Miranda's Mate

by Ann Gimpel

  He’d replayed making love to her in the airplane so many times there wasn’t a nanosecond of their time together he hadn’t memorized. The way her mouth felt beneath his. The stiffness of her nipples in his fingers. The heat of her pussy wrapped around his shaft, fitting as though they were made for one another. Sometimes it seemed her scent still lingered on his fingertips and in his nostrils. It drove him mad with longing.

  At least during the day, he could pretend to divert himself with work. Nights were close to intolerable. He’d taken to returning to his apartment rather than sleeping at the office because he didn’t trust himself not to simply walk into her quarters and crush her to him. Putting distance between them hadn’t brought him peace of mind. He lay in bed and tossed and turned until he gave up and either switched to his lycan form or took a sleeping pill. The latter was safer. When he was a wolf, he wanted to run and run and run, losing his anguish in the simple beauty of movement. He lived in one of the older homes on Capitol Hill. While some wooded areas provided cover, it wasn’t enough to hide him from late-night joggers—or lovers.

  Garen’s lungs pumped like a bellows. He could have done without thinking about lovers. He pushed himself to run harder. Passing couples with their arms wrapped around one another, staring into one another’s eyes, was torture. He couldn’t imagine life without Miranda. Yet he didn’t see how he could bring his dreams of holding her close and whispering love words into her ear out of the shadows. It was too risky—with far too many entanglements.

  I’ve got to think of her as an employee again. I’ll drive myself mad if I can’t get past this. At first he’d thought time would help. It hadn’t. At least not the two weeks that had just passed. He grimaced. If anything, he was worse off now than he’d been the day he escorted Miranda to the well-guarded Company apartments and left her there.

  At least there hadn’t been any more attempts on her life. Garen had feelers out, but ISL was lying low. The one thing that had dragged him from the morass of his unrequited love hell was planning to annihilate the San Diego headquarters. Garen was surprised the dying bear had told the truth. Maybe he was sick of whatever role he played in the human trafficking organization. Counter to the U.S. government’s beliefs, usually shifters had fairly decent mores. Garen would have liked to know how the bear had gotten mixed up with ISL, might even have offered him work if he’d discovered him in time. He had a few Company employees who’d defected from a variety of “other sides.”

  He passed a marker, knew he’d come five miles, and turned back. As they always did, his thoughts retuned to Miranda. What was it about her? He’d never been so besotted before. He felt like a randy teenager smitten for the first time. If she smiled at him, his heart soared. If she walked past him, his cock hardened. He had to get a handle on his feelings before the San Diego operation. They were out of control.

  Worse, when he’d asked for Company volunteers for San Diego, she’d been the first to step forward; it was same thing he would have done. He was secretly proud of her, which also didn’t help matters. He was still hunting for a real reason to tell her she couldn’t go. Something better than, I do not want you putting yourself at risk. For Christ’s sake, risk was where they lived.

  The epicenter for ISL’s stateside operation was actually in San Ysidro. Garen figured it was strategically placed as close to Tijuana as it could be and still be on U.S. soil. That way if any of the human properties got too hot to handle, they could be shipped south of the border. Garen and several of his key operatives had intuited that ISL’s digs weren’t in Mexico because the level of lawlessness was so extreme. It would have taken a gated compound, patrolled 24/7 to keep the goods safe.

  Garen slowed his pace. He wasn’t far from the office and needed to cool down—in more ways than one. Still thinking about Roulan and his artfully planned and executed ISL firm, Garen grudgingly gave the outlaw kudos. San Ysidro bought ISL the best of both worlds. It could take advantage of Mexico’s chaos when it needed to and masquerade as a U.S. business the rest of the time.

  Garen had 90 percent of a plan in place. They’d go in at night with plastique and simply blow the place to hell. That was the easy part. First, they needed to somehow ascertain how many people were being held there and free them. Garen had tried to convince himself they’d simply be collateral damage if there were only a few, but his conscience had rebelled, right along with Miranda.

