Until You

Conor drank down the last of the ale.

He'd solved the mystery, such as it was. Unfortunately, there was still a bit of a problem to overcome because what he'd come up with was all theory. He couldn't prove a damned thing. On the other hand, that was one of the pleasures of working for the Committee.

Conor smiled. His chair squealed against the marble floor as he shoved it back and got to his feet.

He didn't have to prove anything. The only thing he had to do was get Miranda to admit she'd written the note and then convince her she'd sooner get caught in an earthquake than try and pull a stunt like this again.

He tucked two ten euro notes under the edge of the pack of Gauloises. The waiter could have both, the money and the cigarettes, and more power to him. As for Miranda Beckman... he'd intended to identify himself to her as a low-level embassy flunky, doing a routine checkup now that her stepfather was up for a presidential appointment, but what was the sense in coming on so nice and easy?

A little session of Q and A, complete with some hard-ass assurances that she wouldn't much like the things that could happen to spoiled little girls who played nasty games, and that Mona Lisa smile would disappear.

Eva could go back to worrying about Papillon's next shade of nail polish, Hoyt could take his tux out of mothballs, and he could fly back to Washington and tell Harry Thurston what to do with himself the next time he decided to toss a mess in his direction. And if, in the process, Miranda Beckman learned that some men weren't to be played with...

Hey, some things were just too good to pass up.

Whistling jauntily through his teeth, Conor belted his raincoat and stepped out into the biting chill of the night.

* * *

The party that followed the showing was held at Jacques Diderot's mansion on the Rue St-Honoré.

Jean-Phillipe said that two centuries ago it had been the home of a mistress of Louis XVI but Miranda suspected that even before the lady's head had parted company with her body, courtesy of Madame Guillotine, the house had probably never seen a party more extravagant than this.

On the street, the light from scores of cell phone cameras and video cams flashed against the night. Spectaators screamed, photographers and reporters fell on each arriving limousine like lions pouncing on impala.

Inside, Italian principessas rubbed shoulders with Seventh Avenue princes. The buffet tables groaned under the weight of Beluga caviar and Strasbourg foie gras; the champagne was vintage Moet et Chandon. It was the kind of scene that Miranda knew best. The envy of the women, the hunger of the men—and the comfort of knowing that Jean-Phillipe was never more than a moment away.

Parties like this were always fun.

But not tonight.

Tonight, she found it difficult to smile and mingle. She felt as if everyone could see that she was wearing a mask. Was it the morning's run-in with Conor O'Neil that had left her feeling this way? Was it wondering whether Eva was in some kind of trouble? That didn't seem possible. She didn't give a damn about her mother and, heaven knew, the feeling was mutual. As for O'Neil—why would she waste time even thinking about the man?

Still, she felt out of sorts and out of place. Jean-Phillipe, who was always attuned to her emotions, noticed.

"You are so quiet, cherie. Do you feel ill?"

Not ill, she almost said. Just—just strange.

But she didn't say it. Mentioning Eva would only lead to an argument. Jean-Phillipe, who'd lost both his parents in infancy, had a sentimental view of mothers that nothing could shake, not even the reality of one like Miranda's.

"Your mother made mistakes, oui," he'd said at least a dozen times over the past couple of years, "but time has passed. Perhaps you should try and make things better between you."

No, she didn't want to hear that lecture again. And she certainly didn't want to talk about that boor, Conor O'Neil. It was a long time since anybody had gotten to her the way he had. Who did he think he was? Even now, hours later, she wished she'd slapped that contemptuous look from his face.

So she answered Jean-Phillipe's question by not answering it. Instead, she linked her arm through his and gave him a bright smile.

"Maybe I'm just getting too old for this business," she said.

He grinned. It was a joke,

but one that had some truth to it and they both knew it. Not many models could endure almost eight years in the merciless glare of the spotlight.

"Over the mountain at twenty-five! Mais oui, the crows' claws are forming at your eyes even as I watch."

"Crows' feet," she said, laughing up at him.

"Feet, claws, what does it matter?" He leaned closer and spoke softly to her. "We will leave early, cherie, yes? I only want to track down this man my agent told me about, a Hollywood producer with very deep pockets who is supposed to be here tonight. Will you be all right if I leave you for a while?"