It was an old argument, one they'd had many times. When they'd met—when he'd rescued her from a dark Paris street—Jean-Phillipe had lived in a tiny attic apartment in the Marais and she had lived there with him until she'd begun earning enough money modeling to take a small place of her own.
They had both moved since then, she to a comfortable apartment off the Rue de Rivoli, Jean-Phillipe to this elegant location near the Arc de Triomphe. He kept trying to convince her to move nearby but Miranda was happy where she was—or she had been, until last night.
And she would be, again. No one was going to force her out of her home.
"I told you, there's a new lock on my door."
"Locks do not impress me."
"Please, let's not quarrel." Miranda got to her feet and dug her bare toes into the velvety Aubusson carpet that covered the living room floor. "Is this the rug we bought at the flea market last week?"
"You are trying to change the subject!"
"You're darned right I am. I don't want to think about last night anymore, or about Eva or Conor O'Neil." Her smile was quick and beseeching. "Let's talk about something else."
Jean-Phillipe sighed. How could he deny anything to this woman he loved most in the entire world? He got up, ruffled her hair and went to the fireplace where kindling lay neatly on the hearth.
"You know," he said, as he put a match to it, "that is the first thing I remember noticing about you, cherie, that despite your perfect schoolgirl French and your even more perfect schoolgirl clothes, you could not wait to walk around barefoot. 'The child is an American barbarian,' I said to myself, 'and her face is dirty but still, she shows promise.' "
Miranda smiled. She bent down, planted a quick kiss on the top of his head, then made her way to the wooden wine-rack built into the half-wall that separated the living room from the kitchen. "Red or white?"
"Red for me, always, but if you prefer..."
"Red's fine."
She chose a bottle, deftly uncorked it and poured two glasses. Jean-Phillipe made a face as she handed him a glass and sat down beside him on the carpet.
"This is a vintage bordeaux, Miranda. You are supposed to let it breathe."
"Really?" she said, flashing an impish grin. "Well, what do American barbarians know about letting wine breathe?" She took a slow sip. "Mmm, that's nice."
"Yes." He leaned back and smiled. "The studio sent over a case."
"Ah, the price of fame. Little girls oohing and ahhing, terrific vin rouge, an apartment fit for a king..."
"A prince, cherie. Until I succeed in my first Hollywood movie, I will not be a king."
"It's really that important to you?"
"You think I am silly, yes?"
"No. I'd never think anything about you was silly. I just don't see why it should matter so much."
"Who knows? Perhaps it is simply my actor's ego. Or perhaps I wish to prove that even one such as I can do whatever he sets his mind to."
Miranda put her hand lightly over his. "You mustn't say things like that."
"You are good for me, cherie. You always have been."
"As you have been, for me."
Jean-Phillipe smiled. "I think your fondness for me dates back to that long-ago evening when you realized your sacrifice would be unnecessary."
"You know it goes further back than that." Miranda laughed. "Was I that obvious?"
"About offering to martyr yourself by sleeping with me? Oh yes, you were as transparent as glass. Even after eight years, I can clearly recall the look of relief on your face when I turned you down."
She smiled, reached for the bottle of wine and refilled both their glasses.
"I didn't know how else to repay you. If you hadn't rescued me that night..."
"Who could have done less? There you stood, a poor waif stranded on the street-corner of life with the rain beating down on your head, soaked to the skin and looking as if you had lost your last friend."
"I'll never forget how I felt when you came up to me and said, 'Here, child, take this money and buy yourself a meal.' " She looked at him. "What made you do that? So many people had just walked by."
"Who knows? Perhaps it was that sad look in your eyes, or the way your shoulders were hunched against the chill." He chuckled. "On the other hand, it may have been that you reminded me of a half-drowned kitten I rescued when I was a boy. I have always been, how do you say, a sucker for orphaned animals."
"That was me, all right." Miranda's voice hardened. "Orphaned."
"You chose not to return home with your mother, n'est-ce pas?"
