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"This may come as a shock, O'Neil, but very few people check someone's ID before they carry on a conversation. Any other questions?"
"Yeah. Try harder to come up with the guy's name."
Miranda groaned. "It was foreign, I think. American."
"Which was it? American or foreign?"
"He was American. But his name was European. Italian, maybe."
"So, you wouldn't know how to get in touch with him?"
"Why would I want to get in touch with him?"
"I don't know. You said he was pleasant. Good looking. Made nice chit-chat."
"So what? I meet a lot of people like that."
"Men, you mean." His smile was quick and chill. "Might be a good idea to sort them out, you know? Keep a scorecard."
There was no mistaking what he meant. She bit back the rush of anger, knowing it was just what he wanted, swung away and dumped her coffee into the sink.
"An excellent suggestion. Now, if you don't mind, I'm tired and my nerves are jingling from all this coffee." She turned towards him again, her hands on her hips. "Let's just get this over with."
"Moreau drove you home?"
"Yes."
"But he didn't bring you to your door."
"No. There was no need. This building is perfectly safe. There's the locked gate..."
"Oh, right. The locked gate." Conor shook his head, dug into his pocket and took out a small Swiss Army knife, the kind she'd always figured was useless for anything more complicated than clipping off a thread. "A minute with this and I was in."
"Well, not everyone has your talent," Miranda said sweetly.
"Anybody with the least bit of determination could have been inside this apartment in less time than it takes to tell. The gate's a laugh and so is the lock on the door downstairs."
"You opened that with a penknife, too?"
He grinned. "Actually, I used my American Express card. Never leave home without it."
She laughed before she had time to think about it. It was a nice laugh, Conor thought, and real. Her eyes met his; it was almost as if she'd realized what she was doing. She stopped laughing, turned away and began slamming the doors to the cabinets over the sink.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for chocolate."
"What?"
"I'm going to fall on my face in about five seconds, thanks to this inquisition. Caffeine's not helping so I'm hoping chocolate will." Rising on her toes, she felt along the
cabinet shelves. "I always keep some in the house. Not where I can find it too easily, but somewhere..."
Her words trailed off but it didn't matter. Conor wasn't listening. How could he, when he was watching her every move? Her sweatshirt had ridden up. Not much, just a couple of inches—just enough to bare a narrow band of smooth, silky skin and the delicate tracery of her spine.
"...never find it when I want it..."
She grunted as she stretched higher; the shirt climbed another inch up her back. Conor's mouth went dry. He knew that a gentleman would offer to help but hell, he wasn't a gentleman. He was a man transfixed by a sudden vision of himself crossing the room to where Miranda stood, slipping his hands under her shirt and cupping her breasts while he bent his head, nuzzled her hair from the nape of her neck and tasted her skin with his tongue.
