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.
His spine became rigid as a steel bar. Don't, he told himself, O'Neil, you damn fool, don't...
A groan burst from his throat and his arms closed tightly around her.
"It's all right," he whispered, "it's all right."
She held on, just as she had the other night, trembling in his arms as if he were all that stood between her and the hounds of hell.
"Conor," she said again, and her teeth chattered, "oh God, Conor."
"What?" She was cold, so cold. Her skin was icy to the touch. "What, baby?" he whispered, holding her close, letting his warmth fight the chill that he suspected had penetrated to the marrow of her bones. "What did you dream?"
"I dreamed—I dreamed..." The deep, rasping breath she took tore at his heart. She shook her head, so that her tousled hair moved like silk against his cheek. "I had a nightmare." She shuddered. "It was horrible."
Horrible was probably an understatement. No surprises there. She'd gone through hell the past couple of days and what had he done tonight but add to it by being so hard on her, saying ugly things he hadn't really meant.
"Hold me," she said, "just for a little while."
Don't do it, the voice inside him said again. Tell her you'll get her some warm milk. Some tea. Tell her anything but don't be a fool, O'Neil. The last thing you want to do is sit here in the middle of the night with Miranda in your arms.
"Hush," he said, and drew her even closer.
He stroked her hair and her back. He rocked her gently in his arms. He whispered softly to her and, finally, she stopped trembling.
"Better?" he said.
She nodded.
God, she felt so good in his arms. Another couple of minutes, she'd be okay. He'd hold her a little bit longer, for her sake, not his, just to make sure she was really over the dream. Conor closed his eyes and laid his cheek against her hair. The flowery, feminine smell of her was dazzling.
"You okay?" he whispered.
She gave a deep, shuddering sigh. "Yes."
"Can I get you anything?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Warm milk? A drink of water?"
She shook her head again. "No," she whispered, but she made no effort to move out of his arms.
Why would she, when she felt so safe? When Conor's skin was so hot against hers? He was shirtless; she hadn't realized that, not at first, but now that the dream was mercifully fading, she was becoming aware of everything about him. The strength of his arms, holding her. The heat of his skin, and the soft tickle of the hair on his chest against her cheek. The scent of him, warm and male and clean.
"Miranda?" he said, and she heard the huskiness in his voice and for the first time in more years than seemed humanly possible, she felt a sudden fluidity in her bones.
Her heart thudded. Nothing more had to happen. She could stop now, before it was too late.
Instead, she lifted her face to his.
"Conor," she said unsteadily, and it was all he needed her to say.
It was all there, in her eyes, desire and surrender and a slow-burning passion that needed only his kiss to set it blazing. A saint might have resisted but Conor had never made any pretense to sainthood. He was a man, with all a man's desires, and the woman in his arms had been in his thoughts for what might have been forever.
He said her name again, bent his head kissed her. Her lips parted beneath his, and they fell back against the pillows.
God, how sweet she tasted. Her kiss whispered of flower-filled meadows and summer breezes, of moon-washed nights and boyhood dreams lost in the harsh reality of manhood.
Slowly, he told himself, there's all the time in the world.
He slid his hands into her hair, cupping her face, holding her a willing prisoner under the plunder of his mouth while an electric pleasure sizzled through his blood. His thumbs followed the arcs of her cheekbones, then glided the length of her throat to rest for a heartbeat in the shadowed hollow. His mouth took the path his hands had taken; he pressed his lips to where her pulse raced beneath her skin and he felt her tremble beneath his kiss.
"Conor," she whispered, "I'm not..."
"Hush," he said, and slid his tongue between her lips.
She made a soft little sound in the back of her throat and her hands fisted in his hair, tugging him down to her, deepening the intensity of his kiss. The tip of her tongue curled against his in a sweet, silken caress. The feel of it made his blood leap. There had been so many women. A lifetime of women—and never a moment like this.
He drew back, holding her to him, and traced the features of her face with a fingertip.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered.
She smiled and set her hand over his where it rested against her cheek. Men had told her how beautiful she was for years but, deep in her soul, she could never bring herself to believe them, especially not when she saw her own face staring back at her from the newsstands. Her face was like an artist's canvas, her image upon it sketched by paints and pencils.
Besides, how could someone like her be beautiful?
But there was something in the way Conor said the words that made them real. She wanted to tell him so but he was touching her now, his hand moving over her body, cupping her breasts through the flannel of her nightgown, tracing the line of her hip and thigh. His touch was soft, butterfly light, but the heat of his fingers burned through to the marrow of her bo
nes.
