Until You

"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,