Until You (11 page)

"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 bride 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.

Now he did.

Whatever he'd thought he'd seen in the painting of her, and in the snapshot, had been put there by his imagination. Her smile wasn't mysterious, it was vain. Her eyes weren't sad, they were empty. She was as one-dimensional as her portrait.

Conor felt a rush of relief. It was over. Now he could admit to himself that thinking about Miranda Beckman had been some kind of weird obsession. It had not been pleasant, walking around and knowing he was almost out of control, and hating himself for it. Well, that was finished. If she was the one who'd sent the note to Eva, she'd have to be dealt with. If she wasn't, he'd walk away and forget her.

All he needed were the answers to a few questions and getting them would take some doing. It didn't take a genius to figure out that she was used to dominating men with her looks. Well, he was immune to that ploy. He knew it, she knew it, and she didn't like it. He could see it in the way she was looking at him, and the realization made him smile.

Color streaked across her high cheekbones.

"Miranda?" The girl standing beside her moved closer. "Should I call Security?"

Conor laughed. "I
am
Security."

Miranda stood up. She was tall, but the top of her head only came to his shoulder.

"It's all right, Nita." She took a deep breath. "What do you want with me, Mr. O'Neil?"

"I told you. I need to talk to you."

"About what?"

"A private matter."

She held herself straighter and put her hands on her hips.

"Nita's my best friend. You can say whatever it is you have to say in front of her."

"I'm afraid that's impossible."

"You're
afraid?" Miranda laughed; he could see her regaining control of herself. "Just who the hell do you think you are? Do us both a favor, please. Get to the bottom line fast. I've got a show to do."

He stepped closer to her, turning so that Nita was shut out of their conversation.

"Hoyt and Eva Beckman Winthrop. Is that 'bottom line' enough to suit you?"

He watched her face closely. He had made the reference to her mother and stepfather obtuse in hopes it would draw a reaction he could read but her expression didn't change. Only her eyes seemed to darken, or perhaps it was his imagination.

"I don't understand," she said. "Has something happened to my—to Eva?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Why else would you be here?"

"Nothing's happened to your mother, Miss Beckman."

"Then what—"

"I told you, I'd rather not discuss it here. It's a private matter."

"There are no private matters between Eva and me. Even if there were, they certainly wouldn't involve you."

Conor felt his composure slipping. "Listen, lady," he said, "I'm not here to play games."

A bell sounded. Somebody gave a ladylike whoop. "Time, girls," an English-accented voice called out.

Nita slipped from her stool. "Darn," she said, "and just when things were getting interesting."

"Good-bye, Mr. O'Neil."

"I'm not going anywhere, Miss Beckman."

"But I am." She reached for the buttons on her smock. "And I assure you, I've absolutely nothing to say to you about my mother."

Conor's jaw tightened. She was undoing the buttons, undressing in front of him as if he weren't even there.

"Do you like working in Paris, Miss Beckman?" he asked in a pleasant tone.

Miranda's head snapped up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged. "Nothing much. I was just wondering if it's as tough to get a work permit as I've heard—and as easy to have one taken away."

"Are you threatening me?" She took a step towards him, eyes flashing. "You get the hell out of here, mister, before I have you thrown out!"