His hand slid under the gown. She gasped as he stroked her ankle, her calf; his fingers moved up and up, along the warm, silken flesh, then whispered across the soft curls that covered the delta between her thighs.
Miranda cried out his name and arched like a bow in his arms. He rolled her beneath him and his fingers went to the buttons at her throat.
The buttons were so small, his hands so clumsy. They trembled as he slowly bared her skin to the cool night air and, at last, to the adoration of his touch.
She gave a keening moan as he bent his head and kissed her, nuzzling the gown away from her throat. His kisses burned against her flesh; his teeth nipped her skin and left the sweetest of wounds.
"Conor," she said, sighing his name on one long exhalation of pleasure. She reached up to him and he turned his head and kissed her palms, first one and then the other.
"Look at you," he said softly, as he drew the gown from her shoulders, "ah, sweetheart, look at how perfect you are."
"I'm not," she said quickly, "not perfect, Conor, never perf—"
His kiss silenced her. Her head fell back and his lips moved down her throat, to the curve of her breast.
"Perfect," he whispered, his mouth against her skin, "and so sweet."
Gently, he eased the gown from her body. And she, who had so often shed her clothing in full view of half a dozen people, felt a flush of embarrassment creep along her skin. Instinctively, she reached for the gown and tried to pull it around her, but he wouldn't let her. He caught her wrists and held them at her sides.
"You can't hide from me any longer," he said softly.
It was a lover's whisper, nothing more. She knew he had no way of knowing what far deeper meaning those words held.
Miranda took a deep, unsteady breath. "There's so much you don't understand."
"I understand this," he said, bending to her and kissing her mouth. His head dipped lower; she felt the warmth of his breath against her breast. "And this."
His lips closed around her nipple and she was undone. Something gave way, at last, deep within her. He was right; she couldn't hide, didn't want to hide. Not from him.
"Yes," she said, "Conor, yes, yes..."
He touched her, kissed her everywhere, his lips warm against her skin. He moved down the bed, took her foot gently in his hand and kissed her instep and then her ankle; he licked the soft skin behind her knee. She made incoherent little sounds as he moved up the length of her body, his middle-of-the-night beard rough and exciting against the tender flesh of her thighs, and then his mouth was at the center of her and she dug her hands into his hair and writhed against the hot pleasure of his tongue and his lips.
"Please," she said brokenly, "oh please..."
Conor drew back and tore off his shorts and then he was kneeling between her thighs, kissing her, whispering to her. Her arms tightened around him; she drew him down to her so that her skin burned against his, matching him kiss for kiss, her hands moving over him in a frenzy, learning the straightness of his spine, the faint indentation at its base. She was moaning, making sounds of need and desire that were rocketing him ever faster towards the zenith of pleasure that awaited him.
Slow down, man, he told himself, slow down.
But he couldn't. He couldn't. He was desperate to be inside her. With a groan, he slid his hands under her hips, lifted her to him... and held back, torturing them both, slipping just the tip of his penis into her silken heat.
"Conor," she sobbed, "Conor..."
Oh God, she was coming apart! Something was giving way deep inside her. It was a terrifying feeling, like standing on the highest level of the Eiffel Tower with the wind rushing through your hair and all of Paris spread out beneath you and letting yourself wonder what would happen if you just stepped out into space.
Frantic with sudden fear, she shoved against Conor's chest.
"No," she said, "no, I can't!"
He moved, plunging into her deep and hard, and she climaxed instantly, her body contracting around him as a wild cry burst from her throat. Her nails raked his back; she sobbed his name and his mouth dropped to hers and he kissed her, knowing even as he did that he had to be hurting her, that he could taste the tang of blood on his tongue but God, he couldn't stop, couldn't pull back, and now he was coming, coming, he was going to break apart and lose himself forever.
Conor threw back his head and gave himself up to the whirlwind.
* * *
He fell asleep, holding her in his arms. And for one long, breathless moment, Miranda drifted, suspended in space.
And then Mia meowed, someplace in the darkness of the apartment, and reality returned.
Conor's arms were warm, but the room was cold. The blankets had fallen to the foot of the bed, and the chill of the night raised goose bumps on her skin. The sheet beneath her was cold and wet; there was an unpleasant stickiness on her thighs.
Carefully, she moved away from Conor, rolled to the side of the bed and sat up. Her discarded nightgown lay on the floor beside the bed. She reached for it and pulled it on, then made her way into the bathroom, shut the door and turned on the light.
