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Maybe she hadn't hated him. Hate was an awfully strong word. What had she felt, then? Dislike? No, dislike didn't make it. Dislike was how she felt about brussel sprouts or cold oatmeal, the lumpy stuff she'd always thought of as Boarding School Breakfast. Dislike had nothing to do with emotions so powerful they made you feel as if you'd been turned inside out.
Damn, what was she doing? Only a lunatic would waste time trying to categorize her feelings for a man who meant nothing to her. Less than nothing, to be accurate. And there it was, that weird sensation again, that if she could only turn around quickly enough she'd spot him watching her. Following her.
"Stop it," she muttered.
The path jigged just ahead, cut into a stand of forsythia that was just coming into bloom. Miranda got her knees up a little, tucked in her elbows and picked up her pace.
No more thinking about Conor O'Neil. From this second on, he was history.
* * *
She ran well, he had to give her that.
And she looked good, too. Those long legs, that nicely rounded bottom... Coasting along a couple of dozen yards behind Miranda was turning out to be a very pleasant way to end the day—even if Central Park at dusk wasn't the place he'd have chosen.
Running wasn't a bad idea, either. He was holding back so he wouldn't get too close to her but still, he was working up a light sweat, feeling a nice stretch in his muscles. That was always good but after days of mostly standing around with his thumb up his butt, just watching and waiting, a little workout was just what he needed. It was good for his body and for his brain. There was nothing like some physical stuff to clear out the cobwebs and God knew, he'd picked up more than his fair share the past weeks.
Was that what his thoughts about Miranda were? Cobwebs? Meaningless debris, lodged in his mind?
Not that it mattered. This assignment would be done soon—he could feel it in his gut. And once it was, it would be goodbye, au revoir, adios, auf wiedersehn to her and everything about her...
What was that?
Up ahead, Miranda had just gone around a curve and disappeared into a sea of yellow forsythia. He couldn't see her, but he could see the four big, burly teenaged boys who'd slipped out of the shrubs behind her. The boys were moving fast and running close together and as they vanished from sight, he remembered a film he'd once seen on cable about a pack of wolves on the trail of a deer.
Conor put his head down and really began to run.
* * *
The feeling was back, that somebody was on her tail.
Only the feeling wasn't the same as before. She knew, without hesitation, that it wasn't Conor coming up behind her. It wasn't even Bob Breverman.
It was somebody—several somebodies—that meant her harm. Every urban survival instinct told her so.
Miranda lengthened her stride.
Behind her, somebody laughed.
"Laaydee..."
The voice was young, male and deceptively soft. It was a voice that was rich with the promise of pleasures yet to come, pleasures that would surely not be hers.
She began to run flat-out, feet pounding the path, arms swinging. She could hear the footsteps quicken behind her, and the laughter. The urge to turn around and see who was coming after her was overwhelming but she knew better than to give in. She'd lose precious time—and God only knew what she'd see.
Who she'd see.
Somebody who wants to hurt you, Miranda. Somebody who sent you that awful picture and that terrible, bone-chilling note.
"Hey, laaydee..."
A hand brushed her shoulder, another cupped her ass. She cried out and twisted away but fingers clamped her arm and spun her around. She had a quick glimpse of four laughing faces and then a fist landed in the middle of her chest. The air whooshed from her lungs; she fell to her knees.
"Son of a bitch!"
Like an avenging angel, Conor burst upon her attackers. There was a thud, a muffled grunt, the sound of bone cracking against flesh. A high-pitched scream pierced the air and one of the boys went down, his left arm clutching his right, which hung uselessly at his side.
"Conor," Miranda wept, "oh God, Conor!"
