An elated Miranda ran through the crowd and launched herself at Ian. He beamed at her like she was heaven sent and captured her with one arm. She kissed him full on the mouth in front of the company. Miranda told herself she only intended to hug him. His reaction made her dare to kiss him in spite of the crowd. Right. And cake eaten a spoonful at a time had less calories than eating it slice by slice.
Ian deepened the kiss as the crew egged him on and finally broke the kiss off when they both came up for air.
Terry scanned Miranda like a hungry wolf.
Ian aimed a piercing stare at his former opponent. "Thanks for the offer, but we have other plans."
"Sorry, I didn't know." The stuntman lifted his hands in a mock surrender and turned to mix with the group of onlookers.
Ian hugged Miranda tight so only she could hear, "I've changed my mind. Tomorrow is too long to wait for my winning dinner. Tonight sounds much better."
Their kiss had exposed the relationship the office rumor mongers alleged. She didn’t care what people said anymore. She was thrilled with his victory. What better time to cast her fate to the wind and do what she wanted. And, this would be a lovely dinner, just the two of them, at her home, with no parking garage scenes.
The crowd dissipated and they were left alone. Miranda had an incredible urge to tell Ian about the visions. What would he think if she told him he was the knight?
"We'll stop at my hotel so I can have a quick shower and change," Ian said, stripping off the rest of his gear.
Miranda abandoned the idea of telling him about her knight. Things were going too well at the moment to complicate matters with talk of wild imaginings.
Chapter Fifty-One
Miranda sat on the bed. The large hotel room had a sitting area to one side and a king bed and desk on the other side. The tasteful décor was a traditional style in muted tones of chocolate brown, tan and steel blue. Too neutral for Miranda’s taste, she’d add a splash of color with bright jewel tone throw pillows or oriental vases.
Ian began to undress. "I won't take more than twenty minutes, unless, of course, you want to join me."
A giggle bubbled up at the playful invitation. Another giggle. They were coming with more frequency. Good Lord, she was turning into Kiki.
The light laughter didn’t stem from humor as much as a self-conscious effort to cover the temptation of the invite. The man was the wave of warm water that laps at your knees, your legs, your chest, higher and higher until you're over your head. How long can a woman be expected to tread water? The question danced in her thoughts as she turned her head while he disrobed.
After the bathroom door shut, she wandered around the room. Extremely neat, he left nothing lying around. His paperwork was tidy and organized on the desk like at work. She continued while listening for the shower. Miranda peeked into the closet, not really sure what she expected to find other than clothes. Everything was lined up neatly, shoes with shoe trees, suits, shirts, and slacks were separated by purpose and color.
The fastidiousness of a man who’s endured chaos.
She stood with one hand still on the doorknob and one on her hip puzzled as to where the assumption came from. She let the question go and shut the door. It was one of the mysteries about Ian she just seemed to know.
The shower stopped. She sat on the bed again and picked up a book from the nightstand. A picture of the American General, Norman Schwartzkoff stared back at her. She wondered if Ian had ever considered pursuing a military career.
He came out bare-chested and in jeans with the top button undone. His skin was the color of polished cedar in the afternoon light. He stood in front of her towel drying his hair.
Clothes didn't do justice to his powerful build. His lack of fatigue during the exercise with Terry made sense now. Miranda let her gaze trail down past the indentation under his pectorals. His waist was trimmer than it looked in business attire. Black, silky hair added another sexy layer to his tanned chest.
In the erotic dream she had of him, he didn’t have a hairy chest. She’d burn this sight into subconscious. If she had another erotic dream, she wanted this fun feature included. It was so unsubtle, but her eyes dropped to the darkened line under the open waistband. He should just paint a “down here” arrow on his stomach.
She looked up. He grinned and smoothed his hair back with his palms. What a great smile he had. There was nothing contrived about it. If he didn’t like someone or something he never faked a pleasant response.
She loved his smile.