  A corner of his mouth turned downward. She’d squared her shoulders and tossed the hair she didn’t have anymore back over her shoulders—an unconscious gesture it would take her years to get over, if she ever did. After that, she’d skewered him with her blue gaze and told him she wanted to go undercover. “Let them capture me,” she’d offered. “I can organize the women and kids and break them out. It won’t be that hard.”

  The Company offices were a block away. Garen slowed to a walk. He’d nearly had a heart attack when she’d done what agents do: put her life on the line for a good cause. Of course Miranda didn’t see it that way. Like all operatives volunteering for danger, she was convinced she’d come out alive. He pushed his tongue against his teeth. Part of him was angry—at himself. He’d boxed himself into a corner when he let his long-denied lust for Miranda get the better of him in the plane. Spending those few moments with her, and then the hours at the Index cabin, had only whetted his appetite for more.

  More. That was the problem. He wanted all he could get of her. Damn if he could see a ready way out. He slapped his hand on the electronic keypad next to the front door of The Company’s offices, let himself inside, and headed for the private elevator in the back that led to his offices. He had his own bathroom and shower and even a small bedroom on the top floor. On the way across the marble-inlaid lobby, he decided to stand under the shower jets until he could think again—or until he ran out of hot water. His cock pressed against the front of his running shorts, belling them out beneath their elastic waistband. Garen hustled. He draped his windbreaker over one arm and held it in front of his midsection, but he did not want to run into any of his employees.

  His elevator ran off a key. He fished it from his shorts, inserted it, and breathed a sigh of relief when the metal doors whooshed shut behind him.

  *

  Miranda lifted her leg to the bar mounted along the wall of The Company’s state-of-the-art gym, and then she moved it against the wall in a vertical splits maneuver. She glanced at the clock. No wonder she was breathing hard. She’d been at it for over two hours. “It’s not like there’s much else to do,” she muttered and pushed into the stretch.

  She’d been a virtual prisoner at The Company’s main offices on the Seattle waterfront since the night the choppers had rescued them from the Index cabin. She’d asked Garen about letting her go home. The last time she’d asked, after a briefing around the upcoming San Diego/San Ysidro operation, he’d furled his brows and told her she’d be the first to know when he was tired of housing and feeding her.

  Miranda changed legs. Her left one wasn’t as limber and this particular stretch nearly killed it. A familiar pain, far more pressing than the one in her leg’s ligaments and tendons, settled around her heart. She tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t leave her alone. The clean, beautiful planes of Garen’s face shimmered before her. She wanted to feel his chiseled lips on hers again, trailing promise as they ran a fiery path down her neck and breasts. Her clit ached with need. Her breasts felt heavy. She’d been almost permanently aroused since right before Garen had made love to her on the airplane.

  Yeah, and what got me going then was thinking about him.

  Miranda had tried every trick in her arsenal. There’d been a few two-and three-hour blocks when she managed to actually accomplish something without mooning over Garen like a lovesick kid, but those were few and far between. There were so many things she wanted to talk to him about. Like what sort of wolf shifter he was and when he’d first shifted and if he’d had supportive family around to help him.

  Her fi
rst shift had come when she was fourteen. Miranda remembered the odd pressure she’d felt inside her body and the wolf images that filled her mind. One long, lazy summer evening, the possibility of actually being the wolf in her mind had seemed so real she’d given into it. In seconds, her T-shirt and shorts lay in shreds on the flowered carpet of her upstairs bedroom. Her senses were painfully acute, and her body felt so odd she wondered if someone had slipped drugs into her dinner. She caught a glimpse of herself in her bedroom mirror just before her aunt slammed into her room.

  “Abomination,” she’d screeched. “You’re just like your mother. I’ve been waiting for this.” Aunt Ellie flapped her hands at Miranda. “Find your human side again. Do it now.”

  A revolver dangled from her aunt’s hand. Fear shot adrenaline through Miranda. Her wolf looked longingly at the open window and suggested they jump through, but Miranda was too frightened to do anything but her damnedest to obey her aunt. It took several attempts before she stood, naked and panting, in the pink and white bedroom that no longer looked like hers.