"Sure. The same way you chose to live your life the way you do." Sighing, she reached for his hand. "Never mind all that. I'm just trying to tell you what it meant to me, that you bought me supper, took me home and let me sleep on the sofa."
"Alors," he said, and shuddered, "with the mice that used to steal the stuffing from the cushions to keep you company. That apartment was not like this one, eh?"
Miranda laughed. "No. It was not like this one at all."
"Still, you improved it while you lived with me. I remember coming home to rooms that were clean, to freshly ironed shirts and hot meals."
"I remember shorting out your vacuum cleaner and scorching your shirts. And to this day, I think it's a miracle my cooking didn't kill you!"
He chuckled. "What is it you Americans say, cherie? It was the thought that counted."
"I knew it wasn't enough. You'd done so much." She hesitated. "That was why I offered to sleep with you. It was all I had to give."
"Oui." He put down his glass, rolled onto his back and folded his hands under his head. "Truly, it was a generous offer. I was touched."
"But you're right. I was relieved when you turned me down. Very relieved." Miranda put down her wine and stretched out beside him on her belly, her chin propped on her hands. "But it wasn't because of anything about you, Jean-Phillipe. You know that, don't you?"
"Miranda, little one, this was all a long time ago."
"I know, but we've never really talked about it. And I want to be sure you understand. You mean everything to me. I just didn't want to do—to do that with anyone."
"And nothing much has changed in eight years, hmm?"
Miranda sat up again. She picked up her glass and looked down into it. The firelight, reflected in the deep ruby of the wine, gleamed hot and golden.
"No," she said softly, "it hasn't."
"I have never asked you about it. I always thought, if you wished to discuss it, you would do so. But I knew, in my heart."
"That's okay. I don't mind you asking."
"I shall ask, then. You still feel nothing when you are with a man?"
"I am never with a man." She smiled, but her eyes were dark. "Not the way you mean."
Jean-Phillipe reached up and stroked a strand of hair back from her cheek.
"It is a dangerous game you play, cherie," he said, very softly.
"What game?"
"The one you play with men."
"I do not play games with men."
"You tease, Miranda. You torment. You snap your lashes and say, 'are you man enough to take me' and then, when a man accepts the challenge..."
"It's bat," she said sharply.
"Cherie?"
"A woman bats her lashes, she doesn't snap them. And I can't help it if men come to the wrong conclusions. It only proves that they're all pigs. They deserve learning that not every woman is fool enough to believe their lies."
Jean-Phillipe sat up and looked directly at her. "There is a word in French," he said softly. "It is not a nice word, but it is a word men use to describe a woman who teases. They say she is une allumeuse. I do not know how to translate this word into English."
Color burned in Miranda's cheeks. "You don't have to. I'm sure I can figure out the English equivalent." Her chin rose in defiance. "I'm who I am, that's all. If men choose to misinterpret, that's their problem, not mine."
"This man. O'Neil."
"What about him?"
"Does he choose to misinterpret, too?"
Miranda rose to her feet. "I have no idea what you're getting at."
"That performance yesterday, at the Louvre. That was for him, was it not?"
"What performance?"
"Miranda, cherie..."
"Don't give me that, 'Miranda, cherie,' business with the long-suffering sigh and the little smile. It wasn't a performance. I was just glad to see you."
"Of course." Jean-Phillipe narrowed his eyes. "That is why you clung to me like a squid."
"Like an octopus. Dammit, if you're going to speak English, get it right."
"Is not a squid an octopus?"
"No. Yes. I mean..." Miranda looked at Jean-Phillipe. His face was a study in innocence but his eyes were filled with laughter. "You're impossible," she said, but the tension had left her and she was smiling, too.
"As are you, Miranda." He stood up. "And now that your good mood has returned, I shall risk ruining it by asking again that you move nearer to me."
"No."
"I am concerned for you, cherie."
