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"Of course," she said in bewilderment. "Why wouldn't I?"
"My sentiments, precisely." Jean-Philippe took the woman's hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. "Merci," he said, "and be sure to see my latest film when it opens."
Miranda grabbed his arm and tugged him along the sidewalk, away from the woman who stood staring after them.
"You are a crazy man," she said fiercely. "She'll go around telling everybody that you ought to be in an asylum."
"What did you think? That I was about to make an announcement on the Champs Elysees?"
"The thought occurred to me, yes."
His laugh was quick and sharp.
"Trust me, cherie. I know full well that one does not become a Hollywood star by standing on a street in Paris and asking a strange woman for her good wishes." His voice cracked. "I also know that you speak the truth. The more I reach out for my dream, the closer I come to losing it."
"Oh, Jean-Phillipe, I didn't mean..."
"It is foolish to deny it." He stopped walking, turned and faced her, and she could see the anguish in his eyes. "You have been wonderful, letting the world think you are my lover."
"Don't make me sound like a saint," she said, smoothing her hands over the lapels of his leather coat. "I've gotten something out of the deal, too."
"Oui. Having me hover in the background keeps other men from demanding too much of you."
"Stop fishing for compliments," she said, smiling. "You know I meant that being known as your girlfriend adds luster to my reputation." Her smile tilted. "Besides, I love you. You know that."
"And I love you, cherie." Jean-Phillipe clasped Miranda's face. Snowflakes dotted her hair and lashes; he thought that she had never looked more beautiful. "If I were not gay..."
"But you are," she said softly, "and someday the world will be ready to accept it."
He kissed her gently on the mouth. Then, hand in hand, they continued towards the Place de la Madeleine.
Chapter 8
Conor's day had not begun well.
He'd awakened to a pounding headache, a desperate need for a cigarette and the sure knowledge that he'd made an ass of himself last night.
The headache was the kind that made even the thought
of lifting his head from the pillow an accomplishment worthy of the Croix de Guerre but finally he'd managed to get up, gulp three aspirin with the steaming cup of cafe au lait the chambermaid delivered to his room, and hope for the best.
The urge for a smoke had been tougher to deal with. He'd told himself that it was a dirty habit, that he never even had a yen for a cigarette except when he was in France where everybody over the age of puberty still seemed to be puffing away despite a bunch of new laws. He'd reminded himself that not even his daily four-mile run or workouts on the Nautilus in the gym back home could dull the effect of smoking on your lungs. And while he'd told himself all those things, he'd patted down his pockets on the off-chance he'd come up with a stray Gauloise.
After a while, he'd given up. He had as much chance of finding a cigarette as he had of convincing himself he hadn't behaved like a fool with Miranda, meaning the odds on either ranged from zero to none.
With only a cup of coffee to fortify him, he'd phoned Miranda to tell her to expect Cochran to change the lock on her door and he'd ended up feeling like a damn fool all over again, caught between her obvious irritation at his interference and an erotic image so powerful it had infuriated him.
No, he thought as he opened the door and stepped out on his tiny balcony, none of that had been a good way to start the day.
The air was crisp but the sky was bright. Conor finished what remained of his coffee while he gazed out at the soaring towers of Notre Dame Cathedral and the grey ribbon of the Seine.
Why in God's name had he kissed her last night? She wasn't his type and he'd bet a month's worth of paychecks that he most definitely wasn't hers.
She was beautiful, sure. A man would have to be dead not to admit it. But she was all glitter and flash. Even if you only took a woman to bed, you liked to think there was more to her than just a face and a body.
Besides, he never got personally involved. Never. It was what had made him a good soldier and an effective agent. It had also been his ex-wife's chief complaint.
"Don't you ever feel anything?" Jillian had shrieked towards the end of the disaster they'd called a marriage.
