Until You (10 page)

Conor grinned. "Thank you so much," he said, and made his way inside.

It was like stepping into organized chaos. Hot lights glittered, heavy-metal music blasted, and a wave of perfume strong enough to choke an ox filled the air. Chairs, most of them filled with women dressed in what Conor supposed was the height of fashion, were lined up in tight rows from where he stood to the front of the room, where they were bisected by a catwalk that extended out from a stage draped in scarlet silk.

Ted Hamlin had been right about the men. There weren't many of them but Conor certainly couldn't have fit into their ranks. One, who seemed to be taking all this very seriously, was dressed in pink shorts, thigh-high boots and a torn purple T-shirt. Another, who just had to be a drag queen in full regalia, sat on an aisle, and to his—or her—left, an aging but still famous rocker sat between two stunning women whose outfits were no match for his.

"No pictures, no pictures," the rock star was saying loudly, even though there wasn't a camera pointed anywhere near him.

Conor sighed. A fox would have an easier job blending into a hen house than he had of blending in here. Not that he had intentions of even trying. He just had to figure a way to slip backstage so he could find Miranda Beckman, talk to her, try to make some sense out of what was going on—for the Committee, of course, because a night's sleep had made him realize that whatever else he'd believed had brought him here was nonsense.

One look and the Beckman babe would turn into what he already knew she was, a spoiled brat who'd never quite grown up, a gorgeous piece with the morals of a slut—and then he could stop thinking about her, stop imagining those sad eyes and that secretive smile...

"
Monsieur
?"

A hand tugged sharply at his sleeve. Conor looked down. A tiny woman with a fox-like face was giving him the same sort of look he'd already gotten at the door.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded in swift Parisian French.

Conor fumbled in his pocket. "I have a pass," he said, in French almost as swift as hers. "I assure you—"

"Merde!"
Her fingers bit into his wrist. "Do not show me your card here, you fool. Do you want everyone to know who you are?"

"Madame?"

"Oh,
mon dieu,
I am so weary of dealing with stupid people. It is bad enough you stand out like a sore thumb dressed in that stupid outfit. Must you also wave your identification card around and announce to the world that you are Security?"

John O'Neil had not raised a stupid son. "Certainly not," Conor said, with just the right amount of chagrin.

"We need coverage backstage. That is where you should be."

"Of course."

The woman's eyes narrowed. "You
are
Security, yes?"

Conor rolled his eyes. "Look," he said, reaching into his pocket again, "let me show you my—"

"No, no, don't do that!" The woman jerked her head towards the stage. "Go on," she hissed, "get to work. Remember, no one gets into the dressing room without a special pass. I don't care if it's the pope himself, you understand? You will protect Monsieur Diderot's designs with your life!"

Conor did his best not to click his heels and salute.

"Oui,
madame," he said.

A moment later, he'd vaulted onto the stage, parted the curtains and stepped into another world.

If it was chaos out front, it was a madhouse back here. There was no other word to describe it, he thought, staring around him in bemusement. The noise. The clouds of hair spray. The smoke from what had to be a zillion unfiltered Gauloises.

And the people. Conor had never seen anything like this mob. There were fat women. Skinny women. Young ones and old ones. There were men, too, most of them garbed in tight black leather and draped with enough chains to outfit an Alabama work gang.

What in hell were all these people doing? Racing around in circles, from what he could tell.

How would he locate Miranda Beckman in this crowd? He'd assumed it would be easy enough, considering that he'd seen her portrait and that he had a photo of her in his pocket.

How wrong could a man be?

It wasn't that he couldn't pick out the models. They were the only people not rushing around in a frenzy. They were draped languidly in chairs or perched on stools, looking bored while the men and women buzzing around like bees made up their faces and their hair.

It was just that they all looked alike.

The girls who'd already been fixed up all had faces powdered white, eyes outlined in black and mouths painted into blood-red pouts. The ones who hadn't were almost as impossible to tell apart with their elegant bones, wide-set eyes, swan-like necks and long, slim bodies.

Conor breathed a sigh of relief. The room was filled with Mirandas. He knew now, for certain, that there was nothing special about her.

Slowly, he made his way into their midst. He hadn't seen this much carelessly exposed female flesh at one time since a long-ago weekend at Columbia, when he and half a dozen drunk fraternity brothers had burst into the women's locker room on a dare. He'd been too bombed to fully appreciate the sight then and hell, he wasn't really appreciating it now, either. Maybe it was the atmosphere, or maybe it was the bored, vapid looks on the women's faces, but the view just wasn't a turn-on.

"Regardez!"

Conor jumped back as a trolley loaded with black wigs raced towards him.

"Pardon,"
he mumbled.

He made the same apology another half a dozen times before he finally gave up. Nobody heard him and even if they did, nobody cared. And yet, things weren't as frenzied as he'd thought. There was an order in the insanity. Clothing was here, makeup tables were there...

Oh, hell!

There she was. She was sitting on one of the stools, wearing a blue smock that fell to mid-calf. Her back was straight, her hands were folded in her lap, and her face was tilted towards the man who was painting it.

Conor told himself it was plain luck he'd been able to pick her out. He told himself it was just a trick of the light that made her look different. He told himself there was nothing special about her.

Hell, he thought again, and let out his breath. What was the sense in lying to himself?

Miranda Beckman's beauty shone as brightly as the sun.

* * *

Miranda was trying her best not to tick Claude off.