She loved him and probably had from the start. Love at first sight? Something else she never believed in before Ian. He made her laugh even when he was being awful. He always had an acerbic, but accurate comment about the administrators and their hare-brained suggestions, which occurred regularly. Of course, he whispered undeniable remarks when the subjects were in her line of sight and she had to suffocate her laughter. Conversely, his courteous deference to other employees, a reflection of the quality of his character, always struck her. Even tactless Zandra received her share of pleases and thank yous from him.
Miranda never considered herself vain, but how Ian could make her ego soar with just a look. Sometime’s his dark eyes were all sensuality and sometimes deviltry and appreciation. He made her blood churn in her veins. She was lost from the moment he grinned like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood and suggested eating her.
Ian winked obviously approving of her intimate perusal. She clutched the book harder. Caught ogling him, she fumbled for something neutral to say.
"Nice tan."
"Thank you, the result of a year in a sunny climate."
Miranda cursed herself as her eyes darted downward when he unzipped to tuck in his shirt. She brought them back up with all speed and hoped he hadn't noticed the transgression.
"You've a lovely tan yourself," Ian said and took what in Miranda's opinion was an excruciating amount of time to zip and button up.
"It's nice, but not as rich or deep as yours, and I vacationed in the hot Mediterranean sun. Yours is..." Miranda scanned him suspiciously as he fixed his belt, "Very un-English."
She was grateful for the silly conversation. A moment ago, she’d been too close to blurting out, “I love you.” There are some things a man should say first, I love you, being the primary one.
"Are you saying you don't think I'm English?" His brows furrowed and he tipped his head to the side. He appeared confounded by her remark.
"I didn't say that, but you are swarthy for an Englishman. You should recheck your family tree. I think there might be some pirate skeletons in your closet."
"Perhaps I've just spent more time in the sun topless than you have." His attention fixed on her breasts. "Not unfixable." Ian sat next to her on the bed and began to put his shoes and socks on, "If it weren't for this shoot, I'd be sorely tempted to take you away for a long weekend. Somewhere hot, so I could show you what happens to 'mad dogs and Englishmen' in the sun."
"Be careful, I might hold you to that." Miranda felt coquettish and charming, two things she'd never strived at being good at. She never thought the qualities important enough.
"Shall we go? Although I'm loath to suggest it now that I have you here on my bed...after all, there is room service." He slipped one hand around the nape of her neck and softly kissed the corners of her mouth. "Have I told you how impressed I am with your multi-tasking skills?"
"What multi-tasking skills?"
"Your ability to gawk at my body, while maintaining a strangle hold on General Schwartzkoff."
“What ego. I didn’t gawk.”
“I’m not complaining.”
Ian pushed her onto the mattress and held her there with one hand and extricated the book from her death grip with the other. He ignored her squeal and buried his face in her neck, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
"I was not gawking at your body." Miranda grabbed a handful of his hair and gave it a little shake to emphasize her point.
"Ow,
those hairs are attached you know. Are you miffed because I dressed too fast?" He laughed out loud now, in spite of the pain she continued to inflict. "Ow, ow, ow, sorry, I'll try to go slower next time."
"Get off me you big, conceited oaf!" She let go of his hair to shove him hard with both hands. He didn't budge.
He threw a leg over and covered half her body with his as she tried to wriggle out from under him. "I've been called many things, never an oaf."
"Well you are, now get off." Miranda renewed her struggle.
"I don't think so. I like having you under me. It brings out my pirate blood. You look ripe for plundering. You feel it too, with your hips writhing against me like that." He braced himself on his forearms and rocked his hips.
Stilling, she said, "Pillager of innocent women, that sounds about right." Miranda bit her lower lip and turned her face away to keep from laughing.
"I only want to pillage and plunder you so I'm not sure I qualify as a true pirate. Besides, I suffer terrible mal de mer, which limits my buccaneering drastically."
"You get seasick?" she asked, surprised. "I'd never picture you with your head hanging over the ship rail."
