Until You (30 page)

She handed the keys to him, waited while he paid the driver. He reached for her arm but she shrugged off his hand.

"Have it your way," he muttered, and they marched through the gate, then through the heavy front door and to Madame Delain's vacant desk. Miranda turned around.

"Thank you for the guard service." Her tone was polite but removed. "I'll switch the light on and off in the living room, the way I did last night."

Conor yanked open the elevator door and pushed her inside. "Last night," he said grimly, "you hadn't had your little chat with Vincent Moratelli."

Her skin prickled as she remembered the threat. The elevator lurched to life, rose slowly, then groaned to a stop.

"Out," Conor growled and she obeyed. He unlocked the door to her apartment. When it swung open, she held out her hand for her key.

"Good night, O'Neil."

He took her arm, prodded her inside, then closed and locked the door. Miranda's stomach lurched, with a combination of fear and something else.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He tossed her keys on the table, unbuttoned the jacket of his tuxedo and slipped it off.

Mia came hurrying into the foyer, meowing plaintively, and wound around Miranda's ankles. She bent down, scooped the cat into her arms and faced Conor with defiant calm.

"If you think that little dance rates you a berth for the night, think again."

"Sorry, Beckman. I know it'll disappoint you to hear this but I'm just not into babes who get their kicks out of games like yours." He took the studs out of his cuffs, dropped them beside the keys, and rolled up his sleeves. "I'm staying the night, but it's strictly business."

"You are not staying the night!"

"Is that sofa as uncomfortable as it looks?"

"Maybe you didn't hear what I said. You are not... Where are you going?"

"I'm going to get myself a blanket and a pillow. Is that a linen closet?"

"Damn you, O'Neil!"

"Don't argue with me, Beckman." He turned and looked at her, and her breath caught at what she saw in his eyes. "If we play any more games tonight, we'll play them by my rules."

Color washed into her face. She put down the Siamese, marched past him, pulled open the door to the linen closet and hurled a blanket, pillow and bedding in his direction.

"Ever the gracious hostess," he said wryly.

"Ever the unwanted guest. Just so you know, the sofa sags and your feet are going to hang off the end. Oh, and the temperature in the living room bottoms out sometime around dawn."

"Thanks for the warning."

"Warning?" She folded her arms and flashed a smile that reminded him that the cat at her feet wasn't the only creature here with sharp claws. "I'm simply making sure you know in advance that you're in for a long and miserable night. Which reminds me... if I even think I hear you outside my bedroom door, I'll scream the house down."

"I told you, Beckman, you're not my type." Conor gave her a chilly smile across the armful of bedding. "But for the record, the only screaming my women do is when they beg for more."

"In your dreams, O'Neil."

She could still hear the sound of his soft laughter after she'd stalked into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

Chapter 11

Conor lay on the too-narrow, too-short, lumpy-as-cold-oatmeal sofa, glowering into the darkness.

He'd certainly made an ass of himself tonight.

His scowl deepened.

The truth was, he'd been working overtime at making an ass out of himself ever since his size elevens had touched down on the soil of
la belle France.

What was it about Miranda Beckman that turned him into such a jerk? He'd made enough mistakes in his personal life to fill a bank vault but one thing had always been certain: he was good at his job. He had been, from the day he'd walked away from his father, trading the old man's iron-fisted, because-I-said-so version of law and order for the clearly defined rules of first the army and then the Committee.

You had an assignment, you did it. And by the book. No bull, no second-guessing, no useless expending of emotional energy. You went in, you did what you were supposed to do, and you got out. You didn't get involved.

So what in hell had he been doing, coming on to Miranda?

"Making an ass of yourself, O'Neil," he muttered, "that's what."

He rolled onto his back, almost tumbling off the damn sofa in the process, and linked his hands beneath his head.

Every instinct he possessed told him it was time to terminate this assignment. Telephone Harry, bring him up to date on the stuff that had been tucked under Miranda's door—and then make it clear he was coming home.

He'd done the preliminaries. Let somebody else take it from here.

It was just that he'd never walked out in the middle of an assignment before.

Give it a break, O'Neil.

This wasn't the Boy Scouts. He wasn't going to earn a merit badge for hanging in. He wanted out, and out he'd go.

"Mrrow?"

A hot, furry weight, its paws tipped with what felt like a hundred razor-sharp talons, landed on his chest. Conor shot upright, dumping the Siamese into his lap.

"God almighty, cat," he said, "you like to live dangerously."

What was the animal doing here, anyway? He'd have figured Miranda would have kept it in the bedroom with her, and the bedroom door would sure as hell be locked tighter than a nun's knees.

"Don't get yourself comfortable," he said to the cat but it was too late. Mia had already settled in on his lap, purring like a demented motorboat.

Conor sighed. Why not? One of them might as well get some rest. He certainly wasn't going to, not on a sofa where he had a choice between letting his legs hang over the arm or tucking his knees under his chin. It was cold as Siberia in here, too. Miranda had said the temperature would drop off at dawn but it was only... He squinted at his watch. It was only 3:05 and he was already raising a crop of goose bumps. It didn't help that he'd stripped off his shirt and pants before trying to fit himself onto a piece of furniture designed for midgets but then again, his charming hostess could have managed to provide him with more than one blanket.

