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He saw himself walking to where she stood. "No," he'd say, and before she could react he'd bend his head to hers, run the tip of his tongue over her mouth.
Heat raced through his blood. It took everything he had not to move.
"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Yeah, it's gone. Look, I'll come by tomorrow morning, tie this thing up, okay?"
"I suppose. But I don't know what questions you can ask that I haven't already answered."
"I'll think of something." He tried for a smile. "By morning, my brain ought to be functioning again."
He plucked his jacket from the back of the chair where he'd left it and started towards her, hoping she'd step aside before he reached her because he wasn't really sure what would happen if she didn't. But she didn't move, she just stood there looking soft and vulnerable and all at once he felt something give inside him.
"Hell," he said, and he reached out, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Miranda made a little sound of protest and tried to pull back, but Conor wouldn't let her. He drew her closer, kissed her harder.
She melted into him.
There was no other way to describe it. One second he was holding her, forcing her to suffer his kiss. The next, her arms were around his neck and her mouth was clinging to his.
They drew back at the same instant, both of them breathing hard.
"I'm not going to apologize," Conor said, "or to say I didn't know what I was doing—"
Her fist blurred through the air and slammed into his mouth.
"Get out," Miranda said, "get out and don't you ever touch me again. Do you understand me, O'Neil? Because if you do, if you do..."
Her voice shook, but hatred for him burned bright and steady in her eyes. There was nothing soft or vulnerable about her now. She looked tough and determined and when Conor touched his lip, he wasn't surprised to see a smear of bright red blood on his fingertip.
"Lock the door after me," he said, as calmly as if nothing had happened, "and put on the chain. Don't open the door for anybody, not even for Pretty Boy. Not that you have to worry. Whoever did this isn't going to put in a return appearance tonight. I'll arrange to have a new lock installed first thing in the morning."
"Do you really think I'm going to take orders from you?"
He put on his jacket and draped his raincoat over one shoulder.
"Yes," he said. "That's exactly what I think."
"Damn you, O'Neil! You can take your orders and—"
"Give it up," he said, very quietly. "That may have worked with Mama and Hoyt and all those fancy schools. But I promise you, Beckman, it sure as hell isn't going to work with me."
* * *
The street was dark, the night was cold.
It was very late but there were still taxis cruising the Rue de Rivoli. He stepped off the curb, started to signal for one, then changed his mind.
A long walk was just what he needed.
Conor turned up the collar of his coat and tucked his hands into his pockets. He needed to clear his head and think about the growing complexity of the Winthrop situation.
Instead, he thought about Miranda.
He'd kissed her and he wished he hadn't, but he didn't blame himself for it. He was a man, not a saint. Just this morning, she'd teased him almost beyond tolerance. In another time and place, a man would have done more than kiss a woman under such circumstances, no matter how unwilling she was.
But that was just the problem. She hadn't been unwilling.
Yes, she'd slapped his face. She told him what she'd do if he ever tried to touch her again, but that was after she'd given herself up to the kiss.