"Some trips, I didn't always make it to the rail. Not a pretty picture, believe me." Ian wrinkled his nose at the memory.
It was a sweet, boyish gesture. Miranda couldn't resist nuzzling his exposed neck. "That was plural. How many sea voyages have you made?"
"Several, all across the Channel."
"Why would you cross by boat more than once knowing you get seasick? Rather lame. Why not take the Chunnel or fly?” It’s more than lame, she thought, it’s damned odd.
Ian dropped his head and laid a passionate kiss on her, his stomach rumbling the entire time.
"Well?" She mumbled against his lips as he was about to take a second plunge.
He sighed. "Ah well, it was a very long time ago, and I was traveling with a large group. We were required to stay together. Plus, we had quite a bit of equipment and going by ship was the...um, most economical. Shall we go before my hungry belly embarrasses me further? Unless, my little booty,” he stretched her hands far above her head. “You'd prefer to continue with my despoiling of you."
"We can stop at this nice market I know on the way to my house," Miranda said.
She smiled to herself as Ian rolled off her, muttering about the pitiful end of his buccaneering career. She’d made up her mind to seduce him. Forget her rule about dating while he was her boss. She saw the whole scenario in her head. He’d never expect it of her. She’d never expect it of herself.
Ian grabbed his car keys and wallet. Miranda waited in the open doorway of the hotel room. Another thirty seconds and they’d have been on the elevator, but the phone rang.
“Damn. I have to answer in case it’s a problem with the production.”
He slammed his keys on the desk as he listened, arguing for a few minutes with the caller. He hung up, looking apologetic at her. “I’m sorry, darling. The prop department sent the wrong pieces for the prince’s tent. I have to drive to London and oversee the rush delivery of the proper set pieces.”
“Why do you need to be there? Can’t the London staff handle the problem?”
“If it was for any other episode, I’d let them. But, the Battle of Poitiers is too important. Can you forgive me? I’d love a rain check for tomorrow night.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I understand,” she said, hiding her disappointment. “Tomorrow’s fine. How’s 7:00?”
“Can I come over earlier?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll drop you off on my way to the city,” he said, and kissed her.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The mist surrounded her. Disoriented her. The cool damp chilled her legs and swirled about her knees as she walked. Nothing in the vaporous world looked familiar. Her feet made no noise in the soft soil. A horse snorted. She stopped. Uncertain she really heard a horse, she cocked her head and listened. The silence engulfed her again. Her hands trembled. She hated being lost.
Breathing...something was breathing nearby. A large dark shadow came toward her. All she could make out was a black shape. The mists circled around it too. Then, she saw him. Ian, in armor, on a black warhorse.
“Miranda.”
He pulled her up and placed her in the saddle in front of him. How he managed she didn’t know. She couldn’t remember what she wore a moment ago when she was alone and afraid. Now, she wore a beautiful gown of silk. Gold netting trimmed the lower half and glittered even in the fog.
“Where are we going?”
“Home, to Ashenwyck.”
A moment later his armor disappeared and he was in front of her, shirtless and barefoot and in jeans. She still wore the gown but the sleeves had slipped down on her arms. They stood in a great hall as he unbuttoned the front of her dress. He cupped her breasts and ran his thumbs over the lace of the bronze colored bra.
He kissed upwards from her cleavage to her chin. He cradled her face in his hands and ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. He made a slow invasion of her mouth. Delving deeper and deeper, he controlled the kiss, channeled her passion.
The room spun around them. They were dancers without music. His urgent fingers tugged at the slippery material until the top of her dress hung about her waist. The bra fell away under his warm palms. He swung her up in his arms, carrying her to a high backed Gothic chair. She straddled him as he sat. He pushed her skirt up high and stroked her bare thighs. He spoke to her in a language she didn’t understand that sounded archaic and erotic.
She slid down the length of him, off his lap and onto her knees before him. Now, she would control.
