The shock that had turned her eyes dark was fading. In its place was confusion, anger and distrust.
"At the risk of sounding like somebody in a bad movie, O'Neil, what's a man like you doing in a place like this?"
It was the million-dollar question, and he hadn't an answer. What could he say that wouldn't infuriate her? The truth, that he worked for the Committee, that he'd worked for it all along? That would only prove him a liar. On the other hand, pretending he was working for Eva again would probably earn him a sock in the jaw.
"I asked you a question." Her eyes locked on his. "Why were you following me?"
Think, he told himself, dammit, think! What he needed was a simple answer, one that wouldn't enrage her or dig him in any deeper.
She took his silence as all the answer she needed.
"Damn you," she whispered. Anger flashed in her eyes, anger and—and what? Disappointment? He didn't know, didn't have time to try and figure it out. All he could do now was talk his way into her life because that was where he knew he had to be, to keep her safe. "Good old Eva. She's got you back on the payroll."
"You're wrong," he said vehemently, "I'm not working for Eva."
"Please, O'Neil, don't insult my intelligence." Briskly, she brushed the dirt from her shorts. "Well, when you report in, tell her you scored ten points today but that it's not enough to guarantee your job security."
"Listen, Beckman—"
"Because if I look around and find you following me again, so help me, I'll head for the nearest cop and swear you're molesting me." She took a step back, folded her arms over her chest and glowered up at him. "You got that?"
His smile was chilly. "What's the world coming to, I wonder? Here I saved the lady's ass and now she wants me busted. Funny way to say thanks."
"You were doing your job, mister. Forgive me if I can't get excited about it."
"I told you, I don't work for Eva."
"Right." She leaned over and brushed off her bare legs. They were grimy and blood was oozing from a cut in her left knee.
"You're bleeding," he said.
"Isn't that wonderful?" she said sweetly. "You're not just a mass of overblown muscle, you're observant, too."
His lips hardened into a thin line. "You've got a smart mouth on you, lady."
"Just remember what I said. If I spot you anywhere near me, I'll have you arrested."
"For what? Stupidity, for thinking I might deserve even a grudging thank-you?"
"Thank you? Thank you?" Her chin lifted in anger and defiance. "What am I supposed to thank you for, exactly? Getting me evicted from my apartment? Getting me tossed out of France? Getting Jean-Phillipe shipped off in one direction and Nita in the another?"
"Wow." Conor folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. "Did I do all that?"
"Good-bye, O'Neil. And remember what I said. You so much as breathe in my direction, I'll have you locked up."
"For what?"
"I'll think of something."
She turned away and started to walk off, back straight, shoulders square. He gave her a couple of seconds lead time and then he caught up to her.
"You know, Beckman, everybody's wrong about you. You're not just a spoiled brat, you're a dumb one."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why would I be working for Eva again?"
"Because the money's good," she said briskly, picking up her pace.
Conor grasped her shoulder and swung her towards him.
"Try using your brain instead of your mouth for a change. Do you really think I'd put myself in a position where I had to deal with you again?" He smiled tightly. "There's not enough money in the world to make me do that."
For the first time, he saw doubt cloud her eyes. She put her hands on her hips, considering, and he plunged ahead before he lost momentum.
"Besides, why would she want me to tail you? Are you saying there have been more notes?"
Her hair was coming loose from the braid. She put a hand to her forehead and scraped the strands back.
"Well, no."
"Listen," he said, keeping his voice brusque, letting her feel his impatience, "I had a job to do in Paris and I did it. Eva wanted you watched, then she wanted you back home. I took care of both items. End of job, end of paychecks. Understand?"
Her teeth fastened lightly on her bottom lip. He held his breath, waiting, trying to read her face as she assessed the situation, and then she gave a barely perceptible shrug.
"But if you weren't following me..."
"Hell," he said, rolling his eyes, "are we back to that?" He reached into the pocket of his shorts, dug out his cell. "Here," he said, shoving it at her, "go ahead. Phone Eva. Ask her if I'm back on the clock."
