Until You (42 page)

"The walking wounded," he said, still smiling. "You need to get that knee cleaned up and I need to down a couple of aspirin."

She nodded, and her heart banged up into her throat.

"I have some stuff in my medicine cabinet," she said.

"Yeah?"

"And if you were serious about making a meal of scrambled eggs and toast—"

"No bacon?"

Miranda laughed. "Bacon's bad for you, O'Neil, haven't you heard?"

His eyes, as blue as the sea, met hers.

"Risk is what puts the spice in life," he said softly.

She nodded. "I know." A long time seemed to pass, and then she took a deep breath. "I haven't got any bacon," she said, "but I've got bagels in the freezer, and even some cream cheese."

He smiled, and her heart soared.

"You talked me into it," he said, and as they turned and headed out of the park, she had the feeling her life would never be the same again.

Chapter 15

"Nice place," Conor said, as the door to Miranda's apartment closed behind him.

"It's okay," she said, switching on the lights, "or it will be, if I ever get around to fixing it up."

Fixing what up? Things looked pretty good, to him. The living room was enormous, twice the size of the one she'd had in Paris and maybe three times the size of the one in his place, back in Arlington. A staircase rose to the second floor, where he figured the bedroom to be.

Her bedroom in Paris had had a wonderful view out over the Marais. This one would look out over the park but it would still carry the scent of her perfume, the way it had in Paris.

Dammit, O 'Neil, forget about Paris and her bedroom! This is a job. A job, you got that? Keep your mind on work.

"It came furnished," she said as she headed for the kitchen.

Mia came strutting from the bedroom, her Siamese tail held high, and Miranda bent down and scooped the cat into her arms, grateful for something to hang on to. What was the matter with her? Why was she so nervous? Conor had saved her life, saved her from something nasty, anyway. The least she could do was give him something to eat.

"Yeah. So did my place."

It wasn't a lie. The apartment he was bunking in belonged to a guy he'd known at Columbia, a million years ago. Jack was a partner at a megabucks Wall Street law firm, doing the kind of clean-hands, deep pockets work Conor had once thought he'd be doing, too. They saw each other maybe once a year for a drink and a round of "remember when" and the last time, six weeks ago, Jack had mentioned he'd be working in Singapore for a few months.

"You know anybody wants to sublease the perfect bachelor pad," Jack had said with a grin, "you let me know."

"Sure," Conor had said, grinning back at him, never figuring that the "somebody" would turn out to be the Committee, which had agreed to pay the hefty rent on the place without blinking.

"...really don't love living in a space that's got somebody else's fingerprints all over it, do you?"

Conor shrugged his shoulders. "It doesn't bother me," he said truthfully. "I've never been much for home and hearth, you know? What's that old song? 'Anywhere I hang my hat... ' "

"Not me. I like having my own things around me." Miranda put the cat down, opened the cupboard and took down a can of Friskies. "All my stuff's in storage. When I go back to Paris and find a new apartment—"

"You're going back?" he said, lounging in the doorway, arms folded, feet crossed.

She turned and looked at him in surprise.

"Yes, of course. There's nothing for me in the States."

Stupid, the way her answer made him feel. Angry, and maybe even a little bit... a little bit...

"What?" she said.

"What, what?"

"I don't know. You've got a weird look on your face."

Conor cleared his throat. "Nothing. I mean, I was just wondering—I thought you said we'd have scrambled eggs and bagels."

"So?"

"So," he said, nodding at the can of cat food, "that doesn't look much like an egg to me."

Miranda laughed. "Relax, O'Neil. Mia gets fed first, or she'll yowl." She scooped the cat's food into a dish, then reached for the coffee pot. "Then it's our turn."

"You left a step out."

"I did?"

"Well, you're all sweated up. And dirty."

Miranda's eyebrows shot up. "You're just full of compliments, aren't you?"

"Don't argue, Beckman. You take a hot shower and I'll start the meal."

"Don't be silly. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're starting to shiver. And that cut on your knee still needs to be cleaned."

"Do you ever lose an argument?"

He grinned. "Not that I can recall. I'll give it some thought while you're in the shower."

He could see the narrowing of her green eyes that told him she wasn't pleased. That's it, he told himself, keep this up, she'll be sorry she asked you here. Not that it mattered. He was already sorry he'd come. Why should he want to stand so close to her that he could smell her incredibly sexy combination of sweet woman and honest sweat? Why should he want to see how her damp shirt clung to her breasts, with her nipples standing hard and firm under the cotton, just waiting for the touch of his fingers?

Dammit, he thought, and he stepped back, far enough away so he couldn't be tempted to reach out and skim his hands up under her shirt.

"Get going," he said, his irritation with himself turning his voice gruff, "or I'll dump you under the shower myself."

Miranda glared at him. "Your wish is my command,
mein Fuhrer,"
she said, and she rammed the coffee pot into his middle and marched out of the room.

* * *

Safely inside the bathroom, she clutched the rim of the sink and flinched at the sight of her flushed face in the mirror.

So much for owing her rescuer a cup of coffee, a couple of eggs and a bit of polite conversation.