A stranger with tousled hair, wide eyes and a swollen mouth stared at her from the mirror. Her hand shook as she lifted it and touched her throat. There was a tiny bruise there, made by Conor's teeth.
She closed her eyes and tried to call back what she'd felt in his arms, the sense of belonging, of fulfillment—even of love.
Her eyes opened and she looked at herself again.
Lies, all of it.
Her mouth tightened, and she clutched the edge of the sink.
She had let it happen but it was his fault. It was all his fault.
Everything had been so simple until the day he'd shown up at the Louvre. She had her career, she had friends. Things had been in perfect balance.
And Conor had ruined it.
Conor, bought and paid for by Eva, sent to solve Eva's problems, to do Eva's bidding.
If he destroyed her, and the life she'd created in the process, so what?
Miranda shuddered. And if he could get laid while he did it, so much the better.
Except, it had been more than that. He'd been more than that. He'd been passionate and tender, and in his arms, she'd almost become someone else...
"Miranda?"
She whirled around, her heart banging in her chest.
"Baby?" The door knob rattled. "Are you all right?"
Easy, Miranda. Take a deep breath. Good. That's the ticket.
She stole another glance at the mirror. Then she ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it back from her face; she licked her lips, sent her thoughts into the same cool, blank place that was always her refuge just before she went on the catwalk, and opened the door.
"Sorry," she said pleasantly. "Did you want the bathroom?"
Conor smiled at her. He hadn't bothered to hide his nudity. God, he was so—so disgustingly male, so patently sure she'd give him what he wanted.
She could. Oh, she could. She could go to him, clasp his face between her hands, press her mouth to his...
And then he smiled, a sexy little lift of the mouth that told her exactly what he was thinking.
"I don't want the bathroom," he said. He held out his hand. "I want you."
Miranda smiled, too, the way she'd learned to do years before she'd needed that mysterious curve of the lips for the crowds or the photographers.
"I'm going to take a shower."
His smile grew even sexier. "Later, baby. We'll shower together."
"Conor, I've asked you before, don't call me baby. I don't like it."
She could see that it was an effort for him to hold his smile but she had to give him credit; he was managing.
"Okay, if it really bothers you. Now, come back to bed."
"I told you, I'm going to take a shower." She reached into the tub and turned on the spray. "That was fun, I have to admit, and probably just what I needed."
"Just w
hat you needed?" he said, and there was a dangerous undercurrent in his tone.
"Well, you know, to get a good night's sleep." She flashed the smile again. "But I never vary the ground rules."
He was looking at her as if she were something nasty that had just crept in out of the night. A sharp pain lanced through her-—but then she thought of Eva, and Hoyt, and Edouard, and the pain faded to a dull ache.
"What ground rules?" he said, through his teeth.
"Well, there's only one, really." Another deep breath, Miranda, and then spit it out. "No matter how terrific the fuck, I never let a man spend the night in my bed."
His face paled; every bone seemed to stand out so that his blue eyes burned like fire. She thought of the time Jean-Phillipe had convinced her to fly to Vegas with him to see a much-lauded championship boxing match. She'd hated it, the blood and the sweat and the knowledge that a human being should want to pound at another like the most primitive of animals, and Jean-Phillipe had laughed at her.
"Ah, cherie," he'd said, "you do not comprehend the needs of the male animal."
Well, she comprehended those needs now. Conor's eyes glittered with the hunger to beat her senseless.
"Is that what I was?" he said in an ominously soft voice, "A good fuck?"
"You do understand that I meant it as a compliment," she said in her kindest tone.
"Oh, yeah." He smiled tightly. "Yeah, I understand. And I guess it really is a compliment, coming from a connoisseur like you."
The words were blows that hammered at her soul, but she knew better than to let the pain show.
"There's no need to get nasty, Conor. I'm sorry if you've got some kind of old-fashioned sentimentality about sex, but—"
"Hey," he said, and now his smile was swift and very wolflike, "trust me, lady. I've got no sentimentality about anything. I just figured, what the hell, this was fun for the both of us, so—"
"So, why not do it again?" Miranda sighed and shook her head. "A lovely thought but I'm afraid I've got a shoot in the morning. The camera picks up every under-eye shadow." She smiled, reached out and gently patted his cheek. "You know how it is."
Conor's fingers closed, hard around her wrist and he pushed her hand away.
Until You Page 21
