Free Until You by Sandra Marton Page A

sleep had made him realize that whatever else he'd believed had brought him here was nonsense.
    One look and the Beckman babe would turn into what he already knew she was, a spoiled brat who'd never quite grown up, a gorgeous piece with the morals of a slut—and then he could stop thinking about her, stop imagining those sad eyes and that secretive smile...
    " Monsieur ?"
    A hand tugged sharply at his sleeve. Conor looked down. A tiny woman with a fox-like face was giving him the same sort of look he'd already gotten at the door.
    "What are you doing here?" she demanded in swift Parisian French.
    Conor fumbled in his pocket. "I have a pass," he said, in French almost as swift as hers. "I assure you—"
    "Merde!" Her fingers bit into his wrist. "Do not show me your card here, you fool. Do you want everyone to know who you are?"
    "Madame?"
    "Oh, mon dieu, I am so weary of dealing with stupid people. It is bad enough you stand out like a sore thumb dressed in that stupid outfit. Must you also wave your identification card around and announce to the world that you are Security?"
    John O'Neil had not raised a stupid son. "Certainly not," Conor said, with just the right amount of chagrin.
    "We need coverage backstage. That is where you should be."
    "Of course."
    The woman's eyes narrowed. "You are Security, yes?"
    Conor rolled his eyes. "Look," he said, reaching into his pocket again, "let me show you my—"
    "No, no, don't do that!" The woman jerked her head towards the stage. "Go on," she hissed, "get to work. Remember, no one gets into the dressing room without a special pass. I don't care if it's the pope himself, you understand? You will protect Monsieur Diderot's designs with your life!"
    Conor did his best not to click his heels and salute.
    "Oui, madame," he said.
    A moment later, he'd vaulted onto the stage, parted the curtains and stepped into another world.
    If it was chaos out front, it was a madhouse back here. There was no other word to describe it, he thought, staring around him in bemusement. The noise. The clouds of hair spray. The smoke from what had to be a zillion unfiltered Gauloises.
    And the people. Conor had never seen anything like this mob. There were fat women. Skinny women. Young ones and old ones. There were men, too, most of them garbed in tight black leather and draped with enough chains to outfit an Alabama work gang.
    What in hell were all these people doing? Racing around in circles, from what he could tell.
    How would he locate Miranda Beckman in this crowd? He'd assumed it would be easy enough, considering that he'd seen her portrait and that he had a photo of her in his pocket.
    How wrong could a man be?
    It wasn't that he couldn't pick out the models. They were the only people not rushing around in a frenzy. They were draped languidly in chairs or perched on stools, looking bored while the men and women buzzing around like bees made up their faces and their hair.
    It was just that they all looked alike.
    The girls who'd already been fixed up all had faces powdered white, eyes outlined in black and mouths painted into blood-red pouts. The ones who hadn't were almost as impossible to tell apart with their elegant bones, wide-set eyes, swan-like necks and long, slim bodies.
    Conor breathed a sigh of relief. The room was filled with Mirandas. He knew now, for certain, that there was nothing special about her.
    Slowly, he made his way into their midst. He hadn't seen this much carelessly exposed female flesh at one time since a long-ago weekend at Columbia, when he and half a dozen drunk fraternity brothers had burst into the women's locker room on a dare. He'd been too bombed to fully appreciate the sight then and hell, he wasn't really appreciating it now, either. Maybe it was the atmosphere, or maybe it was the bored, vapid looks on the women's faces, but the view just wasn't a turn-on.
    "Regardez!"
    Conor jumped back as a trolley loaded with black wigs raced towards him.
    "Pardon," he