Free Until You by Sandra Marton Page B

mumbled.
    He made the same apology another half a dozen times before he finally gave up. Nobody heard him and even if they did, nobody cared. And yet, things weren't as frenzied as he'd thought. There was an order in the insanity. Clothing was here, makeup tables were there...
    Oh, hell!
    There she was. She was sitting on one of the stools, wearing a blue smock that fell to mid-calf. Her back was straight, her hands were folded in her lap, and her face was tilted towards the man who was painting it.
    Conor told himself it was plain luck he'd been able to pick her out. He told himself it was just a trick of the light that made her look different. He told himself there was nothing special about her.
    Hell, he thought again, and let out his breath. What was the sense in lying to himself?
    Miranda Beckman's beauty shone as brightly as the sun.
    * * *
    Miranda was trying her best not to tick Claude off.
    He wasn't in a good mood today but then, he never was. Claude had the temperament of an artiste, people said. Personally, she thought he had the temperament of a barracuda but there was no point in pretending that he wasn't the best makeup-artist this side of the Atlantic. Rumor was that Jacques had paid him a fortune and a half to agree to design the maquillage for this showing of summer couture and to agree that he'd personally do the faces of the top girls.
    Claude himself had made it clear he wouldn't tolerate any nonsense.
    "If you come to the Master with bags under the eyes," his assistant, Françoise, had warned, "or if you do not sit absolutely still while the Master works, he will dismiss you, poof, just like that!"
    Well, Miranda thought, she had come to the Master with bags, thanks to the party Jean-Philippe had taken her to last night. She'd danced and laughed and drunk champagne until the small hours of the morning, all in honor of the Sultan of Something-of-Other who'd been celebrating his birthday, or maybe the birthday of one of his three wives. Jean-Phillipe hadn't been certain, he'd only known that he absolutely had to attend—which meant that she had to attend with him.
    "I am lost without you, cherie," he'd murmured when he'd shown up to ask her to go to the party during yesterday's run-through and Nita, who'd overheard, had rolled her eyes and said, in a honeyed drawl that was as phony as Claude's lineage, that if le sex pot movie star of la belle France were to say such a thing to her, she'd be his slave forever.
    Miranda smiled. Nita had nothing on her. She was more than willing to do anything Jean-Philippe wanted, and for the rest of her life. He was wonderful. He was everything...
    And he wasn't here.
    He'd promised he would be. He knew she never did a show without him in the audience to cheer her on, right from the beginning, all those years ago when she'd done her first pret a porter and one of the other girls had almost had to shove her out onto the catwalk.
    "Stop moving," Claude snapped. "How will I disguise these bags beneath your eyes, mademoiselle, if you do not sit still?"
    Miranda complied. She was getting a crick in her neck, thanks to the angle he'd demanded she hold her head. But at least he hadn't done as Françoise had threatened. He wasn't about to dismiss her, poof, just like that, not while she was still at the top of the heap along with Jacques Diderot's crazy, and crazily expensive, designs. Not even Claude was foolish enough to distance himself from so much success—but he could damned well screw up her makeup. She'd seen it happen before, the brush stroke that went just a little off, the color shade a bit too dark.
    Claude drew back and glared at her again and she realized she must have moved, or twitched, or maybe just breathed too hard. Heaven knew she was trying not to breathe at all because Claude was exhaling clouds of garlic and red wine straight into her face.
    "I am almost fini," he snapped, "and although you are not deserving of it, I have made you my masterpiece, Miranda.