Until You

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!"