Authors: Sandra Marton
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?"
"Of course." She kissed his cheek, then wiped away the faint trace of pink lipstick she'd left. "You go find Mr. Moneybags and turn on the charm."
Jean-Phillipe vanished into the noisy crowd. Miranda took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. A hand dropped lightly on her shoulder.
"Hello, Miss Beckman," a husky male voice said.
She went very still, and then she twisted away from that proprietary hand and turned to face its owner.
"Mr. O'Neil," she said coldly, "if you don't stop following me..."
But it wasn't Conor O'Neil who'd come up behind her, it was someone else. A stranger, smiling politely and with that look of interest she knew so well in his eyes.
Something trembled deep inside her. Disappointment? No, certainly not. It was just a let-down, all that adrenaline surging in preparation for the chance to tell O'Neil off, and now it wasn't going to happen.
Miranda smiled. "Sorry. I thought you were someone else."
"I'm glad I'm not." The stranger smiled, too. "You didn't sound happy to see this person."
"I'm not. I mean, I wouldn't be." She laughed and held out her hand. "Never mind. Let's just start again, shall we? I'm—"
"Miranda Beckman. Of course. And I'm..."
He had an American accent but a foreign-sounding name, a melodious one that got lost in a sudden burst of nearby laughter. He was good-looking, well-dressed and, Miranda supposed, charming. He started a pleasant conversation and she smiled when she knew she should and nodded her head but she couldn't concentrate on anything he said. Her thoughts kept returning to Conor O'Neil.
Who was he, anyway? A man who thought a lot of himself, that was for certain, but who was he, really? Had he told her the truth when he'd said he had some connection to Eva? It didn't seem likely. How could a man with such hard eyes be associated with a woman as elegant as her mother?
"Miranda. "She looked up. Jean-Phillipe had come up beside her, her cape and his evening coat draped across his arm. He smiled politely at her and then at her companion. "Forgive me for intruding,
cherie,
but would you be terribly distressed if I suggested we leave now?"
Miranda gave him a dazzling smile. "Of course not." She put her hand lightly on the arm of the man she'd been talking to. What
was
his name? The hell with it, she thought, and flashed him a smile, too. "It's been nice talking with you."
The man bowed, took her hand and lifted it to his lips.
"Until we meet again, Miss Beckman," he said.
Jean-Phillipe shook his head as they made their way out of the gilt-trimmed
salon.
"Someday," he murmured as he drew her cape around her shoulders, "someday, little one, you are going to get yourself in trouble with your games."
"What games? I was behaving like a perfect lady."
"Perfect ladies do not exchange pleasantries with gangsters."
"Gangsters?" Miranda said in amazement. She craned her neck and tried to peer back into the
salon
for another look at the man, but it was too crowded.
Jean-Phillipe's hand tightened on her arm.
"Behave yourself," he said sternly, "and remember to smile for the cameras as we go out the door."
"Was that man really a gangster?" she whispered as they threaded their way through the gaggle of photographers that lined the steps and sidewalk.
"So it is said, and for God's sake, must you sound so delighted?" There was a studio limousine waiting for Jean-Phillipe. The driver leaped out, opened the door, then shut it after them. "I suppose you would not have looked so bored had you known, eh?"
Miranda laughed. "Did I look bored?"
"Completely so."
She sighed, kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes against the deep pile carpet of the limo.
"I'm sorry, Jean-Phillipe, I'm just in a bad mood tonight, I guess."
"Any special reason?"
Yes, she thought, and his name is Conor O'Neil.
"Miranda?"
"No," she said quickly, "no reason at all. I'm just tired."
"Well, you did not look tired on the runway this morning,
cherie.
You looked beautiful."
"And you're prejudiced," she said, smiling, "but thank you anyway. What about you? Did you connect with the Hollywood money man?"
"Unfortunately, no. Apparently, he changed his mind about attending."
"Ah. Too bad." She looked at him, her eyes twinkling. "I hope the night wasn't a total waste. Did anybody catch your eye, at least?"
Jean-Phillipe chuckled. "I never kiss and tell,
cherie,
that is one of my charms,
non?"
She laughed and took his hand in hers.
"The other is your humility," she said, as the big car moved through the brightly lit streets.
* * *
Jean-Phillipe offered to see her to her door but Miranda told him to go on home.
"You're tired and I'm tired," she said, "and we both know that if you come up, I'll offer you a cognac and we'll end up talking half the night, dishing the dirt on everybody."
"What you really mean," he said, with a mock frown, "is that I will ask you why I rated such an effusive welcome at this morning's showing."
"You already asked me." Her tone was light. "And I told you, I missed you."
Jean-Phillipe touched his finger to the tip of her nose. "Did it have something to do with that handsome fellow I saw?"
"What handsome fellow?"
"You know exactly the one I mean,
cherie.
The one who was hurrying off with a face like a thunderbolt."
"Thundercloud," she said, with a little smile, "and no, it had nothing to do with him."
"Who was he?"
"He was just a man. An annoying one. No, no more questions! It's late. I'm tired. And if you don't get some sleep, those little bags under your eyes are going to have babies."