She kicked off her muddy sneakers, yanked off her sweat-soaked, dirt-encrusted shorts and shirt, her sports bra and panties and tossed the entire mess into the corner. Then she turned the shower to hot and stepped under the spray.

The polite thing to do was to show O'Neil some appreciation for his help but he didn't make it easy. He was still the same arrogant male he'd always been.

On the other hand, it was probably just as well he'd reverted to type and started barking out orders because a minute before that, she'd looked into his blue eyes and felt the world tilt beneath her feet. And that was ridiculous. He'd saved her butt but that didn't change things.

He was still Conor O'Neil, and she wanted nothing to do with him.

Miranda dumped a handful of shampoo into her hair and worked it through.

When she was done showering, she'd get dressed, go straight back to the kitchen and tell him, politely, that she was really very thankful he'd come along but on second thought, she wasn't much in the mood for company. He could have a cup of coffee, since he'd probably have it made by then, and then she'd walk him to the door, shake his hand and say good-bye.

Unless he took matters into his own hands before she got that chance. Unless he opened the bathroom door, came walking in, stripped off his clothes, stepped under the water with her and took her in his arms.

Miranda's heart began to race. There was no point in pretending, not to herself. If he came for her, she wouldn't stop him. Standing in that kitchen, it had been all she could do to keep from reaching out and putting her arms around his neck, from rising on her toes and fitting her mouth to his.

She reached out and twisted the mixing knob to cold. The water sluiced down like liquid ice, rinsing away the soapy lather on her hair and skin. She gasped at the shock but she didn't turn the water off until her teeth were chattering and the pictures in her head were gone.

By the time she'd dried her hair, pulled on a pair of loose, white cotton drawstring pants and a long-sleeved white cotton T-shirt, she was fine—right up until the moment she entered the kitchen and saw Conor.

He didn't know she was there. Her entrance had been noiseless, partly because she'd padded down the hall in her bare feet but mostly because he'd turned on the radio and was humming along with it. He'd dialed past her usual station so that what drifted in the air was vintage Fleetwood Mac instead of Mendelssohn.

He'd not only made coffee, he'd set the table, poured the orange juice, found the bagels and sliced them so they were ready for the toaster. By the looks of the pile of eggshells stacked up on the counter, he'd cracked open the entire dozen and now he was beating them into a frothy mass, wielding the fork in time with the music, his body moving with the beat.

The sight of him stirred not just her passion but her heart. He was so beautiful, but how could that be? Men weren't beautiful, not inside or out. And yet, Conor made her feel—made her feel...

Her breath caught and he must have heard it, because he glanced over his shoulder and shot her a grin.

"There you are, Beckman. And just in time, too." He gave the eggs one last stir, then dumped the fork into the sink and wiped his hands on the seat of his shorts. "Your turn at K.P. and let's just remember that I did the hard stuff."

Her turn at K.P.? His turn at the shower, was what he meant, and then she'd be expected to sit at the table across from him, trying not to touch his hand or smile at his jokes, most of all, trying not to think about that night in Paris, when they'd made love.

She had to get him out of here, and fast.

"O'Neil," she said briskly, "I'm really terribly sorry but—"

She jumped as he strolled past her and swatted her lightly on the backside.

"It's okay, Beckman, you don't have to apologize. Women always use up all the hot water. It's the lot of the male of the species to shower and shiver at the same time."

What he really meant, he thought as he headed for the bathroom, was that he wasn't going to let her throw him out. That sure as hell was what she'd intended to do. It had been written all over her face.

Someplace between the shower and the kitchen, Miranda had changed her mind. She wanted him gone but he wasn't going anywhere. He was here to do a job and he would do it, and if the shower was cold, so much the better.

He was too old to let a thing like a hard-on come between him and duty, he thought, trying to laugh at the bad pun and succeeding only in making a sound that was closer to a groan as he stepped into the still-warm bathroom and smelled Miranda's scent on the air.

Her damp towel was draped across the rod. He had to grit his teeth to keep from grabbing it and burying his face in its folds.

Jesus, he was in bad shape!

If he could just get through the next hour, he'd be fine.

* * *

Ten minutes later, he was positive he not only could, he would.

Cold showers were truly wonderful things. So was perspective. He'd had the one, gained the other, and life was back on track.

Music drifted faintly through the closed door. Fleetwood Mac had given way to something else. Mozart? Mendelssohn? It didn't matter. He liked both.

Whistling softly, he toweled off with a bath sheet he found shelved opposite the tub. Then he pulled on his running shorts. Except for a little tear and a faint smudge of dirt, they were okay. His shirt, however, was a write-off. Conor picked it up, made a face at the smears, the smell and what looked suspiciously like a bloodstain.

The only place the shirt was going was the incinerator. He balled it up, dropped it into the wastebasket. Okay, he thought, and he glanced in the mirror, ran his fingers through his towel-dried hair, and headed for the kitchen.

Miranda was at the stove, her back to him, scrambling eggs in a skillet. His throat tightened as he imagined coming up behind her, slipping his arms around her and nuzzling the hair away from her neck.

Stop it, O'Neil!

"That was great," he said briskly. "Makes me feel almost human again."