  Ellie’s eyes were hard green stones. “I’ve been watching you close since you started to bleed. That was when my sister, uh…” She shook her head. “Never mind.” Her aunt’s eyes narrowed. “Put some clothes on. Those”—she pointed at the floor—“aren’t good for anything but the rag bin. You’ll pay me back out of your babysitting money.”

  Miranda had grabbed a robe off the end of her bed and slipped into it, heart going like a trip hammer. “Please”—she’d held out both hands—“I need to understand.”

  Aunt Ellie marched right up to her then and grabbed her face between hands that felt like pincers. “The only thing you need to know, young lady, is you cannot do that and remain here—or anywhere else.” She lowered her voice. “If anyone finds out, they’ll kill you. I could be imprisoned if they discovered I knew about you and didn’t turn you in.”

  Tears rolled down Miranda’s face. “Who are they, and why do they hate me?”

  “It’s not you, child.” Ellie’s voice softened. “It’s shifters. You can’t be a shifter and live. I’m sorry. Maybe if you don’t give into the temptation again, it will be easier to control. Your mom used to tell me she wished she hadn’t spent so much time running free as a wolf. I worried myself sick about her for years. It was almost a relief when something besides the law got her.”

  Ellie pulled the door shut behind her, and Miranda gathered her scraps of torn clothing. She sank into a chair, too shocked to do anything but stare at a wall. The wolf—her wolf—snarled deep inside her. It wanted to be free. Its small taste of embodiment had been heady. It wanted more.

  “Holy crap.” Her eyes had filled with tears on that long-ago summer evening. “What on earth am I going to do?”

  Miranda dragged her thoughts back to the present. She’d moved automatically through her cool-down routine. Another few moves and she’d be ready to shower. Her life since that first shift had been full of subterfuge, stealth, and bargains with her wolf to keep that side hidden. No wonder I became a secret agent. My illustrious career actually began when I was a freshman in high school.

  She’d found if she slipped out her window a couple nights a week and gave the wolf free rein in the fields around their house, it was controllable the rest of the time. Mostly. Her aunt pretended the night in Miranda’s bedroom never happened. Miranda went along with her. It was easier that way.

  She’d kept to herself during college; it didn’t seem safe to get close to anyone. While she’d screwed a lycan or two at the annual gathering, she’d never had sex as a human with a human—until Garen. The experience had been so unbelievable, she dreamed about it every night, wakening with damp thighs and a pussy desperate to be full of his cock again.

  She walked into the small ladies’ locker room, dropped her clothes on a bench, and trooped to the shower. First too hot, then too cold, it took just the right touch to get the water so it didn’t scald or freeze her. Standing beneath its spray, she erected the wall she’d always kept around her heart, brick by brick.

  Garen had made it patently clear he had no interest in her—beyond their employee-employer relationship. He’d kept his distance since dumping her in the apartment right below his office. And made a point of leaving every night. She knew because the building felt empty without his energy. No more burning the midnight oil. It was such a departure from his normal schedule where she’d gotten used to being able to catch him at work at ten p.m., or even midnight, she wondered if he might not have a girlfriend.

  It doesn’t matter. It was just a dream. Walling off her feelings didn’t ease the ache in her chest. She wondered if she’d ever be the same person. When she realized she was crying, Miranda pounded the tiled enclosure with a fist. “Stop it,” she growled. “Just stop it. I’m bigger than this. I am not going to throw away my career—never mind my sanity—on someone who doesn’t want me.”

  She turned off the water and dried herself. Her short hair was always a surprise. Miranda had already begun growing it back out. She didn’t like herself as a blonde, and she missed being able to braid her hair and get it out of the way. It was too short to do much of anything but blow in her face.

  She got into fresh underwear, a pair of dark slacks, and a pressed, white shirt, following them with her workout shoes. Next, she folded her leotard and tights and headed for the stairs. The gym was in the basement. She always took the stairs to and from her workouts. For one thing, they ate up more time than the elevator. I’ve got to get out of here. I don’t have enough to do.

