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"Old acquaintances, you might say."
"Have you known each other long?"
"Long enough, you might say."
The drill whirred as he turned it on and attacked the screws that held the old lock in place.
"Where did you meet?" Miranda asked, raising her voice over the sound of the drill. "In New York?"
Cochran looked up at her and smiled. "You might say."
Miranda narrowed her eyes, bit back the sudden desire to ask him if he had any idea if the sun rose in the east, and left him to his work.
* * *
The phone rang again, just after she'd shut the door on Pete Cochran and slid home the bolt on the new lock.
"Yes," she said crisply, putting the phone to her ear, "your locksmith is all done. He's quite the conversationalist, your Mr. Cochran, but I suppose you already know that."
"Miranda?" Jean-Phillipe said cautiously.
Miranda sighed and sank down on the sofa.
"Jean-Phillipe. You can't imagine how glad I am to hear your voice!"
"I take it you were expecting someone else."
"Unfortunately," she said with a little laugh, "I was."
"I have never heard you mention someone named Cochran, cherie."
"No. I mean, that's not who I thought you were."
"Miranda? You sound—how do you say?—upturned."
"Upset. And you're right, I am. Or I was, until I heard your voice." She looked at her watch. "Could I interest you in breakfast?"
"I am afraid I have already had my croissant and coffee this morning."
"I meant an American breakfast," she said, dropping her voice to a deliberately seductive whisper. "Orange juice, hot-cakes with syrup and sausage, hash browns, eggs..."
Jean-Phillipe made a sound of soft distress. "McDonald's?"
"McDonald's," she agreed, "in half an hour. What do you say?"
He chuckled. "Make it fifteen minutes, cherie. If I must wait any longer than that, I will expire of anticipation."
* * *
At a few minutes past ten in the morning, the big McDonald's on the Champs Elysées was almost empty. The breakfast crowd was gone; the lunch crowd had yet to arrive. Jean-Phillipe, dressed for what he'd claimed would be anonymity, was waiting just inside the door.
"Oh yeah," Miranda said, giving him the once-over, "you're anonymous, all right."
"I did my best," he said staunchly, but there was the hint of a smile on his lips.
And well there should have been, Miranda thought wryly. She was bundled from head to toe in a grey wool coat, her hair invisible beneath the brim of a squashed-down cloche. Her sunglasses were dark and covered half her face. He, on the other hand, was resplendent in a full-length black leather coat, silver Tony Lima lizard-skin boots and the latest rage in oval designer shades. With his trademark blond hair blown dry in artful, shoulder-length disorder, Jean-Phillipe was about as anonymous as a macaw in a flock of starlings.
He bent down, kissed her on both cheeks and took her hands in his.
