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"Go away," she said, when she reached the other side of the street.
He caught her arm as she stepped up on the sidewalk. "Eva got another note."
"So?"
"So, we need to discuss it."
Her chin notched up in an attitude of defiance. She pulled away from his hand and marched on.
"There isn't a thing in the world we need to discuss. You'd better phone Eva and tell her to take you off the payroll."
"Don't be an ass, Beckman."
"I know this is going to come as an awful shock to you and to my dear mother, but I'm not really interested in her or her mail. Tell her that, too, when you report in."
Conor grabbed her arm and swung her towards him. "Don't push it," he growled.
"Get out of my way, O'Neil."
"For starters, I do not report in."
"For starters, I do not like being ordered around. Or having my intelligence questioned." Her eyes fixed coldly on his. "We both know that Eva bought you, just the way she buys everything else."
A dark flush rose in his cheeks. "Is that what you think last night was all about? That what happened between us will go down on my expense account? That it's part of a plot, engineered by your mother?"
"I haven't thought about last night at all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment."
Conor's expression hardened. "Yeah," he said grimly, "with me."
He looked around him. They'd come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. It was crowded but they were being ignored, just as they'd have been in New York or D.C. Still, this wasn't something he felt like discussing in a public place, especially knowing how Miranda would react when he got to the nitty-gritty.
There was a small patisserie just ahead. Customers were hurrying in and out, clutching their morning coffee in white Styrofoam cups, but he could see a cluster of small tables through the steamy window.
"In there," he said.
"In where? Dammit, I'm not going anywhere with you!"
She tried to pull away but he tightened his hold on her arm, quick-marching her to the bakery, through the door and to a table as far from the others as he could manage. She sputtered and threatened him with mayhem but he ignored her, shoved her into a chair and leaned over her, his hands flat on the tabletop, his body blocking her escape.
"Here's the deal," he said, his eyes level with hers and his voice so quiet she had to lean towards him to hear it. "We do this the easy way, meaning coffee and a few of minutes of civilized conversation, or the hard way, where I toss you over my shoulder, take you someplace quiet and hold you down until you listen."
He'd do it, too, she knew; she could see it in his face. God, he was crazy!
"You're crazy," she said, "you know that?"
He smiled thinly. "An astute observation, maybe, but hardly original. Now, what's it going to be? Coffee, or a quick round of 'I'm bigger and meaner than you are?'"
"You're a nasty son of a bitch, too," Miranda said, her voice quavering with barely suppressed fury, "but I'm sure that's not original, either."
"It's all part of my boyish charm, Beckman. You want something with your coffee?"
"Yes. Strychnine, to put into yours."
She sat stiffly, watching as he made his way to the counter at the front of the shop. What did he want from her now? Whatever it was, he had five minutes. After that, let him try carrying her off. She'd sink her teeth into him and bite down until she drew blood.
And probably end up with rabies.
The thought made her smile.
