"First you tell me why I rated such a welcome." His teeth flashed in a humorless smile. "I know I'm not on your list of favorites, Beckman, but—"
"Will—you—get—off—me?" she said and when he didn't move, Miranda twisted beneath him and tried to roll him off.
In a heartbeat, she knew it hadn't been a very good idea.
So did he.
If only she hadn't moved.
One minute, adrenaline had been pumping through Conor's system at about a gallon a minute while he'd tried to figure out how to deal with the crazy woman pinned beneath him—and the next minute, his body was doing it again.
At least, this time it made sense. He wasn't reacting to a portrait or a photograph or to a woman going out of her way to give him a peep-show. He was reacting to the real thing. Male anatomy and female anatomy. Yin and yang. Hard muscles against soft, sweet-smelling woman...
A woman who was terrified of him.
Dammit to hell, he thought furiously, and he rolled off her and shot to his feet.
"Get up," he snarled.
She stood, her face stony and her eyes cold. But she was trembling and that only made him angrier. He thought of the ads he'd seen her in, of that sexy pout she offered the camera; he thought of the way she'd greeted the Frenchman with the too-pretty face this morning, damn near climbing the guy's leg like a bitch in heat.
So she'd felt his erection. So what? It would hardly be the first time.
Who was she kidding, standing there in a dress that molded itself to her breasts and ended damned near at her crotch? No way was he going to apologize for an act of biology she specialized in causing.
"Well, Beckman?"
"Well, what?"
"Are you going to tell me why you tried to kill me?"
Her eyes narrowed until they were slits.
"Get out of my apartment, O'Neil."
"I take it that's a no."
"Did you hear me?" Her voice shook; but the hand she pointed towards the door was rock-steady. "Get out!"
"Okay, don't tell me. I'm not even sure I want to know. It's been a long day. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm as eager to see the last of you as you are to see the last of me. If it makes you feel better..." He went to the door, opened it a few inches, then turned and looked at her. "How's that? We'll leave the door ajar, I'll ask you a couple of questions, and then I'll leave."
"I'm not answering any questions. I told you that this morning."
Conor sighed. He dug into his pocket, came up with an ID card that bore his photograph and flashed it at her.
"This is an official visit, Miss Beckman."
As he'd hoped it would, that caught her attention. "Official?"
"Yes."
Some of the color was returning to her face and with it, that look of haughty disdain.
"I should have known," she said. "What are you, O'Neil? Some government flunky come to chat about my childhood?"
Conor looked at her. "Why would I want to do that?"
"Oh, come on. I'm not stupid. You said you wanted to talk about my mother and Hoyt. And Hoyt's up for—what? A U.N. post?"