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Well, Miranda thought, she had come to the Master with bags, thanks to the party Jean-Philippe had taken her to last night. She'd danced and laughed and drunk champagne until the small hours of the morning, all in honor of the Sultan of Something-of-Other who'd been celebrating his birthday, or maybe the birthday of one of his three wives. Jean-Phillipe hadn't been certain, he'd only known that he absolutely had to attend—which meant that she had to attend with him.
"I am lost without you, cherie," he'd murmured when he'd shown up to ask her to go to the party during yesterday's run-through and Nita, who'd overheard, had rolled her eyes and said, in a honeyed drawl that was as phony as Claude's lineage, that if le sex pot movie star of la belle France were to say such a thing to her, she'd be his slave forever.
Miranda smiled. Nita had nothing on her. She was more than willing to do anything Jean-Philippe wanted, and for the rest of her life. He was wonderful. He was everything...
And he wasn't here.
He'd promised he would be. He knew she never did a show without him in the audience to cheer her on, right from the beginning, all those years ago when she'd done her first pret a porter and one of the other girls had almost had to shove her out onto the catwalk.
"Stop moving," Claude snapped. "How will I disguise these bags beneath your eyes, mademoiselle, if you do not sit still?"
Miranda complied. She was getting a crick in her neck, thanks to the angle he'd demanded she hold her head. But at least he hadn't done as Françoise had threatened. He wasn't about to dismiss her, poof, just like that, not while she was still at the top of the heap along with Jacques Diderot's crazy, and crazily expensive, designs. Not even Claude was foolish enough to distance himself from so much success—but he could damned well screw up her makeup. She'd seen it happen before, the brush stroke that went just a little off, the color shade a bit too dark.
Claude drew back and glared at her again and she realized she must have moved, or twitched, or maybe just breathed too hard. Heaven knew she was trying not to breathe at all because Claude was exhaling clouds of garlic and red wine straight into her face.
"I am almost fini," he snapped, "and although you are not deserving of it, I have made you my masterpiece, Miranda. Do what you must to keep entirely still for a moment longer, if you please."
"Do what you must to get done," Miranda said, without moving her lips. "I mean," she said, when he glared at her again, "I am very grateful, Claude, but my neck is getting stiff."
"Kohl," Claude snapped, and held out his hand. Françoise slapped a pencil into his palm. "Brush." She slapped that into his other hand. The Master bent closer to his canvas and Miranda held her breath. "Your neck is a small price to pay for my genius, mademoiselle. Look up. Look down. Now, look to the side. No, do not turn to the side, you stupid girl, look to the side. The eyes move, nothing else. You understand?"
"Umm," she said, and did as he'd asked...
And saw the man.
Who was he?
Why was he staring at her?
She didn't know him. She had never even seen him before. She was certain of that, even though she couldn't really get a clear view of him. Her head and eyes were at a strange angle and he was too far away. Still, she knew he was watching her, she could feel it, and with such intensity that it sent a funny feeling up her spine.
She scowled, trying to bring him into focus. Claude let loose with a blistering string of obscenities in a breathtaking mélange of languages.
"Qu'est-ce que tu fous?" he said furiously. "What the hell are you doing, you stupid girl? Would you like me to stop? I can leave you this way, if you wish, with your left eye only half-finished!"
Miranda shook her head the slightest bit.
"Look at me, then, and do not move."
She did as he'd ordered. Long moments passed and then Claude tossed the brush at Françoise, put his hands on his hips and stepped back.
"I have done you," he announced.
Nita Carrington, seated on the stool next to Miranda's, gave a throaty laugh.
"Not on your best day, Claude, baby," she said. "Miranda and I don't give no pity-fucks, isn't that right, girlfriend?"
Claude drew himself up to his full five feet two inches.
"Françoise will do your face, Mademoiselle Carrington," he said coldly, and marched away.
"Françoise was gonna do me anyhow, weren't you, sweetness?" Nita said. She sat up straight and tilted her face towards Claude's sour-faced assistant. "Go on, girl. Do your worst."
> Françoise set to work. Miranda waited a minute, then slid her gaze sidewards.
The man was still there.
"Nita," she hissed.
