Until You (27 page)

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'Neil 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 assure 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.

"I am sorry,
cherie,"
he'd said, "but it cannot be helped,
tu comprends?"

Of course, she understood. And there was no good reason he had to be here with her. She knew practically everybody in the crowd and the ones she didn't know would inevitably trip over themselves to impress her, like Brian what's-his-name, who'd managed to box her neatly into a corner.

What was it, then? What was getting her down? Because something certainly was. She couldn't relax and just have a good time.

Conor O'Neil, she thought suddenly, that's what it was. She hadn't spotted him yet; she might even have escaped him by dressing at Nita's but it didn't matter because here she was, on edge anyway, looking around and knowing, just knowing, that he was going to appear any minute and put a damper on things.

That's what a week's worth of having him hovering over her had accomplished.

She'd phoned Eva, as she'd promised she'd do, and they'd had a stilted, five-minute conversation during which Eva had assured her that O'Neil was, indeed, in her employ.

"Accept his presence, Miranda," Eva had said coldly.

She had, the way you accept a necessary evil, but after a couple of days, the awful impact of the note and the picture had begun to fade. She'd thought back to the stuff she'd heard over the years, the weird notes and gifts that some of the other girls had received. Yes, what had been tucked beneath her door had been nasty but it hadn't been lethal.