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"I guess I should thank you. If you hadn't come along—"
"Don't be modest. If I hadn't shown up, you'd have gone into your best Steven Seagal crouch, whirled around and done a karate move on that wolf pack."
"Yahoos," she said, and now she was smiling, even if you had to work hard to see it. "You're right. I've got nothing against animals, either."
Conor grinned. "There you go. At long last, we agree on something."
She stood there, her big eyes on his, and then, very slowly, she held out her hand.
"Thank you, O'Neil."
His hand folded around hers. She tried not to notice the warmth and the strength of it, and the way it made her pulse quicken. She tried not to think about how many times she'd dreamed of this moment, of seeing him again, even though those dreams had all ended with her kicking this man in the shins...
Well, except for a couple of dreams that had ended differently, with her in his arms and his kisses hot on her lips.
"Are you okay?" he said. "Your face is all flushed."
She took her hand back, dug it into the pocket of her shorts.
"I'm, uh, I'm fine. I'm just—I'm just..."
"Thirsty? Exhausted?"
"Yes," she admitted, smiling up at him, trying not to notice how his sweat-stained shirt was molded to his body, how wonderful he looked.
"Yeah, I feel the same way. First the running, then all that adrenaline pumping... You need liquids, after something like that, maybe even some food. Have you had supper yet?"
"Uh-uh. I didn't want to run on a full stomach."
"Well, after what just happened, you need to chow down some calories. We both do. Pasta. A steak, maybe a baked potato—"
Miranda laughed. "Scrambled eggs and toast is more my speed."
"Done," he said. "Your place, or mine?"
She blinked. "I didn't mean—"
"I'd suggest a coffee shop but in a minute or two, we're both going to start feeling the cold."
"What cold? It isn't—"
"We're both sweated up, Beckman. When the rush wears off, you'll start feeling it. Besides..." He jerked his chin at her leg. "You need to clean that cut."
She glanced down. Blood was oozing from the knee and now that she thought about it, her leg was beginning to feel stiff. She was beginning to feel chilly, too, just as he'd said she would.
"I could use some first aid myself." Conor rolled his shoulder, not lying, exactly; he'd dislocated it, a couple of years before and it still hurt from time to time, especially if he took a whack in one spot—which he apparently had, he thought in surprise, his breath catching at the sharp jolt that shot through him when he tried a cautious twist.
"Conor?" Miranda put her hand on his arm. It felt cool and soft against his skin and for one crazy minute, he almost did what he'd seen her Siamese do, shut his eyes and give himself up to that gentle touch. "Are you in pain?"
Oh yes. He was in pain, all right, he was hurting for the feel of her in his arms, for the way it had almost been.
"It's nothing," he said, biting back a groan, "Just my shoulder."
Her hand swept up his arm, leaving behind a trail of goose bumps. "I don't see anything."
"It's an old dislocation, acts up once in a while. I must have pulled it, dealing with those—"
"Yahoos," she said, grinning.