Another couple of hours, he'd be frozen so stiff they'd have to chip him out of the ice before hauling him to a chiropractor.

What was the cat doing here, anyway?

Conor tucked his chin in and glared down at Mia.

"What are you doing here, cat?" he said.

The cat didn't answer. It was falling asleep while he froze to death.

Enough was enough.

"Alley-oop," Conor muttered.

He scooped Mia out of his lap and deposited her on the sofa. The Siamese shot him a malevolent look from a pair of satanic red eyes and made a sound midway between a purr and a growl.

"Yeah? Well, the same to you."

Damn, it was cold! Conor felt around for his shirt, couldn't find it, and gave up looking. He knew where the linen closet was, at least. There had to be a couple of more blankets on the shelves.

The old floorboards creaked lightly under his bare feet as he made his way into the foyer and down the hall. Halfway there, Mia decided to come after him and do an allemande-left-and-right through his ankles.

"Dammit," he hissed, and scooped the animal into his arms. The cat purred, butted his chin with her wedge-shaped head and settled in like a baby with her butt in the crook of his arm and her front paws dangling over his shoulder. "Cute," he muttered, "but it won't work with me. I'm not as easy a mark as the lady who owns you."

The cat purred harder and licked his chin with a tongue that felt like sandpaper.

"Okay, okay, we'll go find the blankets together. How's that sound?"

Absently, he stroked his hand down the animal's fur. It was soft as velvet and cool to the touch, though the little body pressed to his was warm. The cat was like Miranda, cold on the outside but with a core of simmering heat deep inside, its beauty a disguise that concealed claws that could gut a man with a swipe—if a man was stupid enough to let it happen.

Frowning, Conor put the Siamese down, determinedly ignoring its soft cries of protest. The linen closet had to be just about here. Yes, there it was. Just turn the knob, nice and easy, slide the door open...

Mia made a sound that would have awakened the dead.

"Cat," Conor muttered, "so help me, if you wake that woman, I'll turn you into a fur piece. The last thing I need is another verbal go-round with..."

What in hell was that?

A sound. Not an animal sound but one that made the hair rise on the nape of his neck. He froze, waiting for it to be repeated, wishing he weren't standing here like an idiot in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.

The sound came again and now he recognized it.

It was the sound of a woman, softly weeping.

He looked down the hall, to where a faint light seeped from under the closed bedroom door.

So what? Miranda was crying. It wasn't his problem. He was here to make sure nobody tried to pay her a nighttime visit, not to worry about...

Could somebody have slipped past him? Was that why she was crying, because there was someone in that room with her? Conor stiffened. It didn't seem possible but he'd lived long enough to know that impossible things happened with amazing frequency.

Moving cautiously now, holding his breath, he made his way forward. He could see that the bedroom door was ajar as soon as he reached it. It was open just enough for the cat to have slipped out.

Had it been open all along, or had it been opened by an intruder?

Conor put his hand on the door, eased it open.

A night lamp glowed in the corner, casting shadows along the walls. By its faint light, he could see that there was no one in the room but Miranda. She was lying in the center of the bed, on her back, with the blankets pulled up to her chin.

Beckman, the night lamp type? Even after what she'd endured the last few days, it surprised him.

"Miranda?" he whispered. There was no answer. Conor hesitated. Then he took a couple of steps forward. "Hey," he said, "Beckman?"

She murmured something and rolled onto her side. The crying turned into soft, sad whimpers.

She was dreaming, that was all. There was no intruder and he had no further business here. Miranda's nightmares were her affair, not his—but he'd had enough bad dreams to know what it was like to fight demons in the dark. What the hell, it wouldn't take anything from him to wake her.

"Wake up, Beckman," he said briskly, as he strode to the bed. "Come on, open your eyes."

Miranda moaned. She thrashed onto her back and flung her arms over her head. She was wearing some kind of old-fashioned granny gown, flannel, maybe, with little sprigs of pink roses all over it. Her hair was loose and ebony-dark against the high collar of the gown; her face was painfully pale. Tears glittered in her dark lashes.

What could make a woman cry so deeply, in a dream?

She moaned, and a deep furrow appeared between her brows.

"Beckman?" Conor sat down on the edge of the bed. "Miranda," he said, and gently clasped her shoulders, "come on, wake up."

"Nooo!" Her scream filled the room. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him through blind, terror-filled eyes. "Don't, oh please, don't, don't, don't..."

"Miranda." Conor lifted her towards him, his hands and voice firm. "Wake up! Do you hear me? You're dreaming."

Ever so slowly, the fear receded from her eyes and was replaced by the light of reason.

"Conor?"

Here it comes, he thought, a speech about the sanctity of a closed bedroom door or maybe even a right cross, straight to the jaw.

"Conor," she said again, and before he could say a word, explain that she'd been dreaming, that he'd only come into her room to wake her, she launched herself at him, not to slug him but to wrap her arms around him, bury her damp face against his bare skin and weep.