  Miranda let herself into the neutrally furnished room she’d occupied for the past thirteen days. It had a stellar view of Puget Sound. She checked her computer, responded to a few emails, and went to work on logistics for the ISL takedown operation. She’d floated the idea of setting herself up inside the San Ysidro facility after scoping it out via the sat feed. Garen hadn’t exactly said no, so she buried herself in research and began making lists of what she’d need to go undercover.

  For once, time passed quickly. She was surprised to look up and notice night had fallen. She glanced at the clock. Eight. Time to find something to eat. The Company’s cafeteria was lined with vending machines, but she was sick to death of them.

  Miranda looked longingly out the window at a little Thai place across the street. How long could it take to order takeout, run over there, and pick it up? Their phone number flashed in red neon. She picked up her cell phone to call and blew out a breath. Garen had been painstakingly clear. She needed to get permission to leave the premises. If she needed anything—anything at all—she was to find one of the other agents and send them to get it.

  Anger flared. Goddammit. Her boss was treating her like a ten-year-old. Riding high on indignation, she punched a different number into her phone: his. He picked up on the second ring. “Yes, Miranda.” A husky undertone in his voice suggested he’d been fucking someone.

  Fine, she thought sourly. So what if he has? I don’t own him.

  Not even close, sweetheart, her sarcastic inner maven chimed. Miranda shut her eyes. Pain washed through her. Christ, but she hoped she’d get over him—and damned soon. It hurt so god-awful much she nearly couldn’t stand it.

  “What do you need?” A note of impatience crept into Garen’s voice.

  “I, um, you see—”

  “Spit it out, Miss Miller.”

  “I want to order takeout Thai food from across the street.” Heat rose from her open collar and suffused her face. She sounded like a total dumbass. “Look. It was a bad idea. I’m sorry I—”

  “I have a better idea,” he cut in smoothly. “I’m actually still upstairs. How about if I come down and take you out to dinner. We can kill two birds with one stone since there are some things I wanted to discuss with you.”

  Guess I was wrong about him being lip-locked with another woman. Her mouth gaped open and closed. She sucked air. Had he just asked her on a date? I’m pathetic. He asked me to join him for
the equivalent of a business lunch.

  A sigh rattled against her ear. “Look. If you’d rather, I can run and get you Thai takeout. That way you won’t have to eat with me.”

  “No. I, uh, um, I’d enjoy having company. It’s been pretty lonely since I’ve been here.” No lonelier than when I’m at home, but he doesn’t have to know that.

  “It’s settled, then. Shall we say fifteen minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  She glanced at the display. He’d disconnected. Miranda sprinted for the bathroom and brushed her hair. It was thick and refused to do anything but hang in loose curls. She looped it behind her ears, peered critically at her face in the mirror, and opened the drawer that held her spartan makeup bag. She glanced at the pots of color and settled for the thinnest gloss of gold eye shadow and a pale lip tint. It would never do for him to notice she’d put on makeup for him.

  “It is not a date,” she told the mirror firmly.

  Yes, but it might be an opportunity. She brushed her teeth and went back into the bedroom. She stripped off her plain, practical shirt, donned a lacy plunge bra, and slipped a formfitting, pale green jersey over it. The black slacks and tennis shoes were fine.

  Before she could stop herself, she’d spritzed Spanish Amber perfume behind both ears and in the hollow between her collarbones. Mouth dry, nipples hard, clit swollen, she wondered if she’d be able to eat a thing. She’d just stuffed her phone into a small purse when Garen knocked at her door.

  Chapter 9

  Garen’s nostrils twitched. He smelled Miranda’s wonderful scents the minute he walked out the stairwell door and into the corridor where her apartment was located. Rich and sensual, they hit him in the groin. He hadn’t thought he could get any harder; he’d been wrong. He wore a ridiculously oversized dark sweatshirt. It covered his shoulder holster and his erection. His face felt flushed. The sweatshirt wouldn’t hide that.