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
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
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