"I'm concerned for me, too, but there's nothing to worry about. I told you, O'Neil sent over a guy who installed the kind of lock that would keep a bank safe."
"And you can truly return to that apartment after what happened?"
"I can," she said, not adding that first she'd throw out the bedding and then she'd scrub the place down with disinfectant. "And I will."
Jean-Phillipe put his arm around her and drew her close.
"You are still the most stubborn female a man ever had the misfortune to know."
His tone was stern but she knew that he was smiling, and he was holding her as gently as if she were the sister he'd never had. Miranda hugged him, then leaned back in his arms.
"I have a wonderful idea."
"Yes?"
"Let's go shopping. We'll buy a bunch of extravagant, fattening things, come back here and make a wonderful lunch."
He kissed her forehead. "Fauchon's?"
"Fauchon's, definitely."
"We will buy oysters. And foie gras. And very ripe brie and champagne," he said, draping her coat around her shoulders and grabbing his own. "Everything that is extravagant and fattening."
Laughing, they made their way downstairs to the street. A light snow had begun to fall, adding magic to-the boulevard and to the brightly lit Arc de Triomphe just ahead.
"It sounds decadent," Miranda said.
"Everything pleasurable in life is decadent. Besides, we are celebrating."
"We are?"
"Of course. We shall raise our glasses and wish a short and most unhappy future for the trou de balle who violated your privacy."
"The what?" Miranda said, laughing.
"Ah, even after so many years, your French needs work." Jean-Phillipe grinned. "I called him an asshole. It is not a polite term, in your language or mine. And then, we shall drink to my current film, which wraps by the week's end."
"That's wonderful!"
"What is wonderful is that everyone predicts it will be a great success."
"Why is it I can almost hear the word but at the end of that sentence?"
"Because you know me well, cherie. Yes, there is a but. The studio has asked me to make another movie."
"And that's a but? Jean-Phillipe, that's terrific!"
He sighed as they paused on the corner and waited for a break in the traffic.
"It would be better news if I had been asked to make a film in the States."
"Why? You've got a wonderful career building here."
"I know that." The flow of cars eased. Jean-Phillipe clasped Miranda's hand and they hurried across the road. "But I want more. I want to be an international star. Or perhaps a director, with an Oscar on the mantel. Who knows? Merde, Miranda, don't look at me as if I were crazy."
"I don't think you're crazy." She hesitated. "I just think you should, you know, consider the ramifications."
"What ramifications? I am a good actor. You know that."
"Yes, but Hollywood is different. The press is relentless. They'll want to know everything about you."
"So?" His voice swelled with defiance. "Let them. People should judge me on my talent. Is that too much to ask?"
"No, of course it isn't. Jean-Phillipe, what are you doing?"
It was a silly question because she could see what he was doing. He'd swung out in the path of a woman hurrying towards them, her head and shoulders bent against the wind-driven snow.
"How do you do, madame?" he said, dancing along backwards in front of her. "Do you know me?"
"Jean-Phillipe!"
Miranda tugged at his sleeve but he ignored her. "Do you?" he demanded.
The woman came to a dead stop. Her eyes widened.
"You're that actor," she said. "Oh my goodness! You are, aren't you?"
He grinned, doffed an imaginary hat and made a deep, courtly bow.
"Indeed I am. And I must ask you, madame, would it change your opinion of me if you learned that—"
"Don't," Miranda hissed.
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
"My charming friend," he said, "fears that I am about to be indiscreet. She is afraid that if I tell you the truth—"
"Jean-Phillipe, please—"
"—the truth, madame, which is that I am longing to go to America and become a big star, you will no longer go to my films." He smiled. "You do go to see my films, do you not?"
"Yes," the woman said, staring from one of them to the other, "oh yes, all the time."
"Ah. And would you continue to do so, even if you knew that I..." He shrugged off Miranda's hand. "...that I was not the same old Jean-Phillipe Moreau you've come to know?"
"Of course," she said in bewilderment. "Why wouldn't I?"
