Until You

by Sandra Marton

  "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."

  "Good," she said. "I was afraid maybe you were right, that I hadn't left you enough..." She swung towards him, and the rush of words stopped. Her eyes widened as she looked at him. "...that maybe I hadn't left you enough—"

  Her voice cracked. She was looking at him as if she'd seen a ghost, her green gaze skittering first over his dark, wet hair, then dropping to his shoulders and chest before retiring to his face.

  For the first time in his life, Conor blushed.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing," she said. "It's just—you're not wearing a shirt."

  "I know. My shirt was a mess. I couldn't bring myself to put it back on."

  It was a perfectly reasonable answer. Miranda told herself that a couple of
times before she tried speaking again.

  "How do you—how do you like your eggs?"

  "Listen, if my being shirtless bothers you..."

  "No." Of course it didn't bother her, the sight of Conor, half naked in her kitchen, his broad shoulders taking up the doorway. Why should it bother her?

  "You sure?"

  "I said it didn't." She cleared her throat. "But if you'd asked..."

  "Asked?"

  "For—for something to wear." God, her mouth was going dry. She had slept with this man but this was the first time she'd really had the chance to take a long, slow look at him without his clothes on. Well, almost without his clothes on. Those shoulders. That washboard abdomen. The dark hair on his chest.

  The color of his skin.

  It was golden, like honey, but that wasn't how it tasted. She could remember his taste so clearly, the clean, faint salt tang. And the heat of him; she remembered that, too, and the comforting weight of him as he rose above her and thrust into her...

  The fork fell from her hand. She snatched it up, tossed it into the sink, pulled out the drawer and took out a long-handled spoon.

  "I'd have given you something, if you'd asked," she said, her voice cold, her blood hot, her heart pounding in her ears. She swung away from him and gave the eggs a vicious stir before dumping them on two waiting plates. "It's really inappropriate to walk around half naked, O'Neil. Even a barbarian like you should know that."

  "I should have known the truce wouldn't last," he said, watching that proud, straight back, recognizing the anger etched in her stance, growing angry himself though he wasn't sure why he should.

  "And I should have known you'd have difficulty behaving as if you were civilized."

  "Listen, Beckman, I'm sorry if the sight of me turns your stomach but it never occurred to me you'd have anything that would fit me."

  "Well, I do." She spun around, her hands on her hips, her chin tilted in that defiant way that drove him crazy. "I've got sweatshirts," she said, forcing herself to concentrate on whatever oversized clothing she owned and not on him, not on all that naked male flesh, "and I've got some denim work shirts."

  An image rose up before him, crowding out her angry, haughty face. He saw men, a long line of them, marching in and out of her life here as they had in Paris, and the anger he'd been holding tightly in check burst into his heart.

  "Yeah," he said, moving towards her, "I'll just bet you have. Hell, I probably could have had my choice of color and size."

  She flew at him, her hand upraised, and cracked it against his face. The blow was hard and unexpected and it sent him staggering back against the counter.

  "You bastard," she cried, "you no-good, dirty-minded son of a—"

  The air rushed from her lungs as he caught hold of her.

  "This makes two times you've slugged me, baby. Don't even think about trying for three."

  "Let go!" She struggled against him, not hard enough to break his hold but furious enough to make him think it might be easier to try and hang onto a rattlesnake. Her foot shot out and connected with his shin. It wasn't much of a blow but it put him off balance, just enough so that his hold loosened. She got one hand free, doubled it into a fist and drove it into his solar plexus.

  "Damn you, Beckman," he gasped.

  She pulled back her arm and aimed at him again but he was ready for her. He clamped his arms around her and lifted her from the floor, spinning around as he did so that their positions were reversed and she was pinned against the counter by the weight of his body.

  "Bitch," he snarled, "crazy bitch!"

  "Bastard," she panted, "miserable, arrogant bast—"

  Damn her to hell! There was only one way to keep her quiet and Conor took it. He kissed her, and it was like that night in Paris all over again.

  As soon as his mouth found hers, the world ceased to exist.

  Miranda's arms wound around his neck.

  "Conor," she whispered, "oh God, Conor..."

  He was trembling with desire and with a far stronger emotion but there was no time to think, to do anything but bury himself inside her. It was what she wanted, too. Her hands were at his shorts, tugging them down his legs as he stripped away her pants. He tried to pull her shirt over her head but as simple as the act should have been, it defied him. With a strangled oath, he seized the neckline and ripped the shirt to the hem.

  And all the time, the kiss went on and on, as if their very existence depended on their lips never parting.

  Miranda whispered his name and he answered her in kind, murmuring hers as if it were a mantra that had been his from the first time he'd held her in his arms.