He wasn't in a good mood today but then, he never was. Claude had the temperament of an
artiste,
people said. Personally, she thought he had the temperament of a barracuda but there was no point in pretending that he wasn't the best makeup-artist this side of the Atlantic. Rumor was that Jacques had paid him a fortune and a half to agree to design the
maquillage
for this showing of summer
couture
and to agree that he'd personally do the faces of the top girls.

Claude himself had made it clear he wouldn't tolerate any nonsense.

"If you come to the Master with bags under the eyes," his assistant, Françoise, had warned, "or if you do not sit absolutely still while the Master works, he will dismiss you, poof, just like that!"

Well, Miranda thought, she had come to the Master with bags, thanks to the party Jean-Philippe had taken her to last night. She'd danced and laughed and drunk champagne until the small hours of the morning, all in honor of the Sultan of Something-of-Other who'd been celebrating his birthday, or maybe the birthday of one of his three wives. Jean-Phillipe hadn't been certain, he'd only known that he absolutely
had
to attend—which meant that she had to attend with him.

"I am lost without you,
cherie,"
he'd murmured when he'd shown up to ask her to go to the party during yesterday's run-through and Nita, who'd overheard, had rolled her eyes and said, in a honeyed drawl that was as phony as Claude's lineage, that if
le sex pot
movie star of
la belle France
were to say such a thing to her, she'd be his slave forever.

Miranda smiled. Nita had nothing on her. She was more than willing to do anything Jean-Philippe wanted, and for the rest of her life. He was wonderful. He was everything...

And he wasn't here.

He'd promised he would be. He knew she never did a show without him in the audience to cheer her on, right from the beginning, all those years ago when she'd done her first
pret a porter
and one of the other girls had almost had to shove her out onto the catwalk.

"Stop moving," Claude snapped. "How will I disguise these bags beneath your eyes, mademoiselle, if you do not sit still?"

Miranda complied. She was getting a crick in her neck, thanks to the angle he'd demanded she hold her head. But at least he hadn't done as Françoise had threatened. He wasn't about to dismiss her, poof, just like that, not while she was still at the top of the heap along with Jacques Diderot's crazy, and crazily expensive, designs. Not even Claude was foolish enough to distance himself from so much success—but he could damned well screw up her makeup. She'd seen it happen before, the brush stroke that went just a little off, the color shade a bit too dark.

Claude drew back and glared at her again and she realized she must have moved, or twitched, or maybe just breathed too hard. Heaven knew she was trying not to breathe at all because Claude was exhaling clouds of garlic and red wine straight into her face.

"I am almost
fini,"
he snapped, "and although you are not deserving of it, I have made you my masterpiece, Miranda. Do what you must to keep entirely still for a moment longer, if you please."

"Do what you must to get done," Miranda said, without moving her lips. "I mean," she said, when he glared at her again, "I am very grateful, Claude, but my neck is getting stiff."

"Kohl," Claude snapped, and held out his hand. Françoise slapped a pencil into his palm. "Brush." She slapped that into his other hand. The Master bent closer to his canvas and Miranda held her breath. "Your neck is a small price to pay for my genius, mademoiselle. Look up. Look down. Now, look to the side. No, do not
turn
to the side, you stupid girl,
look
to the side. The eyes move, nothing else. You understand?"

"Umm," she said, and did as he'd asked...

And saw the man.

Who was he?

Why was he staring at her?

She didn't know him. She had never even seen him before. She was certain of that, even though she couldn't really get a clear view of him. Her head and eyes were at a strange angle and he was too far away. Still, she knew he was watching her, she could feel it, and with such intensity that it sent a funny feeling up her spine.

She scowled, trying to bring him into focus. Claude let loose with a blistering string of obscenities in a breathtaking
mélange
of languages.

"Qu'est-ce que tu fous?"
he said furiously. "What the hell are you doing, you stupid girl? Would you like me to stop? I can leave you this way, if you wish, with your left eye only half-finished!"

Miranda shook her head the slightest bit.

"Look at me, then, and do not move."

She did as he'd ordered. Long moments passed and then Claude tossed the brush at Françoise, put his hands on his hips and stepped back.

"I have done you," he announced.

Nita Carrington, seated on the stool next to Miranda's, gave a throaty laugh.

"Not on your best day, Claude, baby," she said. "Miranda and I don't give no pity-fucks, isn't that right, girlfriend?"

Claude drew himself up to his full five feet two inches.

"Françoise will do your face, Mademoiselle Carrington," he said coldly, and marched away.

"Françoise was gonna do me anyhow, weren't you, sweetness?" Nita said. She sat up straight and tilted her face towards Claude's sour-faced assistant. "Go on, girl. Do your worst."

Françoise set to work. Miranda waited a minute, then slid her gaze sidewards.

The man was still there.

"Nita," she hissed.

"Hmm?"

"Can you see the stage?"

"A little bit of it. Why?"

"Who's that man?"

"What man?"

"The one near the stage, dammit! Aren't you listening to me?"

Nita shifted her gaze. "I don't see nobody."

"What do you mean, you don't see anybody? You can't miss him."

"Mademoiselle," Frangoise said petulantly, "if you move..."

"Nita, try again. See? The guy in the tweed jacket?"

"The guy in the what?" Nita bit back a giggle. "What are you flyin' on, girlfriend? Ain't nobody here gonna be wearin' a tweed jacket."

"This man is," Miranda said impatiently, "and do me a favor and ease off the down home talk, okay? There's nobody around to appreciate it."

"Says who?" Nita slipped into perfect upper-class American diction. "Besides, I have to keep in practice. In these parts, 'down home' is lots more exotic than Ivy League. Haven't you ever heard of Josephine Baker?"