"Ah, Miranda, you know how to strike terror into an actor's heart." He clasped her hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed it. "
Bonne nuit, cherie."
She leaned forward and pressed her lips lightly to his cheek.
"Good night, Jean-Phillipe."
His driver waited while she dug out her keys and unlocked the ornate iron gate that barred entry to the courtyard of her apartment building. The three-story, U-shaped structure had once been a Bourbon palace. Now, it was home to an eclectic assortment of executives and artists.
The gate clanged shut behind her and the lock slid heavily into place. Miranda's high heels clicked loudly against the old paving stones that led to the massive front door. Her key slid home again and she pushed the door open.
"Good night," she mouthed, turning to wave.
Jean-Phillipe had rolled down his window. He blew her a kiss and the car rolled away.
Miranda stepped inside the building and the door swung shut.
The lobby was huge and had a high, vaulted ceiling. There was a stone fireplace at one end and a grouping of velvet-covered chairs and sofas no one ever sat in at the other. Just ahead, the
concierge's
desk stood unattended. It was after eleven and Madame Delain had retired for the night.
Beyond, shadowed in darkness, the ornate wrought-iron elevator cage waited.
She hesitated. Was the lobby always this dark and silent?
What on earth was wrong with her tonight? Of course it was dark and silent. It was almost midnight. She'd come home at this hour hundreds of times before. Actually, she'd come home far later.
But she'd never felt so uneasy, so—so...
Miranda frowned, marched to the elevator and stepped inside. The door clanged shut and she pressed the button for the third floor. The car rose slowly, as it always did, and with its usual accompaniment of rattles and moans. When she'd first moved in here, a couple of years ago, the sounds had struck her as spooky.
Now, for some silly reason, they sounded spooky again.
At the third floor, the car groaned to a shuddering halt and as it did, the bulb that lit the hall that stretched ahead of her blinked out.
Miranda swallowed dryly. So what? She didn't need the light to guide her. She'd made this walk in the dark before. The wiring in the old building wasn't good; lights were always going on and off for no reason. Tenants grumbled about it to each other all the time.
But there was a tight feeling in the pit of her belly. She didn't want to put her hand on the brass knob of the elevator door, turn it, and step outside.
It would take just a couple of minutes to go back downstairs and rouse Madame Delain. Madame would roll her eyes but her husband, a plump little man with a sweet smile, would be more than happy to take a flashlight, ride upstairs with her and walk her to her door.
And wouldn't she feel like a fool, if he did.
Whatever is the matter with you tonight, Miranda?
She gave herself a little shake, opened the elevator door and hurried to her apartment. Her hands were unsteady and she fumbled with the key before she managed to get it into the lock but finally the door swung open.
She stepped inside, let out a sigh of relief, shut the door behind her and reached for the light switch.
Click.
The room remained dark.
The hair stirred at the nape of her neck. Was this bulb out, too?
Coincidence, that was all it was.
Wasn't it?
Her nostrils dilated. What was that scent in the air? It was very faint. Perfume, or cologne.
But not hers.
Her heart started to race. She put her hand over it and told herself to stop being silly. Of course, the scent wasn't hers. She'd just come from a party where the guests had been packed in like sardines in a can. Clouds of stuff had filled the air. This wouldn't be the first time she'd come home with drifts of someone's Opium or Blue Water, whatever, in her hair and on her clothes.
Her heart banged again.
Where was Mia?
She'd had the cat for almost three years and in all that time, Mia had never missed the chance to come racing to the door and weave around her ankles while she said "Hello, where have you been all this time?" in a discordant, Siamese purr.
Miranda stared into the darkness. She could see nothing, hear nothing, but the racing thud of her heart.
"Mia?" she whispered.
Nothing moved.
She thought again of Monsieur Delain. She could still go down and wake him. She had plenty of time to get out; she was barely inside the apartment and...
Get out? What for?
She was in her own home. She was completely safe. There had never been so much as a break-in here. Never. There was the bolted gate. The heavy, locked front door. There was Madame, standing guard like a short-tempered lioness.
But not at this hour.
So what? There was still the gate and the locked downstairs door. And this door, the one to her apartment, had not been tampered with. Surely, if someone had broken in...
"Stop it," Miranda said firmly, and she walked briskly through the inky shadows and reached for the lamp she knew stood a few feet away.
Light, soft and warming, flooded the foyer. In its glow, she could see that everything was just as it was supposed to be, even Mia, blinking her great sapphire eyes as she looked up from a corner of the white sofa.
Miranda laughed shakily and let out a gusty sigh. She dropped her cape and her purse on a chair and scooped the Siamese into her arms.
"Naughty girl," she crooned, rubbing her face against the cat's chocolate brown fur, "why didn't you come to say hello?"
The cat meowed and butted its head against Miranda's chin.
"Are you angry because I've been gone so long? Well, suppose I open a can of tuna, hmm? No cat food for you to—"
The Siamese hissed, dug its claws in hard, then leaped to the floor and took off running.
"Mia!" Miranda rolled her eyes. The only thing more temperamental than a woman, Jean-Phillipe had once said, was a cat—and he was right.