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"Such cold hands, Miranda."
"Well, it's chilly out."
"And what I can see of your face is very pale." His brow furrowed. "What is it, cherie? Have you something to tell me?"
Miranda hesitated. Had she chosen the right place to tell him about the break-in at her apartment? They could have had breakfast at the Grand or the George V, where they'd have been safely secluded at a quiet table. Instead, she'd deliberately chosen McDonald's, not just because Jean-Phillipe had a very un-Gallic weakness for its bill of fare but for its bright, uncomplicated atmosphere.
Maybe here, with Ronald McDonald grinning down from the wall, she could think about, talk about, what had happened last night without shuddering.
"Miranda?"
Jean-Phillipe's dark blond eyebrows were drawn together above his long French nose. Miranda squeezed his hands in hers.
"Yes," she said, "I do have something to tell you. But let's get our breakfast first, okay?" She smiled. "I need a caffeine fix, and the thought of an Egg McMuffin is driving me crazy."
"Ah," he said, and smiled back at her, "cherie, you are still une americaine at heart."
A bunch of young cashiers had already collected at the counter to giggle and gawk at Jean-Phillipe. He let Miranda draw him there, even though the idea of breakfast á la McDonald's was no longer quite so appealing. Miranda was upset—he had sensed it yesterday, when she had greeted him so effusively at the Diderot showing and again last evening, at the party—and it worried him.
There was no point in demanding explanations. She would explain in her own good time and meanwhile, he would see to it that she ate something, despite her attempt at trying to get away with having only coffee and the Egg McMuffin.
"Nonsense," he said briskly, and ordered enough food to feed a small army. Then he autographed a couple of place mats, a Big Mac wrapper and, as the pièce de resistance, the breast pocket of one of the blushing cashiers.
"Now," he said, lifting their heavily laden tray, "mademoiselle and I shall have our feast."
The hazel-eyed blonde who now bore Jean-Phillipe's signature across her left breast looked at Miranda.
"Are you someone special, mademoiselle?"
Miranda shook her head. "Sorry, no."
"Ah," Jean-Phillipe said, "that is not so. She is—"
Miranda's boot-clad foot landed on his instep.
"I'm just one of Monsieur Moreau's worshipful fans," she said solemnly.
"Just another fan, indeed," Jean-Phillipe muttered as they set off for a corner table. "Why do you hide your fame under a basket?"
"It's a bushel. And you flaunt yours enough for the both of us."
"I?" he said with a wounded smile.
Miranda sat down, slipped her coat back from her shoulders and tugged her dark glasses down on her nose.
"You love the glitter of the bright lights," she teased. "Admit it."
"Certainly, I do." A grin lit Jean-Phillipe's handsome face. "But I hide it well, yes? I am becoming a better and better actor, Miranda. Even my drama coach tells me this."
"The little girl with the hazel eyes is still looking at you," Miranda whispered, leaning towards him. "I'll bet she never washes that blouse, now that you've signed it."
"Such is the price of fame," he sighed dramatically. "Now, drink your juice. Eat your Egg McMuffin. Take a bite of the potatoes. You are too thin, cherie. Unlike that fool, Diderot, I prefer you with some meat on your bones."
She tried, but each mouthful seemed to stick in her throat. After a while, she shoved her breakfast aside and concentrated on her coffee.
"You are not eating?"
