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
"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
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