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"As you always have," Eva had snarled, and hung up.
A couple of hours later Hoyt had called and asked, pleasantly enough, if Miranda could please try to keep a low profile until things calmed down.
"Meaning what?" Miranda had asked, just as pleasantly. "Meaning, stay low until Eva sells a billion new lipsticks? Or until you get your precious appointment?"
Why, until it was certain no harm would come to her. Or to Eva, Hoyt had said in a wounded tone.
"I've never wanted anything but the best for you both, Miranda," he'd said. "You know that."
Tonight, Hoyt seemed to hear Miranda's thoughts. He looked around, caught her eye, and smiled. Miranda didn't smile back. His charm was wasted on her. She didn't like him. She never had, though Eva insisted that wasn't true, that she'd adored him, when she was little.
"Miss Beckman?"
A tall man with a bristling mustache and a shiny bald head had appeared at her elbow.
"It is such a pleasure to have you here, Miss Beckman."
Miranda smiled dutifully. "It's a pleasure to be here."
"Such a fine, charitable event, don't you think?"
What she thought was that the event was stupid and anybody who didn't realize that was even stupider. Not that she was much better. Here she was, back where she'd sworn she'd never be, at Eva's beck and call.
At least she'd had the sense to look up Brian Stone and ask him to represent her.
"...so many organizations raising money for food and clothing and shelter that we asked ourselves, why should we duplicate..."
Brian hadn't turned a hair at the thought of getting as much money as possible out of Miranda's own flesh and blood. Thanks to him, Papillon was paying a fortune so it could plaster her face everywhere. Even Jean-Phillipe was impressed. Nita was, too. The last time they'd spoken on the phone, she'd laughed and gone straight to the nitty-gritty.
"This is so great, girlfriend! That mama of yours, paying through the nose to have you in her ads after she once dumped you like a load of dirty laundry!"
Trust Nita to put the right spin on things. Viewed that way, being in New York wasn't so bad. Eva was eating crow, Miranda was getting terrific exposure, the notes had stopped coming—and Conor, the meddling son of a bitch, was out of her life.
But the news wasn't all good. O'Neil had been replaced by a jerk named Breverman. He'd come straight to her door, rung the bell and introduced himself.
"How do you do, Miss Beckman," he'd said. "My name is Robert Breverman but please, call me Bob." Then he'd flashed a government ID at her.
A private detective peering over her shoulder had been bad enough but to have Big Brother breathing down her neck was ridiculous, especially since the nut who'd sent the awful notes and the picture had faded back into the woodwork.
She'd asked Eva to call the guy off but Eva had shrugged her shoulders and said it wasn't up to her, that the government was doing what it had to do to safeguard Hoyt. So Miranda had swallowed her pride and asked Hoyt to see about getting rid of Breverman but Hoyt had only given her that phony, elder-statesman smile and launched into a speech about the importance of patience and tolerance.
Finally, she'd taken things into her own hands and figured out ways to give Call-Me-Bob the slip. It was almost painfully easy, considering that she could pick him out of a crowd at a hundred yards. Hadn't ever occurred to him that not that many guys hung around the Papillon offices on Fifth Avenue or the building on Madison, where Brian Stone had his agency, wearing black suits that had a shine and black wing-tips that didn't?
If it had been O'Neil watching over her, she'd never have got away with it. He'd have stuck like glue, the way he had in Paris. If she'd tried to evade him, he'd have shouldered his way into her apartment, demanded to know what in hell she thought she was doing and after they'd yelled at each other maybe, just maybe, he'd have gathered her into his arms and kissed her until nothing mattered but the taste and the feel of him, though why she should even think such a thing was beyond her comprehension.
Miranda gave herself a little shake. This was what came of standing around and being bored out of your mind. You got maudlin and stupid, you began to think about things that had no meaning. Enough, she thought, and she turned to the man standing beside her, gave him a dazzling smile, and interrupted him in midsentence.
"I'm sure Art for the Homeless is a wonderful cause," she said earnestly, "and I'm very grateful to you for explaining it to me."
"You're more than welcome, Miss Beckman." He cleared his throat and edged closer. "Perhaps you'd like to have a late supper with me. I'd love to fill you in on some of our future plans."
"Another time," Miranda said, her smile even more brilliant. "Unfortunately, it's quite late."
"Late?" His gaze shot to the Rolex on his pale, hairless wrist. "But it's barely nine-thirty."
"Ah, but I have to face the cameras in the morning. You wouldn't want me to look anything less than my best, would you?"
She patted his arm before he could come up with an answer and made her way to the table where she'd left the pale grey suede coat that matched her dress.
