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He was still Conor O'Neil, and she wanted nothing to do with him.
Miranda dumped a handful of shampoo into her hair and worked it through.
When she was done showering, she'd get dressed, go straight back to the kitchen and tell him, politely, that she was really very thankful he'd come along but on second thought, she wasn't much in the mood for company. He could have a cup of coffee, since he'd probably have it made by then, and then she'd walk him to the door, shake his hand and say good-bye.
Unless he took matters into his own hands before she got that chance. Unless he opened the bathroom door, came walking in, stripped off his clothes, stepped under the water with her and took her in his arms.
Miranda's heart began to race. There was no point in pretending, not to herself. If he came for her, she wouldn't stop him. Standing in that kitchen, it had been all she could do to keep from reaching out and putting her arms around his neck, from rising on her toes and fitting her mouth to his.
She reached out and twisted the mixing knob to cold. The water sluiced down like liquid ice, rinsing away the soapy lather on her hair and skin. She gasped at the shock but she didn't turn the water off until her teeth were chattering and the pictures in her head were gone.
By the time she'd dried her hair, pulled on a pair of loose, white cotton drawstring pants and a long-sleeved white cotton T-shirt, she was fine—right up until the moment she entered the kitchen and saw Conor.
He didn't know she was there. Her entrance had been noiseless, partly because she'd padded down the hall in her bare feet but mostly because he'd turned on the radio and was humming along with it. He'd dialed past her usual station so that what drifted in the air was vintage Fleetwood Mac instead of Mendelssohn.
He'd not only made coffee, he'd set the table, poured the orange juice, found the bagels and sliced them so they were ready for the toaster. By the looks of the pile of eggshells stacked up on the counter, he'd cracked open the entire dozen and now he was beating them into a frothy mass, wielding the fork in time with the music, his body moving with the beat.
The sight of him stirred not just her passion but her heart. He was so beautiful, but how could that be? Men weren't beautiful, not inside or out. And yet, Conor made her feel—made her feel...
Her breath caught and he must have heard it, because he glanced over his shoulder and shot her a grin.
"There you are, Beckman. And just in time, too." He gave the eggs one last stir, then dumped the fork into the sink and wiped his hands on the seat of his shorts. "Your turn at K.P. and let's just remember that I did the hard stuff."
Her turn at K.P.? His turn at the shower, was what he meant, and then she'd be expected to sit at the table across from him, trying not to touch his hand or smile at his jokes, most of all, trying not to think about that night in Paris, when they'd made love.
She had to get him out of here, and fast.
"O'Neil," she said briskly, "I'm really terribly sorry but—"
She jumped as he strolled past her and swatted her lightly on the backside.
"It's okay, Beckman, you don't have to apologize. Women always use up all the hot water. It's the lot of the male of the species to shower and shiver at the same time."
What he really meant, he thought as he headed for the bathroom, was that he wasn't going to let her throw him out. That sure as hell was what she'd intended to do. It had been written all over her face.
Someplace between the shower and the kitchen, Miranda had changed her mind. She wanted him gone but he wasn't going anywhere. He was here to do a job and he would do it, and if the shower was cold, so much the better.
He was too old to let a thing like a hard-on come between him and duty, he thought, trying to laugh at the bad pun and succeeding only in making a sound that was closer to a groan as he stepped into the still-warm bathroom and smelled Miranda's scent on the air.
Her damp towel was draped across the rod. He had to grit his teeth to keep from grabbing it and burying his face in its folds.
Jesus, he was in bad shape!
If he could just get through the next hour, he'd be fine.
* * *
Ten minutes later, he was positive he not only could, he would.
Cold showers were truly wonderful things. So was perspective. He'd had the one, gained the other, and life was back on track.
Music drifted faintly through the closed door. Fleetwood Mac had given way to something else. Mozart? Mendelssohn? It didn't matter. He liked both.
Whistling softly, he toweled off with a bath sheet he found shelved opposite the tub. Then he pulled on his running shorts. Except for a little tear and a faint smudge of dirt, they were okay. His shirt, however, was a write-off. Conor picked it up, made a face at the smears, the smell and what looked suspiciously like a bloodstain.
The only place the shirt was going was the incinerator. He balled it up, dropped it into the wastebasket. Okay, he thought, and he glanced in the mirror, ran his fingers through his towel-dried hair, and headed for the kitchen.
Miranda was at the stove, her back to him, scrambling eggs in a skillet. His throat tightened as he imagined coming up behind her, slipping his arms around her and nuzzling the hair away from her neck.
