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Had she done it deliberately? She might have. She was a woman who'd do anything to confuse a man.
But the kiss had seemed so real. As real as the photo he had in his wallet of Miranda under the dogwood tree.
Conor's jaw tightened. Forget it, he told himself. He'd kissed her and now it was over. He had to concentrate on what mattered. The note. The fact that someone seemed to have tossed her apartment. The wariness in Eva's eyes.
It worked, for a few minutes, but after a while, as he made his way along the dark streets of the sleeping city, Conor gave up trying to think about anything but the warm, silken magic of Miranda's mouth under his.
Chapter 7
Miranda was in the shower when the phone rang early the next morning.
Maybe it was Jean-Phillipe. She'd tried to reach him almost an hour ago but his voice mail had picked up and she'd ended up saying no more than "Hi, it's me, give me a call when you can."
It just hadn't seemed possible to tell a machine that your apartment had been broken into and that somebody had rifled through your clothing.
She grabbed for a towel, wrapped herself in it and raced for the phone.
"Hello," she said, sitting down on the edge of her bed, "oh, I'm so glad you got my message!"
"Did you leave a message for me, darling?" Conor purred. "I'm really touched."
Miranda stiffened. "O'Neil?"
"I take it you were expecting somebody else."
"What do you want?"
"A bright and cheerful good-morning would do for starters."
"Listen, I was taking a shower when the phone rang and now I'm dripping puddles all over the place. Just tell me what you want, okay?"
You, Conor thought, with water beading on your shoulders and the smell of soap rising from your skin...
"O'Neil? Why did you call?"
"Just checking," he said, and cleared his throat. "Any problems during the night?"
The question made her want to laugh. Did half-jumping out of your skin at every little creak of the building constitute a problem? How about trying to sleep on the living room sofa because you couldn't stand the thought of going into your bedroom? Did you categorize that as a problem?
"No," she said easily, "none at all."
She sounded almost bored, as if she'd all but forgotten the break-in. Conor almost laughed. It was a good thing she couldn't know that he'd spent the night wondering if he'd been stupid to have left her alone and the other half telling himself he'd have been even stupider to have stayed.
"Is that all, O'Neil?"
"No," he said curtly, "it's not. There'll be a locksmith at your door in half an hour."
"A locksmith?"
"That's what I said."
"Thank you, but if I need a locksmith, I'll make my own arrangements."
"You need one. And I'm making the arrangements."
"I didn't authorize you to—"
"No. You didn't. On the other hand, if you know some guy who can be trusted to install a pick-proof lock on the door of the apartment of the famous Miranda Beckman without being tempted to blab about it over a glass of vin ordinaire down at the local cafe a couple of hours later, be my guest." He paused. "Unless, of course, you want that kind of publicity."