She held his wrists and brushed her lips across his chest, the soft hair tickled her nose. She made her way in slow sweeps to his stomach and released his wrists. She ran her tongue in and around his navel. The muscles of his abdomen flexed beneath her lips as the tips of her fingers slipped under his waistband.
As she unbuttoned the jeans, he tried to pull her up, urging her with his strong hands. She resisted. “Stand,” she said and he obeyed.
She peeled his jeans down and circled the tip of him with her tongue. She relished his groan as she bent taking as much of him as she could in her mouth.
Miranda hit the floor with an unceremonious thud. “Christ Almighty!” She rose up on her elbows. “I don’t believe this. I haven’t fallen out of bed since I was four.” At least, she fell off the bed while only having a sex dream about Ian. Thank God, it didn’t happen while actually having sex with Ian.
She gathered the blankets and pillow she dragged with her to the floor and she checked the time. Midnight. The bewitching hour. She debated whether to wake Shakira and tell her what happened. To Miranda’s knowledge, her friend had never fallen out of bed. But, Shakira never met Ian.
Rolling over on a buttock that would be bruised in the morning she sat up, turned on the light and dialed.
Chapter Fifty-Three
By midday, Ian finished supervising the loading of props onto several lorries. He considered driving straight to Miranda’s house from London. Instead, he drove to the hotel, showered and used the time rethink other scenarios that might help her remember. He still arrived early.
Ian juggled the two bottles of wine with the big bouquet and knocked. She answered right away.
“I brought a Pouilly Fuisse and a Bordeaux. I wasn’t sure what you prefer.” He handed her the flowers and put the wine down on her dining table.
“I like both.” Miranda smelled the flowers. “Lovely roses, thank you,” she said and kissed him. "There's a drinks cart in the drawing room. Please make yourself at home."
Without asking he brought her a drink too. "I didn't see much of your house last time, mind if I walk around?"
"Not at all."
Ian noticed the two Leighton paintings the first time he came. There’d been no opportunity to discuss the artwork that day. Later of course, Miranda told him she found
the pictures in the attic. Interestingly, she'd hung them in the exact same place as Elinor.
He remembered how adorable Elinor looked that night swaying as she sang to those disco songs. Nostalgia swept over him. He closed his eyes. Elinor. How long had it been since he tried to picture Elinor’s face. Ian opened his eyes, studying the similar but different looking Miranda as she arranged the flowers. Could it really have been a couple of weeks?
A ripple of remorse ran through him, yet watching Miranda filled him with mixed emotions. She was his today, his tomorrow. If only she'd remember even a smattering of their yesterday, how much richer their new lives would be.
He turned his attention to the room again. Nothing else in the drawing room was reminiscent of Elinor. Miranda surrounded the area in textured fabrics. A contemporary taupe suede sofa with throw pillows in an Asian leaf pattern of deep green and gold silk complemented the khaki green moiré draperies. Miranda was eclectic but warm in her tastes and definitely a change from Elinor's adherence to William Morris's traditional designs. He stroked the soft nap of the coffee-colored velvet chair.
Curious, Ian ventured up to the bedroom. If a room can be a contradiction, Miranda’s fit the term, romantic and exotic, enticing and bold. So like her, he thought, standing in the doorway. A satin blanket with a half-dozen appliquéd pillows of in-your-face rich jewel tones covered the bed. A delicate embroidered throw with seed pearls lay across the foot. Draperies in bright, dark blue hung in fat folds behind tasseled tie-backs. Miranda’s display of Oriental porcelains, intricate and unique contrasted to the ultra feminine atomizers Elinor collected.
An inexpensive carved wooden screen of East Indian design, common to any London flea market served as a headboard. The allure of this room was the sensual beauty of material. The last time he was in this room, Elinor’s antique Jacobean bed of heavy dark oak dominated the space. Ian sat on the edge of Miranda's bed and made a silent comparison. Elinor was like that collectible old bed, everything about her lay on the surface. She was what she appeared to be and would be loved for herself. Except for ghosts. We were her secret.
Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) Page 24