Her gaze flew to the phone in his outstretched hand, then to his face, and he worked at keeping his own gaze open and level. It wasn't difficult. After all, he was telling her the truth, as far as it went. Plus, he was one hell of a liar. Lying was a way of life in his business. Disinformation, Thurston and the Committee called it, but the down and dirty reality was that whether you called it disinformation or evading the truth, he could do it with the best of them.
It was an art he'd developed early, at St. Paul's, where telling the good sisters the truth usually earned you a crack across the knuckles and at home, where it might result in a whacking that could make you very careful about sitting down for a couple of days. By the time he'd gotten to Special Forces and then the Committee, he was more than ready to be turned into an expert. Oh yeah. He could widen his baby blues, swear on everything holy that what he was saying was the truth, the whole truth, the only truth.
"So, what are you saying? You weren't following me? You just happened to be in New York, in this park, on this path when those—those animals jumped me?"
"Yahoos," he said, with a little smile.
"What?"
"Swift," he said, "Gulliver's Travels, remember? They're yahoos. Hell, I like animals. They don't rape, they don't murder, they don't steal."
"They don't lie."
"And I'm not lying, either. I don't work for your mother or your stepfather."
"Then why—"
"Beckman, what's with you? You think you're the only person lives in this town? I have an apartment ten minutes from here. And I run. I have, for years, whenever I can." That, at least, was true. The Nautilus, treadmills, stationery bikes were all okay but there was something about running he'd always liked, the sense that you were doing something real, not just pitting yourself against a machine.
"And I'm supposed to believe that you just happened to pick this particular time and place to run?"
He gave an easy shrug. "What can I say? I guess I'm as dumb as you are, hitting the park at this hour."
She blinked and he knew he'd figured this right. All she needed was a little shove.
"Listen," he said, "I'm tired of defending myself. You want to go around thinking I'm working for Eva, tailing you, well, be my guest." He gave her a chilly smile. "So long, Beckman. And I promise, if I have the misfortune to run into you again, I'll be the one calls the cops."
He turned sharply and trotted off, just fast enough to put some distance between them, wondering if he'd overplayed his hand and knowing there wasn't much he could do about it now.
"O'Neil!"
He thought about turning around, thought again, and didn't do it. Come on, he said to himself, come on.
"O'Neil?" Her footsteps sounded on the path behind him and then she danced around him and held up her hand. Her face, that beautiful face that haunted his dreams, was flushed.
"Listen," she said, "if I was wrong..."
"If?" Conor made a face, detoured around her and kept going.
"Okay," she said breathlessly, dancing past him again, this time putting out both hands and pressing them lightly against his chest. "Okay. Maybe I—maybe I over-reacted."
He stood still, folded his arms, and gave her a stony glare.
"Damn right, you over-reacted.
"
"But I'm sure you can see why I'd think..." She hesitated, then ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. "I mean, it just looked..."
She hadn't bought it all yet, not one hundred percent. But she would.
"Take my advice, Beckman. Pick a better time to run."
"Well, I thought dusk was—"
"No time at night's okay. Morning's the time. Lots of people pack it through here then, but hey, come to think of it, you might end up seeing me and we wouldn't want that to happen."
"If you run in the morning," she said, looking confused, "then, what were you doing here tonight?"
Okay, O'Neil, let's hear you get out of this one.
"I never got the chance today. The guy upstairs had a racket last night, went on until dawn so by the time I finally hit the sack, I overslept."
"So, you just happened to decide you'd take your run at night?"
She'd gone from looking confused to dubious, and who could blame her? He was doing the telling, and he was having trouble swallowing the story.
"Well," he said, with a smile he hoped was disarming, "it's one thing to give good advice and another to take it." He worked the smile up to a grin. "Besides, I'm a guy. I figure I can take care of myself."
