an assignment before.
Give it a break, O'Neil.
This wasn't the Boy Scouts. He wasn't going to earn a merit badge for hanging in. He wanted out, and out he'd go.
"Mrrow?"
A hot, furry weight, its paws tipped with what felt like a hundred razor-sharp talons, landed on his chest. Conor shot upright, dumping the Siamese into his lap.
"God almighty, cat," he said, "you like to live dangerously."
What was the animal doing here, anyway? He'd have figured Miranda would have kept it in the bedroom with her, and the bedroom door would sure as hell be locked tighter than a nun's knees.
"Don't get yourself comfortable," he said to the cat but it was too late. Mia had already settled in on his lap, purring like a demented motorboat.
Conor sighed. Why not? One of them might as well get some rest. He certainly wasn't going to, not on a sofa where he had a choice between letting his legs hang over the arm or tucking his knees under his chin. It was cold as Siberia in here, too. Miranda had said the temperature would drop off at dawn but it was only... He squinted at his watch. It was only 3:05 and he was already raising a crop of goose bumps. It didn't help that he'd stripped off his shirt and pants before trying to fit himself onto a piece of furniture designed for midgets but then again, his charming hostess could have managed to provide him with more than one blanket.
Another couple of hours, he'd be frozen so stiff they'd have to chip him out of the ice before hauling him to a chiropractor.
What was the cat doing here, anyway?
Conor tucked his chin in and glared down at Mia.
"What are you doing here, cat?" he said.
The cat didn't answer. It was falling asleep while he froze to death.
Enough was enough.
"Alley-oop," Conor muttered.
He scooped Mia out of his lap and deposited her on the sofa. The Siamese shot him a malevolent look from a pair of satanic red eyes and made a sound midway between a purr and a growl.
"Yeah? Well, the same to you."
Damn, it was cold! Conor fel
t around for his shirt, couldn't find it, and gave up looking. He knew where the linen closet was, at least. There had to be a couple of more blankets on the shelves.
The old floorboards creaked lightly under his bare feet as he made his way into the foyer and down the hall. Halfway there, Mia decided to come after him and do an allemande-left-and-right through his ankles.
"Dammit," he hissed, and scooped the animal into his arms. The cat purred, butted his chin with her wedge-shaped head and settled in like a baby with her butt in the crook of his arm and her front paws dangling over his shoulder. "Cute," he muttered, "but it won't work with me. I'm not as easy a mark as the lady who owns you."
The cat purred harder and licked his chin with a tongue that felt like sandpaper.
"Okay, okay, we'll go find the blankets together. How's that sound?"
Absently, he stroked his hand down the animal's fur. It was soft as velvet and cool to the touch, though the little body pressed to his was warm. The cat was like Miranda, cold on the outside but with a core of simmering heat deep inside, its beauty a disguise that concealed claws that could gut a man with a swipe—if a man was stupid enough to let it happen.
Frowning, Conor put the Siamese down, determinedly ignoring its soft cries of protest. The linen closet had to be just about here. Yes, there it was. Just turn the knob, nice and easy, slide the door open...
Mia made a sound that would have awakened the dead.
"Cat," Conor muttered, "so help me, if you wake that woman, I'll turn you into a fur piece. The last thing I need is another verbal go-round with..."
What in hell was that?
A sound. Not an animal sound but one that made the hair rise on the nape of his neck. He froze, waiting for it to be repeated, wishing he weren't standing here like an idiot in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.
The sound came again and now he recognized it.
It was the sound of a woman, softly weeping.
He looked down the hall, to where a faint light seeped from under the closed bedroom door.
So what? Miranda was crying. It wasn't his problem. He was here to make sure nobody tried to pay her a nighttime visit, not to worry about...
Until You (A Romantic Suspense Novel - Author's Cut Edition) Page 20
