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Miranda laughed. "No. It was not like this one at all."
"Still, you improved it while you lived with me. I remember coming home to rooms that were clean, to freshly ironed shirts and hot meals."
"I remember shorting out your vacuum cleaner and scorching your shirts. And to this day, I think it's a miracle my cooking didn't kill you!"
He chuckled. "What is it you Americans say, cherie? It was the thought that counted."
"I knew it wasn't enough. You'd done so much." She hesitated. "That was why I offered to sleep with you. It was all I had to give."
"Oui." He put down his glass, rolled onto his back and folded his hands under his head. "Truly, it was a generous offer. I was touched."
"But you're right. I was relieved when you turned me down. Very relieved." Miranda put down her wine and stretched out beside him on her belly, her chin propped on her hands. "But it wasn't because of anything about you, Jean-Phillipe. You know that, don't you?"
"Miranda, little one, this was all a long time ago."
"I know, but we've never really talked about it. And I want to be sure you understand. You mean everything to me. I just didn't want to do—to do that with anyone."
"And nothing much has changed in eight years, hmm?"
Miranda sat up again. She picked up her glass and looked down into it. The firelight, reflected in the deep ruby of the wine, gleamed hot and golden.
"No," she said softly, "it hasn't."
"I have never asked you about it. I always thought, if you wished to discuss it, you would do so. But I knew, in my heart."
"That's okay. I don't mind you asking."
"I shall ask, then. You still feel nothing when you are with a man?"
"I am never with a man." She smiled, but her eyes were dark. "Not the way you mean."
Jean-Phillipe reached up and stroked a strand of hair back from her cheek.
"It is a dangerous game you play, cherie," he said, very softly.
"What game?"
"The one you play with men."
"I do not play games with men."
"You tease, Miranda. You torment. You snap your lashes and say, 'are you man enough to take me' and then, when a man accepts the challenge..."
"It's bat," she said sharply.
"Cherie?"
"A woman bats her lashes, she doesn't snap them. And I can't help it if men come to the wrong conclusions. It only proves that they're all pigs. They deserve learning that not every woman is fool enough to believe their lies."
Jean-Phillipe sat up and looked directly at her. "There is a word in French," he said softly. "It is not a nice word, but it is a word men use to describe a woman who teases. They say she is une allumeuse. I do not know how to translate this word into English."
Color burned in Miranda's cheeks. "You don't have to. I'm sure I can figure out the English equivalent." Her chin rose in defiance. "I'm who I am, that's all. If men choose to misinterpret, that's their problem, not mine."
"This man. O'Neil."
"What about him?"
"Does he choose to misinterpret, too?"
