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"Do you like working in Paris, Miss Beckman?" he asked in a pleasant tone.
Miranda's head snapped up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged. "Nothing much. I was just wondering if it's as tough to get a work permit as I've heard—and as easy to have one taken away."
"Are you threatening me?" She took a step towards him, eyes flashing. "You get the hell out of here, mister, before I have you thrown out!"
"Miranda?" A girl came hurrying towards them holding out a jumble of clothing. "Miranda, s'il vous plait, c'est le moment!"
She glared at him but he didn't move.
"Okay," she said, "okay, O'Neil, you want a free show?" Her chin lifted in defiance. "You got one."
The smock slipped from her shoulders, revealing a white silk teddy. It was unadorned and plain and for all that, as sexy as anything Conor had ever seen.
He told himself to turn around but how could he, when she was deliberately exhibiting herself before him, telling him with her body and her cool eyes that he was beneath contempt? Besides, a man would have to be a stone saint not to look at legs that were as long and as lovely as hers, at the high-cut lines of the teddy that defined the soft roundness of her thighs.
His gaze rose further, until he could see that she was braless under the silk. Her breasts, as firm and round as apples, thrust against the fabric; her nipples were shadowed and mysterious.
Without warning, he felt his body clench.
"Like what you see, O'Neil?" she said gently.
Conor jerked his eyes to Miranda's face. She was smiling like a cat that had just dipped its paw into a dish of cream, her green eyes slanting slightly upward at the corners, her carmine-red mouth curving with pleasure, and he knew that she'd read his every emotion.
"Because that's all you're ever going to do, you know." She smiled and stroked her hands lightly down her throat, to her breasts. Her hands cupped them and her smile tilted, became a promise of pleasure beyond endurance. The pink tip of her tongue slicked across her crimson lips. "You can look, like all the rest, but you're never, ever going to be able to touch."
Conor's hands fisted at his sides. The urge to reach out and slap that beautiful, taunting face was almost overpowering. It took a minute until he could return that clever, disdainful smile.
"Have you ever done any mountain-climbing, Miss Beckman?" He saw the smile slip from her mouth, saw confusion blur those knowing eyes. "No? Well, I have. Not much, I admit, but just enough to have learned a couple of things about myself. One is that there's no satisfaction in accomplishing something that's already been done by too many men. The other is that no matter what anybody says, just because the mountain's there doesn't mean it's worth climbing." Her face seemed to whiten, even under the heavy makeup, and it made his smile genuine. "I'll see you later, after you've finished making believe you're a real woman for the paying customers."
Nita let out a long, sighing breath as he turned and strolled away.
"Like I said the first time," she said, "wow!"
"The bastard," Miranda said. Her voice trembled.
Nita turned and looked at her. Miranda's hands were balled into fists at her sides.
"Hey," she said, "come on, girlfriend. The guy was just getting even. I mean, you got to admit, you chewed him up pretty good." She slipped her arm around Miranda's shoulders. "You hear me?"
"Yes." Miranda nodded, her eyes glued to Conor O'Neil's retreating back. He was almost at the exit door. "I hear you."
"Well, then, put on a smile. And let Annick help you get dressed. Poor thing is standing here, wringing her hands." Nita grinned. "It's time to get out front, give the guys heart attacks and make the ladies drool. You know, do your thing!"
Make believe you're a real woman.
A pain Miranda hadn't felt in years and years stabbed through her heart.
"Oh, look," Nita screeched. "It's Jean-Phillipe!"
Miranda spun around. Jean-Phillipe was hurrying towards her, drawing smiles from even this jaded, sophisticated group. But his eyes were fixed on her and when he saw her face light at the sight of him, he held out his arms.
"Cherie," he said, as he caught her, "forgive me. I meant to be here sooner."
"It's all right," she said, and wound her arms around his neck.
Some sixth sense made her look towards the exit. Conor O'Neil hadn't left yet. He'd paused, his hand on the door, and now he was turned in her direction and looking at her—at her, and at Jean-Phillipe.