"My sentiments, precisely." Jean-Philippe took the woman's hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. "Merci," he said, "and be sure to see my latest film when it opens."
Miranda grabbed his arm and tugged him along the sidewalk, away from the woman who stood staring after them.
"You are a crazy man," she said fiercely. "She'll go around telling everybody that you ought to be in an asylum."
"What did you think? That I was about to make an announcement on the Champs Elysees?"
"The thought occurred to me, yes."
His laugh was quick and sharp.
"Trust me, cherie. I know full well that one does not become a Hollywood star by standing on a street in Paris and asking a strange woman for her good wishes." His voice cracked. "I also know that you speak the truth. The more I reach out for my dream, the closer I come to losing it."
"Oh, Jean-Phillipe, I didn't mean..."
"It is foolish to deny it." He stopped walking, turned and faced her, and she could see the anguish in his eyes. "You have been wonderful, letting the world think you are my lover."
"Don't make me sound like a saint," she said, smoothing her hands over the lapels of his leather coat. "I've gotten something out of the deal, too."
"Oui. Having me hover in the background keeps other men from demanding too much of you."
"Stop fishing for compliments," she said, smiling. "You know I meant that being known as your girlfriend adds luster to my reputation." Her smile tilted. "Besides, I love you. You know that."
"And I love you, cherie." Jean-Phillipe clasped Miranda's face. Snowflakes dotted her hair and lashes; he thought that she had never looked more beautiful. "If I were not gay..."
"But you are," she said softly, "and someday the world will be ready to accept it."
He kissed her gently on the mouth. Then, hand in hand, they continued towards the Place de la Madeleine.
Chapter 8
Conor's day had not begun well.
He'd awakened to a pounding headache, a desperate need for a cigarette and the sure knowledge that he'd made an ass of himself last night.
The headache was the kind that made even the thought
of lifting his head from the pillow an accomplishment worthy of the Croix de Guerre but finally he'd managed to get up, gulp three aspirin with the steaming cup of cafe au lait the chambermaid delivered to his room, and hope for the best.
The urge for a smoke had been tougher to deal with. He'd told himself that it was a dirty habit, that he never even had a yen for a cigarette except when he was in France where everybody over the age of puberty still seemed to be puffing away despite a bunch of new laws. He'd reminded himself that not even his daily four-mile run or workouts on the Nautilus in the gym back home could dull the effect of smoking on your lungs. And while he'd told himself all those things, he'd patted down his pockets on the off-chance he'd come up with a stray Gauloise.
After a while, he'd given up. He had as much chance of finding a cigarette as he had of convincing himself he hadn't behaved like a fool with Miranda, meaning the odds on either ranged from zero to none.
With only a cup of coffee to fortify him, he'd phoned Miranda to tell her to expect Cochran to change the lock on her door and he'd ended up feeling like a damn fool all over again, caught between her obvious irritation at his interference and an erotic image so powerful it had infuriated him.
No, he thought as he opened the door and stepped out on his tiny balcony, none of that had been a good way to start the day.
The air was crisp but the sky was bright. Conor finished what remained of his coffee while he gazed out at the soaring towers of Notre Dame Cathedral and the grey ribbon of the Seine.
Why in God's name had he kissed her last night? She wasn't his type and he'd bet a month's worth of paychecks that he most definitely wasn't hers.
She was beautiful, sure. A man would have to be dead not to admit it. But she was all glitter and flash. Even if you only took a woman to bed, you liked to think there was more to her than just a face and a body.
Besides, he never got personally involved. Never. It was what had made him a good soldier and an effective agent. It had also been his ex-wife's chief complaint.
"Don't you ever feel anything?" Jillian had shrieked towards the end of the disaster they'd called a marriage.
Conor swallowed another mouthful of coffee. Of course he felt things. He enjoyed a crimson-and-gold sunset, a good bottle of wine, a concerto that could make your throat constrict and the feel of a woman in his arms.
Until You Page 13