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She opened her mouth to protest, but decided against it. Arguing with him was useless, and she knew it. Besides, the thought of crossing the dark courtyard alone tonight wasn't pleasant. Eva was undoubtedly paying him well for his time. He might as well do his job.
She handed the keys to him, waited while he paid the driver. He reached for her arm but she shrugged off his hand.
"Have it your way," he muttered, and they marched through the gate, then through the heavy front door and to Madame Delain's vacant desk. Miranda turned around.
"Thank you for the guard service." Her tone was polite but removed. "I'll switch the light on and off in the living room, the way I did last night."
Conor yanked open the elevator door and pushed her inside. "Last night," he said grimly, "you hadn't had your little chat with Vincent Moratelli."
Her skin prickled as she remembered the threat. The elevator lurched to life, rose slowly, then groaned to a stop.
"Out," Conor growled and she obeyed. He unlocked the door to her apartment. When it swung open, she held out her hand for her key.
"Good night, O'Neil."
He took her arm, prodded her inside, then closed and locked the door. Miranda's stomach lurched, with a combination of fear and something else.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" He tossed her keys on the table, unbuttoned the jacket of his tuxedo and slipped it off.
Mia came hurrying into the foyer, meowing plaintively, and wound around Miranda's ankles. She bent down, scooped the cat into her arms and faced Conor with defiant calm.
"If you think that little dance rates you a berth for the night, think again."
"Sorry, Beckman. I know it'll disappoint you to hear this but I'm just not into babes who get their kicks out of games like yours." He took the studs out of his cuffs, dropped them beside the keys, and rolled up his sleeves. "I'm staying the night, but it's strictly business."
"You are not staying the night!"
"Is that sofa as uncomfortable as it looks?"
"Maybe you didn't hear what I said. You are not... Where are you going?"
"I'm going to get myself a blanket and a pillow. Is that a linen closet?"
"Damn you, O'Neil!"
"Don't argue with me, Beckman." He turned and looked at her, and her breath caught at what she saw in his eyes. "If we play any more games tonight, we'll play them by my rules."
Color washed into her face. She put down the Siamese, marched past him, pulled open the door to the linen closet and hurled a blanket, pillow and bedding in his direction.
"Ever the gracious hostess," he said wryly.
"Ever the unwanted guest. Just so you know, the sofa sags and your feet are going to hang off the end. Oh, and the temperature in the living room bottoms out sometime around dawn."
"Thanks for the warning."
"Warning?" She folded her arms and flashed a smile that reminded him that the cat at her feet wasn't the only creature here with sharp claws. "I'm simply making sure you know in advance that you're in for a long and miserable night. Which reminds me... if I even think I hear you outside my bedroom door, I'll scream the house down."
"I told you, Beckman, you're not my type." Conor gave her a chilly smile across the armful of bedding. "But for the record, the only screaming my women do is when they beg for more."
"In your dreams, O'Neil."
She could still hear the sound of his soft laughter after she'd stalked into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.
Chapter 11
Conor lay on the too-narrow, too-short, lumpy-as-cold-oatmeal sofa, glowering into the darkness.
