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"Maybe you haven't figured out that I want you gone."
A muscle tightened in his jaw. "Listen, baby—"
"I told you not to call me that."
"Yeah, you're right. Pig-headed suits you better." Conor leaned towards her, his eyes flashing. "Five minutes ago, I came through the front door and you threw yourself at me as if I was the last stagecoach out of Deadwood."
"I did not."
"You sure as hell did."
They stood toe-to-toe, glaring at each other, and then, without meaning to, Miranda laughed.
"The last stagecoach out of Deadwood?"
Conor's mouth twitched. "What can I tell you? I've always been a sucker for old Westerns."
"You've got no taste," she said, "you know that?"
But she was smiling, and after a couple of seconds, he smiled, too.
"Listen," he said, "how about we start from the top?"
She nodded. He stepped back, picked up a chair, swung it around and straddled it.
"You left here early this morning."
"Uh-huh," she said. She pulled a chair out from the table and sat down opposite him.
"I came by around nine and you were already gone."
"You came by?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"To check out the lock. And to lay out some ground rules until I can figure out what's going on here, but I was too late. You'd taken off."
She sighed, propped her elbow on the table and rested he
r chin on her fist.
"I went out for breakfast."
"Where?"
"I went to..." Two spots of pink rose in her cheeks. "To this little place off the Champs Elysées."
"Has it got a name?"
She shrugged. "What's the difference?" What was the difference? So what, if she let him know she liked McDonald's? Nobody knew that except Jean-Phillipe, but it wasn't exactly a state secret. "Just a place, that's all."
"That's a long way to go for a croissant."
Miranda shrugged again. She stood up, went to the cabinet above the sink and took down the fixings for coffee.
"I had breakfast with someone."