She smiled back at him and he thought he'd done it. But then her smile disappeared, she didn't say anything, and he figured it was time to go for broke.
"Anyway, do yourself a favor. From now on, run when the sun's out." He nodded, touched his hand to his forehead in a quick salute. "Nice seeing you again."
He turned and walked away.
But she didn't call after him. What was the matter with her? By now, she was supposed to be properly and thoroughly chastised, supposed to say, hey, O'Neil, wait a minute...
"O'Neil? Wait a minute."
Conor closed his eyes, stopped walking and offered a silent thank-you to whatever gods might be looking down as he turned towards her.
"What?"
She came towards him slowly. She wasn't smiling, not exactly, but she wasn't looking at him as if he were the last man on earth she wanted to see, either.
"I guess I should thank you. If you hadn't come along—"
"Don't be modest. If I hadn't shown up, you'd have gone into your best Steven Seagal crouch, whirled around and done a karate move on that wolf pack."
"Yahoos," she said, and now she was smiling, even if you had to work hard to see it. "You're right. I've got nothing against animals, either."
Conor grinned. "There you go. At long last, we agree on something."
She stood there, her big eyes on his, and then, very slowly, she held out her hand.
"Thank you, O'Neil."
His hand folded around hers. She tried not to notice the warmth and the strength of it, and the way it made her pulse quicken. She tried not to think about how many times she'd dreamed of this moment, of seeing him again, even though those dreams had all ended with her kicking this man in the shins...
Well, except for a couple of dreams that had ended differently, with her in his arms and his kisses hot on her lips.
"Are you okay?" he said. "Your face is all flushed."
She took her hand back, dug it into the pocket of her shorts.
"I'm, uh, I'm fine. I'm just—I'm just..."
"Thirsty? Exhausted?"
"Yes," she admitted, smiling up at him, trying not to notice how his sweat-stained shirt was molded to his body, how wonderful he looked.
"Yeah, I feel the same way. First the running, then all that adrenaline pumping... You need liquids, after something like that, maybe even some food. Have you had supper yet?"
"Uh-uh. I didn't want to run on a full stomach."
"Well, after what just happened, you need to chow down some calories. We both do. Pasta. A steak, maybe a baked potato—"
Miranda laughed. "Scrambled eggs and toast is more my speed."
"Done," he said. "Your place, or mine?"
She blinked. "I didn't mean—"
"I'd suggest a coffee shop but in a minute or two, we're both going to start feeling the cold."
"What cold? It isn't—"
"We're both sweated up, Beckman. When the rush wears off, you'll start feeling it. Besides..." He jerked his chin at her leg. "You need to clean that cut."
She glanced down. Blood was oozing from the knee and now that she thought about it, her leg was beginning to feel stiff. She was beginning to feel chilly, too, just as he'd said she would.
"I could use some first aid myself." Conor rolled his shoulder, not lying, exactly; he'd dislocated it, a couple of years before and it still hurt from time to time, especially if he took a whack in one spot—which he apparently had, he thought in surprise, his breath catching at the sharp jolt that shot through him when he tried a cautious twist.
"Conor?" Miranda put her hand on his arm. It felt cool and soft against his skin and for one crazy minute, he almost did what he'd seen her Siamese do, shut his eyes and give himself up to that gentle touch. "Are you in pain?"
Oh yes. He was in pain, all right, he was hurting for the feel of her in his arms, for the way it had almost been.
"It's nothing," he said, biting back a groan, "Just my shoulder."
Her hand swept up his arm, leaving behind a trail of goose bumps. "I don't see anything."
"It's an old dislocation, acts up once in a while. I must have pulled it, dealing with those—"
"Yahoos," she said, grinning.
"Yeah," he said, smiling back at her.
Miranda hesitated. Every bone in her body was telling her it was a mistake even to stand here and talk to this man. Remember what happened, she told herself, remember how he made you feel, how dangerous it was.
"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 part
ner 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."
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