Until You (29 page)

Conor started to reply but thought better of it. She wasn't going to be alone, not tonight, but there was no sense in telling her that and getting into a quarrel before she'd calmed down.

"Let's walk for a while," she said. "Okay?"

Hell, he'd have danced their way back if she'd asked, anything to bring some color back to her face. He nodded, took her hand, and they started slowly towards the Place de l'Opera.

"Why would that man have sent me that—that stuff anonymously and then go out of his way to identify himself?" she asked, after a while.

Because there's more to his plan. Because he got a kick out of seeing your terror.

"I don't know," Conor said.

"And why pick that party to tell me about it? I could have screamed."

He was willing to bet you'd be too stunned to say a word.

"Good point."

She looked up at him. "Maybe—maybe that's the end of it. Maybe that's all he wanted, to see my reaction."

No. Hell, no, this prick wants more than that.

"Maybe."

"He must have known I'd run away from him."

Conor could hear the rising hope in her voice and the desire to kill the son of a bitch who'd done this to her intensified because he knew, he
knew,
that this was just the beginning of whatever the guy was planning.

"I mean, if he'd really intended to—to do anything, he'd have chosen another place to confront me, wouldn't he?"

What was one more lie, if it calmed her? Conor squeezed her hand.

"Sure."

She sighed. "I just don't understand any of it. Why would someone do something so sick?"

At least, this time, he could give her a truthful answer.

"I don't know, but I'm sure as hell going to find out." She was trembling again, even though the night had turned soft and still, with the snow giving it a magical quality. Conor put his arm around her and drew her into his warmth. "I'll do some checking in the morning. Until then, I want you to put him out of your mind."

"Believe me, I'd like to, but I don't see how."

"Think about something else."

"What?" She gave a little laugh. "My brain feels like a hamster on one of those wheels. It just keeps chasing around and around and around."

"How long have you lived in Paris?"

"Come on, you know how long."

"Tell me."

Miranda sighed. "Eight years."

"Do you like living here?"

"Conor, I know what you're doing, you're trying to change the subject but it won't—"

"What's your favorite color?"

"Don't be silly."

"Red? I'll bet it's red. Bright, shiny red."

Miranda looked at him. "I hate red."

"Puce, then."

"Puce?" She smiled, just slightly, but it was an improvement. "I'll bet you don't even know what color puce is."

"You're right," he said solemnly, as they waited at the corner for the light to change to green. "To tell the truth, I don't want to know. Anything with a name like that can't be good."

"That's such a male attitude, O'Neil," she said, still smiling. "For your information, puce is just a shade of purple."

"Yuck."

"Yuck? Did you really say yuck?"

"It's better than admitting the truth."

"Which is?"

"I'm color-disadvantaged."

Miranda laughed. It was a soft, lovely sound and it made him smile just to hear it.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's the politically correct way of saying I really don't give a damn for any color you can't find in a box of Crayolas."

"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 restaurant 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.