Until You

The thin, bright light of the early January morning spilled over the glass pyramid that was the entrance to the Louvre.

Conor had seen the pyramid before, when he'd been assigned to the Embassy as a "cultural liaison," meaning he'd spent his time trying to look inconspicuous instead of slipping across the Iraqi border on moonless nights or meeting with armed rebels on mountaintops in places that were impossible to find on an ordinary map.

A smile tilted at the corner of his lips as he headed towards the pyramid over the centuries-old stones of the courtyard. Looking inconspicuous was going to be a tough order this morning, considering that there was a fashion show being held here today.

Ted Hamlin, an old friend at the embassy who'd snagged him an admission ticket, had known better than to ask why Conor needed it, but that hadn't kept him from damn near laughing his head off.

"You? At a fashion show?" Hamlin had rocked back in his chair. "Oh pal, are you gonna be in trouble. Unless you develop a lisp real fast or figure out a way to double for Rod Stewart, you're gonna stand out like a hound dog at a chihuahua convention."

Conor had given Hamlin a cool smile. "I just love that country-boy humor of yours," he'd said, pocketing the ticket and walking off, but he suspected Ted was right.

Once he reached the entrance to the showing, which was being held inside the Cour Carree, he was sure of it.

The guy manning the gate looked at Conor's pass and then at him. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. Conor returned the favor. How else would you look at somebody with fuschia hair who was wearing a ripped Mickey Mouse T-shirt, jeans that could easily turn a man into a castrato, and combat boots? Six silver studs climbed the lobe of one ear and three tiny gold hoops dangled from the other. Assorted goodies pierced everything from the guy's eyebrows to his lips but the piece de resistance was a diamond-studded safety pin that was clipped straight through his nostrils.

Conor realized he'd been staring.

"Americain?" the ticket-taker asked, his safety-pin quivering with disdain.

Conor smiled. Clearly, his grey tweed jacket, charcoal trousers, white button-down shirt and maroon tie didn't pass muster.

"Yes," he said pleasantly. "And you? Martian?"

"Very funny," the guy snapped, in perfect English. "The seats with the ribbons around them are reserved for important guests. The others are available to people like you—if you're lucky enough to find one that's not in use."

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 g

rown 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."