  He told himself to take control, slow down and prolong the ecstasy of what lay ahead but she was touching him, her hands moving over him, cupping him, exploring his erection, testing the power of it. He groaned and lifted her onto the counter, pressed his mouth to her throat, then bent his head until her breast was against his lips. She cried out as he drew her hardened nipple into his mouth. Her hands tunneled through his hair; she dragged his face up to hers and kissed him, her mouth open and hot on his.

  "Now," she sobbed, "Conor, now, please."

  "Yes," he said, "yes, baby, yes."

  He moved between her thighs, opening her to him. His thumb slid over the engorged bud of her clitoris; his fingers sank into her slick heat. She cried out and he knew he couldn't hold back, that he had to have her now. Her legs closed around his waist as he moved against her and she shuddered at the touch of his swollen penis against that most sensitive part of her body.

  "Miranda," he whispered, and he moved, entering her on one long, heart-stopping thrust, feeling the contractions begin deep within her as he did.

  "Conor? Conor, oh Conor..."

  She was breathless, sobbing his name, rocking against him as she came and while she was still wild in his arms, he lifted her from the counter, backed her against the wall and drove into her, again and again and again until he felt the uncontrollable spasms of her climax begin once more. Then, at last, his head fell back and he went with her into the stars that exploded across the blackness of the sky.

  * * *

  Somehow, a long time later, they found themselves in the bedroom.

  The bed was wide and soft, but nothing was as soft as the feel of Miranda in his arms.

  "Miranda," he whispered, holding her against his thudding heart, "my God, Miranda."

  "Oh yes," she breathed, and he knew she was smiling, just as he was.

  He rolled to his side, his arm still thrown across her, his hand lightly cupping the gentle rise of her breast. Her face, bare of makeup, was the loveliest he'd ever seen.

  "My beautiful Miranda," he murmured, and her lips, still softly swollen from his kisses, turned up in a tender smile.

  "That was," she said, "it was..."

  His heart clenched as he remembered the ugly words she'd used to describe this act the last time.

  "It was wonderful," she sighed. "I've never—I've never felt—"

  He caught her to him and kissed her until she was clinging to him. Then he drew back and looked down into her eyes.

  "Baby," he said huskily, "we have to talk."

  It wasn't what he'd planned to say at all. But it was right; he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth. He didn't know what he felt for her, couldn't name it and wasn't ready to examine it closely. He only knew that whatever it was, he wasn't going to walk away from it, which meant that it was time to tell her the truth. About himself, who he really was and who he worked for, how he'd come into her life in Paris and even that she was right, he was guilty of getting rid of her friends, of getting her tossed out of her home and her job...

  That he hadn't come across her accidentally today.

  Except for tonight and that night in Paris, every step of their relationship had been a part of someone else's script, and she had to know it.

  Wanting Miranda, needing her, had nothing to do with his job and everything to do with
his life. He needed her the way the evening sky needs a sunset, the way a flower needs the rain, and all at once he knew what he felt for her. Hell, he'd always known, he just hadn't been ready to admit it.

  He loved her, and he would not build that love on lies.

  "Miranda. I want you to hear me out before you say—"

  She laid her fingers lightly against his mouth.

  "Me first."

  Conor caught her hand in his and pressed his lips to the palm.

  "Baby..."

  She silenced him again, this time with a kiss.

  "Please," she said, and the desperation in the word made him nod his head in agreement.

  She took a shaky breath and sat up. It was time to tell him everything and she needed to do it quickly, before she lost courage, because there was no way of knowing how he'd react.

  Years ago, Jean-Phillipe had tried to warn her. Someday, he'd insisted, she would meet a man and fall in love.

  You'll want him to know the truth, cherie, he'd said gently, but you will have to be very, very sure of what he feels for you because any man who is not a fool will understand that in offering him your secret, you are also offering him your heart.

  Now, she knew that Jean-Phillipe had been right. She didn't know what Conor felt for her; the only certainty was that she wanted him to know the truth about her. If he couldn't accept it, it would be better to know it now.

  "Before," she began, "when—when I said I could have lent you something to wear?"

  "I was an asshole," he said bluntly. "Sweetheart, I've never been a saint. I don't care that you haven't been, either." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "That's what I want to explain, Miranda. The past doesn't matter, not to us."

  "But it does matter," she said quickly. "Because—because I lied to you, Conor." She swallowed. He could see her throat work as she did. "I don't—I don't have a past."

  A puzzled smile arced across his mouth.

  "I don't understand."

  "It's really very simple. I don't have a past. Not the kind you suppose. I've let everyone—let you—think that I've been with lots of men, but—"