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The shop was crammed with running gear. Sneakers, shorts, tops, warm-up suits—a sea of Spandex flowed in all directions. He could see Miranda making her way down one aisle and up the other, taking stuff from the racks and finally toting it to the counter.
Had she taken up running? Had she joined a gym? One or the other seemed likely, but he had no idea which it was.
He knew she got a late start on Friday nights. He had plenty of time to go home, dress for an evening of club-hopping, then return and stake the place out.
Logic told him that, but instinct told him something else.
He trotted the couple of blocks to his apartment but instead of putting on one of his Polo jackets, he pulled on a pair of sweats, added his old Columbia sweatshirt with the hole in the sleeve, and laced up his Adidas. A little past six, he took up station outside Miranda's apartment building.
Somewhere between seven and seven-thirty, she came out the door.
She was wearing stuff he'd seen her buy that afternoon, a no-nonsense gray tank top, gray shorts and white running shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a French braid and her face was shiny, scrubbed and makeup-free. She looked up at the sky, checking the weather. He wanted to cross the street, tell her that what she should be checking was her head.
You didn't go running at night, not in this city.
She did a couple of quick stretches and he figured she was about to get on her way when she stopped, cocked her head in his direction and got that funny "Is somebody there?" look on her face. And she smiled.
The skin on the back of Conor's neck prickled. He knew that she couldn't see him. This side of the street was in shadow and he was standing far back in a doorway. Still, he had the damnedest feeling, not that she suspected he was there but that she hoped he was.
A middle-aged woman crossed from his side of the street to Miranda's. She was holding a leash and at the end of it, a silver grey Yorkie wearing a bright red bow in its top-knot hurried along as fast as its short legs would carry it. Miranda grinned, bent down and rubbed the dog's ears as it trotted past. Then she did another couple of stretches, adjusted her laces and set off at an easy lope towards Central Park.
Conor let out his breath.
It was going to be tough to figure which of them was the bigger jerk.
He counted to thirty, then set off after her.
* * *
Miranda puffed a little as she headed into the park.
What was the matter with her this evening?
Aside from being out of shape, which she certainly was, or she wouldn't be breathing so hard.
What on earth had made her think of O'Neil just now?
Not that it was the first time. It had been hap
pening with regularity, ever since that fool, Call-Me-Bob, had mercifully been pulled out of her life.
For reasons she couldn't figure at all, she'd come out of her building the morning after the Art for the Homeless thing and stopped dead in her tracks, her heart doing a fluttery two step. She'd had the eerie sensation that Conor was somewhere close by.
He hadn't been, of course. He was wherever he'd been before Eva had hired him, doing whatever it was private investigators did. Spying on somebody else, probably, making some other poor soul's life a misery.
Damn, when was the last time she'd done any running? Nita had always said they ought to get into it but Nita didn't really need the exercise. She could stuff her face from morning until night and never gain an ounce.
Miranda smiled, thinking of the letter she'd gotten from Nita the other day. "I am too happy for words," she'd written, and tucked inside the brief but telling note had been a photo of her wearing a yellow sarong and with a big pink flower tucked behind her ear. Her arms were locked around the neck of a skinny guy sporting a smile as big as Nita's. "Me and Carlos," she'd scribbled on the back of the picture. "Isn't he gorgeous?"
That was what love was all about, Miranda thought, picking up her pace a little. It was getting easier to breathe, now that she was getting into the rhythm of the run. You met a man, he made you smile, not just with your lips but with your heart, and if he asked you to follow him to the ends of the earth, you paused only long enough to pack your toothbrush.
It wasn't like what she'd felt for Conor, anger so fierce she wanted to hurt him where he lived one minute and a need so powerful she ached to be in his arms the next. Whenever he'd asked her to do something, she'd been torn between doing it and breaking something over his head.
Why was she even thinking about him? Dredging up all those memories would only spoil the run. The park was all hers and the solitude was wonderful after the noise of the city streets. She'd been hesitant about running tonight, wondering if it might not be a better idea to roll out of bed early and hit the park in the morning but she'd been eager to give it a try and besides, it was still fairly light out.
Plenty of time to enjoy finding her stride.
Plenty of time to think about Conor.
